Re-Route
Joe Furio
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.
Re-Route
Joe Furio
The wind is warm. Nothing beats summer nights in Chicago. The year is 1978. I was only four and a half years old and still can remember the gatherings we would have in front of our house on Grand Avenue. We used to bring out all kinds of chairs, folding chairs, lounge chairs, beach chairs, and sometimes even household furniture on the sidewalk when we all used to get together. Well, I mean the adults would mostly sit and chatter while the kids would be playing all kinds of games like kick the can, hide and seek, and it. We had so much fun. It was mostly women outside watching the kids. The husbands spent most of their spare time they had from their jobs, at the “Italian Club” 1 block west on Grand Avenue.
The “club” was a place where the men would go to get away from their wives, play card games, and get drunk. I remember the warm, moist, thick air. My heart was beating so fast. I felt the sweat under my eyes drying as I ran into a gust of warm air. Earlier that morning, my mom, whose name is Francesca, took us all to Chicago Avenue to shop. There were all kinds of stores there. My three siblings and I couldn’t wait to go to Goldblatt’s. Well, you see,
Goldblatt’s basement is their toy department. Kids would go there and trash their toy department. Push buttons on interactive toys, play catch, and even ride the bicycles throughout the bottom level of the store. Chicago Avenue used to be a place where you can bargain shop. Most immigrants knew about the stretch of mostly mom-and-pop stores.
Goldblatt’s was the biggest store within walking distance.
Joe Vito, Francesca, Dominick,” my mother called from the main level of the store. I could still see her on the top steps holding my two-year-old little sister, Cathy, in her arms. “Joe Vito, Francesca, Dominick,” I heard her voice call again. By the tone of her voice, I knew it was time to go! When I made it to the first step, something made me stop. It was a large cage filled with bouncy balls. I stood and stared, almost frozen. That was there the whole time, and I didn’t see it. There were hundreds of balls in there. As I approached the cage, the colors came alive. The colors varied from straight lines to solid colors, but most were brightly marbled swirls. I even remember the distinct fresh plastic smell that lingered off of them. I was just there speechless, standing there stunned and almost frozen. I knew I had to have one. The traffic was usually pretty light in the evening back then.
Although, the cars would be moving pretty fast when they passed our house. You see, there was no stop sign for many blocks on that stretch of Grand Avenue. Occasionally, someone would slow down to say hello to all of us outside, enjoying our summer evenings. I wouldn’t let anyone play with my new toy. I was so happy! Mom bought it for me after throwing a minor tantrum in the store. I thought it was the most amazing thing ever. I guess I couldn’t understand something that large bouncing so high and then coming back down again. My four-year-old mind was blown away. The adults were working overtime, watching me that night. I remember the warm, thick air. My heart was beating heavily while the sweat under my eyes was drying as I ran into a gust of warm air. Don’t get too far from me, it’s only a few steps more. I hear voices around me getting louder. Louder voices. Every sound was amplified and crisp. I was reaching out. I almost got you. The cries rang out only for a moment and then silence.
The man was speeding through the intersection when I was hit by his car. All the time, the adults were always watching for the cars coming from east and west on Grand. This man came the wrong way down May, a one-way street. After striking me, he braked and then hit another vehicle. He then reversed and drove west on Grand Avenue. He decided to turn one block west on Racine Street where he lost control and drove into a light pole. He just so happened to crash feet from the Italian Club. The men all rushed from inside the club to find a man bleeding and unconscious behind his steering wheel. The men all hurried to help the man. One of them was my father. The men helped to get the driver out of the vehicle. The man reeked of alcohol as bottles of booze surrounded him. The men from the club were on a rescue mission.
Meanwhile, I lay in the middle of the ground waiting for the ambulance to come. The man initially struck me and then ran over me again. My mom cried out for help and asked one of the women to run and tell my father what had happened. She ran one block west to the club and noticed the men from the social club tending to a man who looked badly hurt but was coming in and out of consciousness.
The lady could not believe this was happening. She had to tell my dad that this man just ran over your son. After hearing what had happened, my father went from trying to assist this man to trying to kill him. The Italians had to then pry my father off of him. How could this happen? This man I was trying to help just ran over my son.
My eyes slowly open, but still darkness. I hear a soothing sound but cannot make it out what it is? I realize it is my mom ’ s voice that comforts me. As my eyes begin to focus I see my mom is holding me in her lap. I can hear her crying for help. And that moment I was awake, I recall her warm hands holding me in a bloody white towel wrapped around my head. Screams and loud sirens approach, then flashing blue lights. Darkness again, as I lose consciousness this is my first experience with trauma.
All my life I’ve had serious head injuries. My mom will say that when other kids come home with scraped elbows, and knees, I will come home with a bandage or a bloody head like the time I was playing under the pump and a man decided to get a car wash while I was under the umbrella of water. I had a bruise from my hip to my knee, then fell and hit my head. The man got out of the car and told me not to tell anyone. I was probably 9 or 10 years old. I didn't tell a soul. I believe I was more afraid of what my dad would do to me if my dad found out. Once again I got hit by a car while riding my bicycle in the middle of Ohio Street. A white van didn’t stop at a stop sign and he hit me dead on and then kept going. This time I needed to be rushed to the hospital with a broken leg which resulted in a cast from my hip to my foot. I also hit my head and received seven stitches so much trauma! Over and over again, my poor mom.
