Roseland is a Graveyard?

“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

Roseland is a Graveyard?

De’vanta Howell

December 24, 1999, I was only 7. My mother nooced half of my Christmas giis were missing, that I didn’t have a clue about. Later that day, I found out my uncle stole them to pay missing drug funds. My mother was already sick because of the weather. Now the stress added to the situaaon.

Three days later my Aunt came to the rescue and replaced everything. As I played my Game Boy my mother repeatedly called me. I ran to her. She said, “Call the ambulance, I can’t breathe.” I called and that was the last me I saw her alive.

Then, one year later, same day my father passed away. I barely knew him, had a couple of moments with him, nothing major, though. SSll to this day, I don’t understand why they both lee before I started life.

I was beaten a lot as a child coming up. My aunt was the devil six days a week, and on Sundays at St. John MB Church, she would be jumping around passing out, catching the holy ghost. If only they really knew the truth.

I always felt alone because of the loss of my parents.

All I ever wanted was a family. At least someone to fill in the void I was missing. I grew up in the streets. I had to grow up quick. Wasn’t no time for games. My aunt put me out, because my SSI was now come directly to me.

She gambled all my benefits away for nine years.

My presence was always felt. The way I dressed and kept a smile, you wouldn’t imagine I was homeless, sleeping in a abandoned homes.

Thanks to the Aid Office, the Link card kept me full. This was my survival. My friendsShehad a choice. I had no choice!

It was the morning of September 24, 2009. Me and a couple of friends smoked on the corner of 113th and Parnell, when an unknown oender rode passed on a bike and shot at a student in front of Fenger High School. Gun shots are normal, like bird sounds in my community. It’s kinda peaceful in a way.

We connnued to smoke as if we never heard anything. We began to make our way towards the school, police were everywhere asking quessons. We kept to the street code, “didn’t hear or see anything.”

As the bell rang for first period, the atmosphere was intense. Rival gangs shared the same classes. Tension built, staring at one another, it could get ugly quick. Geeng to the class was like being in the baalefield, your guard had to be up. This was my high school experience!

Fourth period gym, everyone late snuck inside. A fight broke out when the fire alarm was pulled. Everybody fled to the backyard of the school, which led to intruders and weapons geeng inside.

Another brawl took place outside the school related to all the other fights this day.

Eighth period, plenty waited outside the school for dismissal. As the bell rang to release students, Principal Dozier stood outside the school telling students have a safe weekend. See you Monday.

A huge crowd marched towards 111th & Stewart. Cars pulled up with strangers ready for the unthinkable. A fight broke out with at least 50 people. Nobody knew it would happen like this. Booles bussin’, bricks flying, punches conneccng and 2x4’s cracking skulls. This had to be the most brutal fight in high school history.

Traffic stopped for blocks, car horns blew. The way these students were takin’ hits and geeng up. You would think they were immortal. The Ville vs. The Gardens, two of the toughest neighborhoods to grow up in on the city’s southside.

Derrion was caught in the middle, hit with a 2x4. He fell but jumped right back to an upper cut. He fell again to a number of feet stomping his body. Derrion was later rushed to a local hospital where he was pronounced dead.

The video was released that night to all news across the world. Tears took my face as I watched the video over and over. “They took my boy.” All I could think about was revenge, but lucky the Chicago Police Department acted in a mely manner and grabbed all offenders. Students were saddened over the loss of Derrion.

We lost not just a classmate, but a friend, a brother to some, the honor student who had a promising future, the smart guy we cheated off to pass class. This made naaonal aaennon, which put Roseland on the spotlight again.

The media had the spotlight on Fenger High School for quessons about the deadly beaang. None was directed towards students. All was focused toward Principal Dozier, she was more than a Principal at Fenger. She gave her students her all and ensured they had a good life outside and inside school.

When violence took place at school she would throw her hair into a ponytail and kick her heels o then jump in the middle to break it up. But this day wasn’t no breakin it up there were too many involved.

It took me years to realize what Keith Stalling meant when he said, “Roseland is a graveyard.” It started off with me, Ray Ray, J-Rock, CJ, Derrion, and D Cheeney. Now, it’s only me and Ray Ray. All the others passed away.

As I connnue ďŹ ghhng this 31 to life inside Cook County with no one believing in me or having my back, will my children connnue to look at my picture’s yelling DaDa? Will I lose my life to the system or will I fall viccm to this graveyard that claimed the life of so many others?

I am from The Roseland Community (114th and State,) from Gang corruption and teens being abducted.

I am from the murder capital

with stealing, killing and drug dealing for a living.

I am from the roots of my generation,

struggling, starving, with no patience.

I’m from hot beans and soy meat and no light with no heat.

From Dana Howell, a mother that kept a smile, passed on,

and left her children with her sister.

I’m from the joy of my daughter and the struggle of my brothers, from where I was told I couldn’t make it

and young brothers were told to take it.

I’m from a violent religion, where blacks idolize one person, and where blacks are true to there Region.

I’m from the Roseland Area, where average teenagers grow up with no parents, collard greens, ground beef, hot chicken and string beans.

From the trouble of my brothers left alone with no mother, the broken hearts by the girls I lost, fighting with frustration

trying to change my thoughts.

Running the streets late with the state boys, listening to their gossip

thinking lies are true.

Why, God? I hate to suffer. I’d rather be with you.