IAMOBOT
R. Obot
The ConTextos Authors Circle was developed in collaboration with young people 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 partnered with Cook County Sheriff's Office to implement Authors Circle in 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 narratives of violence and peace building, and help author a hopeful future for human beings behind walls, their families and our collective communities. While each author’s text is solely the work of the Author, the image used to create this book’s illustrations have been sourced by 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 illustrated books. This project is being supported, in whole or in part, by federal award number ALN 21.027 awarded to Cook County by the U.S. Department of the Treasury.
IAMOBOT R. Obot
The sound of Luther van Dross's Dance with my father echoes in my mind. For as long as I can remember my father was a pillar in my household and the community.
Most young men growing up with fathers saw theirs as a super hero of some sort. We were usually too young to realize that we were watching out parents grow up. So they probably made mistakes sort of like what we are going thru now. If they did they made sure we never felt it or knew about it.
My father wasn’t a tall guy, at least I ended up being taller than him. He was a peanut butter skinned bald headed man who wore glasses. The only way you can tell he was my pops was by our similar features, but I am darker and more handsome.
All my years growing up, he and my older brother would be my blueprint on what a man should be. After me, my parents had 3 kids. There was 5 of us in total, my brother being the oldest.
He would chastise me on the porch letting me know I wasn’t an African-American. I was an African in America and I should know and recognize the difference.
They raised us in a good household better than most with some of our friends having a crackhead for parents and living in bad situations. My parents would have our house as a safe haven even though they didn’t like it at times.
Only he was the Nigerian version.
Bu an t my d a d ta kn u H o d w k e s c k le o d a s o m he a l ik . e e g a d fr La u r m e ie n d e n fo c e r m s th a F is y d t l a hb a d ck ur n e . Th th e , T e b gu re y ' s e s t id a n d a wa ce y d f r o to d w o u ld m e Bo scr li y z ib e s t en N th my e
He would constantly drill into us that we will be good when we took our lives seriously. He would motivate us to do the right things with our lives.
Even when it came to women he would have me understand the purpose of standing on my own two feet and having my own was a must. Education was the key for him. Boy when I got kicked out of school. I saw another side to that man that nobody ever wants to see from their parents. As Nigerian kids we got whoopins.
The disappointment I saw in his eyes and the whoopin I got that day was biblical. It wasn’t so much the whoopin, it’s that no child ever wants to disappoint a parent. Especially one that came from a 3rd world country and sacrificed blood sweat and tears.
Who scraped tooth and nail to hold their family together, despite the temptation of the world. He was a wise man who never went to jail; he always seemed to do the right thing. So for him to see me practically making a mockery of everything he hustled and struggled for was heartbreaking for him.
So I left him no choice but to send me to Nigeria cuz I clearly didn’t know or care to know what struggle was. All while I was growing up I was adamant that he didn’t understand the struggle of trying to be American kids because he grew up in Africa so he never had to fight for the respect of his peers all the time because everyone he grew up with was like him.
He would watch me make good and bad decisions offering guidance and advice as needed, constantly making readjustments and realignment.
Sometimes when I couldn’t see he would give me a vision even when I was down bad he would dust me off and put me back on that bicycle we call life even the times I’ve been to jail he has saved me and shown me tough love. When I was too scared to fight he would tell me something worth fighting for. He was a driving force in showing me how to be a father to my sons showing love, compassion, and being funny with his grandchildren.
I can't remember one thing he bought but his voice and those days we sat on the porch talking became more and more vivid. Instrumental in my decision making
I remember feeling frustrated and mad because he was always nagging me to think better of myself. His purpose for sending me to Nigeria did just that but I had forgotten since being back home. His porch talks were some of his many realignments.
But I had to be insane cuz I was trying to create a better result out of the same actions I found myself in jail and as always he was giving me harsh truths. I would call he would tell me to stop calling in his strong African accent. He was joking but he was giving the real when he said “Im going have drink and go sleep in my bed,” “In my house.” “Just like it should be.” I would just burst out laughing because I knew he was right.
Commissary came around and I made a store. I was surprised when I saw a slip with my fathers name on it. I called him and he left me with some words telling me all this great stuff about myself. I was beaming with joy but what he was doing was adding finishing touches on the years of guidance he would give me.
It ’ s co Ha l l m y u n se o w e en w a f a t h lo r s , e r o ff I g e sl ic y in t p g . a s s e t h c a ll es e . I e n s d to jus he th tk t n e e lls e w m sh e e When it finally sunk in our last conversation made all the sense in the world. He had been grooming me for his departure. I appreciate it but it didn't hurt because when I’d go back to his words saying “I will not always be here.”
Even thinking about it hurts sometimes I wanna be selfish and ask why he thought I was ready for him to leave.
The fact that he’s gone isn’t painful. The problem I’m having is I can’t seem to feel. So crying in jail wasn’t an option. It wasn’t till I made it out of jail back to the house he left for me that I felt my face leaking uncontrollably.
In that all the rage, anger and pain rose. I just envisioned him guiding me on that porch and smoking a square subsided.
If I could walk another step with him I’d play a song that would never end. How I would love, love, love to dance with my father again.
Allah blesses people with a lot of things, richs, land or whatever.
He loved me so much He gave me a father to look up to. Alhamdulillah!
R. Obot I Am From I am from nowhere From blank canvases and possible ideas I am from the miracle of mind that Allah created I am from a pattern of togetherness All four seasons in all their majesty I’m from father God (Allah) and Mother Earth From universal alignment And from spiritual awareness I’m from be humble in your prayers And from overwhelm others with kindness I’m from Islam, where all religions begin I’m from the word spoken from thought that spoke in the darkness From the vast oceans, green meadows and endless skies I’m from Allah I am from the love that Allah chose to share with the world
Until the lion learns to write their own story, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter - African Proverb Copyright
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