Signs And Symbols Of The Streets

Signs And Symbols

Of The Streets

r e n r u T M.

Until the lion learns to write his own story, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter - African Proverb 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

Signs And Symbols Of The Streets M. Turner

After the car accident, my dad thought my curiosity for the streets would diminish. Contrary to his belief, I was a rebel. It only made me be exposed to all the alluring things I saw on TV, and be consumed in all the activities at school that the teachers didn’t know about. One would think I was raised in a dysfunctional home. Despite the absence of my mother, my dad was a good provider. He showed us how to be brave and instilled morals in us. But I just became a product of my environment.

I believe people, places, and things are crucial when determining one's future, especially for a guy like me—my name is Michael, but my friends call me K.I. I grew up in the gritty streets of the southside of Chicago.

Home of Al Capone and the founders of every notorious gang throughout the United States.

In the ’90s, black entrepreneurship, black entertainment, and black idols were on the rise. But in my community, the drug trade was prevalent and it was plagued with violence. I was introduced to gangs in middle school. My homies, Squirt and LaShawn, held it down for the shorty count that was overseen by adult members. We assisted each other in everything we did.

Our structure was ran very tight and orga nized. If a member in a higher position gave a command, that order was to be carried out.

As time progressed, many other minor commands were given to me. Then I was ordered to do a drill on a rival gang. That's when everything got real. My mind was racing and my heartbeat was abnormal. It was at that instance that I decided I didn’t sign up for this shit. My heart wasn’t that cold. I didn't want to inflict that type of harm on anyone. Fighting was one thing; you could heal bruises, and redeem yourself and become a better fighter. With guns, we all know there's an infinite determination between life and death. After all, I wasn’t the following type.

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Just over a year had passed, and I still had not seen both of my homies. With those thoughts resonating in my mind, I knew I wasn't in favor of guns or joyriding stolen cars. After analyzing my situation, my desire to gangbang started to flounder. I wasn’t going to resign from my gang (drop my flags), but I simply wasn’t going to partake in anything that didn’t make sense.

But my curiosity continued to heighten—something was missing, and what could it be?

After all of the back-and-forth gang violence that kept escalating, one evening I overheard my father on the phone with my Aunt Debra, arranging for me to go live with her that following weekend. Debra was sweet and family-oriented. She got married to my Uncle Nate and resided in Calumet City, the suburbs. She figured that she’ll be doing a good deed by my dad with giving me and my brothers a different environment to live in and a chance to enroll in different academic programs the school system had to offer.

ionships with chance to experience different kinds of relat Lincoln Elementary School was fun. I got a ol dynamic nds: white, black, Asian, and Latino. The scho people of different ethnicities and/or backgrou the kids were e structured. It was community oriented and was different from Chicago. Things were mor always monitored.

In 1997, I graduated from elementary school and went to high school. My passion for sports had started to diminish. One thing I noticed was the energy in the students and neighborhood started to change. Our morals were tainted. I wanted to explore different things. That's when I started glorifying material things—indulging in marijuana and drinking alcohol. By my junior year, I dropped out. I couldn’t focus. My mind was distracted with the things it was consumed with.

By the early 2000s, subsidized housing, alone with a hike in bars, dominated the town, making the community prone to the drug trade.

I started to engage with people who were already in the business.

These guys were making their rent money in one night. They rode through the town in brand new cars.

The appeal lured me in. What else was I supposed to do? I was kicked out on the street and now had two kids.

I recognized it was an open market and started to capitalize. Not long after, I was introduced to a dude name Cue. He was affiliated, but his style was different. He ran the local blocks and collected the money at the end of the night.

There's no righteous way when you're doing wrong deeds to accumulate money. But, Cue taught me the principles of the game. He told me that family is first, and showed me how to put money up for a rainy day.

After being his protégé, I ventured off, expanding my own market. I was moving up the food chain.

Friends and family started to notice a change in my aura. What could I say? I was in the streets and had to adapt to my environment.

So, I turned my savage up and became aggressive.

The streets wasn’t for the weak. They will eat you up and swallow you. In my hood, we call it the belly of the beast.

Things were going well. I bought a house and furnished it, and bought two new cars and parked them in the driveway. I had a fetish for high-end designer clothes and shoes. My closet was occupied with the latest Versace, Balmain, Gucci, and Louis Vuitton, and red bottoms and Giuseppe shoes.

Despite having everything, inside I felt incomplete. Money seemed to change most people’s character as well as their motive . Maybe that’s why I spent my nig hts at home alone most of the time, meditating, thinking about my father who was deceased, and refl ecting on images from the car accident.

Once in a while, I imagined a perfect woman to fulfill this void I had inside. So, I searched high and low from clubs to random events. The women all seemed the same. My mom once said, “You attract who you are.� That notion always resonated with me. When she left, I felt depleted again.

My cardinal rule was, “Love, but trust none.” As time progressed, I started to get comfortable, which led to bad decision-making and me moving sloppy. I was busted. You know what they say: “When the cookie crumbles,” it crumbles.

It seemed like a domino effect, though. When your freedom is taken away, it doesn't just impact you; it affects everyone and everything around you.

Was I happy with who I became? I set materialistic goals and once they were conquered, the pleasure went away. I had my reign for a decent period of time in the streets. The more money I made, the more arrogant I became. My excessive marijuana use distorted my thinking, propelling me to make sloppy decisions. When you getting real money, it makes you paranoid.

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There's an eerie feeling when the police tear down nothing but your your door at 5 a. boxers to the pa m., then escort yo dd y wagon. Some wander through u out in refer to it as the my mind, like, I to walk of shame! ok another hit. R the ground, suffe Thoughts eflections from m ring from a subs e in my youth, la tantial amount of ying on pain.

Then I had a retake when family members visited me in the hospital and kept giving me the same tip: “Look both ways before you cross the street.” Generally, I’d be receptive to their advice. But the notion kept perpetuating itself, and didn’t sit well with me.

Something was missing. I couldn’t fathom the thought. What was it trying to reveal? Could it have been signs and symbols telling me watc h out for the streets? Several years back, whe nI was twenty-seven years old, I was petty hust ling and went to jail for related drug charges and did a three-year stint. I took a hit and bounced right back with resilience.

This time was different though. My guilt kicked in. I wasn’t naive anymore, and was able to recognize that every time you go to prison and come home, you have to reset your life.

Out of every collision and obstacle you experience in life, there’s a lesson to be learned. What was God trying to reveal? I thought, as my legs swung from the bunk of the six-by-nine cell I reside in. Obviously, if I became a repeat offender for the same charge, then that act wasn’t for me.

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M. Turner I’m from sugar milk.

I’m from cornmeal and flour.

I’m from kerosene stench.

I’m from Dad’s assertiveness, working fingers to the bone.

I’m from broken, scattered grass being replaced by sod.

I’m from everything on the market, so don't let your life be at stake.

I’m from “we all we got,” and on holiday everybody ate at Grandma’s.

From opportunist, so don’t let me jump yo gate.

I’m from social-media driven and commercialism.

I’m from “don't let your right hand know what your left hand’s doing” —That's how you stay out the way.

From vacation trips to playa balls—Cue G, cousin Greg, and Chris started it all.

From where Mother Nature don't discriminate and it’s all breezy on the lake.

Until the lion learns to write his own story, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter - African Proverb Copyright © 2019 ConTextos