incarcerated teen poets

Today was the third and final session of trying to teach poetry to a group of at-risk teens.

Yes, final.

We tried. We pulled a few students in that seemed like they might respond but then other kids came in that really didn’t belong there. Doors opened and shut. Kids hollered obscenities at each other. We had some stare downs. The teacher sat with a couple of the girls and kept them chatting because the alternative was that they would be egging the boys on to misbehave. There was one girl who was in my face with her antagonism, informing me in no uncertain words that she didn’t know me, she didn’t trust me, and she wasn’t going to share anything with me. I said fine, write that down.

She did not. And yet. And yet.

There were a few who tried. They put down a word and then another and when I asked them to expand on it, to give me more, they did. Not great brilliant heart wrenching poems but that was okay. They did what I asked and they did more than the teacher or the principal expected they would.

There was the boy who wrote about his pit bull puppy and how sweet it smelled and how it tried to growl but it couldn’t.

There was the girl who wrote about the sad sky.

There was the girl who said she was going to make an impact on the world.

There was the boy who said all marriages are bad but music, music is good, as he tap tap tapped his fingers on the edge of the desk.

But then there were the ones who poked holes in their papers instead of writing on them. And then the boy who said he’d been on the outs too long and he needed to go back to jail. The one who said it was safer in jail than it was on the outside.

In the end, after talking with the teacher and the principal we decided that it just wasn’t a good fit. Not now. These kids all have something to say. You can almost see the words, the stories bubbling up in them but the guys have to maintain their macho attitude and writing and sharing their writing means asking them to put that guard down.

When it was time for me to go the kids were out in the yard having lunch. I walked to talk to each of the one on one, to tell them that I wouldn’t be back. They were surprised and yet they weren’t. When I said I wasn’t coming back they said, “Oh no,” but then they shrugged a shoulder or nodded or said, “It’s because we’re bad, right?”

And I told them YOU are not bad. It’s hard to write and it’s harder still to write and share when you have classmates all around you telling you you’re stupid for even trying. I told them that words were a great tool for getting their stories told and that I hoped they would continue to try and write. And then I said goodbye.

The girl, the girl who was excited about maybe seeing her work on the walls of the museum ran after me.

“Thank you,” she said. Then she surprised me by giving me a hug.

Tears filled my eyes as I walked by to my car.

It was enough to almost make me change my mind but I know this was the right decision.

Tiny seeds were tossed down and maybe a few will take root. But someone else will have to tend the garden.

Today was first session with a new group of teens in the program for at-risk students sponsored by my local Arts Council. In the past my work has been with incarcerated teens. This new group is different. They are at a continuation school for at-risk students. Some of them have been in and out of lock-up. Some of them are attending here while awaiting a court date. It’s not my first time working with these type of a group but it was my first visit to the particular school.

It was a hard and horrible day that broke my heart.

The first few visits, sometimes as many as 5 or 6, are all about connecting with the kids. Letting them know they aren’t going to scare me away. That I’m going to keep coming back. That I’m going to listen to their stories and encourage their stories and help them tell their stories. I expect them to act up. I expect them to test me. I expect them to tell me they can’t write, that they’re no good at and that they just don’t want to do it. But I also expect them to eventually, even under protest, to put down a word or two, even if it’s foul language.

With this class I never stood a chance.

20+ kids funneled into the room wearing their bad attitudes like suits of armor. Their eyes blazed at me mostly in anger, some in disgust. They were loud and moving around and ignoring the teacher and ignoring me. There was never a moment of silence for me to step into and try to talk. The teacher turned the lights off but all that did was cause them to act up more. She tried again with the same results. I don’t know if she said anything. I don’t remember hearing anything.

Normally when there is a lot of noise in the class I can slap a book on the desk for attention. When I tried that today they laughed. Then they started swearing at me and flipping me off.

I have never missed an armed guard in the room more than I did today.

