Beyond The Stigma by NY Writers Coalition

BEYOND THE STIGMA Writing from the Port Morris Wellness Center N Y W RITERS C OALITION P RESS

B EYOND

THE S TIGMA

Writing from the Port Morris Wellness Center

NY W RITERS C OALITION P RESS S PRING 2015

Copyright ÂŠ 2015 NY Writers Coalition, Inc. ISBN: 978-0-9964012-1-0 Library of Congress Control Number: 2015941399 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors. Editor: John Maney, Jr. Layout: Anna Pettus, Rose Gorman Title: Tracey Maldonado Cover Image: Anna Pettus Interior Images: Irene Soloway Beyond the Stigma contains writing by members of NY Writers Coalition creative writing workshops for adults at the Port Morris Wellness Center in Bronx, NY. NY Writers Coalition Press, Inc. 80 Hanson Place, Suite 604 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org

C ONTENTS Introduction by John Maney Beyond the Sigma by Tracey Maldonado

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Original Writing By Inell Tolliver Anonymous Robert Michael Bibbo Tania Carty Lauren Cockerham-Colas Patricia Craig Jose Tony Delgado Marsha Dommel Leonard Gill Tammy Knoblauch Yolanda Maldonado Elizabeth Nieves Katya Padron Jose Quiles Sheila Reynoso Sharon Roberts Collette Roche Brenda Spikes Melissa Stein In Memory of Brenda Spikes

12 19 22 26 29 30 33 35 37 38 39 41 43 45 50 53 54 60 62 65

Acknowledgements About NY Writers Coalition

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Introduction by John Maney, Jr., NYWC Workshop Leader The Port Morris Wellness Center is located in a mostly industrial part of Bronx, with factories, and wholesale bakeries, a dairy, a distillery, and a recycling plant. Right across the street is a hot dog factory. The most recognizable thing is a huge oil storage facility, and a port where tankers dock, just a couple blocks up from the Center, on 138th street. There are a few apartment buildings that pop up here and there, but they look out of place. You would never imagine a “Wellness Center” would be located in this part of the Bronx. But this isn’t what most people think of when they hear the words “Wellness Center.” The Port Morris Wellness Center is a methadone clinic. It’s a place where courageous people try to kick their heroin addiction. The name of this book is “Beyond the Stigma.” This name was not picked by me, but by a group of writers who want to tell you something about them. So often when people think of heroin addicts they picture nodding junkies just after their fix, or a person agitated, unable to sit still, hurting for their “medicine.” In both cases, un-addicted people often feel uncomfortable around them, maybe even afraid. And, as is often the case, people objectify and stigmatize what they fear. The poems and stories in this book will melt that objectification away, and you will see human beings who are struggling with the disease of addiction. You will also see that this struggle isn’t all they are. They’re mothers and fathers, and caring grandparents. They’re writers and poets. They’re people with dreams for themselves, and for the people they love. This book isn’t a book written by junkies. It’s a book written by people who had the courage to face difficulty, and still remain human in the midst of pain. You’ll also find here stories from those who work day after day helping the patients of the Port Morris Wellness Center, along their way to change.

Spring 2015 9

Beyond the Stigma Tracey Maldonado It has been a long journey for me. I used to be ashamed of being on the methadone program. I can remember lying to my grandparents, and telling them I had a doctor’s appointment, just so I could go to the program. They thought it was just an out patient program (drug free). I can remember going to NA meetings, and telling them I was drug free, ‘cause if you weren’t, you weren’t clean! Stigmatized at every turn. Look at that methadonian. Stigmatized ‘cause other individuals want to take drugs and say “oh! it’s the methadone” (but they just took some illicit drugs, that have them nodding), making those of us on the right track stigmatized. It’s so unfair! But you know what… Stigmatize me, ‘CAUSE I KNOW THAT TODAY I AM CLEAN & SOBER!!

INELL TOLLIVER

Native New Yorker I was born in the South Bronx, in the era of the 60â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s. The hospital that I was born in does not even exist anymore. My great-grandmother raised me, and after my mother died, the day after my sixth birthday, my aunt took over. Even to this day I still feel happy on my birthday, and sad. Not such a great beginning. Every family has secrets, mine surely was not different. When I was old enough, I was told my mother died of a drug-overdose. My grandmother also died in a hospital with liver disease. So to me I assumed my life would be short lived. But, life is full of surprises. I was raised in a church family. At the age of thirteen I started to rebel against everybody. I soon was sent away to group homes. Soon after that I landed in Times Square. Thus begun my journey of survival. You learn quick when you want to live. I learned young to never trust anyone. Always thought life was a fairytale. This was real life, and I had to learn quick to survive. I was abused many times, because I allowed it. Addiction soon followed.

