B. enters the room pitching from side to side, balancing her over-stuffed backpack. She lands in a chair where she crumples and sighs. She wears a woman’s extra- large Red Sox tee shirt that has a tear in one armpit. Under her baseball cap there are random strands of grey in short dark hair.
N. walks in with an angry face that softens when I greet her. She has a thin frame and carries a small bag filled with tattered notebooks. A scarf is partially wrapped around her head and she tells me that helps her hide. She walks with a determination that I will later see in her writing.
This is my first day volunteering at a local women’s shelter where I have offered to facilitate a creative writing class. We sit at a round table near a window that looks out on a small urban garden of shrubs that surround one tree. N. tells me she was under a tree when she was saved, found the Lord. It’s where she experienced a spiritual transformation and got the courage to get clean and begin the work to overcome her past, to face her demons. We move the table closer to the window, closer to the tree.
This is our first meeting and we are strangers. I share some things about my self and they ask questions. Are you a real writer? Have you ever published? Where do you live?
The last question is the easiest to answer.
For some reason I want them to ask me if I’ve ever been homeless. If I’ve ever relied on a shelter for my meals. Or if I’ve ever been estranged from my entire family. Maybe I want to acknowledge our unspoken differences to find out if they will accept me.
I have come prepared with lists of journalling ideas and poem starters. These stay in my notebook for most of our first session while B. and N. share with me journal entries and poems they have already written. Their writings have characteristic themes.
N. writes of her spiritual and emotional journey. She tells of being one of 15 children growing up in a house that had a “secret behind every door.” She’s been sober for 17 years and credits the Lord for giving her strength. When she reads a piece about her recently deceased AA sponsor, her eyes become cloudy. Her journal entries read like prayers, her poems have the quality of psalms.
B.’s journal is a duel of anger and affirmation. Every entry begins with her rage at being hurt, rejected and insulted, usually because of her weight. Then her writer’s voice transitions into that of a personal cheerleader and she coaches herself to stay strong and positive. Her poems always rhyme and could be the lyrics to a song.
Over the course of our many weeks together our sessions become more relaxed and interactive. I offer material to jump- start our writing and I am amazed at how quickly these women begin to write. No hesitation, no grimacing or glancing up to the ceiling to find words. They scribble frantically and I wonder why writing comes so easily to them.
Is it because their experiences and struggles have pried their lives so wide open that all of their inhibitions have been released? Has their adversity robbed them of any pretension? Does writing give them a voice they’ve never had?
This workshop has been billed as Creative Writing but there is nothing creative about it.
These women write stories that are real, raw and redemptive.
And they inspire me.
Fantastic Paula. After having heard about the first session, I can see how far all of you have come. They have really given you a lot to think about and write about. I really enjoyed this – raw and redemptive!
You have found ‘your space’ and mission to help others and further yourself at the same time. In order to be true citizens, we need to be of value to others and you certainly are. JJD
What a fabulous thing you’re doing. When I taught in the hood, I found lots of kids writing their hearts out about lives that made me want to cry.
I think there is something creative about it. Maybe my definition of creative is too loose, but I think that anytime you string words together cohesively, you’re creating.