Collision

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

In collaboration with

Collision Sherrif Polk

Back in 2003 or something like that, I was in Bremerton, Washington, with our family. I was young, and though I fail to recall my age, I was aware of my surroundings and I was able to speak my mind. In Bremerton, my home street was 111 Orchard Bay. One night, our mother called everybody to come in her room. She said, “Nickel, Re-re, Kuku, Tron, LP, Boopy! Come in here.�

The tone was soft, but when you hear her yell our names, you can tell she was serious, so we weren't slow in coming. Now our house wasn’t too big, so the sound of her voice was like an echo bouncing off the wall. My body shivered and stiffened as I headed to her room. In my head, I was saying, What does she want? I hope I am not in trouble, or am I in trouble? Damn, this going to be the worst day ever.

As I came in the room, it felt like I was on stage, or step in the wrong neighborhood: everyone turned their attention towards me. As I took my position in the room, everybody was scattered around her room, and then lights, camera, action—my mother started speaking: “Why y’all ain't cleaning my motherfucking house? What y'all think need to change in this household?

Is y’all doing y’all homework? Is y'all treating each other and listening to your older siblings?”

She was referring to me and my other brothers and sisters. In my family, there were 11 of us, 7 boys and 4 girls.

So the room was packed with us. When the family meeting was done, I was happy.

I felt we got everything off our chest. Even though the gathering took long, it was worth it ’cause it showed me family has patience. When I left our parents’ room, I thought, “When I have kids, they won’t ever have to question what family is.”

At the age of 11, we moved back to Chicago, our original birthplace. We were standing at the Greyhound stop, I didn’t know where, with our bags in hand, waiting for the next move. Our mother had made some calls to my brother or auntie and them to come pick us up. As we sat waiting and playing around, our mother and father always told us, “Stick together. No matter if one go to the bathroom, you better go with, or wait outside until he or she finishes.”

As we were goofing around, playing games called patty cake, patty cake and shame, shame, shame, our mother interrupted us, saying, “Get y'all shit and let’s go!”

I guess she was mad ’cause we had been waiting for some time. We all looked at her with fear and did as we were told, so we followed her like ducks do each other.

Now we approached the vehicles, with my uncle in one and my brother and my father in the other, and we pile into each vehicle, all squished up. Enjoying the little view we had in the car next to the window, seeing unfamiliar places better known as downtown Chicago, with big skyscrapers, impress with my own eyes. In my head I said, Back to the place where I see glass bottles and potato chip bags as grass, as I zone out, nodding my head to the Usher song “Burn.� Pulling into a parking spot in the back of my auntie crib, where we would be living.

As we was unpacking, you hear, “12! 12!” People dispersing from doing what they were doing, to where they started conversing or “playing it cool,” you know, doing something else unprovocative. As we all finish unpacking our things from the vehicles, we all started walking decently close to each other to our auntie crib. But we were struggling—well, I was struggling with the bags, ’cause I had the most out of everybody. I was walking up the stairs, watching my every step, ’cause the stars are steel and black, plus it was dark outside. As I appear in the apartment, I see the family celebrating and happy to see us, welcoming us in and telling me where to put the bags at.

Now that we got comfortable in my auntie crib, we wind up leaving to my other auntie crib, because my family got into it with each other, no telling what for.

So my Auntie Dia took us in, and we moved over to her house on the westside by 16th Street.

But we were so packed in their house, the majority of us had to sleep on the floor. We slept in the front for some months, and my mother been making runs to get paper, medical, dentist, everything you can name, to get us into school. So I was going to school at William Penn Elementary Schoo l for about a few months. As comfortable I was there, I still was the out-of-town dude in class.

I was always being observed.

Leaving school one day, I told this kid, Cordell, that I can beat him dancing. We told each other: “After school, across the street, in the vacant lot.” We appeared at the location, and a lot of students followed us, as if it was going to be a fight. What’s funny, even the principal wanted to check it.

After the dance was over, we went home to my auntie crib with my siblings. As we appeared inside the apartment, we see all our stuff gone. So we asked our little cousin what happened, and come to find out they said, “Our moms got into it.” And bam! That's when we heard knocking on the door, and my uncle and my mother walked in, saying, “Get y'all shit, let’s go.” We gave our cousin hugs and said our goodbyes. We rest at our grandmother’s house after the incident; even though my family had problems with each other, they still managed to help each other.

My grandma, Mrs. McNutt for those who doesn't know, won an award for her garden on the westside, at Laramie and Maple in the Austin neighborhood. Everyone, including organizations, knows of her garden, and she always maintained it like she does her house.

Sadly, she passed away in 2013-2014, at the end of my school year, and passed down loving vibe. Anyways though, at my younger age to my teen years, since we moved from our grandma's house in 2008-2009 to the northside, my grandma's house was the base or home that family always gathered together, or came to gossip to her about something someone.

I said that if my family can’t get together at one spot, my house or apartment would be the gathering spot for everybody. I love my grandma for her and for being a not-for-none grandma .

