A NEW Workshop Series
During the 2019-2020 school year, we launched a new workshop series in partnership with Maryland Writing Project, Enoch Pratt Free Library, and One Book Baltimore. Middle and high school writers from Baltimore City and Baltimore County Public Schools met on Saturday afternoons every month with the goal to develop as writers—specifically to use writing as a tool for advocacy.
“Think about ways you can make the world better…by doing what you love to do!”
—Kyle Pompey, Photographer
Advocacy through Writing
At each meeting, participants worked with local authors and developed their skills around a variety of genres: poetry, fiction, memoir, nonfiction, and even photography. Throughout the series, they explored which medium was most impactful to them, and crafted pieces that are both personal and powerful, illustrating that advocacy and action can come in many forms.
“You’re never too young to tell your story.. don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
—Sheri J. Booker, Author
Writing for Change
Workshop participants chose to write about issues important to them, which ranged from ending police brutality, overcoming trauma, supporting teen mental health, as well as advocating for social justice, LGBTQ rights, the environment, animal welfare, and more. Selected pieces from students’ portfolios are below.
Mind over Matter
A series of two poems by Luvia, Grade 12
July
Hold me in the weight of my pain,
Pass me candles carved with prayers so this time may pass,
Help me learn to walk when I forget to stand,
I am two sticks shaking in my boots,
Small as the windchill in july,
May you place a flower on the doorstep as a token of peace of mind,
Wash the marble steps of my mind and drain the sludges of depression from the gutter,
May the sun soak beneath my skin and change my color to something happier,
Heavy
Heavy lidded eyes burn through mascara streams that pool like rivers,
I cannot escape this cloud for its weight feels like cinderblocks against my skull,
You make me shiver,
You’re the last shot of brandy that seeps in my rotting liver,
I cannot seem to move no matter how hard I try,
The floor is lava and my skin is melting above it,
The burn is no longer painful, but a warm homecoming,
I do not remember the last time I felt so at home in the dark.
“I found a home in poetry.”
—Deleicea Greene, Baltimore’s Youth Poet Laureate.
Untitled
By Elisabeth, Grade 10
I went to a 7-11 with my mother one day, looking for something to temporarily rid me of my hunger. I picked up a snack, probably a bag of chips, and met up with my mom at the front of the store, a slim jim in her hand. A man stood ahead of us, dressed in a worn coat and jeans with tears so uneven they obviously weren’t bought that way. He was paying for a steaming cup of coffee and a sandwich covered in plastic wrap. The man, standing close enough for us to smell the dirt forever stained on his clothing, reached into his jean pockets for a bunch of coins; I could hear their clinking as they hit the plastic countertop. The clerks seemed to be annoyed with his slow tallying and so they, with a harsh and mocking tone, told the man to speed it up. My mother was visibly upset at the remarks of the cashiers; she strode to the front of the line, looked the clerks in the eyes, and said to them that she would be paying for his items.
When we left the 7-11, the man told us his history of homelessness, why he was homeless, how he got to this point. The man was retired and receiving checks from the government so that he could support himself. One day, the checks stopped coming; it turns out that the government mistakenly presumed he was dead. I don’t think he ever told us why he was declared dead; it was probably some federal employee that made a tiny error on an unimportant document.
There are many tales of the trials and errors of being homeless, but this one frightens me more than the others. It’s more than a story of misery and failure; it reveals the government’s ignorance of those whom it thinks of as undeserving of help.
Homelessness. It’s everywhere we look; in fact, I can’t remember a time when I haven’t seen people on city streets begging for money so they can afford to buy cheap meals at their local corner store. My mother and I encounter the homeless and, somehow, always seem to give them something to aid their lack of shelter, food, money, resources; the list never seems to end. Sometimes it involves a dig through my lunch box to find leftover food or rummaging through the seats of the car to uncover some change. Usually, there are people outside asking for change, food, or coffee, and no matter what we are doing, my mom stops to help. It doesn’t matter if she’s in a rush or on her way home from a stressful day of work; she always stops to give money, food wrapped in plastic, or a store-bought meal.
Everyone in America who has a roof over their head and a constant income forgets about the people on the street, struggling every day to get by. I know I forget when I have “bigger, more important” problems that seem to consume my everyday life. In fact, the first thing I thought of when the Coronavirus appeared in Maryland was myself and how it would impact my life. I forgot about the man who shouldn’t be on the streets, struggling to make a living. I forgot about the people who are only on the sidewalks because rent is too high, or they have a criminal record, or the entire system is structured against them, or all of the above.