Still I tried. I passed out brand new folders with a few sheets of college-ruled paper in them. College-ruled paper is a big deal to these kids, just like the kids in jail. Normally they get the wide-ruled paper and they tell me it makes them feel like they are back in elementary school. Like they’re not good enough for real paper. One girl opened the folder and saw the paper and then looked at me. “All this paper is for me to use? It’s so nice. Thank you.” Her joy at such a simple gift gave me a shot of courage to continue.

I tried to talk. I got out a sentence. Maybe two. They turned their backs on me and started talking to each other loudly, making more rude comments. I searched my brain for something, anything to get their attention. I had nothing. I had stories to tell them but they wouldn’t listen. I walked around the room, looking at them, trying to make eye contact, asking a question or two. They laughed and made more rude comments. They told me they were here because they didn’t want to do anything and that I couldn’t make them. Of course everything was accented with more colorful language.

And they were right. I failed.

Standing there and letting them heap garbage words on me wouldn’t do either of us any good. So when the teacher brought the principal in and asked me if I wanted to go to another room I couldn’t help it. I nodded. I couldn’t do it. Not with these kids. Not with this group.

As I gathered up the folders there was one boy at the front who kept saying, “Not me. I wasn’t acting up.” And I told him no, you were fine. You did good. It was little enough to offer. But it wasn’t enough. Not for me.

It’s the first time I have ever walked away from a group.

They moved me to another class. Less students. More focus. More of what I expected. Not a lot of interest. Not a lot of attention but they did participate. They all read out loud and all but one came to the front of the room to do it. That was big. They didn’t believe me when I told them about how I used to be so afraid when I did public speaking I had to add in extra time to throw-up before I went on stage.

We did little poems. Acrostics to help me get to know who they were. They picked a word and described it using the five senses. And right away one of them got it. He thought outside of the box. He used beautiful and specific words. Then another one spoke up without prompting, sharing her thoughts. I told them we’d be doing more things like this when I came back tomorrow and there were no groans, no complaints. I wanted to cry. I was so happy.

When my time was up I went back to the first class because the principal wanted to have the kids apologize to me. This time the room was silent but the hostility level was still high. I could feel it when I walked back in. The principal made a formal apology to me and a few of the students hollered out an “I’m sorry.” But mostly they sat there and listened to the principal tell them how embarrassed she was, how hard she had worked for this program to be able to come to her school, and how, because of their actions today, they had lost the opportunity to work with me. They lost the opportunity to see their work on the walls of the museum. They lost the chance, for today, to be heard. As she spoke, I watched those kids slid down farther in their chairs. No one said a word.

I know the principal had to come down on them. They had been out of control and she was doing her job as best she could with what she had to deal with at that moment.

But I felt my heart breaking as listened. I thought about that girl who was looking forward to writing on real grown-up paper. I thought about that one kid who wanted me to know that he hadn’t been acting up. I thought about how every one of those kids was going to leave class today and go home to another place where they might not be heard.

I told them I was sorry too. I told them I was sorry I wasn’t going to get the chance to work with them, to help them tell their stories. I told them that every one of them was a person of value, that they all had stories to tell, and that it was important that they tell them. I said their stories might come out in conversations with a friend. A letter they write. A love poem. I told them the world needed to hear what they had to say and that I hoped one day find a way to tell their stories in an appropriate way.

And then I left.

I walked through the office and past a lounge where teachers gathered to ask me if I was going come back the next day.  It had never dawned on me that I could say no. No one would have blamed me if I had.

In the corner of the room was a girl from the new class they gave me. I told the teachers that student had done good work today and the girl smiled. I told her about the museum exhibit and how her work would be on the walls for everyone to see.

Her mouth formed a surprised “O” and she said, “Really?”

I nodded and smiled back at her.

Would I be back tomorrow? Of course I would.

Wednesday was the tenth and last session of the incarcerated teens poetry class.

I wondered what my reception would be after the frustrating day we had on Monday. I walked into a mostly silent class. It was obvious the teacher had spoken to them about the previous session. I don’t remember who started talking first but soon the room was full of voices, not frantic talking but calm, respectful voices all apologizing to me for their previous behavior. They told me they knew they had disrespected me. They asked that I remember how good they had been all the other times and to let the good outweigh the bad. They went on and on until I had to change the subject because otherwise I was going to burst into tears and hug each and every one of them which wasn’t something I could let happen.

