Flood Flashbacks

Flood

Flashbacks

Jacob T. Shelton Sr.

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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Flooded Flashbacks Jacob T. Shelton Sr.

As I stood at the pinnacle of my summer vacation

the sun seemed to reach its maximum potential. I anxiously waited to slide into the welcoming relief of the water below. Just 9 years removed from the watery embrace of my mother’s womb.

SPLASH--

After wiping my eyes several times to make sure my vision was not deceiving me,

I glared as my shoes and the possessions of family members slowly floated past boxes of all sizes in various stages of unpack.

e open space.

dboard filled the dimly lit, wid

The smell of sewage and car

The 7 members of my family consisted of me, my brother, dad, mom, grandma Marilyn and 2 sisters. We would all work together to salvage what remained of the life we once knew, from the liquid grave we now called home.

Just months earlier, our family enjoyed the recreation of Noah’s Ark (a water park) that was located at Wisconsin Dells.

This day, we were experiencing the devastating effect of the water that flooded the basement that housed us.

Between Grandma Marilyn (maternal) and Sunday school, my 3 younger siblings and I had learned the biblical story of “The Flood.� I could relate because my world was submerged in the murky water that surrounded me.

Our new address was actually a familiar place. Destiny would have us become the 2nd generation of Sheltons to share this residence.

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Granddad and Grandma Potts owned a brick maroon 3 bedroom house on the west side of Chicago that included an unfinished attic, a full basement, enclosed back porch, and a 2 car garage where a box-shaped 4-door tancolored Dodge rested because my grandfather no longer drove due to his failing health.

Upon entering the house, your visual senses are ushered into a vast array of colorful beads that outlined the entrance, separating the foyer from the living room. Your feet greeted by runners that protect the light-brown carpet.

The commanding presence of a 32-inch colored, dark wooden floor model t.v. sits ready to entertain.

A lime green couch covered in plastic stands on its wood legs, leaning against the wall. Above it hangs a mirror equal to the length of the couch.

His and her recliners rest silently, while the walls faithfully contain the secrets of the elderly homeowners who have called this place home for 20+ years.

Caught up in the richness of the scenery as a child, I thought my grandparents had a lot of money. In hindsight, they were onl y financially stable.

Every birthday, me and my brother and sisters would receive from Grandma Potts the exact same gift--5 dollars in quarters inside a coin card.

My grandparent’s success came from her shrewd money management.

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In the bedroom that belonged to me and my brother, we laid on a big pallet on the floor. I stretched my arms as high as I could, holding the shoe in one hand.

forth

Today was my birthday and I was on top of the world.

My elated state was interrupted by the law of gravity as the shoe that I clumsily held intimately joined my face to give birth to the red fluid that appeared from my nose.

The aroma of the distinct smell of grilled onions coupled with green peppers was complimented by the intoxicating smell of Vienna’s polish sausages suspended in the air.

Within striking distan ce, the Sears Tower (as it was then called) the attention of 2 of stood erect, competin my 5 senses. g for

Me and my dad walked purposefully through the open market. It resembled a huge alley clustered in an overwhelming mix of vendors, merchandise and consumers. The ethnicity of the merchants varied just like the retail that was artfully advertised.

“Thirty dollars, my friend,� my Dad said as he adjusted his voice to match the accent of the hesitant man on the other side of the booth.

Seconds later, a rectangular box with an unmistakable logo located prominently on the lid was shoved in a white plastic bag.

“We just did it,� I thought.

My dad and I traveled the very short distance to the unmeasurable closeness of my mother’s love, which made this a home, that, at my age, allow ed me to appreciate, and months later, year n to return to.

The poised, aged couple stood against the backdrop of a reddish brown brick wall. The man has a full face overlaid with a dark walnut tone. A fine grade of short coal colored hair lays on the sides of his head. A slight smile downplays his good nature. His imposing stature is tailored by a gray 3 piece suit, completed by a striped tie and dark shade shoes.

A cocoa butter complexion adorns his companion. The heavy set woman stands above average height. Her hairstyle suggests a layer that has an alternative beneath. She wears glasses and an expressionless stare that coincides with the light colored jacket and skirt that stops just above her calves, which comes to rest on a pair of wide, thick heeled shoes.

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I could also hear in the background the dull announcers broadcast the dragged-out baseball game on t.v. He loved to watch the sport, but as usual, it always seemed to watch him.

Just mere moments earlier, my inquisitive nature had asked him questions about his life.

He eagerly shared about his past experiences. As his story was being told, my imagination sailed alongside the mighty sea vessel.

I watched as he served the many men on boar d, displaying his culinary skills. Fanciful visu als of him in battle at Pearl Harbor attacked the truth of a less exciting reality.

This was our usual routine. It consisted of me catering to what he needed while enjoying time with him.

But now the opportunity had come. At last the t.v. was mine!

My eyes danced with excitement as I watched the black and white video which featured a muscular man wearing a Kangol hat standing in the center of a boxing ring. A microphone was hanging within his gloved reach. This was the premiere of the latest single by L.L. Cool J, titled “MaMa Said Knock You Out.�

“Theodore Nespi Potts!”-The music stopped as my grandmother called to her husband.

Aside from their physical characteristics that were in stark contrast to my father’s, their last name alone stopped short of a confession that questioned the legitimacy of our ancestry.

“You need to go to your room and lay down.” “Yes, Fatty,” he lovingly replied as he called her by the pet name he had for her.

shoulder moved in unison as it brushed past the hair te whi w sno , long Her me. ards She turned tow said sternly. “Yes, frail frame. “You go downstairs,” she her from ged sag that ter dus pink the of in reach of the door. ma’am.” I scurried past her almost with

That’s when the last dagger pierced my already fractured emotions. “And don’t make all the noise y’all made last night--If I wasn’t so old, I would beat y’all butts myself.” Wounded, I opened the door and slowly began my descent into the basement that was reluctantly my home.

Jacob Shelton I’m from phonographs, cassettes & walkmans.

An orange milk crate above hard soil once toiled.

The short-tempered bush that will draw blood if pushed.

Easter viewings of Charlton Heston parting the Red Sea. From male relatives’ hair resting on the sides--top free.

From Phillipa & Les Tyrone.

The home that enjoys Stevie singing about the wonders of Christmas.

From “What you waiting on, Christmas”? (Dad says sarcastically) I’m from Pentecostal, YOU. MUST. BE. BORN. AGAIN! I’m the sole survivor of firstborn twins.

From the Creator, who knew me before I was formed.

From Hills Brothers percolating & cookies baking.

Main ingredient is Love.

One Autumn day, stood Dad & Mom In his parents’ living room, his natural well-groomed.

Hers is straightened, a long length that the bun hair-do tries to hide.

Exchanges of I do’s, she became his bride.

This memory [immortalized] on the what-not cabinet shelves.

“They would want me to keep going strong.” A message to myself.

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