My mother never forgets. It feels like everything she works for is for them. She drives from place to place, gathering food and handing it out to those who need it. She keeps cash and bags in her car to give the homeless, so she doesn’t have to say that she has nothing to offer. We need to be more like that. For those who have the power to do something, DO SOMETHING! If not, poverty will never get better; it will only get worse. If we keep pushing away and ignoring the people who need our help, nothing will get better. That’s the truth.
drift
by Michelle Guo
you will meet thousands of me
next spring,
a small yellow flower, seemly
a delicate thing.
as i grow i will be,
a puffy, many seeded, drifting
white multi use leafy green.
you find me and puff out a gush of wind in excitement,
watching as the seeds fall down slowly,
maybe you might create a fairy,
all i know is that now i’m empty.
don’t fret, i’ll be back,
it’s gonna take a lot more than that
to try and stop me.
i may have been a little seedling,
but now i have seeds of my own,
that will grow, and depart from me,
thousands of seeds on thousands of me.
A letter to my Grandmother
By Tamya, Grade 11
Dear Granny,
Taco nights aren’t filled with joy anymore.
Watching Phillip drink all the hot sauce is a memory that I won’t get back, or be able to relive again, trying to relive those moments wouldn’t feel the same because you’re not here .
Oatmeal isn’t the sweetest because you aren’t the one making it for me these days .
My phone is always dry because you’re not the one ringing my line anymore.
Hugging arms aren’t full of warmth now because yours brought me the most comfort.
Talking about daddy’s girlfriends isn’t fun cause we aren’t the ones betting how long their gonna last now.
Weekends and summers rarely excite me now that you’re gone, because I use to spend those with you.
Icecream trucks out the whole block was out...
Phillip and I running to your room to ask for money.
Staying out until 1 and 2 in the morning at my friends house up the block, eating dinner there, only to come back home to ask for more food, and to hear you say “girlll you gonna get fat..she stay eating.”
Getting on your nerves because I kept cleaning the house, lol you hated that .
Phillip and I dancing to #Onechallenges in the living room only to hear you say “y’all can’t dance.”
Binge watching old movies and shows on Bounce TV with you, you loved those, especially the scary movies.
You singing Happy birthday to me through the phone, I didn’t get that this year instead I was waiting for your call. You’re gone now but forever in my heart.
Redoing my hair a million times just to get on your nerves.
Taking lots of showers even though I was clean.. you really use to get on me about that.
Watching you eat all those lemon heads in a day, just to go back to CVS to get more the same day .
Me blocking your kisses playfully, now I wish I didn’t block them.
Me getting on you cause you was smoking them cigarettes.. I only did that cause I cared.
Now all I have to remember you of is the scents of smoke in your hats that I have ,and your ashes, honestly now it’s the most pleasant smell ever to me.
April fools day was about 2 days ago, It had me thinking about the time I bought fake blood and we did that prank on daddy to see how he was gonna react, Yeah funny moments .
You coming in the middle of the night to tuck phillip and I in, I really miss that .
Me crying my heart out to you cause I didn’t get excepted to Western at first but 3 weeks into my ninth grade school year they told me I got excepted , in that moment all I could think about was you and how a couple months before you passed away you told me “what’s for me will be mine.”
You calling me in your room to ask me to moisturize your hair, I wish I complained less and just did it .
Me being there at the hospital for you every time you got sick. I remember you told you me you weren’t going anywhere for a long time , I don’t know why but you saying that is what always kept me calm. That family cookout you got drunk at when I know I told you stop drinking. I remember that night as if it was yesterday. I was really mad at you, but once we got home I helped you up the stairs to your bed and I got you lots of water .. in that moment I felt like I was the parent .
How about the last time I saw you in person. I was in North Carolina with you and we spent that whole day together at that cookout . Something had seemed off with you that day, so I was worried but I still enjoyed my time with you .
Those are all moments I wish I could get back with you! It’s like when you left me it left a huge whole in my heart .
