Life Takes Proof by Aric Solomon

Aric Solomon

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 self-projection 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.

Life Takes Proof Aric Solomon

Body

I was having a conversation with my mom on the phone, and she was telling me how certain people had to live the life they were living. As far as I know, I made a lot of wrong decisions in my life. My mom was a single parent but from the outside looking in, you could have thought it was a big house family.

Growing up I was smart in school and I love playing sports. I was an elite football player at an early age. My mom was the mama that went to work everyday, and her favorite line was if I can get up and work everyday you can get up for school.

Growing up I wanted to be like the cool kids even though I was considered one of the cool kids.

I don't know what the fuck I was thinking. I remember when everything started to change.

My mom and my father moved me out of the neighborhood so I can live a better life, but that changed when my mom got that phone call that my pops was dead.

I felt like it was a purpose when my pops was alive. I wanted to play sports after school at one point of time. My mom moved back to the trenches. My life did a 360.

Iw e W nt f el l r ro m ea lly g o i th n g e s ix t o s th c h gr oo ad l e e, ve b u ry t i da t g y, ot to ba sta d r on t t o ce d I g itch ot i to n 8 t 8t h g h gr rad ad e. e.

At this time my mother was still trying to cope with losing pops. And so was I. I didn't have no one to turn to or to give me good advice.

I was a smart ninja growing up, I observed everything. My pops wasn't perfect, but he showed me a lot without even having to say. My mother ended up getting pregnant, and I was in a fucked up situation because my pops was dead and she didn't know she was pregnant. You know how women are, an emotional wreck, pregnant and a widow now, man man.

My pops had other kids but I was the oldest, everybody had different mamas except me and my youngest brother. I made some bad decisions in my life and I know that I could have become someone better. Oh, an apology to all the people who has been in my life and beg me to do better.

The streets taught me how to be a man, well, jail and prison did. My granny was in my corner and I know for a fact I couldn't do anything wrong in my granny eyes. But sorry granny, your grandson made some stupid choices. Now over the years I'm paying for it.

I've been changing my life for me, I deserve a chance at living.

Growing up in Chicago, I felt I didn't have a choice, I grew up in a community that didn't give a fuck about me, especially the grown ass goofies that I thought were cool.

They showed us negativity instead of positivity.

I'll be 30 years old this month and I want to show the generation under me that the streets don't love you for real and the niggaz don't either. My message to you is take the good advice that an older person will give you, especially if it's positive.

Plenty of people told me that the streets were always going to be there and it never hit me on what that meant until I started coming to jail and going home. Everything was still the same. Meaning the streets don't change, just the people and the buildings do.

This is not a message, this is from a learning experience. Wake up and see the bigger picture, love who loves you. Remember it's never too late to change, but you will have to want it for yourself.

It's easy to say things that you want to change but put faith in yourself, mean what you say and say what you mean.

This is my final time coming to jail. And that's a promise.

Remember to watch who you call your homies because everybody is not happy for your happiness.

Aric Solomon I Am From I am from the Westside of Chicago From where we all sold packs and hustled I am from every Saturday we was hooping at Franklin Park I am from where we wore Pelles and Bade fifties I am from where Big Bro nem put old schools together I am from where on Tuesdays, two piece chicken was $2 at Church’s I am from where it was candy stores in a park after school I am from where it’s fuck a big homie I am from every Saturday morning we with BB guns in house I am from where we had boxing gloves I am from your neighbor would holla at you if doing wrong I am from report card pick ups had you scared I am from believe in yourself I’m from the Holy City known as the North Lawndale Community I am from where Pine Valley’s was our breakfast spot I am from where it was FeFe and streets blocked off

Until the lion learns to write their own story, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter - African Proverb Copyright

2025 ConTextos