One thing: even though I have lots more of her memories, but she used to be on our ass about using the bathroom all the time, saying, “Look here now, y’all going to stop keep using the bathroom. I hear that toilet flush every other 20 minutes.” We used to say, “But Grandm a, if we got to go, we got to go.” No lie, she cared, but could care less on our bowel movements as long as that toilet isn’t flushing in her ear over and over again. We used to tiptoe to get to the bathroom. Her bedroom was right exactly across from the bathroom, so she would notice, or if not, she wasn’t paying attention. R.I.P. to her.

Living on the northside in Rogers Park, I was now attending a new elementary school named Kilmer. I was always being picked up by my father and with the rest of my siblings when school ended. Going home to our apartment felt relaxing, ’cause we had our own and didn’t have to sleep on floors. Throughout the family struggle, I learned to accept criticism, listen to each other, understand differences of opinions, and know that whatever the issue is, it doesn’t always have to go your way.

What I learned from the system is that they is in charge. They suppress your feelings. My first time experiencing and dealing with the system is when I was 15 or 16. I had caught different juvenile cases; all of them really was reckless conduct, trespassing, none too major. I was given a court date for one of the cases, I remember, April 11. That was my father’s day, meaning his birthday. We drove to the court building and parked a few blocks away on the street. After my father parked, he said before we got out the vehicle, “I hope you don’t get taken on my b-day.”

As we were walking, we kept a calm attitude and mindset. Coming into the building, we had to go through security. So we took off a belt, coat or jacket, wallet, keys, and any other accessory we had. Phones was not actually prohibited, they was allowed. But lighters, headphones, and extra clothing wasn’t allowed. Anyway, after our privacy was being invaded, we started to walk to my courtroom. As we approached our destination, we was called forty minutes later by my attorney. We sat, discussed what may happen, and was told to listen for my name again when it’s called.

I was called shortly after, and was followed by my pops and was led by the attorney. The judge greeted us and then asked me to state my name. The judge asked me, “Do you know what you are being charged with?” I say, “Yes, your honor,” and he carried on. He told me before I was taken away, “You will be a C#, and what that means is you will be court evaluated.” He said to not get in trouble, “because I will give you more time.” The judge then ask, “Do you have anything to give your father?” I gave my father my things, and we reached to give one another a slight, quick hug. My father said, “I love you,” and I said it back, before I was taken to the back.

Two years passed, and I was about to be eighteen years old. Me and my siblings were walking to the train to take our usual route home after school when we were approached by a cop. We were attending Roger C Sullivan High School, on the northside in the Rogers Park neighborhood. We were in the back of the CTA, about to approach the terminal that brings you through the other side. I peeped an officer but didn’t mind him, because they were driving and, I guess you can say, “observing the community.” Ha ha! They were driving on the opposite end of the street. We were about 8-10 deep, all high school students. The cop did a U-turn. Ha! Isn’t that illegal? Specially if there’s oncoming traffic.

They got out the Tahoe, and approached us and asked, “What y’all doing?” Blah, blah, blah.

Me knowing they were on dirt, I stood calm and said, “We’re about to go home.” The officer said something extra that got everyone rowdy, and since I was the oldest out of everyone, I was telling them, “Be cool! Be cool!” But they were all riled up. So they all talking out the mouth, saying, “You can’t lock us up. This public property.”

So I started backing the family up, meaning getting defensive, so the officers cut to the chase. It was really one who had a bossy attitude and thought he could talk to us any type of way. So he got what he was looking for, and that was a bunch of lip and high-energy youth.

The officer says, “Technically this is trespassing, ’cause y’all just standing here.” Blah blah.

So I told ’em, “We’re going to get on through the back of the CTA, but you trying to be nosy and thought you’d find us doing something we weren’t supposed to do. Now we here being harassed and getting told we’re trespassing.” So he and his partner trying to rough me up and put me in cuffs. I tell them, “You can’t lock me up for freedom of speech.”

He said, “Actually, I’m going to lock you up for trespassing.” The other officer said, “You don’t know nothing about freedom and the law.” SMH, I said, “That’s why I am in school, for so they can teach me.” Bam! As he threw that in my face, I of course felt some type of way, so I stood quiet and said, “You right in my head.” I believe one of them knew me, so he ask for my age. I told him, “Seventeen.” He said, “I can’t wait until you turn eighteen,” as I was handcuffed and taken to the precinct. I didn’t know what he meant by that until later on in life.

Here I am, “adult” supposedly, meaning eighteen, and caught my first “adult” case. Really a petty-ass case (reckless conduct) again. I was told as I sat in the same precinct, “It isn’t the same no more,” me barely grasping what he meant. I guess he meant that when you be a juvenile, your parents or guardians has to come get you. Now, like I said, I’m eighteen years old, and the procedure I had to go through was taking off my shoelaces. What for? I do but don’t know. What I was told was, “So no one commits suicide.” Me overthinking, I knew I was going to be in custody until I see a judge. So after I finish taking my shoelaces out of my Nikes, I was taken to a lab where they fingerprinted me and asked if I have anyone for my emergency contact. I called my mother because her number I knew by heart.