It filled my heart with more joy than I can say.

I asked them for one last group poem and because they wanted to make nice with me they tried really hard. They said they wanted it to be the best poem ever. I think they did a great job. Here’s their final group poem.

HOPE
Hope sounds like a bird leaving the nest
a heart beating for success
it’s something that keeps you striving.
Hope is something you’ll never get rid of
it looks like turtles making a break for the shoreline
and feels like nothing else
like nothing can stop you
like the very pulse in your veins.
Hope smells like fresh air and morning dew
tastes like chocolate, a delicious flan with whipped cream and a cherry.
No, it tastes like victory.

We had some time left and I was still looking for some art to put on the wall so I handed out the nice drawing paper and asked them to spend some time studying their hands and then draw their hand. A couple of them got into that but most of them just wanted to trace it so I told them they had to put a Zentangle or something else in it to beef it up. Some of them really got into the detail but then they forgot the rules of the room and started adding gang symbols that they were not allowed to use. It took some back and forth, having the teach inspect them, but eventually they all passed inspection and we were officially done.

I handed back their folders with all their work. They seemed happy to be able to keep the folders which made me a bit sad, to think how a little thing like a folder could brighten their day. One boy immediately took all his poetry out of the folder and tore it into tiny pieces. I bit my tongue but it was hard.

Before I left I asked them to write a few lines about what they thought of the program. Here are a few of their comments:

– Susan I had a good time with you. Thanks for trying to teach me how to write poems.

I have been lucky with opportunities to teach poetry to incarcerated teens. It is never an easy experience but it is always worthwhile, even when it turns my heart inside out. I have a week off and then I start the second second at a different location.

Monday was the ninth session of the Incarcerated teens poetry class.

It was a hard day. I should have known that going into it thinking everything was going to go smoothly was a sure sign that things would get turned upside down. I needed some display art to add in with their poems so I thought we’d just do some simple torn paper mosaic collages. They had done a lot of small poems so I thought if they did a small background then I could put their poem in front of it and it would pop. I did a practice one myself at home. It took me 15 minutes.

I have long saved colors from magazines so I had a large collection of paper for them to choose from. I spent a couple of hours going through it all to remove all the red and the blue. When I spread it out on the table, colorside up, it was a rainbow of choices to choose from. I took in my example and showed it to each of them. I explained what we were going to do and handed out the base paper. I showed them the example again. Then they went up a few at a time to pick out their paper.

Big mistake on my part to use the magazines because even though they knew the room rules, even though I told them multiple times to use the color side ONLY, they still turned every single piece of paper over looked for women and booze and words and inappropriate colors. What was I thinking? And then, even when they got back to their desks, they couldn’t, wouldn’t grasp the concept. I felt like I had walked into a new room instead of the room full of smart young men I’d been working with for a while.

Eventually a few of them did it although I don’t think anyone got into it. They were doing it to get it done so they could do something else. Unfortunately for them, the something else was more college of letters to spell out the title of the project.

Art fail on my part but lessons learned. And the teacher urged me not to think too harshly of them (I didn’t really, it was more beating myself up for not thinking it through better) because it was Monday and Mondays are hard for them. Many of them get to see family on the weekend so it makes Monday that much more stark when they are reminded of not being able to go home yet.

We did do a group poem on the topic of freedom and they did a wonderful job with it.

It was a reminder day for me. A reminder that there are no sure things in life. The lesson plan you think is perfect can fall apart and you have to improvise. The art project you think is easy could become too hard for some people to do no matter how much time you give. The book you are writing becomes a mountain that keeps kicking you off each time you think you’re getting closer to the top.

The trick is to keep coming back for another round and not giving up.

Wednesday was the seventh session of the Incarcerated teens poetry class.

