The ConTextos Authors Circle was developed in collaboration with young people at-risk of, victims of, or perpetrators of violence in El Salvador. In 2017 this innovative program expanded into Chicago to create tangible, high quality opportunities that nourish the minds,,expand the voices and share the personal truths of individuals who have long been underserved and underestimated. Through the process of drafting, revising and publishing memoirs, participants develop self-reflection, critical thinking, camaraderie and positive selfprojection to author new life narratives.
Since January 2017 ConTextos has partnered with Cook County Sheriff's Office to implement Authors Circle in Cook County Department of Corrections as part of a vision for reform that recognizes the value of mental health, rehabilitation and reflection. These powerful memoirs complicate the narratives of violence and peace building, and help author a hopeful future for human beings behind walls, their families and our collective communities.
While each author’s text is solely the work of the Author, the image used to create this book’s illustrations have been sourced by various print publications. Authors curate these images and then, using only their hands, manipulate the images through tearing, folding, layering and careful positioning. By applying these collage techniques, Authors transform their written memoirs into illustrated books.
This project is being supported, in whole or in part, by federal award number ALN 21.027 awarded to Cook County by the U.S. Department of the Treasury.
The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. He maketh me lie down in green pasture’s. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and they staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely thy goodness and thy mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
I was born and raised on the South side of Chicago, a small neighborhood called Canaryville. I lived on the 2nd floor of an apartment building that my grandmother owned on 43rd and Parnell. She lived on the 1st floor. Grandma was the glue that held our family together. I can't even begin to understand how my mother and her two sisters came from this amazing woman. (No offense.)
I lived in a cramped 3br with mom, dad and 6 other siblings. It was hell,. Ok, it wasn’t hell but it wasn't no walk in the park. I know you ' re probably thinking, mom and dad together couldn't have been too bad, which you ' re right. We had some good times but we were far from the Brady Bunch sitcom, more like the Gallaghers of Shameless.
Iwouldn'tsaymymomwasanalcoholicbutshedefinitelylikedtogooutdrinking everyweekendbeingthecauseofalotoffightsbetweenherandmydad.I usedtolovetheweekends.Fridaywasmydad ’spayday,andIusedtoknow whenhewasgoingtowalkthroughthedoorfromworkbecauseArthurhadjust comeon. Beforehemadeitinthehousecomp letely,meandmybrotherswould betherewithourhandsoutforacoup ledollarallowance.Meanwhilemom wouldbeinthebathroomgettingreadytogoout.Youwouldhearcountrymusic ontheradioandthesmellofawholecanofwhiterainbeingsprayed.
As my mom would head out the door, my dad would be ordering pizza from Phil’s. My dad would sit in the kitchen smokin joints and listening to the oldies, sipping on a six pack that he would hide behind the washer so my mom didn't know he was drinking. (Apparently she was the only one who could enjoy a beer.) When the pizza arrived, we would eat in the front room watching cartoons until my dad came in to watch some old westerns or Dukes of Hazzard. Then me and my siblings would go to sleep scattered across the front room floor.
Eventually I started to hate the weekends, because that meant fighting between mom and dad. My mom wouldn't come home until 5am and it would begin. The screaming would wake me up and I’d lay there listening. Always the same thing, my dad accusing my mom of cheating, then her throwing up the times he cheated. I remember one night my dad got to questioning if all of the kids were his. He got to rambling off names and by the time he was done, I'd heard every name but mine (ouch). I had no doubt that I was my father’s kid, but not being claimed that night hurt but it didn't change the way I looked up to him. I wanted to be just like him and still do.
My dad used to sell weed when I was a shorty. I used to watch him bag up with an old ass finger scale and serve out the back door. He got popped with a couple pounds and stopped hustling when I was 10 or 11. Even though he worked everyday, his spending money came from hustling, so money got tight.
My dad wasn't the flashy type, rocking jewelry and name brand clothes, but my cousins were and I idolized them. My cousin Tony had a raw ass Buick Park Ave. I used to hop in the passenger seat and listen to DMX. Unintentionally, I'm sure Tony corrupted my young mind, but he taught me to be smart (street smart) and do things the right way. I bought my first ounce of weed when I was 14 and he showed me how to bag up dime bags.
