El Gallo

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“Until the lion writes his own story, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.” The Soy Autor writing process was developed in collaboration with young people at-risk of, victims of or perpetrators of violence in El Salvador. In 2017, this innovative program launched at Cook County Jail with young men awaiting trial for violent offenses. Through the process of drafting, revising, illustrating and publishing memoirs, the Authors’ Circle develops reflection, critical thinking, camaraderie, conflict resolution and positive self-projection.

In collaboration with:

Cook County Sheriff’s Office



El Gallo Jaime Guerrero



“Duck! Duck!” that’s the voice of someone that I could hear screaming at me “Swing hard! Throw punches!”

I was a young boy with an innocent mind already exposed to violence, learning how to fight. The person in the background wasn’t my trainer or my manager. It was my father. Hearing his voice deep and clear, “Don’t back up! Go forward!”


I couldn’t displease being the only son of (El Gallo) that was my father. “Alias” was his name as a kid which means “cockfighter.”

Uncle Javier was next to my father. The winner was going to win 50 US dollars ” that my uncle was gonna pay.



It was that long hallway outside the apartment units where I lived. The houses weren’t far apart from each other. There were no gangways in between. The walls were made of cement blocks on both sides.


They could have been 10 feet tall. You couldn’t see anything. A wooden door was blocking the main entrance of the hallway.


It was tough being raised in La Colonia Independica Monterrey N.L. Mexico. It’s like being raised in the projects of Cabrini Green. I was probably 6 when I had my first fight.

My dad didn’t have support of his father at all. My grandmother, Ana Maria Cormona, was doing both jobs-being mom and dad. She had to raise 12 kids all by herself. It was rough to be a single mother.


Three of my uncles moved to Chicago, leaving my father behind. Uncle Javier and Canelo are his oldest brothers. He was in the middle. Javier moved to Chicago. First Uncle Canelo was always around defending him. They were so united my father felt protected around Canelo.


One day when he didn’t expect it, Canelo was also leaving for Chicago. He felt lonely. The rest of his days were rough, painful, not having his oldest brothers to support him. He had to learn how to stand up by himself, Abuelita Mariana was having hard mes maintaining 8 kids with food, clothes, school supplies and bills.


A kid from school started fighhng. He lost the fight. My father walked inside the house and Abuelita asked him what happened. “Some kid started punching me,”

“What do you mean he started hiing you? So what happened to the boy hiing you?”


What happened was the boy beat him up and he lost the fight. She started beaang on him. She didn’t like the fact that he lost. She kicked his ass three mes harder. “If you ever come home again and lose a fight or get your ass beat, I’m gonna whoop your ass four me harder. Hope you learned from this lesson,”

Time passed by. He was known in La Independencia. Friends and family members started calling El Gallo. He was respected by his friends.


He didn’t like to pick fights. He didn’t like for anybody to take advantage of innocent people. He hated it. That was the type of person that would snap and say, “Pick on someone your own size!” Every me my dad hit me my abuelita defended me. She would tell him that he was a savage. They would start arguing.

“You made me into a savage. Did you forget how you used to beat ne up when I was young? I haven’t forgooen that ass whooping you gave me when I lost my first fight.”


I felt like my dad when Canelo used to defend him but in my case it was my grandmother proteccng me. Abuelita’s conscience was geeng to her the way she used to react back then maybe she would see herself in him.


I was walking home from a long day of school with friends; four blocks away from my house at 55th which is a main street with a lot of traffic, especially at 3:30 PM, I proceeded to my father’s mechanic shop on 55th and Fairfield.


St Claire Church is between Talman and Washtenaw. I’d carry a black note binder full of basketball cards that I traded at school with friends. They were in the note binder so they could be in good condiion.

Some were worth money. Everyone was colleccng them.


I get to the corner of the apartment building where I lived. There is a bar across the street. Every weekend there are fights, loud music, and people hanging in front. Octavio lived across the street from me. He was about 250 pounds and 6 feet tall. I was about 5’7” 140 pounds.


Octavio comes up to me and says, “Give me them basketball cards!” demanding they’re mine. Now voices were coming down from the air; a familiar voice. I looked up to see the expression on his face.


