I got a call from NYWC workshop leader Jaclyn Perlmutter about an hour before I was set to visit her writing workshop. She’d called to remind about the dress code at Bayview Correctional Facility, where Jaclyn has been leading a NYWC workshop since July 2009. Because the facility wants to create a somewhat formal atmosphere for visitors, there are no open toe shoes, spaghetti strap tanks, overly revealing clothing, green attire (inmates wear green), or blue jeans allowed. I was, naturally, wearing jeans. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll bring you a pair of pants.”

Jaclyn met me outside Bayview, a medium security women’s correctional facility across the street from the Chelsea Piers, with a very small pair of charcoal grey corduroys. The security procedure to get inside the prison made a trip through JFK look like a walk in the park. After checking-in my cell phone, we were buzzed into a room with lockers where we were wanded down and searched before being buzzed through more security doors and escorted up a flight of stairs. There I was shown a bathroom where I changed my pants, and was escorted back downstairs to the lockers to stow the jeans. Once back upstairs we signed in again at a different desk before being taken in an elevator to the workshop. By this point I was feeling sufficiently anxious.

The corduroys didn’t exactly fit. Thankfully, I could zip the pants, but I’ve got a good four inches on Jaclyn, and they hit me at least two inches above my ankle, showing off my brilliant white socks from beneath my maroon clogs. If the women in the writing workshop noticed my odd high water fashion, they were gracious enough to not say anything.

There were seven women present that night, gathered around four faux wooden tables pushed into a square. They spanned several decades and crossed racial lines. They wore beige and black work boots, white sneakers and pink shoe laces. They had dread locks, upswept buns, hoop earrings, no earrings, tattoos, golden crosses on chains, and lip gloss. When they sat down to write, the only sounds that could be heard were the scribble of pens across composition books (spiral notebooks prohibited) and the faint hum of an air ventilation system that sounded vaguely like a refrigerator.

The mood was surprising light. Jaclyn first prompted us to imagine the world one hundred years from now. While my imagination painted a rather bleak picture of the future, I was surprised when it was time to share what we’d written, that without exception, the women’s writing was exceedingly optimistic. The women wrote about pollution free futures filled with blue skies; our world’s problems solved. They wrote about robots, hair clips, and Diet Pepsi. They spoke of their families on the outside, their children and grandchildren. If not for the forest green prison uniforms each woman wore, for most of the evening it seemed like we could have been anywhere.

But there were reminders. During a short break one woman said to another, evidently talented visual artist in the group,  “I’m still waiting for you to draw my portrait.”

She responded with an exasperated smile, “We’ll, we’ve got time! I’m not going anywhere.”

Later, the air changed more dramatically when a workshop member shared a piece of writing in response to a different prompt. It was a melancholy poem about a room, but was a metaphor for the prison. At one point the narrator says to the room, you  “swallow all my happiness.” Clearly the words resonated with the other writers, who eagerly jumped in, at times talking over each other, with responses that were thoughtful and clear. And when it was time to go there was a sense of gratitude. The women rushed off to catch some fresh air on the enclosed rooftop that served as their only outdoor space, which closed for the evening five minutes after the workshop ended. But through the scurrying, I sensed their time together was unique, and that the women were glad they used some of their free time to gather and write together.

It was a lot easier to leave the prison than it had been to get in. I was happy to be  back in my own clothes on 11th Ave., looking over the Hudson at sunset. But I couldn’t help but think of the seven women I’d recently met, who could not just walk out the front door as I had. They were still inside, in their government issue prison uniforms.  I hoped that during their time in the writing workshop they were able to forget about their surroundings, and for at least two hours each week could enter another kind of room, one where they were, first and foremost, writers.

* * *

Save a Heart

by Nakia Whitmire

Here I am sitting here on a beautiful Sunday morning.  Birds are singing, sun is shining so bright.  Yes this is what I’m talking about, me time, no saving lovers, no mending broken hearts.  Just me, sitting on my patio in my heart silk boxers, reading the paper.

Let me see what I want to do today for “me time.”  Oh yes, I do have to wash my outfit, you know, my job can get dirty, especially when I am mending broken hearts.  Ring ring (telephone is ringing), ring ring.  “Hello,” I answer.

“Hey, Hearts, what’s going on, didn’t expect you to answer.  I was going to leave a message.”  This is my sister.  I’ve saved her heart a couple of times.  Her name is Spade.

“Yeah well don’t you think I need a day off from saving broken hearts,” I ask her matter-of-factly.

“Of course, of course, it’s just that you know, there’s always a broken heart somewhere to be saved.”

“I know, I know, I just hope not today.  I hope that everyone that’s in love stays in love for a while so I can have more me days.”

Spade cuts in.  “Well, speaking of me days, I have someone for you to meet.  So when you finish doing you, come over.”

“Okay.”  I hang up and just think about the time ahead.

I grab a shower, gel my hair, brush my teeth, and throw on some comfy clothes.  I walk to the basement and start the laundry.  Then I run upstairs and start cleaning the house.  By the time I finish all the house chores it’s 3:45pm and I’m tired, so I kick my feet up and chill.  My clock reads 3:55pm, I think to myself where did the seconds go.  I get up right quick and grab a beer.  Just as I’m about to lay down, my super heart cell rings.  Love on the line, love’s on the line.  Damn, just when I thought this was my day.

“Save a heart here.”

“Oh I was just playing, just wanted to see if you’ll answer.”  It’s my crazy sis Spade playing.