We’re past the halfway point in the class so I knew it was time to get them to go deeper, if they could, if they were willing. I read them THE JOURNEY by Mary Oliver and we talked about the poem. A few of them seemed to make the connections I was hoping for and spoke of being the change they needed in their own lives. We did a group poem on the board about their teacher and then they used the same model to write about someone in their family. From family members we moved to writing about themselves, about who they were, what they thought of themselves and where they saw themselves going in the future. There was the usual grumbling about all this touchy-feely stuff but it was good-natured, for the most part. They took a little time to settle into it but then they wrote some very revealing poem about their hopes and dreams and fears. Fewer volunteered to read them out loud which is normal when we get to the tough stuff.

There were a couple of students under a veil of anger for the session. I don’t know why. But even in their anger they wrote some wonderful words. I read their pages and told them to remember what good, honest work they did even though they were angry. How good work came out of intense emotion. I’m not sure they believe me but the seed was planted.

One student wrote about how he was getting out soon and his concerns about being able to handle it on the outside without being drawn back into his old ways. I was so happy to read what he had written because he had been on my mind a lot lately, wondering, as he was, what would happen when he got out. Of course the fact that he wrote a poem about wanting to do the right thing is no guarantee that it will happen but I hope that the act of having written it down will at least make him think twice before going off the right path.

Each time I leave them I have to remind myself that my job is not to fix them. It’s not to offer them a list of solutions for their problems. My job is to light a path to help them see that there are always other options, other choices to make with their lives. To help them see that words have tremendous power. And to hope they will use that power for good.

Friday was the fifth session of the Incarcerated teens poetry class.

It was a light writing day, as I knew it would be, because I had promised they could make Valentines. We used the first part of the session to get caught up on the word poems and their word books and then I turned them loose with art supplies. I brought in a variety of paper and then I had printed out a bunch of different hearts that they could cut out and decorate. Some of them asked the teacher for printouts of script letters so the could write fancy. These boys have some of the most beautiful handwriting I’ve ever seen. I know a lot of it comes from tagging and writing things they are supposed to write in places they aren’t supposed to write them but still, beautiful penmanship.

A few of them asked for printouts of cartoon character couples. It wasn’t so they could cut them out and glue them on the cards but so they could draw them, just by looking at them. I hadn’t thought beyond hearts but by the time I left on Friday I had requests for roses, a single rose in a vase, more cartoon couples, and a penguin. I loved seeing them, (okay most of them,) so enthusiastic. For a little while it was easy to forget where I was, to imagine that I was in a regular high school classroom and these were regular kids, not kids who were already deep in the juvenile justice system.

There’s one boy seems so full of hurt and anger that I just want to wrap my arms around him and hug him until he really feels it. But he is also filled with words and that can only be a good thing. His writing is hard and honest. I don’t know how long he has been where he is or how much longer he will be there but I wonder and perhaps worry, if it will be enough for him. I hope so.

There’s one who, no matter what you ask him, he manages to work how wonderful he is into his answer. Self-esteem doesn’t seem to be his problem. His writing is filled with joy and love.

There’s one who never wants to do whatever it is we are going to do until he sees the other kids digging in. I never expect him to do much yet he always surprises me with a line or two that goes straight to the gut. I tell him this, this honest writing, is terrific and he shrugs it off.

There is one who loves to write so much that he writes in his free time and works ahead on the stuff we are doing. When he is writing I can see that same determination that I see on the face of so many other writers as they are doing what they love to do.

There is one who races through the assignments because getting to the end is all that matters to him. And yet even in his race, he captures the emotion of his moment.

There is one who is getting out soon and I know he is only doing what he has to do in order mark his time. I watch him sometimes and wonder which way he will go when he outside.

And there is one, the one I have been waiting to find in this group, one that I think is making the connection between words on paper offering a way to be heard and a way to free oneself to walk a different path when he gets out. I watch him struggle between what he feels and what he puts on the paper. I watch how he hesitates, wondering whether writing it down really makes a difference, and then I watch him stand up and read his work with pride. I watch him smile, just a little, when we clap for him.

I watch him and hope a spark has been lit.