I didn’t get a response, so I hung up and wasn’t able to get another chance to call back. The officer took me to a holding cell, and there I waited for further notice. I yell for the third-shift guard to see what was happening, after 1-3 hours pass, and was told, “You are being held for court tomorrow, so sleep in.” I was hungry, and disgusted ’cause how the cell I was in was looking. The toilet was rusted on the edges of the seats, and smell like somebody peed and it was never cleaned and sanitized. The mattress I had was thinner than a MF, like you can take your index and thumb to squeeze the mattress. I guess you can say it, some better than none. I thought I was going to be given a blanket, but I had to sleep with what I had and that was the sweater and shirt I came with. I was cold and hungry, and I fell asleep with the thought of food and what would happen on this case.

I was awakened by the door opening. It felt like I was sleeping for a couple hours. Still, the smell was reeking, so I packed with a little of nothing and rushed out the door. CO said, “Make sure you have your property slip and nothing else in your pockets!” Again asking, “Is any of you on medication and need the medication right away? If so, are you able to attend in front of the judge with no problem? ’Cause when you leave here, the judge won’t hear none of that.”

Everyone that was in different cells all said nothing, but look at each other, ready to go. It was about five or six people with me, and I thought I must’ve been the first who came in that night, and the rest came after, or was dead asleep when I came. The time was five or six in the morning, ’cause the sun was rising. We were all in the paddy wagon, meaning police truck, being delivered to different stops or getting picked up. The paddy wagon was cold as shit, and we were sitting on this steel-ass bench that was colder than a toilet seat when you go use the bathroom. If you’re taking a shit, it wakes you up or it stiffens you up...

LOL. So you try not touching anything else cold. That’s how the seats felt, sitting on them in the back of the paddy wagon. Crazy part is we had clothes on. As we arrive at the court building, we all gotten out and was brought inside the building.

Entering, we all was slightly greeted, but the other officers went straight to business. I guess over the years of experience, he knew what to do. So we was told, “Alright, gentlemen. I need you to take off your sweaters or coats if you have one, and place them in front of you.

After you do that, turn around and my partner and I will search you. Court won’t start for another two hours. So, if you are an F,” meaning felony, “and has this number, I need you to go to this cell. If you an M,” meaning misdemeanor, “I need you to go here. If you’re hungry, we will feed you once we receive the food.”

Two hours passed. We ate a basic meal, bologna sandwich and artificial juice. The PD, meaning public defender, was coming, grabbing each and every one of us one by one, explaining our case and what will happen, and ask a few questions, like, “Did you graduate?

What school you attended? Do you have kids? Do you have a job?” Back to the cell we go.

Everyone so awake, alert, and anxious on their case. We started to ask each other, “What they say? You think you going home?”

When my name was called, I looked bummier than ever. My hair was messed up, clothes were wrinkled, pants was fallen, and even my shoe tongue was hanging instead of being properly in place. As I appear in front of the judge, he say, “How you doing?” and ask for my name, then went on with my case. My PD said what I gave her to sound good for my case. The judge asked, “Prior record?” The state prosecutor had said, “No, your honor.” The judge looked at me, then said, “Well, time considered served. Consider this a fair warning.”

Back I go to the bullpen, meaning cell, with everybody else. I was confronted by everybody like I was a (sad to say) movie star, but truthfully, regarding my case the attention was high. It was quiet for my response. I told them, “I am going home,” and it was a sigh of relief to them, but still with an arch of an eyebrow up for them. I sat in the corner while they called everyone one by one, and waited to be released from that hell hole.

My family and community taught me the way to love, respect, resolve differences with one another, speak, be open, understanding, and forgive. The relationship I have with my family and community is far different from “the system.�

We are supposed to keep our mouth shut when approached by a cop.

In court, we are treated as objects to be punished and not people to be understood. Seeing this difference, I became a leader of Circles & Ciphers, a Chicago-based restorative justice organization led by and for young people impacted by violence who have been incarcerated.

Sherrif Polk I am from the Windy City, From people and folk.

I am from the northside of Rogers Park, Red and gold, blue and yellow, organization affiliation.

I am from roses, We use those for funerals.

I’m from family reunions and gossip, From Antron Polk and Lorita Mars.

I’m from “stay out of grown folks’ business” and “respect your elders,” From “best to be booksmart and streetsmart” and “to be aware is to be alive.”

I’m from lack of truth, scheming, and taking.

I’m from Holy City and really, Macaroni and fish, and tamales and pozole.

From the neighborhood that was structured by an organization, The ability to watch their children grow, Stored in my head, and pictures hung up on family wall or car dashboard, Never forgotten that individual for who they are.

Until the lion learns to write his own story, tales of the hunt will always glorify the hunter - African Proverb Copyright © 2019 ConTextos