Survival was the name of the game in this town. I soon learned the art of seduction and manipulation. I had relationships where I was abused mentally and physically. Allot of times I tried to get out, but I felt I did not deserve better. My life kept spinning out of control, always battling with alcohol and drugs. Around the age of thirty I had a son. I started to change my life. When I found out I was diagnosed with HIV I felt like God truly had abandoned me. What more could I take? But, God gives us only what we can bear. I have been through many years fighting this disease, but I am still here. I am a living witness that you can live a long life. I finally chose to live for me and my son. Being drug-free is an everyday process. You’re life doesn’t change over-night. There were times I wanted to give up. But, God’s presence was always in my life. Even when I was at my worst he never abandoned me. So now after thirty-five years being in hell and back I have been clean for three years. Everyday is a fighting battle. I finally have come to terms with my addiction and my illness. Now it’s time to live my life in a way I never knew existed. I believe God has given me a second chance. So I leave you with what I tell myself everyday - “No one truly knows the depth of your soul, only God and your inner self. When it becomes more difficult to suffer, than to change, you will change.”

In My Own Little Corner In my own little corner in my own little chair I can be whatever I want to be I can fly like an angel with wings to the heavens above or sit in my little chair, and feel the coldness of my world all around me my little corner has also been my way to feel free in my own space. But my corner has also been my prison I need to escape, loneliness has been a big obstacle in my way. I need to dig deep into my inner-self and bring the good spirit inside myself back to life If I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t try I always will be in my own little corner, wondering what my world would have been.

My Freedom Freedom the longing to not be bound to any-one to be on my own, to think my own thoughts to feel my heart beating for me. Feeling the way, I want to feel not letting any-one get in my way. Knowing this is my space. Not letting any-one make me feel the way I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to. This is my life. Eagar to learn to take my own steps knowing my mistakes, and learning from them. So I can keep going to reach my destination, to understand of how deep my Soul can be. For I have earned my freedom.

The Woman In the Mirror When you look in the mirror stare deeply and see what that woman has to say for the reflection is truly yourself for it isn’t other people you have to please only the woman who is in the mirror. There will be many roads you have to climb to get to the top. But the woman in the mirror will help you succeed. For she is truly your friend she’s the one who will be with you to the end. You may fool the whole world with smiles, but the woman in the mirror knows what’s deep inside. But the final reward will be heartache & tears If you’ve cheated the woman in the mirror.

A Childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Anguish A child needing a loving embrace never understanding why there is no one to hold her Sadness is in the eyes of this child Tears falling into a torn faded dress Wondering who will come thru the door next, to put hands upon her that should not be there. The emptiness she feels in her heart will never be full. For she feels there is no escape from this room she calls her prison. Bruises upon her body never fading despair is in the heart of this child The cry of her for voice no one hears. Wishing the door will open one day and a person with a heart full of compassion will rescue her from the misery she is in. Behind the door, in the room of Sorrow.

Photography by Irene Soloway

ANONYMOUS

I’m Sorry! I’m sorry that I had no other choice but to come to you today. I’m sorry that my illness bothered you so much and made you view me some type of way. Please forgive me for being raped and held hostage, and that it affected my mind; or that a drunk driver hit my car; or that I fell in love with a man who would beat me blind. I’m sorry that because of someone’s neglect I slipped down the steps and broke my leg. That has affected me over the years to the point where it’s changed my body in a way I don’t understand; and I came to you assuming doctors do no harm. I’m so sorry if my appearance, race, gender affects the service you would render, or my financial status, the community I live in makes you begin to label me. Or is it because I’m a minority? Train wreck, drug seekers, hypochondriacs, whiners, these are just a few labels doctors use when describing patients