Monday was the third session of the new Incarcerated teens poetry class.

I worked myself up into a worry funk before class today. I settled down once I got there but I really hate all the angst I pile on myself ahead of time.

As usual they were enthusiastic in their greetings. A little tough to get down to work (one kid wanted to make sure he was getting some sort of extra credit by participating because he really didn’t want to do it.) But once they got into it, they once again did great work. All but one of them remembered their books and the teacher took that one back to his room so he could get his. Some have worked ahead and picked out their ten words already. No one gave me a hard time when I asked them their word for the day. Some are decorating the pages and of course a couple are just writing the words down because they have to.

I had them do another poem based on their word from the previous visit. I gave them the option of another acrostic or one using the five senses. One student asked if he could do comparisons and I said yes. He did a great job. Tomorrow we’ll have to do two word poems to get caught up with one word/one poem.

Then I read them, Time Somebody Told Me from Betsy Franco’s book, THINGS I& HAVE TO TELL YOU. We talked about it a bit. I’m not strong on facilitating discussions with non-talkers but a couple of them had thoughts about it. One of them said it made him feel like he could change. I read a free more free verse poems and then we talked about writing free verse. I put an example on the board of a paragraph and then went back and took out words and showed them how it could shape into a poem. Then they wrote.

This time they all (well almost all) wanted to share right away. They are great about getting up and coming up front and reading their work. I told them how many people are afraid of public speaking and how great it was that they all seemed to be fine with doing it.

The one thing I wish I had done differently was to give them a topic to write on. Poetry is still new enough to them that they spend time flounder for what to write about. Tomorrow I’ll make sure to bring in a few topics to focus their thoughts.

My word for the day was AMAZING!

A few months ago I had the chance to teach poetry to a group of incarcerated teens.

Today was the reception and opening of the display of the student work at the de Saisset museum at Santa Clara university. The program, Arts Connect, is sponsored by the Arts Council Silicon Valley and connects local artists with at-risk youth hopefully showing them how art can empower them to make changes in their lives.

I am reposting their poem for Poetry Friday because I am so proud of them, of the work they did and I am so happy to have been a part of this program in what could be the very last year. There has been a sudden push to cut the budget for this program.

Poetry
has a beautiful life to it.

You sound like happiness, sadness, love
taste like fresh strawberries
and feel like soft skin, sandpaper, a brick wall.

Poetry is all the colors of the rainbow
and smells like freedom, incarceration, a sexy girl.

Oh poetry, you drive me crazy.

You make me want to scream, to feel, to heal.

You look like sunshine and moonlight in the city.

Poetry is feelings on paper.

I have been asked to join the Arts Council at the Board of Supervisors meeting next week in order to help convince the board of the importance of this program. I will have one minute to speak on behalf of the Arts Connect program and the impact I was able to make with the challenged youth in my class.

It is I who will be challenged.

How do you capture, in just one minute, the sight of a boy pouring his heart out on the page with no one standing over him telling him he is dumb for doing it? How do you show someone the pride of a young man standing up to read his poem to the class, a poem that exposes the deepest hurting part of himself? How do you tell an audience that the simple act of me showing up every session, no matter what they said or did or tried to do to push me away, that my showing up showed them that someone cared which meant that they were worth caring about, worth saving?

How do I show them the heart of these boys who had never written poetry before, who tried so hard at something so new, and who succeeded beyond my expectations?

What would you say if you had one minute to prove the importance, the impact of art on at-risk youth?

Today was the last of 7 poetry sessions with a group of incarcerated young men.

I won’t pretend it was easy to go back there today. It wasn’t. Not after the rough day on Monday. I really had to psyche myself up, reread all the supportive comments people had left me, and then apply my usual mode of dealing with things I can’t deal with – fake it til you make it.

I had asked for permission to bring in some snacks for our last day and permission was granted but I wasn’t feeling much like partying when I stopped at the grocery store. Still I loaded up on tortilla chips, super hot salsas (tip from the teacher) and some cookies. But my confidence was pretty much shot.

