Into a Dimension of Hoods

Into a Dimension of Hoods

Osborne C. Wade

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.

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Into a Dimension of Hoods Osbourne Wade

Looking into the eyes of the innocent, I see so much pain. More pain is created in their surroundings. Life’s experiences travel from door to door, entering into a dimension of hoods.

One dimension was my Father.

My Father and Mother had been married since my birth, March 15, 1974, ‘til I was 5 years of age. Yes, I am a Pisces, (the chief sign of all signs). I have many pieces of memories of the times my father and I shared together, and none of them were of hating my father. My father was a policeman:, curly hair, wears glasses. He had this lazy, sleepy look about himself even though he wasn’t. I always wanted to know my father well and kick it with him. I have fond memories of him coming home from work, patting me on the backside saying, “Hey, boop.” I don’t know what it meant, but he did it with a comforting, fatherly smile. To me, he and my Mother had a nice marriage because I never saw them fighting or heard them arguing.

After he and my Mother split, my Father still remained in me and my older brother’s life. I was too young to really feel the split going on between the two of them. I did not realize the split even took place until I was a little older, and yet still young. I do know this:, the older I got, the more I felt left out, abandoned, and isolated. My father owned an ice cream shop and a candy store. My brother and I used to go and work out of the candy store from time to time. My mother always encouraged our relationship with my Father.

My mother was dark-skinned, a slimmy, as they said in those days. She was young as well.

Very pretty and nice. My daddy would say, “It’s in the legs.” So he was very fond of her legs.

My mother also played a high key point of who I am today. My Mother raised me and my brother after the split. She was very, very caring and very hard working.

She was so angelic. As a matter of fact, I take after my mother in many ways, just as my daughter takes after me.

My Daughter has funny ways of eating, not wanting to rush and find something new. Very smart and intelligent. She has talent and good sportsmanship like myself and her Mother.

She was so fresh, light, and bright as she entered into this world., Nnot a sound came to the room but sighs and smiles. A new spirit has entered into this dimension of hoods. I was so happy to see her. Not a worry came to my mind because the Lord God blessed me with Anavyah Maryah Wade ( Hebrew meaning “The peace and humility of God”). I was the very first to hold her after the Doctor and Nurse. Everyone was commenting on how much we looked like twins. They say,- “I must have spit this baby out.” But it wasn’t me. It was her beautiful African Queen Mother Danielle Davis. Months of feeding, exercising and complaining til she held her little blessing in her arms as well.

She’s so funny, like me, and full of joy. She’s very talented like me and her Mother. Plays basketball, and football. She can design clothing and act.

Anavyah is a great listener. She wants to be a therapist. I asked her why.?

She told me that she enjoys listening to other people’s problems. She loves to ask questions as well. When I talk to her on the phone, I'm not too open to her because I want to hear about her and her thoughts. We end up doing each other the same way.

I’m a therapist. I listen to people, analyze them and even respond to some of their problems, too. I can’t prescribe pills, but I can point them in the right direction.

I was in and out of my Daughter's life, but when we’re together, you would never have known we were ever apart. We really connected. I wanted us to be friends as well as Father and Daughter. Right now, I'm still trying to keep up with her.

Not like my first daughter. I lost contact with her on my first round of incarceration.

Jellisa Ball, born November 6, 1992. I shared custody with her mother in good faith.

I last saw Jellisa at two years old. It was two days before her second birthday. I’m still out of contact with my loving Jellisa and hope to see her one day soon

I keep getting locked in chains for some odd reason. Just when things start looking up, back down they go. I’m always blessed not to fall too low and live with a smile. Despite my position at hand, my Daughter Anavyah persists to smile, glow, and forgive me no matter what, and hopes I come home soon.

Anavyah and I talk so much on the phone. She takes after her Mother on the letter writing, though.

I love Anavyah. She is my clone that helped to change another part of my life.

I’m more of a loved father to her than I once believed my father was to me. My mother used to talk a lot. She would talk and I would listen. My father on the other hand, well, I would call, he would answer. I would talk a little and he would ask for my other brother. After they were done talking, the phone goes click.

I called to talk, but my older brother got to talk. My brother would tell me to ask for money, which I did, and he still told me to put my brother on the phone.

I felt he did not love me like my brother. When my birthday came around, my daddy would bake me a cake and give me a roll of money. But he would give my brother a bigger roll than mines.