to the rest of their team and the patient is in the dark to their news. A stigma is defined that changes the patients identity in the minds of other’s as that patient remains in the dark with no clarity. Labeling, or should I say profiling, patients. It’s done every day and it’s so engraved in the brains of these doctors in the ER, Clinics, hospitals alike even the administrators agree they’re right. Just through a conversation they have, not even knowing their identity or what the patient truly had, it’s disgusting and so sad. Because what you permit you promote, making you no better. In true honesty, I propose to thee why don’t we change and create a whole new triage from scratch. Place hypochondriacs to the left, drug seekers just forget, bleeders to your right, people in pain out of sight and whiners well just ignore them in hopes they will just leave, in actuality who cares they’re all labeled and you’re labeled and you’re paid and you’re teaching the next generation this is the acceptable way. That Hippocratic oath is nothing but a joke for those spoken words evaporated into thin air and the feeling that you felt is not even there. The thirst to advance and grow your position sways you from your true mission. A Great Physician, aspiring beyond a pay and position never loses focus of their mission, they don’t pay attention to gender, race, wealth or the poor; whether they’re educated or uneducated because he or she knows what they’re truly for. They recognize responsibility is to a patient first and foremost society as well and practices will compassion and respect, behaves with integrity and moral ethics. Instead of labeling and profiling.

So I’m so so sorry for you. I’ve come to realize that it’s not me that should be apologizing to you. But instead I will pray for you and hope one day you realize you have a problem. So I leave you with this: Please. Remember the next time that patient you give your time to enters your office and sits down in front of you, open your eyes, ears, and mind. Hear those unspoken words in your patients eyes because they’re scared to even explain what’s the issue or if it’s their pain. Just not to be labeled.

ROBERT MICHAEL BIBBO

The Baseball Story STRIKE ONE! STRIKE TWO! STRIKE THREE! YER OUT! STRIKE ONE! STRIKE TWO! STRIKE THREE YER OUT! STRIKE ONE! STRIKE TWO! And so on and so on, etc., etc., etc…YER OUT! And that’s how it went. Three up and three down. Three up and three down. Out after out. Inning after inning. No matter how much we tried nobody could figure this kid out, and kid he was. He did not look old enough to shave, or stay out past 10:00 at night. This kid came out of no where in particular. He didn’t know anyone, didn’t say much, but he was mowing us down with his unbelievable fastball, earth shattering curve, and butterfly knuckleball that seemed to standstill in mid-flight just long enough for

a batter to misjudge his swing, and then “STRIKE THREE - YER OUT”! (Take a seat). Oh, and by the way, he had this shit eating grin on his face that seemed to say “now try to hit this.” Next one dude”! Now - man I tell you that really pissed me off. I started to think of ways to either break this kid’s throwing arm, or sign him up for my team. But alas, he was as true to his team, as his arm was to strike one, strike two, strike three - yer out. Now - As I stepped up to the plate to face this kid’s unnerving arm I had to figure out fast how to get out my frustrations on something, anything, anybody, because each time I missed the madder I got. Then as I looked straight out at this kid a sudden calm came over me. And right then and there I knew how to get all my frustrations out against this kid, with the mighty arm. As he released his next pitch low and away I swung with the utmost patience and pleasure, knowing that what I was doing would even the score for me, and my team, and release my frustrations. And the WHAM! The crack of the bat told the tale well. For his next pitch went sailing out over the fence, and into history. So now, there I stood, with my emotions on my sleeve. For now I knew that it was better for me and my team to see that smug smile on his face disappear into bewilderment, thinking how the hell did he hit that pitch out of here?

Grandparents Personally I do believe that grandparents are here to do whatever is needed to make up for our own kids. So love your grandchildren. I had only one grandparent, my father’s mother, and she was one of a kind. She always knew what to say, and when to say it. As for life she knew about everything, and everybody. From the sinking of the Titanic, through the Great Depression, up through the Second World War Era, up to present day (which was up to 1967). Anyway, if I ever needed a dollar grandma was there. She seemed to know even before I did if I ever needed anything. To think of all the times she was away on vacation, and she would come home, and the first thing out of her bag was a gift for me and my brother. I guess she got tired of waiting for us to say “hello,” “how was your trip.” The smiles on our faces was enough to make her happy. Grandma never asked for much, and was always giving. So today, me being a grandparent having such a sterling example for a grandparent as I had in her, I am able to provide the same service for my grandchildren as she had for me. And to see the smiles on my grandchildren’s faces is always worth the price of admission.

