A Cry For Help by ConTextos Chicago

Y.T.

A Cry For Help

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

A Cry For Help Y.T.

I decided to finally pick up the phone and call my people. My big cousin to be exact. It was a week before Christmas and I wanted to check on them. I keep it to once a week, to make sure everything is okay and let them know Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m alright here. August picked up the phone, and I could hear something was wrong by the tone in his voice. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s usually upbeat, asking me was I straight, did I need anything, or informing me of a new milestone his son had achieved.

This evening he was different, sou nding somewhat distraught. We small-talked for about fifteen minutes, majority me telling him how my court proceedings wer e going and how I would be spending another Christm as away from my family, hoping this would be the last one. Tradition for us is to always visit my granny’s house or my Aun tie Betty’s house. We eat dinner, play games, spend tim e, and just enjoy each other’s com pany.

My Aunt Betty was an incredible host, always keeping the family occupied with fun activities. Every Christmas was a different-themed gathering, somet hing we all could look forward to.

I can remember growing up as a kid, watching my grandmother mix up ingredients like fresh peaches, bread crust, butter, sugar, and milk to prepare one of my favorite desserts of hers, peach cobbler from scratch. A dish that has been a family favorite since before I was born. So wonderful in taste, she only prepares it on two occasions: Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I asked my cousin August, was he cool? He said, “Yeah, lil cuz, everything well,” but inside I knew something was wrong. Then I asked him, “Is everybody going to Aunt Betty’s house for Christmas?” After pausing quietly for a few seconds, he said, “Man, lil cuz, shit crazy, man. Robbie done killed Auntie Betty! She has been missing for a week, and today they found her body inside a dumpster, severely beaten and stabbed.”

My younger cousin Robbie has always been reserved, a bit different compared to me and my other first cousin, Xavier. Robbie was also 4 years younger than us. Extremely smart, Robbie won science project contests, maintained good grades, and always achieved a lot academically throughout his time in school. He pretty much excelled at every level, leading him to college. When I heard Robbie would be attending college, I was very proud of my cousin. Plus I knew how smart he was, a perfect fit for a college campus. I was so happy he had not chosen the streets, but I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t surprised because he never really struck me as that type of person.

A few years ago, when Robbie was away attending college, he went to a party where someone slipped something in his drink. This caused my cousin to change completely for the worse. Mentally he was never the same again, always angry, or in a deep battle with his own thoughts. He now depended on medication to help stabilize his mental illness. My aunt brought him back to live with her and give him as much help as she could.

Not wanting to believe what I’d just been told, I said, “Robbie did what, cuzo?” Still in total shock and disbelief, I felt like I could no longer communicate, feeling like I had just swallowed a golf ball. At that point I couldn’t even digest or wrap my head around what I just learned about my auntie.

I had just found out that my little cousin murdered his mother, my aunt. How was I supposed to feel? I continued to converse with Aug to find out nearly my entire family was currently at the police station. Then I spoke to my father, mother, grandmother, sister, auntie, and uncles. They all described to me the horrific details of what happened to my auntie, then proceeded to weep and cry, which made me feel 10 times worse because I was here and not there with them.

My Auntie Betty was a wonderful, strong black woman, a great person, an incredible teacher, a military veteran, a good sister to my father, aunts, and uncles, and, most of all, a loving mother to my cousin Robbie. For him to commit this terrible act of violence on his own mother, and remove her out of our lives like that, was something I will never be able to grasp or understand. I was overwhelmed with pain and anguish, emotions I could not handle. I told my family that I would call them back tomorrow.

I slammed the phone back on the hook out of frustration, feeling extremely sad and defeated. I walked to the TV area and turned on the news. It was the five o’clock WGN news, and it had just begun. There it was: “Top Story! 24-year-old man stabs and severely beats his mother to death and throws her body in dumpster.” Seeing my aunt’s face on the news, knowing that she was now a memory, confirmed one of my worst fears that I had, which was something bad happening to a loved one while I’m here.

Feeling like I was on a rollercoaster, my heart sank into my stomach. The realization hit me hard, like a speeding freight train. I would never see my auntie again. Never get those strong words of encouragement again. She was gone!

And to make matters even worse, the person who too k her life was a person wh for nine months and gave o she carried life to. How cruel of him, he r one and only son.

My auntie didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t deserve that. Later that night in my cell, as I lay in my bunk, all I could think about was my good memories I had thanks to my Auntie Betty, from when I was growing up. Her picking me up on the weekends to attend Cub Scouts, or to take Robbie and I to hangout at arcades or local parks to have fun. On occasion she would also come and pick me up to go and spend the night at her house, where she cooked some of my favorite meals, like cheeseburgers and freshly peeled french fries, or a large breakfast consisting of blueberry pancakes, white rice, and turkey sausage patties, the little circle ones (which I liked the most).

I would always be filled with anticipation whenever I knew I was going over to Auntie Bettyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house, because I knew it was going to be jammed packed with lots of fun. She just had a spirit that you could do nothing but love and embrace. Knowing that I would never see her again in this life, I could no longer control my emotions, and I quickly found myself in a pool of tears. I never got to say thank you to my auntie for always having my best interest, encouraging me, and giving me knowledge and wisdom, despite my bad choices sometimes.