As we got older, my brother got his first child, which was accepted by my family (my Mother, Father and Grandmother) right away. When my first was born, I was told “she was not mines.” My mother was my only supporter. Regardless, I moved on without a lot of hatred in my heart. I guess it was just jealousy. Here I was, named after my uncle, “Osborne Wade,” and not my Father, “Thomas Wade.” I don’t hate my Uncle, I just wondered why I wasn’t treated like my Brother.

As time went on, I got locked up. My Daddy sent me index cards with typed words saying, “I’m sending you this money.” Surely it was money sent with love, but where was the communication?

My mother sent money as she could. She didn’t have much, but she would put off a bill to help. She would help people financially even though she was in need herself. My mother worked her butt off to put food on the table and clothes on our backs. We were always provided for. She worked and slept a lot, barely having time to enjoy herself.

I felt like we were well taken care of, but poor at the same times. She worked so hard. She deserved more time to get out and enjoy herself. I felt like there’s got to be something I could do, and don’t think I did not try. Our every Christmas was surely happy. She made sure of that. We would get something we most wanted, and then the rest was clothes and boardgames that we always enjoyed. We often went to my Father’s side of the family, too.

We got cash, sweaters, and toys. I would go to this Chinese shop and buy my mother some crystal ornaments for every occasion.

I was taught how to survive by my Mother and Father. Work for what I wanted and to be a great listener. I helped people in many, many ways like my Mother and Father. Helping myself was the thing.

I wrote a letter to my Father about how I felt about our communication that’s been happening since I was a child. The letter ended with, “I would rather you write me long letters communicating with me than to send me money.”

Although I needed the money, I needed a Father. I felt so alone.

Everybody gets mail from family. Talks on the phone to their Mother and Pops. I have my Mother, but no Father. We wasn’t enemies. I just wanted more than the index cards that meant a lot to me. I wanted to be like him. He made many accomplishments in life that I wanted to know about. He was also a functioning drinker. If we had communication, I would know more details about why he drank and why him and my Mother broke up. I did not know he went to the Army. He went to college and succeeded in many areas.

Anyhow, my wish came true. I received my first long typed letter. Something he and I had in common was that we were business-like. We typed more than we wrote. The letter he typed was very heartfelt. He said he stopped drinking and went back to school to pass the bar exam, which he did. He apologized for how I felt and ensured me that he loved me very much. I felt very relieved.

A lot of weight fell from my shoulders. The letter itself had me smiling from ear to ear. I had to celebrate.

He was trying to become an appellate lawyer to help me get back on appeal and go home. He wrote me another letter and after that, he passed away. Right when we got close, God took him to Himself. When I was given the news that he passed, I did not cry. It’s hard for me to cry first off, but I was surprised at God’s timing.

I now felt alone again. I never got to hug him or look him eye to eye. But this caused a change in me, as to letting my Daughter know how I feel at all times, not just about her, but me in general., After all, she’s a therapist.

I got my communication though. Praise God! He passed with lots of accomplishments, and he passed the bar. I loved my Father no matter what, and he loved me even when I thought different. This is where I once consoled, “Stepping Into a Dimension of Hoods.�

Stepping into a dimension of hoods where I console; To a block within a dimension of lost souls I don’t condone to the tiles, iron, concrete, and chrome a foundation created on irated and ire.

I’m not alone, just want to go home, step out of the fire.

A false boss, untrue sire, Satan’s admirer; Slow tone, crush the bones-admire the whole attire Wires disconnect from spirit of truth One block, brick, switch clicked for youth Attacked, stacked, whacked, jacked and set loose.

Choked while provoked by the noose you choose Expect to die by the mention of hoods, you lose.

With no reply, as to why, My eyes burn with intensity of terror.

I yearn to be free for good.

“Stepping into a dimension of hoods.”

Osbourne Wade I am from special made Wade genes From Castor Oil and 8 tracks I am from the cozy, rosey, fun filled house Quiet, full of laughter and open to each other I am from roses, daffodils, and fruit made trees All home grown, surrounding the house’s blossoming truth I am from coming together for holidays to family reunions And loving each other, too From state way where the players play and where the 1st and 3rd is pay day I am from the lean on me and I gotcha back From Baptism to Herbrewism I’m from apartment buildings and gangways From Dub sandbags, the best you ever had I am from Chicago lying in Hospital and the family of the Smiths Greens, Cornbread, Chicken, and Chitlins, Ribs and special Dressing too From the hardworking Mother that makes things happen To the StepFather hanging around for the count Memories in a picture album in my daughter’s possession, Facebook page, and phones long gone.

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