Jordan McClements of Dover is a painter and writer, whose art depicts the overdose/unsheltered crisis. His works are on display at the Dover Art League and at Studio B Milford.
With 1,585 individuals experiencing homelessness in Delaware, this is a 16% increase since last year. And children make up 27% of that population.
Every time I say the name of my cousin, Lee McClements, who we lost to an overdose, I remember him shooting a speedball of coke and heroin into his neck, and I can feel my own veins like they used to hurt when I was shooting speedballs in 2016 and 2017 with him. I shudder every time I feel my veins being raked now, even without shooting up in almost 10 years. I imagine my heart exploding when my fingernails scratch the track marks that I know were my form of hesitation marks. When I don’t cover up my track marks on my arms, I think of when Mom asked me to promise her I would never hurt myself. God, why didn’t I make that promise then? Why is it now, when she can’t take care of herself?
Because the time is now.
Because of Dad, Francis Terry McClements, deciding not to die in his car crash, during which he flipped his Firebird into the ditch six times. The Firebird in flames, smoldering, smoking, as Dad circled it, repeating, “I have to take my son, Jordan, to day care in the morning.”
But my nephews, Robby and Tegan, don’t have Lee to save them from the flood of addiction, homelessness and overdoses like I did. They have the oldest McClements brother, their grandfather, Uncle Bobby. We lost Lee to addiction and an overdose. We’ve got to carry on the McClements name in Lee’s honor and be grateful that Uncle Bobby is still here. What can we pass on to the next generation of McClementses? What am I teaching my nephews, Robby and Tegan, as Cousin/Uncle Jordo? That’s the money fish, America.
No questions besides here and now; that’s all drugs are. Chasing comfort through a death drive impulse that flirts with you like an altered reality that changes your thoughts, language, patterns and insights, and rewires reality to feed itself. It’s a death trip, whether you’re spiritual or not. I have the holes in my arms and my cousin’s ashes, which Muh Mum McClements gave me on her deathbed when she told me, “Never stop writing, Jordy.”
Like our great matriarch and her words, Lee McClements is gone, even if his presence in my heart is here and realer than the words on this page. The reason the number of overdoses is down is because families like the McClementses are stepping up in their loved one’s names — or in our case, Lee’s name. Like the head of my family, Lee’s dad and Robby and Tegan McClements’ grandfather, my Uncle Bobby is stepping up and providing for our family, and it’s time we step up, America, and save our family, like Uncle Bobby is.
Reader reactions, pro or con, are welcomed at civiltalk@iniusa.org.