I was up until 2am this morning making sure I had all their work typed up for them and scanning all their art. I kept the originals of the self-portraits for the display, as well as a few other pieces of art and gave the rest back to them. I made a copy of everything for the teacher as she has to give them a grade. I had to remove the Velcro closures on their portfolios in order for them to be able to keep them.

I wrote each boy a letter, personalized just for them and put it in a colored envelope. Then I went to bed but didn’t sleep.

This morning I struggled for a long time over what we would do writing-wise today and changed my mind three times.

When I got there I asked the teacher how they were doing and she said they were lazy today and might not want to work at all. She also said that the one boy who made me the object of his hate me had decided he was sick so he could leave class before I arrived. I was okay with that. Just looking at his self-portrait last night had brought it all back again. Not having to deal with him today was a bonus in my book.

She also said they were under a tighter watch as there had been an escape the night before so I really had no idea what to expect from the group when I went in. One of the avid writers, one who really spent a lot of time on all his work and obviously enjoyed the writing, was at the dentist. I was sad that he wasn’t able to be there with us.

The mood seemed good in the room and they asked for something fun and easy. They have always been good at brainstorming and today they were no exception. We filled the board with words and phrases and then edited for our favorites. I rewrote it on the board and they did a final edit. I decided at the last minute to do a group poem with them that we could do on the board, then revise together. A format I came up with last night and would serve as a model for a poem they would do on their own.

Here is the group poem they wrote.

Poetry
has a beautiful life to it.

You sound like happiness, sadness, love
taste like fresh strawberries
and feel like soft skin, sandpaper, a brick wall.

Poetry is all the colors of the rainbow
and smells like freedom, incarceration, a sexy girl.

Oh poetry, you drive me crazy.

You make me want to scream, to feel, to heal.

You look like sunshine and moonlight in the city.

Poetry is feelings on paper.

After that they did one last poem on their own and as they finished, I handed out their folders and the letters. They were upset that I had to remove the Velcro but soon the room was buzzing as they sorted through the folders to see what they had accomplished. The guard today was new to me and they were anxious to show off all their work. They told him the story of the mirrors and the massive zit-popping orgy that ensued when they first saw themselves. Then they opened the letters and immediately had to check and see who had the longest one. They shared them with the guard and asked me if they could share them with the judge.

My tough guy, the one who stood up to me on day two, said, “I wish I had known you were writing letters. We could have written you letters too.” I told him he still could. I would come down anytime to pick them up.

When I brought out the snacks they were so surprised. The choruses of thank-yous were nice to hear. My tough guy spoke up again and said, “You didn’t have to do that for us.”

I just smiled at him feeling very glad that I had. My missing writer returned from the dentist right about then and I don’t think I was imagining the light in his eyes when he came into the room. Later the teacher told me that he was really worried and hadn’t wanted to miss the last day.

While they ate I asked them if they wanted to help me with my current book, Flyboy’s story. And they said yes. One, normally a jokester who takes nothing seriously, surprised me. He said it was only right for them to try and help me because I had already helped them so much. I found it a little hard to speak again right away after he said that.

So I told them about Flyboy and the troubles he was having. I asked their input on what a teenage boy would do in some of the situations I was putting Flyboy in. It felt good to hear their reactions match what I was doing with the plot. Sometimes, before I even got that far in the story, they’d pipe up with a suggestion and I would smile to myself because I had already written that very scene.

They hated the mom right along with me and wanted her dead. They were okay with him having a girlfriend or not having one and if he had one, it was okay if she did some things, even flying, better than he did. They understood why some of the things happened to Flyboy and his dad. They didn’t like it but they understood.

I asked them if they thought Flyboy would be able to forgive, as he needs to do in this story, and they said yes.

They said that with enough love, it was possible.

It was a good way to end the session because really, that’s what it was all about for me.

I love words. I believe they have enormous power. Power to do good, power to heal, power to bring hope.