My granny died when I was 13. February 9, 2006. I didn't have many memories with her and I don't know why but in my mind I blame my mom. All I knew was my granny was gone and I didn’t have a memory to cherish and that hurt. Then seeing the way it affected my dad made it worse. I remember asking him why she had to die and he said “We’re all gonna die one day.” Damn the harsh reality of life, just living to die.
I started high-school the next year, I went to John F. Kennedy on 56th and Narragansett. It was there where I met a group of friends that would remain forever, one of them being the first person I knew to be murdered, and it fucked me up. Juan aka Tweaks was from Little Village, 31st and Avers. We used to ride the CTA to and from school together. One day Juan had a new tattoo and I wanted to get one for my granny. So we made plans to go to his hood and I would get tatted, but when we got to his stop I chickened out. Juan never came back to school the next day. He was shot and killed July 12th 2008, he was 15 years old.
I didn't know much about God or the Bible. What I thought I knew was that he was the creator and controller of the world, right? I began to question the Lord why is my life so fucked up? Why did you take my granny from me so early? Why did you take Juan at 15 years old? I started not to care about anything including whether I lived or died. I dropped out of high-school and joined my neighborhood gang. One night at a party I smoked weed with some older guys, not knowing the weed was laced with coke. The mixture of both drugs produced an amazing high that allowed me to escape reality, and at 16 years old I was addicted to smoking cocaine.
My mom had no idea what was causing the change in my attitude and behavior but she had me admitted to Rivers Edge. While doing a month-long inpatient program I kicked the habit only to start snorting cocaine a short time later which lasted several years.
My mom developed an addiction to pain pills. She stopped drinking but the fights between her and my dad continued, now over money to support her habit (which he did). My mom would cry and guilt him into buying her pills instead of paying bills. We didn't have to worry about eviction because my gram was our landlord, but too many times we were sitting without light or no heat. Couldn't cook without gas or shower without no water. But grandma was always right there to save the day whether allowing us access to her house to cook or clean up, or just paying the overdue bill.
I used to come in the crib and my mom would be high as a kite nodding off on the couch, always bitching about someone going through her purse stealing pills or money. One day I started copping scripts myself to sell to her. I knew it was fucked up, but why let the next man get that money. Now that I think about it, I used to talk so much shit to her about her addiction, just to turn around and sell it to her (SMH).
On a summer night in 2012 I was out drinking and snorting coke with the guys when the Kings came through in a Chevy 20. What started as an even 4 v. 4 fight ended with 5 more Kings joining in and 3 of my “boys” running off leaving me to be stabbed in the face. 47 stitches and a prescription for narcos later had me high as a kite and loving it. Feeling no pain physically or mentally. I now see why not only my mom, but most of the people around me get high on prescription pills.
A few months later I was arrested on my first felony charge, stuck in the County with a bond I couldn't post, 25K. I remember picking up a pocket Bible in my cell and attempted to read it but it confused me. I sat down and prayed: “Lord, if you let me outta here, I'll change.” Well guess what, I lied. After 2 months I was released on probation and went straight to the block.
Back in the hood gangbanging and getting high. I ended up getting my BM pregnant. I guess the Lord wanted me to keep my promise. My son was born on July 6, 2013. He was 6lbs 11oz, 19 1/2 inch long. He was perfect. It was the best day of my life. I felt like the grinch when his heart grew 3x in size. I experienced love, real love and I wanted to do the right thing for him. I wanted to spoil him and give him everything he could ever want. I knew I had to get my shit together. I tried but I was only 20 and still living my life (which is no excuse. I’m sorry Jonny Joe but dadda was young and dumb.) I had gotten a job but I was still in the streets and getting high.
In 2015, My BM, now pregnant with my daughter, was taking my son to the park when a car full of gangbangers pulled a gun on her and my son to send me a message. I had to do what was best for my kids so we moved to Indiana where my daughter was born a few months later. November 14, 2015. She was beautiful, 8lbs 1 oz 19 ½ inches long. I was in love all over again and I swore I was done with the streets and I was serious this time. I started a business and stayed away from the hood. Things were going good except one thing, even though I was out the hood, I was still at war. A war with myself battling drug abuse.