Wiping my tears, I lowered my head in prayer. I asked the creator to keep her beside him in the kingdom of happiness. I was also thankful that she would have eternal peace, because for the past few years, she had been going through hell trying to take care of Robbie. I knew it must have hurt to see her son having a severe mental breakdown. Dealing with a mental illness that he was in no control of. When my tears concluded and my prayer was complete, I sat in my bunk in complete silence as I imagined my Aunt Betty engaging in one of her favorite hobbies, planting fruits and vegetables in the garden in her backyard. Peacefully, not worrying about Robbieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mental state day in and day out. She would finally be able to rest. Understanding that made me feel a little bit better, and knowing she was now my angel in heaven soothed my heart.

The days after I found out about what had transpired with my aunt, I called my father to check on him. I felt angry, sad, and depressed, but I knew I had to see how my pops was doing. This was his older sister, and their relationship was wonderful, to say the least. A few years ago, my pops purchased a home near my aunt’s neighborhood so he could visit her more. I asked my father how he was holding up. He said, “Son, I’m hanging in there. Trying to be as strong as I can.”

When he told me this, I was surprised a little bit, because Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never seen my father show any signs of vulnerability until now. Growing up, he was the toughest person I knew. I told him I loved him and that I would pray for strength in him. Feeling bad inside , I wished that I could be there with my family, to support and mourn with them during this tough time. I felt like I had let them down in a way, because besides a phone call, I could offer them nothing. I knew my presence would have helped a lot.

I feel like what Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve missed out on the most while Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been sitting here these seven years is my family. Shocking situations, such as this one, make me realize that.

My father and the rest of the family suggested that she put him inside some type of mental hospital, but she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t. I know my aunt very well.

She would have felt as if she was giving up on her son by doing that. She also felt like the love she had for him would help him far more than a hospital would.

That’s just how she was. Always filled with an abundance of love for you, no matter what. My family is very big and, to be truthful, somewhat divided in a way. There’s my mother’s side: old school, love you to death, help you out in any way they possibly can. Then there’s my father’s side: tough love is better than no love, learn from experience, get out there and get it, no handouts.

So growing up, I got in a bit of both. Gaining knowledge and wisdom from siblings who wanted nothing but the best for me. Whether it was my dad’s brother, my Uncle Tyrone, giving me my first job, hiring me to paint an iron fence that he welded and created for the local church. No matter what side, the word “family” means a lot to me. I know everyone might not feel exactly like me when it comes to family, and it doesn’t mean everything will be perfect—there will be ups and downs throughout life’s journey with family—but cherish and appreciate it all, because that same journey will be ten times worse without family and loved ones.

Sometimes I feel as if my family has given up on Robbie completely. Every time I speak with my brother, father, or cousin, I always ask if anyone has spoken to him, sent money for commissary, or if someone has went to visit him. They always say, “No,” or “Why would I do that?” He did something that the family would never forgive him for. I honestly don’t like their position on it. But a part of me understands why they feel like that. But, at the same time, he was not himself at the time when he committed this horrible act.

Mental illness is something that is real. By now I know he knows what he’s done, and I’m sure he feels devastated, because now he’s realized that he murdered his mom, and for the first time in his entire life, he really needs help and assistance from family and he can’t get it. If my aunt was here, I know she would want somebody to help her son instead of abandon him, because she died trying to give her son the help he needed and deserved. To this day, it’s still hard for me to process what happened to my Auntie Betty at the hands of Robbie.

The images and memories that are with me in regards to my little cousin are ones of him calling my phone and asking me to come kick it with him, or him pulling up on me in my Aunt Bettyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s car to let me know that he looked up to me and that he was proud that we were family. If I was out there, I would urge the family to help him as much as they can despite their feelings, because right now, under the circumstances, this is when he needs the most support he can get, because this institution is a place filled with lost souls. A few good human beings who made the wrong decisions due to their limited options, and people who made bad decisions because that was their only way to cry out for help.

I know what he did was really bad and it hurt our entire family, but I hope someone can realize that he was severely mentally ill. Had he not been in that frame of mind, he would never ever in a million years act in such a way to hurt us all like that.

Y.T. I am from Brillo Pads, From RC Cola and Golden Crisp cereal (the generic version of Sugar Smacks). I am from the back house, the bottom, clustered, small, Illuminated. I am from the mud, the slums living with love. I’m from road trips down south for family reunions and forest preserve barbecues, From Deborah Clayton and David Clayton. I’m from the struggle and perseverance, from “take care of yourself out there, Trev” And “ show me your friends and I'll show you your future, baby boy.” I’m from Sunday school early at Beacon Light, and Sunday service With Mamia sitting next to Uncle Maurice. I’m from 8804 and 5437. candy yams, pot roast, mac and cheese, and peach cobbler. From the big blue Chevy Suburban that my pops loved dearly, And the Dior coat that my mama still has in her closet on a hanger in plastic. The discipline and determination of David, Plus the remarkable strength of Deborah through each and every blood transfusion. That small night stand in my mama room next to the bed, or that table in the front room with the lamp. I am proudly from everything above, which constructs the mold of who I am, And unlocks the possibilities of what I can become.