Robin In The Road
Dave Fon
The ConTextos Authors Circle was developed in collaboration with young people who are 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 collaborated with the Cook County Sheriff's Office to implement Authors Circle in Division X of 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 narrative about violence and peace-building, and help author a hopeful future for these men, their families, and our collective communities. While each memoir's text is solely the work of the Author, the images used to create this book's illustrations have been sourced from 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 fully illustrated books. In collaboration with
Robin In The Road Dave Fon
In the blurry, faded memories of a child of five, certain things stand out. Awful memories stick with you, and fun times fade away from memory. One day sticks with me, even now.
It’s a cool, crisp, overcast fall day. The year’s 1987, with recent wounds still open and raw. My mother and I, along with my two baby sisters, are almost back home after some forgotten errand. My sisters were all dolled up in matching white, fluffy faux-fur coats, matching earmuffs, and hand mitts. I can still see their sparkling bright eyes and rosy cheeks.
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The cold sun is shining in a dull, fall-like kind of way. It is just a little foggy and wet. The smell of car exhaust mingles with wet rotting leaves. Youthful joy follows us kids as I run around hassling my little sisters. It’s cold out, but not enough where I wanted to keep my coat on. I can still feel the wind’s cold sting on my face. A passing onlooker would probably never guess we had just lost our dad to suicide. Maybe we didn’t show it because he was a pretty shitty dad who was hardly ever around. Maybe it’s the way kids know nothing else and adapt quickly. Or, most likely, a little bit of both.
Just as we are arriving at our house on North Sacramento Blvd., we spotted a fluffy and adorable baby robin. Unfortunately, he had somehow gotten stuck in between lanes of heavy traffic. He was clearly in a panic. His little downy, orange chest is clumpy and wet from being splashed by the passing cars. His feathers are all ruffled up, and he’s fluttering his little wings frantically.
The cars rumble past him with brutal indifference. The air vibrates their exhaust notes and the breeze carries the stink of their exhaust. His little life is unnoticed by the army of cars lined up and down Sacramento Blvd. His panic is met with the cold indifference of steel and asphalt. If he was trying to chirp, it was lost in the sea of car noises. His terror couldn’t disrupt the mechanical world surrounding him on all sides. Walls of steel and noise surrounded him. A cloud of foggy exhaust enveloped him.
I wanted to run and save him, but of course my mom wouldn’t allow that. My mom took action, and put us on the sidewalk out front of our house and went to his rescue. As we watched helplessly from the sidewalk and safety, my mom edged out into rush-hour traffic. I looked on helplessly, feeling very weak and not at all like “the man of the house” I wanted to be.
She tried to pick the robin up and pluck him from the sea of steel he was lost in. He was scared and hopped away from her, flipping his useless wings pathetically. She then squatted down in the middle of rush-hour traffic, cooing to him like a baby. I swear she even got down on her knees.
She pleaded with him to trust her, begged him even. Whatever forgotten words she whispered seemed to work like a spell on him. The fluffy little guy started hopping towards my mom. She stood and started backing across the street during a break in traffic, trying to lead him to safety as he followed her timidly. She was at the curb now with her cupped hands outstretched, offering him safety and salvation.
parade of steel. She was ignored as fully as the baby robin was by the never-ending this adorable baby robin My sisters and I were hopeful and ecstatic; we looked forward to the little guy was all but home coming home with us. My sisters were bouncy and giggling, and of death swooped into the free. Feet from my mother’s cupped hands and safety, the cold hand picture. We stood frozen, enthralled, watching with wide eyes.
mother, last few feet of asphalt between him and my Just as he was hopping his way across the this lly swerves several feet over to flatten this rusted, ugly, puke-green shit box intentiona pathetic and helpless baby robin. s, and while my sisters were watching. I felt Right in front of my mother’s outstretched hand ’t even less than nothing. I didn’t save the day; I didn helpless and not at all like a hero. I felt like try. I was dizzy with shock. One sickening plopp was all it took.
My sisters are instantly hysterical, tears flowing and sobbing dejectedly. I stood in shock, smelling burnt fuel and exhaust for but a moment, as my mom shouted forgotten insults towards this faceless death machine as it rumbled into memory in a black cloud of smoke and death. To calm my sisters, I rattled off some of the same kind of the-birdy’s-in-heaven-now talk that people halfheartedly had been telling me about our dad. In an effort to calm my sisters, I realized everyone was full of shit. My words felt hollow. I wished I was like He-Man and could have saved the day; instead I helplessly told my sisters about birdy heaven. I'm probably the only one alive who remembers this pointless bird murder. The arbitrary nature of it really struck me. I was sickened.
I knew God had nothing to do with it. The arbitrary and needless cruelty let me know there was no reason why everything was awful and everyone was dying. Looking at the bloody pulp and feathers blowing in the wind, I knew there was no reason for any of it, no justice, just random chance. My whole shattered family was feathers blowing in the wind, with me standing there helplessly repeating heavenly lies.