Now when I hear an ice-cream truck outside I blatantly ignore the sound cause it reminds me of you. I try not to get too attached to people now cause it hurts when they are not there anymore . I’m more laid back nowadays . I Don’t really care about having many friends. I’m more cautious about my decision making now cause I know when I mess up you won’t be here to make me feel better, like you use to do. I feel like I look at life differently. I miss hearing you say “don’t fear life“.. I go by that saying now. I guess I’ll wait another lifetime, and meet us in another life time.
Love,
your baby girl
4/4/20
Crown
By Jamie, Grade 9
An ode to the suffering boy in my chest
For staying, despite being trapped in this place.
He cries and he bleeds but he writes down these words
As midnight tears stream down his face.
He wears a crown of paint streaks and tears and thorns,
He wears a crown as blood falls from his eyes.
This boy is the one who gets stabbed when I’m hurt.
By others or me? You can decide.
They call him “she” and they call him his << deadname >>,
Do they even know who they’re hurting inside?
So, I hurt, and I hurt, and I hurt myself
Because he needs to know that he’s still alive
So, as he is rattling, shaking his cage,
Amidst broken words, his shouts get too loud.
I sing out his pain with a sigh and a promise;
They call me pretty girl, he wears the crown.
How to Eat
By Jamie, Grade 9
It could be worse.
That is what every single person says about their situation, their trauma, no matter how much they have been through. Even the patients who have been through the worst physical abuse and psychological manipulation always say, it could be worse.
I know it could be worse. My brain tells me every day. You could be starving in a third-world country. You could have been killed upon coming out. You could have been banned from education simply because you were born a girl. You could be like many LGBTQ+ youths, living on the streets. You could be like many trans people, driven to sex work because there is no other way to make a living. You could be like many LGBTQ+ people, dead.
It could be worse, my brain says. You could cry yourself to sleep each night. You could become physically ill because of your anxiety. Your grades could plummet to D’s and E’s. You could be obsessive over every small detail and lose your mind when everything wasn’t exactly right. You could have scars covering your arms and legs.
You could be dead.
Of course, I’m not comparing myself to those who have been through extreme hardships. I’ve never been abused, never been bullied, never been manipulated. Compared to these people who have so much strength inside them, I’m pathetic. I’m just whiny and weak, and stupid, and—
Sorry. I shouldn’t even be writing about this. It’s not that big of a deal. Just like my therapist told me, even most adults don’t like everything about their bodies. No one loves themselves completely. But it seems wrong to hate everything about yourself.
Once my parents found out I wasn’t eating lunches, they took me back to my therapist. I had almost convinced them to let me not go anymore. Almost. She explained to me that not even adults love their bodies completely. She deemed the way I wanted my body to look unrealistic. She said it’s impossible to lose weight in specific areas, and that it’s impossible to get a flat stomach. I don’t believe her.
Not when all the girls in my dance class are beauties of grace and light, and there I am, bumbling among them. Not when my friend who was just like me got what she wanted. I remember telling her to eat. I remember telling her starving herself made it worse. I remember her telling me it worked. You just had to keep going.
When I told my best adult friend that I wasn’t eating because I didn’t like my body, she replied, “But you don’t like your body for other reasons.” I didn’t know what to say but I tried to explain that I also didn’t like this part. She then said, “You know you can lose weight by eating healthier, right?” I didn’t know what to say to that either. Because the problem wasn’t (fully) because I ate unhealthily. The problem was whatever eating disorder I had created for myself.
According to Google, an eating disorder is “any of a range of psychological disorders characterized by abnormal or disturbed eating habits”. I would say my eating habits are abnormal and disturbed (and greatly affecting my ability to think and act), but they don’t fit the categories of anorexia, bulimia, or binge eating. Skipping meals and then being unable to stop oneself from eating junk food, and then shaming oneself, or crying, or feeling completely worthless, is abnormal and disturbed. And when I say unable to stop oneself, I mean unable. I would pick up cookies from the container, while insults rattled through my head.
“Fat, ugly, slut. No one will ever love you. How could you eat that? You disgusting pig. You’re f**king disgusting.”
I might be exaggerating, but that doesn’t seem like something most teens think. That doesn’t seem like something most people think. Especially not every time they eat. Or even want to eat.