None the less, I always thought I was a pretty normal kid growing up. But when I look back, I realize that I was different. While my childhood friends were playing with toys, I was more interested in what was inside of them. I really can’t tell you how many things I dissembled just to see how they worked. Sometimes and often I couldn’t stay still. I had problems communicating, and having a regular conversation, became oblivious, apparently not to mention the panic attacks and fights I would have in my dreams. The dreams often resulted in waking up fighting in real life. That is not normal. I am now taking antidepressants medication that helps me.
When I was nine years old, my mom and my dad decided to open an Italian restaurant on Grant Avenue. My dad was the chef in the kitchen and my mom had so many responsibilities from running the dining room and being the accountant. She also had to go to the market and take care of four kids ranging from the age of 7 to 12 years old. We lived right upstairs. The restaurant was our life! At this time is when I first remember witnessing domestic violence.
Although my father was a hard-working man. He was also a functioning alcoholic someone would say, and many times an abusive alcoholic. His hands would hurt from beating us as kids, my brother Dominic, who died at 47 with throat cancer, my sister Franny, who died at 48 from what we believe was liver failure, and I would catch the most beatings. I miss you, Dominic and Franny so much. Whether with a belt, hands, feet or any hard object, he would hit us. My father passed away in 2011 from lung cancer. I’m so sorry papa I still and have always loved you. I just don’t understand why you were so angry?
The restaurant did well in the beginning years. Although I think dad‘s anger got worse, I remember he would start his day with an espresso in our apartment in the morning, but when he got downstairs in the restaurant, it was time to take a shot of whiskey. I remember asking him one time at a young age why he was drinking straight booze in the morning. He told me he needed to clear his throat out while puffing on his Winston 100 cigarette.
He was always angry at my mom. The police were at my house numerous times but never arrested my father for hitting my mom. I’m sorry papa I still love you, but you were not right. Mama worked so hard and sacrificed everything for you and her kids and you never gave her any recognition. All that time, I thought it was normal growing up like that. The worst was probably the verbal abuse. The wounds will heal, but the words will remain night after night.
We would wait for him to come home. Not because we wanted to hang out with him, not at all, we were afraid. When we heard the door close. It was time to go to the rooms and be quiet. That’s when the verbal abuse would begin every night for years. He was so angry in the evening when the restaurant closed he had already been drinking for hours on end.
We were so scared! He was screaming for hours about how he wishes how he never married our mom and how she came from a shit family and stunk. He told us “ we were all garbage and never would amount to nothing,” he hated his life with us. We couldn’t wait for the booze to wear off so he would finally fall asleep on the couch. This went on for years. My mom is the most loving and strongest person I know.
Dear papa
You never once took us to the park
You never once walked us to school.
You never once sat down and talked to us.
You never once told us you were proud of us.
You never once even said I love you.
I still love you, Papa.
I am not writing this seeking some kind of pity party or have anyone feel sorry for me. There’s been so many good times in my life and also have been blessed with so many things, for example my two beautiful sons. I am so proud of them. They’re good boys. If I did learn anything from my dad is to not hit my children. I never once laid my hands on my boys. With that being said I also know for a fact that I have never ever been arrested without having some type of alcohol in my system. I know that change only comes with ownership of your flaws. It’s time to reevaluate my life and make the changes that are necessary to grow. My mom needs her son back home and my sons need their father back in their lives.
I pray for the opportunity to be with them.
As for why I’m writing this memoir, I am told that one of the ways to cope with trauma is to identify with the trauma. Trauma is real, and it can make a major impact on one ’ s mental health if not treated properly. This self-destruction has to end. The hurting others has to end. The pain and anxiety has to end. I’m sorry to anyone I have hurt. As God is my witness I never wanted to hurt anyone.
As once read in a book by Gary John Bishop, sent to me by a dear friend while I was in IDOC custody, I was really able to relate to this author. He wrote one way to change is by stopping for a moment and reflecting on everything you ’ ve done up until this present point in your life. Back up and think of all the times you had, good and bad, as far as you can remember. When you get there, stop, change direction and start a new path, a better path.
I am also writing this with hope that it’s not too late. That someone may read this and know there’s a way out of this insanity. Know that you can also get some professional help for your trauma. Start a new way in a new direction. Life can be so beautiful.
I sometimes think of that man that ran me over when I was four years old back in 1978. Did he need help? Did he have anyone to help him? If only he turned in a different direction that night, I’ll never know? I don’t think he knew any better to choose a different route. I have forgiven that man. Thank you ConTextos. Writing this memoir helped me learn about myself. I believe it’s time to choose another route. I believe it's time. To reroute.
Joe Furio
I Am From Grand Avenue
From a family of 6 and Furio’s restaurant
I am from Italian immigrants, great food close family
I am from growing up too fast, but still a kid
And the park grass off the expressway and cracked concrete
I’m from Alex, Bobby, Frank, Adam and Jay
I am missing Dominik, Fanny and Papa
From football basketball and running in the streets
And from 80s rock, house and freestyle music
I’m from Giuseppe and Francesca Furio
And work hard, save your money, stay out of trouble
I’m from A catholic upbringing
I’m from growing up knowing your neighbors and close knit families
From Sunday dinners with Grandma
From playing guitar and piano
I am from Grand avenue
Until the lion learns to write their own story, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter - African Proverb
