ON THE POWER OF WORDS

Words are powerful. They can heal. They can destroy. They can create war. They can bring peace. They can motivate and they can devastate.

I do volunteer work for an organization whose mission is to empower young people through literature and the arts. We go into the inner-city schools and work with at risk kids, fifth through twelfth grade. We teach, among many things, performance poetry. The kids work all year, individually and as teams, for our annual poetry slam.

Each month we hold an open-mic poetry night at the local Starbucks as one of our fund raisers.

Through the years a core group have emerged both in our school programs and our open-mic nights. Sitting, listening as young and old alike stand and read their poetry you start to know them, understand their struggles, their lives, see a bit of their hearts.

It has been my honor to be trusted with so many of their stories, and in each one, at the point of resolution, lies the power of words. Of putting what is inside down on paper and there finding the strength to do those things necessary to make life better.

It fell on me one year to write an article for the local paper promoting our big poetry slam and as I struggled with what to say and how to say it, it struck me, "Simply tell these people's stories, how writing has helped to change their lives." In telling their story, I had my story. After finishing the article a poem came to me.

The last verse came first, for I hadn't included her story in mine.

She was a quiet, shy girl. I came to know her when I worked at Barnes and Noble. She always wore dark clothes with a bit of a male dash to them, men's vests, ties, or hats. She was smart and polite, but there was a bit of an edge to her. One knew she was kind by choice and could, if provoked, level even the toughest of tormentors. She was not easily won over, and kept things very close to her chest. Her tastes in literature were eclectic but always, always smart, and through the months I rather wore her down and she slowly began to open up.

She always included some poet in her purchases and was opened to the ones I suggested she try. Discussions about other's poetry led to talks about her poetry as I began to encourage her to come to our open-mic nights.

Finally, after months of nagging her, she showed up. She sat near the back and though she brought along what was clearly a journal of her own poems, she never budged from her chair or gave any indication she intended to read.

I smiled a greeting when she arrived but her response made it clear she did not wish to share mine or anyone else company that night, so I gave her her space and privacy. Before she slipped quietly away, she came up to me and thanked me for talking her into coming. She said she had really enjoyed herself.

She came every month after that. Always sat near the back. Always brought her black leather journal, well worn and much used. It almost hurt to watch the way she stroked the pages, her desire to stand and show the world her creations, at least the tiny little corner of it gathered around her, was so clear, so pronounced, but she never budged from her chair.

Six months she came. Six months her hands flipped pages filled with her words while her mouth refused to share them, then one night she stood, and came towards me, took the mic from my hand and began to share her poetry without ever opening her journal.

The room seemed to shrink, grow smaller, more intimate, as her soft voice floated above and around our heads, filled with words of pain and growth, and beauty. When she finished there was silence. Her words were stunning, older than her fifteen years. Her talent was instantly recognized by all who had heard. Then applause exploded from the silence and thundered around her. The look of shy wonder and pride on her face brought tears to my eyes.

As she moved to take back her seat someone yelled for her to read another, a request that was soon echoed by many.

She shared three more poems, and there would be no slipping out unnoticed this night. A circle surrounded her, moved with her as she made her way to the door. After that there was no stopping her. She came every month. Her readings became louder, more confidante as she allowed herself to be what she was born to be.

The one thing that always stood out to me about her, bothered me, worried me, was the way she would always wear long sleeves, even on the hottest of Texas days, long sleeves, and I knew something was wrong, knew she was hiding something. I never asked, realizing to push this girl would be a serious mistake, and so I waited to see if she would ever grow to trust me enough to share.

She finally did. She was a cutter. She would take a razor and slice her arms and legs. I simply listened as she told me her story. How her dad had left her when she was small, and how she worried about a mother who drank too much and laughed too little. How a grandmother was her only line of security, and how dragging that razor across her flesh felt better than everything else.

She shared how each time she would cut a little bit deeper than the time before, until she finally cut deeply across her wrists, and how her grandmother found her, and her gratitude and rage at being found. She went on to explain how the staff at the treatment facility showed her how to get rid of the pain through other means, and how writing poetry kept her sane and helped her not to cut.

I will never, for as long as I live, forget her explanation for cutting.

"It just feels so much better."

"Better than what?"

"Better than everything else."

Now she has words to help. Putting it all down in a poem now feels better than everything else.

Words are indeed powerful.

WORDS OF REDEMPTION

Mrs. Smith

With blackened eyes

Fear and doubt

Now

Voiced outrage

Finds the lines

To free herself

Mrs. Smith

With blackened eyes.

Mr. Jones

who's chasing death

dreams revived

once

numbed by gin

Pouring words

Instead of Jack

Mr. Jones

who's chasing death.

Martha Sue

Of a thousand pounds

Buried pain

now

Verse revealed

Filled with rhyme

In place of shame

Martha Sue

Of a thousand pounds

Little girl

With scar raised wrists

Blade to skin

now

pen to pad

Spilling ink

Instead of blood

Little girl

with scar raised wrists