But it could be worse. I could have bulimia. I could throw up all my food and completely ruin my vocal track. Instead of passionate notes, it would be swimming in acid. Sometimes, when I lie on the bathroom floor, I think how much easier it would be if I could just throw it up. I could eat whatever I wanted. I wouldn’t have to go through this cycle of depriving myself and then overeating. But as much as I hate my voice, I do not want to ruin it. I am pathetic, I am weak. I cannot tolerate my stomach acids.
I’m sorry for telling you this. You don’t need to bear this burden. But I am burning, and my wick is almost finished. Soon, there will be none left of me to tell this tale. I will be but an empty shell of who I was. I will be one with the ghosts.
I intend to run a 5k in May. I intend to complete my season of Lent as well as I can. The exercise and the decrease of sugar will do me good. But still, I cannot stop myself. The cups of pudding I won at church sit hidden on my windowsill. I do not want to eat them. But I will.
My therapist says most people don’t love everything about themselves. But when I look in the mirror, and I can only name one part of my body that I like, what does that say? When I cannot think why the rest of me is loveable, what does that say? When I am curled up on my bathmat, vomit rising in my throat, tears pooling in my eyes, stomach clenched between my hands, what does that say? When I stand in front of the mirror crying, an empty cup of pudding on the counter, what does that say? Crying, because, as Blythe Baird said, “I only feel pretty when I’m hungry”.
I’m sorry. This isn’t a big deal. I can deal with it. I don’t need to tell anyone. It’s just me skipping some meals. It’s just me liking sugar too much. It’s not anything extreme. After all, no one completely loves their body. Not even adults. I just don’t like some parts. It’s not like I despise my body. That would be absurd. The tears? Oh, those are normal. Right? Everyone cries over their body. Right?
There are moments. Early in the morning, before I’ve eaten anything. That’s the only time I can remember smiling at my body. That’s why I don’t believe my therapist. I’ve seen myself with a flat stomach. And I can keep it. All I have to do is not eat.
When my parents found out I was skipping meals, they took me to the therapist. Our tradition is to get donuts after therapy sessions. So, after the session, I asked for a donut. I would prove it. That I was fine. It didn’t bother me. But my mom said no. She looked at me and said, “You know, this is how people get eating disorders, right? You’re going to grow up and be 800 pounds, and be on one of those shows, and you won’t be able to move. The people will ask me, why did you keep feeding her? And I’ll say, I just wanted to make her happy, so I kept bringing her food.” She laughed and said it as a joke, but it wasn’t funny to me. How could I say to her, no, mom I have the eating disorder where I don’t eat at all?
It could be worse. But in the moments where all I can see is my body, in the moments where all I can see is how awful I am, in the moments where I hate myself, how is that the normal level of not liking your body? In the moments hunched over on the toilet, standing in front of the mirror, bent over in the shower, water pouring off my body, tears brimming in my eyes, how is that normal? In the moments where if I still had my razors, the trashcan would be full of blood-soaked tissues, how am I normal? In the moments where I wish I would waste away into a ghost, how am I normal?
If I can stop eating sugar, I will look better by May. Less food, less sugar, more exercise will be good for me. All I have to do is stop eating sugar. It’s not that hard right? When there is a box of cookies, don’t open it. When you could ask for dessert, don’t. When you could—NO, NO! STOP WHAT ARE YOU DOING! —it’s nothing. I can make it through. After all, this is normal. My therapist says it’s normal. My adult best friend thinks it’s not important. My parents think it’s normal. It’s not important. It’s normal.
I’m sorry. I’m sure this must be annoying. I’m just complaining about trivial things. It’s not important, it’s normal, it’s alright, I’m alright.
Sorry.
“I think that writing that inspires people to do what they need to emotionally stabilize themselves is just as important as writing that inspires others to use their knowledge to make a more visible difference.”
—Veronica, Workshop Participant, 7th Grade
Beach
By Sam Boldon
I go to the beach to see the bright sun and the dark blue ocean
I go to smell the fries as I cross the boardwalk
I go to hear the strong waves pound the ocean floor
I go to feel the waves toss me around like clothes spinning in the washing machine
I go to let my imagination run wild in the sand
And when the fun is all done I leave
Excited for tomorrow
Another day on the beach.
Funding for this project was provided, in part, through support of John Legend’s Show Me Campaign, the National Writing Project, and the U.S. Department of Education. Special thanks to The Hirschhorn Foundation and Towson University's BTU-Partnerships for Greater Baltimore for additional support of this series.