My father was on the roof of the apartment building with his best friend Jorge watching the scene, Octavio’s hands were on the note binder. He wasn’t expeccng me to react the way I did. I threw a hard punch. I connected several punches to his face. By the me he reacted, he grabbed me by the head and put me in a headlock.


I could hear my dad telling me, “Don’t put your head down!” He sounded mad. I was trying so hard to dodge Octavio’s punches. His face was so red it looked like a tomato.


He stopped fighhng and walked back to his house. That same corner where every weekend there were fights outside the bar. I went inside the apartment building. I didn’t even want to look at him. My father got home.


“Why didn’t you put your head up?” I didn’t do it his way so he whooped my ass. My grandmother was a thousand miles away to defend me. I always tried so hard to saasfy him.




My father was diagnosed with cancer in 1996. He was baaling cancer for 6 years straight. It was hard for me to see my best friend, my own blood, my father, cry; rolling around the oor like a roach, screaming in pain. God, please help me. I can’t take this no more. I feel like a drill is going in and out of me and it burns me to see him. My heart broke apart.


He went from taking tylenol 3 narcoocs to morphine pills to morphine patches but the baale of pain kept geeng worse. Mentally and physically he was strong. SSll in his condiion with his cane he would go to work pain or no pain. He was He was under the cars working hard. It was diďŹƒcult for him to move around.


He had a tumor the size of a watermelon on his back but he wouldn’t give up that easy. He had too much pride, Friends and people would ask him, “How are you, Jaime?” “I’m fine. Beeer.” He would never show that he was in pain 24/7.


The pain was uncontrollable. Morphine patches weren’t having an effect any more. The next step was morphine liquid. He was so brave, like a real cockfighter fighhng the last minutes of life.


I never held a grudge or made him less or hated him for expeccng me to stand up for myself, or whooping my ass. I forgave him. I loved my father. He was my best friend. I saw him taking his last breath I’m losing my father‌.


The baale with cancer had taken his life. I was losing myself. My son was born. My son didn’t get to meet his grandfather. He only knows him by pictures.


My father couldn’t enjoy his first grandchild. I couldn’t get any advice from anyone. I felt like my father back in his day, growing up without a father, I got involved in the streets, trying to find that love caring advice someone to look out for me but no one could show me that the only person that cared loved me was gone from my life and that was my father,


I’m fighhng for my life. It’s a baale. It’s not cancer or Octavio or the boy from Mexico. I’m fighhng the court system, I’m fighhng for my freedom in Cook County Jail. I ain’t gonna give up that easy. I’m gonna fight like a cockfighter too.



I’m laying on my bunk bed thinking about everything! I get up and look out the window and see I can’t go no where. I’m stuck in this 6x9 cell. I have lost everything I had in life. I realize that I don’t even have myself cause the system controls when I eat, shower and when I can call my family. I take a good look at myself and I don’t even own the uniform I’m wearing, nothing belongs to me. As I’m looking out the window I start refleccng from my first fight I had in Mexico in the hallway, to the ass whooping my dad gave me, to my grandmother defending me; I think about seeing my father baaling cancer and fighhng for his life to fighhng Octavio, and how my grandmother suffered in her fight to support my uncle and aunnes all by herself; I’ve seen my father take his last breath of air, and seen him pass away. All these thoughts running through my mind, also refleccng on how Lupe, the mother of my kids, is suffering with my kids just like my grandmother did. Life is a baale everyday, and this baale of my life I ain’t never gonna forget. There are some baales that we cannot win. I wish I could be a bird and fly high in the sky to be free...





I am from a hot stove.

from garlic and oregano.

I am from the sparkling counter tops

white, glossy, it smells like spices.

I am from basil, arugula, that organic green smell. I’m from tamales and height, from Agustina and Jaime. I’m from the puzzles and movies. From “Enjoy life” and “Respect others.” I’m from fasting during Lent and no meat on Fridays. I’m from Monterrey, Mexico,

flower shells and homemade cheese.

From the Budget Rental trips, small towns,

he saw her,

the grandmother selling watermelon,

Pictures hanging on the wall in the living room. Happy moments.


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