The Day The Musician Died I always looked forward to Monday Night Football. But, this particular Monday night, in 1980 really woke me up. It also upset me to a point where I almost never watched football on Monday again. December 8, 1980, around 10:00 PM, Howard Cosell announced that John Lennon had died. His voice as always was calm and obnoxious to my mind, and the death of such a great man, gentle man, peaceful man, talented musician among many other titles was dead. Murdered no less. (Who’s to say when our time is up. God - I don’t know. One thing for sure, you never know when you’ll exit from this earth.) The shock was so much I could not speak, did not want to be bothered with too much of anything. I was really quite taken aback. I would have taken off from work the next day, or maybe 2 or 3 days, but I really could not afford it. I did however wear a black armband for three days at work, until it literally fell off my arm. But to my amazement what really set me aback was the fact that very few people at work knew who John Lennon was. Again I was in shock! You see I was living in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and what all/most people listened to was pre-Elvis Day music, and country. But not to know who this great man of peace was, was more of a shock than learning of his death. Then I remembered that May, 15 years earlier John Lennon made a comment that The Beatles were bigger than God, and to that day then those Southern rubes just never forgave him, to the point that they didn’t even know he existed.

TANIA CARTY

Sessions Drawn to a healing profession known as counseling. A session scene is set symbolizing a safe haven. Where there is comfort and no judgement A place of open dialog Sessions are usually 15 to 30 minutes long and sometimes it runs over. The key is to listen first then draw a solution plan. Through this great profession You meet a variety of people You hear stories from long ago Present stories are even told Everyone you come in contact with

have some sort of tale to unfold. Multitude of troubled souls The goal is to heal the lives of others Bringforth organization to oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind Release confusion from their soul The care they feel The ear you lend The support they obtain The understanding of their struggles The resources and referrals they receive keeps them coming back for more.

A Message I stand on this rock to say When you fall down, When things look to be bleak, When you feel so weak, Just look to the sky and remember to never give up. Here comes the quick sand grabbing at your fee obstacles flying out of nowhere to bury you deep hurt, pain, sickness, and anger standing in your way again I say just look to the sky and remember to never give up Walls sometimes form to block your way moving your goals far far away there are going to be people who want to stand in your way again I say just look to the sky and remember to never give up Tell your problems you shall not keep me down continue to walk head up through the town. Hope is there lingering inside us. The pathway to repair is there. Hold up your fist to fight for your life At the end of all of this is the message to never give up.

LAUREN COCKERHAM-COLAS

My Day Sun is out my heart is out patients are in my office talking about Hep C changing their lives my life beautiful.

PATRICIA CRAIG For Happy Times Wow I have made new friends just because I/we like to write. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s great to have a thought and put in down on a clean sheet of paper. Just imagine and the words start to flow round circles straight lines putting down ideas and harmony. Just grow and form a great bow you can do it for a short time just let feeling grow. Twisting and turning up and down the lines. Periods, commas. all fit now at this moment in time. Just think you can even holler and no one can hear your scream. Pen and paper be my drink. Here, here to the happy times ahead when pencil and paper become writings for these friends of mine I think.

She Loves Me “Hi Mema.” “Hi miracle.” “Take off u coat no wait sit down whem me help you.” “Thank you” I say. “You welcome Mema” she replies. So off with the scarf hat and boots. She’s only 2 years old with her heart and tiny fingers twisting one over another. I get lost in her so she brings me back to the real world by saying “what cha doin?” She grabs my hand, and into her eyes comes the charm and beauty of God’s real love. She loves me.

Whose Area Didn’t you know how powerful you can be taught by good people to trust and hold hands together as of today fear seems to be around more than ever in your heart and mine. Remember we all have to face hard times don’t close off your life. It’s great to frolic in the sun. Think of who’s there for wars reaching down to your need stay in your area we’ll land this thing together. In God we trust. Stand in the power, it will hold all of your thoughts, put a cap on fear.

JOSE TONY DELGADO

I Broke the Cycle My son Paulee is at Chuck E. Cheese having fun. Even though I’m not there in person, I literally see him smiling, and having fun. I think about my son all of the time. God bless him. At times I wonder how could my father abandon us. He was gutless, heartless, and unworthy to have kids. ‘Till this day I have always wondered, and think to myself, why? I used to think that me and my little brother were the problem, and at times I blamed myself. Then I grew up and realized that I wasn’t the problem, he was. He wasn’t man enough to take care of his family. I could not see myself leaving my son stranded. I know I’m a better man, than the guy that made me with my mom could ever be. I broke the cycle, and my son is my life. He means the world to me. I love my boy more than he will ever know.