That was probably the day the little-kid me died, mowed down with that baby robin. The smell of asphalt and gasoline and exhaust was what the world was made of. Kids and baby birds are just things that got run over from time to time and of no great importance. Moms and dads try their best to prevent life from running them down, but in the end it is random chance that decides. All parents can do is try and give their kids better odds. My poor mom crapped out is all. Just like that baby robin’s mother. Her babies were stuck in the road of life.
I realized the good guys don’t always win and villains ride away scot-free. I knew it was up to me to see to it that my sisters didn’t end up like the birdy. After all, my dad left me “the man of the house.” I had to live up to the task and be like my heroes. I never wanted to stand by helplessly again. I wanted to be a man of action, a hero, and not some baby crying with his sisters, running for his mommy. In truth, that was exactly what I was. I never forgave myself for it either. I desperately wanted to avenge that birdy. I still do even now, stuck once again at the curbside on the road of life.
Crippled Hero I wish I was a Hero. I really do, It’s true. Then I couldn’t fail. I’d be there for you, Your Hero. To hold you, Save the day, Make it all go away, Take away the pain. A broken family. Can it not be mended? I love all of you. Truly, Your Failed hero, Dad, Dave, Husband, Whatever.
Another Robin Jessica, Oh dearest Jessica. If only you knew How very much I loved you. You don’t even have a grave, Just ash. Scattered in the woods, Along with my love. Turned into mud. My best friend, my sister. I was often so mean simply because. I never foresaw a world without you. The best in me died That day you were cast aside, Like a sack of garbage: Another robin, Mown down, forgotten, In a world that stinks of gasoline. Why won’t it all just burn down: Around you.
Young Immortals Back to the front In the trenches, With gas masks and bayonets fixed, Shooting dice In a hail of shells, Hoping not to crap out. Young immortals Morphing into old mortals. Barbed-wire wrapped graves beckon. Buried alive, Unwilling to die, Unable to live.
Buy A Coke For Me I love the smell of gasoline, Cigarettes, and asphalt. Fresh air’s too clean. For in this American dream, the roads go on forever. If you ever get there: Buy a Coke for me, Some Lucky’s too. Light a square for me; We can have a toast To all the lives that have gone up in smoke, Washed down in Bourbon whiskey. Tears mix with ashes. Dreams turn to dust. Life goes on without me.
Next Of Kin Black-market lovers Addicted to Death, Caught in his embrace. Finding love in a bag. Tearing a thousand tiny holes In their hearts. Like gasoline in their veins, Soul on fire. Ever-present death, Just a shot away. Who cares anyways? Comfortably numb, Years measured in snaking scars. Friend’s bodies found in parked cars On the west side. Chicago. The syringe is your crucifix. The faithful clutch it forever after. Next of kin notified.
Messy Love It's a messy kind of love; Musty stained sheets, Headboard shaken loose. All the neighbors hate us. It’s okay, We hate them too, That's why I love you so. Kids laughing, crying, Making all kinds of noise; Dog’s chewing up their toys, Getting her tail pulled. TV blazes Looney Tunes, Betty Boop overlooks it all, From her old tattered poster on the wall. Fancy, expensive stroller left out in the hall, No one’s stolen this one yet. Daddy always gets fed the burnt toast, It’s okay. Slather butter on it, Waste not, want not. Baby Wyatt stole some chocolate bars, Gotten it all over himself And smeared it all over the walls; Violet’s after Mommy’s iPhone, If she had her way, she’d always be on it; Odinn cleaning up their messes, Burden of the oldest son; Baby Wyatt promptly trashes the house again. In my memories I’m never alone. When will we be home, All together again, Not just memories, A letter, A disembodied voice on the phone.
Here In Hellheim Cast aside, Forgotten, Entombed, Here in Hellheim. Land of the perpetual fluorescent twilight, In a sea of concrete, Steel abounds, Clanking sounds, Hopes and dreams trying not to drown; Stale air surrounds stagnant souls; Shattered families left behind, Send their love with the postman, Like silent prayers for the dead; Sweat flows like the tears that won’t, Pooling on the dingy concrete floor; Trying to stay sane, Pacing and push-ups, Some face-stuffing, too; Books, Hold it together, Books, To pass the endless time, Here in Hellheim. Clinging to bitter hopes; Sun shining behind glass, A breeze you can’t feel, Seasons that don’t exist, Not for you, Tucked away, Out of sight, endless fluorescent twilight. Here in Hellheim.
Dave Fon Dave Fon is another lost soul, Cast into the fishbowl of Cook County Jail: Held without bail, watching life go on without him. Filled with regret and loss. He was given a chance to write his own obituary, This is what he came up with: A forgotten soul from a dysfunctional family That’s just as broken as the middle class he came from. He loves his girl, his kids, and his pets, just like everyone else. A would-be family man who formerly worked as a Massage therapist. He is now a full-time detainee Trying his best to get the hell out of Dodge City. Like all red-blooded Americans, he loves gasoline, cigarettes, and Coca-Cola. Endless open roads. The American Dream.
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