Victory

Victory Matthew M. Luchins

“Until the lion writes his own story, the tale of the hunt will always glorify the hunter.”

-African proverb 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, illustrating and publishing memoirs, participants develop self-reflection, critical thinking, camaraderie, and positive self-projection 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 young men, their families and our collective communities.

In collaboration with

Victory Matthew M. Luchins

His name was Victor. His hands were newly bandaged, his clothes still clean, his eyes still bright.

His calm was preternatural as I asked the unusual question and we slipped easily into conversation despite sharing little more than our youth and the sandwiches I’d brought.

I learned that his house had caught ďŹ re three days ago as he slept, hence the bandages, and his new life as one of the homeless who line Michigan Avenue.

We talked for about 30 minutes, between bites of our sandwiches, looking up only rarely to see the knees and shoes of those who passed us by the thousands.

When we finished I shook his hand—gently—stood up, gave my backside a left-right slap to clear the dust from my khakis, and walked the two blocks to my “Temporary” $10 hour job, the one I held for six months with no end in sight.

As I walked, I became aware that I, too, was now calm. Calm after so much worry.

Worry that had distracted me from my work as I glanced at the clock, counting down to the lunch hour,

Worry had beat my heart ďŹ ve times for every beep of the elevator as it counted down 27 oors to the lobby.

Worry that caused me to stammer and ruin the perfectly choreographed routine I performed every day at Potbelly’s—smile, smile back...

“Mayo, mustard, oil?”

“Uh….both.”

Worry, in other words, that had nearly scared me away from one of the most important acts of my life.

“What had I worried about?” I wondered as I walked.

I realized I couldn’t put my finger on it.

The closest I could ďŹ gure was that I worried a friend or colleague would see me sitting on the street. But how silly was that? Wouldn’t they only think better of me, for an unusual act of kindness?

As I turned into the lobby I’d left in a harried, anxious state just an hour before, I realized that whatever worried me had no right to do so. All I’d had to do—all I’d done—was buy two sandwiches, ooer them to a stranger, ask if I could eat with him.

I felt at peace. But I didn’t realize it was a breakthrough until a few weeks later, when the same voice that had urged me to sit with Victor—call it the conscience, call it God, I’m not sure there’s a diierence—started saying, “Why not?”

Why not just go.

Go back to the city and continent where a year before I’d ďŹ rst known failure.

Get the visa, buy the ticket, quit the job, pack a bag, board the plane. It was really that simple, like buying two sandwiches and sitting down to share them with a stranger.

So, a month later, I boarded a 16 hour flight to New Delhi, leaving behind nothing I couldn’t return to, and many things I wanted to stay in my past. I couldn’t explain why, but I knew I needed to return to confront what happened in those friendless, futile four months before I was fired from my first job.

The doors closed, the engine roared, the turbulence I hated rocked us.

Was it worse than usual? Was it something more than turbulence?

No matter. I felt for the ďŹ rst and only time in my life, that if it went down, I would die content.

Matthew I am from mixed ethnicities and religions, so many they became none.

A miracle of forbidden love--and modern medicine.

I am from Chicago’s only diverse neighborhood, The white boy in that photo Playing ball with Obama’s nephew and the kid shot in grade school.

I’m shaped by life on three continents, though I only wanted it to be twoMy Church was the lecture hall, my Bibles all the books that lined our walls.

I’d ask my dad what he did that day and ingest philosophy with dinner.

I walked hand in hand with my mom down Michigan Ave Watching as she emptied her pockets to the beggars, not the shops.

As I grew older, I called them rarely, whether I lived next door Or across the world.

Now I speak to my mom every day and my dad every night.