My Son Paul I was a book without a story, and in that there is no glory. My days were full of rain and I knew nothing but pain. There was no light in sight, no stars shining bright. It felt as if darkness filled my soul. It overtook me and I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get out of that hole. Prayed for happiness to the heavens above, met a beautiful woman then fell in love. She bore my child, a baby boy we named Paul. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s my reason to smile, to grow, to live and love. Now I see nothing but sunshine in my forecast of life. Thanks to my son Paul. He brought meaning to my life. I Love You Son!

MARSHA DOMMEL

Moments There may be many moments in one’s life when a person says ‘this is a life changing moment.’ I can say mine with certainty was Monday, May 24, 2010 just before 7:00am. I was riding the 2 train uptown to work much like any other day. I was going in earlier than usual, at that time, as I wanted to get ahead on some work. My cell phone rang which was unusual for that time of day and it appeared my mom was calling me. I thought this to be odd as she would have already been at work for almost an hour. It was my sister. We weren’t very close, so it seemed very peculiar that she would call me at all, let alone from my mom’s phone number. She was crying and it was almost difficult to even understand her. She was telling me something that was not to be understood. She was explaining what happened with my mother. I wanted to hang up on her because what she was saying could not be true. Once I actually heard what she was telling me, after asking her numerous times if I was correct, I hung up quickly. I had to get off at the next train stop. I didn’t

recognize where I was even though it was the train stop I got off at every single work day for over a year. When I got out, I fell onto the platform. A woman came to help pick me up. She was beautiful. She had flowing clothing. I remember her dark, smooth skin, and gentle smile. I remember she had beautiful silver earrings as well. After she picked me up, I can say she literally carried me. I don’t know what I was saying to her. I don’t know what she was saying to me. I don’t know why she was helping me. I fell again as her arm slipped. I knew as I sat down on the dirty train station floor that my life had changed. That moment changed me. I didn’t know how yet, and I would never know why, but it changed me. The moment I said aloud, ‘my mommy died’ changed my life and everything in me forever. It’s been almost 5 years since that day. It still feels like yesterday, as I still remember these details. I can say for certain that moment changed my life. I know loss, pain, loneliness, and heartache. I know wanting to feel like ‘it should all end.’ I know depression and anxiety. I also know compassion, empathy, support, listening, and strength. I know that I have become a better friend, granddaughter, partner, and clinician. In that moment I learned all of this in ways I never had before…this life changing moment.

LEONARD GILL My Life Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Leonard Gill. Born and raised in Calif., by my mother and grandmother. Unfortunately my biological father was not around at the time. I graduated out of Berkeley High School in the year of 1971. I also attended college to become a chef. In the year of 1982 my life-style took negative turn involving drugs. And all in the year of 1986 I came to N.Y. known as the Big Apple, with my wife to be. Got married in 1987. But I was soul searching, trying to figure out how I could get help in my recovery. I got myself involved with the methadone program, in A.E.C.O.M., which really saved my marriage and my life. As time went on I had to find other things positive to do, things to help me stay focused on my recovery. I was introduced to being involved as a role model for people that are in recovery. It is called PAC meaning Patient Advisory Committee. Only a chosen few were picked to be apart. Then I wanted to step up my recovery much more by helping my fellow peers. In the year of 2001 I got involved in being a member to partake in Hep-C groups. That was very different. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m still involved with that project, being a supervisor, consultant, and mentor for this project. I must end this on my note. I will always lead by example, and continue to educate, and always be more than, in my craft. God bless.

TAMMY KNOBLAUCH

The Little Girl The little girl always loved to go to the beach and collect seashells. The little girl loved amusement parks and she loved to ride all the roller coasters she could find. The little girl loved to rock in her rocking chair and listen to her favorite song by Sesame Street. ‘C’ is for cookie. The little girl loved all the holidays, especially Christmas; she loved leaving cookies for Santa Clause and waking up to her presents under the tree. Then one day the little girl’s lights went out when her great uncle took her innocence way. The darkness stayed for quite some time (approximately 7 years). The little girl was lost and broken like Humpty Dumpty who fell off the wall and had a great fall. That little girl was me. It finally became bright enough to see when he died. That little girl still remains scared, but every day the bright gets a little brighter with a hope that better days are on the way.

