Tears of life

Tears of Life Justin Hamilton

“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 2016, 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, literacy skills, conflict resolution and positive self-projection.

In collaboration with:

Cook County Sheriff’s Office

Tears of life Justin Hamilton

day

A year and a few months go by and now I find myself speeding down Lincoln Highway, going miles over the speed limit. As I swerve through traffic, I can hear angry drivers cursing obscenities at me and the angry honks of their horns.

I get to the intersection of Route 41 and there is a red-light camera. I’m driving too fast to stop in time. I run the light and as I look back, my face is caught by the flash of the camera. I drive two more blocks and as I pass the welcome to Indiana sign, I make a right and drive into St. Margaret’s Hospital.

I run to the desk and as an older white woman “What room is Erica Gonzalez in?” She types on the computer for a few seconds but my Erica doesn’t pop up. I start dialing numbers on my phone and after a few tries, I finally get an answer. As the bringer of life is talking on the other end, I race out of the waiting room and back to the parking lot. I’m fumbling with my keys and finally open the door.

Due to the lack of gas, the line literally being on E, I have to turn the key and hit the gas several times. Finally, it starts and I peel erratically out of the parking lot. Now I’m heading to St. Anthony’s in Crown Point.

I pull up to the right hospital and ask a similar looking lady from the last the same question. She tells me fifth floor delivery room‌

And with that, the door closes. The butterflies in my stomach are going crazy. The knot in my throat is becoming tighter and tighter. All I can hear is “push.” I see the head. My head seems to be gravitating and feels like it’s about to float off into space. I glance down at my hand as the mother of my child squeezes tighter and tighter and my hand numbs and turns red.

After a long two hours, I am holding my pride, my joy, my life.

In this little girl, I can feel my blood flowing through her little veins. I’m having visions of her first word, first day of school, Prom (whoooo… don’t know about that one!), her going to college. I feel the impact this baby Amora Marie will have on my life…

I’ve done a lot of good things and I’ve done a lot of bad things.

I have helped people and I have hurt people. I have lived the double life of a family man and a schoolman, as well as a

street soldier. I have been happy and I have been sad. I have

cried in laughter and I have cried out to God with a 17 Smith and Wesson handgun in my hand, pointed at my head, while sitting in my 2-14 metallic, steel Jeep Patriot, hearing the raindrops beat heavily against my windshield.

Throughout my ups and downs, before January 30th, 2011, I tried ending the downs with either a .357 or double barrel shotgun to my lower chin. I have always thought in a sense that this world needed someone with my heart, someone who can always see the good in others. But in the same token, I felt like this world was not made for someone like me. So why not betray the world before the world betrays me? In one quick pull, my pain would be over.

But at that moment, I always hear her voice, her child-like laughter and a smile arises across my face. I feel her cry and the need to rescue her overtakes me. Instead of crying out to God about my pain, I beg him to give me the abilities and strength to protect and provide for her.

Now I have a reason to live and hold on, like I never had before.

Three years after her birth, I have my daughter in my arms, rolling on the living room floor, lost in her smile and her laughter, I start remembering the events that led her to be. It is late evening and the weather is just perfect, her mom is sleeping and you can smell the fresh home-cooked burgers. My little girl’s energy is being depleted like a battery. She is now falling asleep. As I sit back and hold her, i feel my eyes become heavy and breaths deepen before i drift off. I end this moment with one last thought.

There is an old saying that when someone dies, a child is born. I thank the person who gave their life for the birth of my daughter. I love you, Amora Marie. Always and Forever.

I am Justin Hamilton.

I am from the Land of the Lost.

From Crown Vics and Tahoes and loose squares.

I am from the one-ways and liquor stores on every corner; 82nd Houston, warzone, bullet holes and graffiti.

I am from grass is green and every day the park is filled.

Packed with people and police.

I’m from going to college and being an athlete.

From Hamilton and Holmes.

From “You’re strange” and “You’re gifted.”

I’m from Baptist Christians.

From the Eastside of Chicago; From ribs and chicken.

From where the first-born dies.