“Listen, I’m out, can’t you see I’m chilling,” I ask her.

“Okay okay, I’ll see you around 8:30, okay?”

“Okay,” I answer, then hang up. Back to doing me.

Love is on the line, love on the line. I’m not paying that any attention, wait I can’t ignore it because love is really on the line. Somebody needs me. Somebody is getting their heart broken, okay okay. “Save a heart is here,” I answer.

“Hi, Save a heart, it’s me, Kiki, my heart is broken, I need you.”

“Save a heart is on the way.” Another heart to save. Love is on the line.

The night I visited Sylvia’s Place last month was an unseasonably warm November evening. When the drop-in program began at 6 pm the place was quiet, but people trickled in steadily, greeting each other like old friends with hugs and kisses. Light purple walls framed the long rectangular room. There was a big industrial kitchen on one side, and on the other side giant piles of clothes sat on top of counters. (Donations free for the picking.) Lockers lined the wall for the residents limited belongings.

NYWC Workshop leader Charles Austin set the chairs up near the kitchen and we started with just one other writer besides myself and Charles. “They’ll join in as they arrive,” he assured me. Next a young woman brand new to Sylvia’s Place sat down. She was eager to write but first had to check-in and make arrangements to stay. Others joined in one by one, and by 8 pm there were a half dozen or so people listening and sharing their writing.

Sylvia’s Place is an emergency overnight shelter serving NYC’s homeless lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) youth in NYC. It was founded in 2003 by Metropolitan Community Church of New York’s Reverend Pat Bumgardner in honor of the late Stonewall veteran and trans-activist Sylvia Rivera. The center, which operates on the ground floor of the church, serves as the entry point for homeless LGBT youth to gain access to all other social services and more permanent housing. They provide shelter, hot meals, clothing, showers, case management, medical services, and they won’t turn anyone away.

NY Writers Coalition has been providing creative writing workshops at Sylvia’s Place since 2006, and Charles Austin has been the leader there for the last year and a half. In the past, NYWC had never been able to capture the words of these writers in a publication. Because the workshop participants lives are so transient, different writers participate every week. While there are some faithful regulars that come every week, some talented writers also participate once and then are never seen by us again.

However, Charles Austin was able to overcome these challenges with Home/Homeless is Where Your Story Begins, NYWC’s first ever chapbook from Sylvia’s Place, published last summer. Charles collected the writing for the book over the course of a year. “Part of the challenge was to recognize the pieces I wanted to include and get permission right then and there because I never knew whether I would see the particular youth again,” he explained. In their own words, these seventeen writers tell their powerful stories of love and rejection, addiction and redemption, of home and homelessness. Home/Homeless Is Where Your Story Begins also features candid and haunting photographs of life inside the shelter by acclaimed photographer Lucky Michaels (and Sylvia’s Place Program Director).

But publishing a book takes time.  Over the course of the year that the pieces were written, collected, and edited,  most of the writers had moved on and  haven’t had the chance to see their words printed and bound. Nevertheless, we’re honored to present their rarely heard and powerful voices, which now, no matter what, won’t be lost.

–Erin Hopkins

My Addiction

by D.H.

Walking thru the streets of
midtown feeling down
depressed and hungry
hungry for what
money of course money on
my mind it’s too much it’s
making me blind
Men staring me up and down some
wearing a smile some wearing
a frown some throwing $50 and $100
on the ground where I stand
My heart beating from the excitement
and cash - I think I should rob
them take the money and dash
The weather is nice and the
night is young so many men
so drunk and dumb as I face
the problem of prostitution
I lose all self-respect
and respect from you
and others around me
as I realize I
am addicted
to streetwalking

Yachad, meaning together in Hebrew, describes in a word what is unique about the Dayhab center and its umbrella organization Jewish Union Foundation. Founded twenty five years ago, it started as an attempt to integrate teens living with developmental disabilities into mainstream Jewish society through social and recreational activities. The program has now grown to serve children and adults with developmental disabilities and their families. At the cornerstone of their work are the concepts of inclusion, and including the teaching of social skills to their participants. As National Director of the Jewish Union Foundation, Dr. Jeffrey Lichtman explains, while teaching socials skills is often neglected in developmentally disabled education, it is the most critical skill to learn in order to integrate into mainstream society.

Yachad Dayhab Without Walls in one of the programs within National Jewish Foundation. Program participants develop independent living and vocational skills through classes at the center as well as creative courses emphasizing self expression. When not at the center participants work and volunteer in the community at settings ranging from schools to pharmacies to beauty salons.

NY Writers Coalition’s relationship with the Yachad Dayhab began last May. Program participants had expressed an interest in writing so Vocational Coordinator Sara Cohen began searching for an appropriate course for them in the community. However, she found the physical limitations of some participants to be an issue because many sites were not wheelchair accessible. When NYWC offered to bring the workshop to them, it seemed like a perfect fit. Even though Yachad Dayhab prefers to get their program participants into the community as often as possible, having an exclusive writing workshop has proved beneficial in more ways one. As Director Jonathan Weiss explains, “The fact that you [NYWC] come here makes it not only physically possible for many of our members to participate, but also has created a very emotionally inviting space where they feel safe and free to explore and express themselves.”

By all accounts the workshop has been a great success. The writers and staff are enthusiastic and the notebooks are filling up quickly. But what really stands out in this workshop is the amount of respect the workshop participants, leader Judy Chicurel, and the staff all have for the writing. When it came time to share the writing, the voices gathered around the table fell silent as all eyes and ears turned their attention to the writing.