It wasn’t an easy set of workshops but I wouldn’t have missed doing it for anything. And I would do it again and again. I asked them to each write down something they got out of the workshops and my favorite answer (besides the one who said he learned that revision wasn’t as bad as he thought) was the one who said he learned that he could get relief when he expressed his feelings on paper.

Color me happy. Mission accomplished.

As they were leaving they all shouted out more thank yous. I was pretty sure it was for the food. That’s okay. It was nice to see them filling their plates like regular teenagers enjoying an afterschool snack.The room was empty and I was ready to go. One student came back and held out his hand.

I shook it and he looked me in the eyes and said, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

He didn’t say anything else but I got the message just the same. And as clichéd as it may sound, It made everything worthwhile.

Grade for it all – – – I’m giving myself an A.

Today was the fifth of 7 poetry sessions with a group of incarcerated young men.

We are coming close to the end of the sessions. Today I wanted to work on something a bit more poetic, more sensory. I also wanted to get them to revise some of their previous work. Last night I went through their folders (I bring them back and forth with me each time) and picked two of the strongest pieces and typed them up. But I didn’t give them to them right away.

I put some words on the board, strong and positive words. Then we brainstormed sensory words grouped under the five senses.  After that I read to them from the Book of Qualities by J. Ruth Gendler. Their assignment was to pick one of the positive words and describe it as though it were a person using as many sensory details as they could. This was very hard for them, to use their imagination in that way. They couldn’t grasp the idea that courage or joy was a person. They couldn’t imagine what love would taste like.

Then they asked for another word to be added to the list.

Freedom.

I wrote FREEDOM on the board and soon the room was quiet while they wrote. I haven’t read their papers yet but I did walk around and read a bit while they were working on them and I think some of them did quite well.

After that I handed out their typed poems and talked to them a bit about revision. I told them it was important to make sure that they used just the right word in order to make sure that the reader understood just what they wanted to say. We talked about the difference between the right and the almost right word. They weren’t totally convinced so I didn’t expect much work out of them but they surprised me. Most, if not all, of them made changes to at least one of the pieces.

Then it was time for art. I’d say it was their favorite part of the day but not because they all love art but because it is more freeing, more chattering going on.

I had planned on bringing back some of their previous art pieces and letting them continue to work on them but instead I brought something new. I handed each of them a hand mirror (I got permission first to bring in the mirrors) and told them today we would draw self-portraits.

The reaction from them was totally unexpected.

Not about the drawing.

About the mirrors.

Where they are being detained there is one mirror in the center of a public place and it is more like a piece of polished metal with scratches on it. They line up in front of the tiny shiny spot every day to try and shave. When I gave them the mirrors  I gave them a chance to see themselves as they are now for the first time in a very long time.

I watched their guard drop, as they laughed, running their hands over the top of their hair, checking out their sideburns, and of course, popping zits. 🙂 Then they teamed up, holding one mirror behind another so they could each see the backs of their necks, their ears, their tattoos. It was an unexpected party time, boys being boys, talking about how good looking they were.

Eventually I got them to focus on the drawing part of the assignment and they started using the mirrors to try and sketch themselves. I don’t think any of them are in danger of being identified by their portraits when we put the display up in the museum but after some initial struggles, they all seemed to get into it.

The sad part of the day was that there was an incident with one boy that caused the guard to remove him from the class. I may not have agreed with the reasoning behind it but I know that they have to stick to their rules.

There is also one boy who, for the last three sessions, has shut me out. He didn’t at first. He participated just fine. Now he is fine with everyone else but suddenly he is anti-me. I don’t know what happened, if I said something to him that was taken the wrong way or what. He starts to work, then as I come around he scratches it out. He is the most gifted artist in the class but now he won’t draw when I am there. I asked him today, what I had done and he just shook his head.

I said, “Okay, you’re mad at me, I just don’t know why.”

And he said, “Yep.”

It hurts. But I need to let it go. I only have two sessions left with them.  I know I am doing my best. I am bringing in experiences and giving them chances and listening to what they want to say, to write, to draw. I am lighting candles that I hope will flame into something positive for at least some of them.

I can try, but I can’t touch them all.