In 2017 I decided I wanted to get sober. After a few days of no pills, my withdrawals sent me into a seizure and I stopped breathing. When my dad got to me, I was white as a ghost, purple around the mouth and he couldn't tell if I had a pulse. He punched me in the chest and after a gasp for air I was breathing again. (Thanks dad.) You would think this would be the part I would seek medical treatment to get me clean, right? Nope, I got high!
The next few years were pretty boring. I would work, then go home, get high and play the game. As my tolerance for pills increased, I feel like my mental health began to decrease. I remember one day my son was refusing to eat something I cooked for dinner, he kept saying, “I don't like it.” I was so high off the Xanax I grabbed him by the back of the neck and told him “You're gonna try it.” When I realized how forcefully I grabbed him, it scared me. WTF am I doing? I realized my drug use was fucking me up and I had to get clean for my kids, but I couldn’t or maybe I wouldn’t let myself. I kept getting high.
Now I started risking the reputation of my business that I was building. I started taking deposits on jobs then not completing the work or going through customers' medicine cabinets stealing their pain meds. I wasn't doing these things because I was hurting for money, but because my drug addicted mind was telling me to do it. I was out of control but couldn't stop.
A year later I ended up in Cook County Jail. When I first got there I ended up in division 8 RTU. While detoxing, they had me taking Clonazepam 3x a day. It was bad, I think I officially hit rock bottom.
One night after taking my Trazadone I began feeling sick like I was going to throw up. I was dizzy, hot and lightheaded. I felt like I was going to die.
“Lord please don't let me die in here like this.” And that's where he intervened.
The next day the nurse said I was finished detoxing and would no longer receive Clonazepam.
A few days later I was told to pack it up, I was moving. I ended up in Division 10 for a week, then moved to Division 9. As I walked into the tier in 9 looking around at all the eyes staring at me through plexiglass covered holes in the door, and hearing shouting from other inmates, “What you is?” “Where you from?” Or my favorite “We’re gonna knock you out and spit in yo ass white boy.” A sense of nervousness overtook me (I was scared). I'd been locked up before but never in Division 9. After all the stories I knew I was in for a wild ride, but I knew better than to show my emotions. So I threw my shit up and went to my cell. When the C.O. opened the door I saw a Mexican staring at me from the bottom bunk I checked him right away “Wus up, you bang?” He replied something in Spanish. I thought great, some Paisa that don't speak English, but only God knew the influence this “Paisa” would have on me.
That Paisa’s name is Cruz. We remained cellies for the next year (yes a year on the same deck. I owe that to Cuz and Jesus). I helped Cruz learn English and he learned it pretty well. He tried to teach me Spanish, but I didn't learn so well. We would talk about families and life on the outside. Cruz would remind me to look at my kids on the wall and encourage me to stay sober.
He was big on the Bible and read it everyday, meditating and praying. He did this mail-in study course that he signed me up for. He encouraged me to buy a Bible. My mom got me a King James Version which was hard to understand, but with the help of Cruz and the study course I began to learn and understand it.
As I began my journey through the Bible and started to realize that God had more planned for me than gangbanging and using drugs. I wanted to avoid trouble at all cost, but being in jail as a gang member, that's no easy task and denouncing my affiliation would only cause more trouble. So me and Cruz put in for program tiers. It came to him first. He came back from court one day and they told him to pack it up. I’m not gonna lie, I felt like my girl just dumped (LOL). He shook my hand and told me to stay in the Bible and continue the study courses, and always remember my kids need me home. He told me everything would work out and he was absolutely right. I spent the next 6 months in 9 praying that God would keep me out the way, which he did. Everytime something happened with folks, I would be in the cell or off the tier. The next 3 cellies I had were all good people who also believed in Jesus and continued to water the seed Cruz planted in me. Though I have stumbled many times, continue to stumble today and know I will probably still stumble in the future, Jesus refuses to leave me down. I am grateful because I am a sinner who’s probably gonna sin again but knowing I have a merciful God like Jesus, I have no fear.
Until the lion learns to write their own story, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter - African Proverb