YOLANDA MALDONADO

Something Changed I grew up very sheltered. I was well protected most of the time. But, I have to say that I was always very curious of everything. I remember one particular day. I must have been at least 14 or 13 years old. My mom worked at the Veterans Hospital on Kingsbridge Road, as a nurse, and she had the night shift at that time. So mom had told my big brother John to babysit me, and my little sister went to grandmasâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;. My brother John was not very happy at all. I could see it in his face as he looked down at me, and gave me The Look. The kind of look that sent chills all over me, and my knees even started shaking. I got sick to my stomach. I initially looked down, too scared to look him in the eye. But for me this was usual. Every time my mother would ask him to babysit me that would be our usual reaction. It was something about the way he looked at me with such hate and disgust. Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the way I saw it anyway. I never gave him a reason to hit me, and I made sure

of it to. He was just a teenager who wanted to spend all his time with his girlfriend. I understood it later in life. The first day my brother John took me to his girlfriendâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house they were getting ready to go out dancing, with her girlfriends. I remember my brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s girlfriend Maria would go into the bathroom with each of her friends, Sonia, Angela, and Wendy. I was curious, but then Maria called me in the bathroom, and asked if I wanted to go dancing with them. Of course I wanted to go, and said yes. Maria dressed me up like a big girl, an older teenager. The makeup really did it. Then she told me if I wanted to go I would have to do the same thing that they did. So I agreed. To my surprise she pulled out a syringe, and stuck me in the arm with it. She said how good it would feel. Well, I was scared, I never did like needles. After she stuck me I felt like I was floating, and then shortly after that I got very sick, and threw up all over my dress. That was the first time I had ever used heroin. To make a long story short, after that I was never scared of my brother again. I seemed to have lost so very much that day. My brother John knew something had changed in me. And so did my mom.

ELIZABETH NIEVES

My Purpose I thought my only purpose was to attain money to buy drugs; then find a place to ingest those drugs. My purpose was revolved around being the best addict I could be. My purpose had no future beyond my next dollar and feeding my purpose which I named, “Monster.” Why monster? You might ask. Monster because in every sense of the word it’s what I had become. Scary, smelly, and yes, dangerous. Dangerous to myself and anyone I came in contact with. My purpose was constantly convincing myself that I didn’t care about anything or anyone unless they suited my purpose. I look back at those sad days and wonder what did I do to deserve to be here with a completely new purpose. Today’s purpose is to be the greatest mom alive. The strongest wife I could be. The loyalist friend ever created and the humblest servant of humanity.

Photography by Irene Soloway 42

KATYA PADRON

Red Prick I walk to the Valley of Rose, observing the beauty that it offers. I go and touch one, not realizing all the thorns that is possesses. You would think that I would have learned that I need to touch these flowers with caution and care. I continue to go towards them, allured by their color, smell and beauty that have been planted in my conscience since I was a child. I walk to the zoo, I see the animals, the great beasts that life has to offer, wondering where are they from, how did they get caught, how do they feel caged up. Do they know where they are, how they have traveled. I want to pet them; I was always told stay away from wild animals, but how wild can they be they are in a cage, they can’t hurt me. I just want to touch them, hold them, play with them. They can’t hurt me. I learn to drive today; I finally have my license, going out to celebrate with my friend. I guess you can say they are the animals in the zoo, caged up believing that they can’t have fun or else they will get hurt. I love being around them, I am free. Behind the wheel as I drive. I feel free wind in my hair, laughing towards the sky,

allowing the sun to wrap itsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; heat around me. I drink the spirits of life and my friends share with me, we all laugh at life. Enjoying the spirit, consuming it as if it were the last time we would have it; driving down the road, open road going through it as if there was nothing that would get in our way. I see the blue sky, radiant sun and green in the trees. Darkness set on us, the red rose are all around, petals fall all around, like a cascade of water, I turn to the left and turn to the right, spirit is gone, red petals are all over us, it feels like hot liquid flowing around us. I look up and the sky is no longer blue it is dark, tears flow down my face. I wonder what is going on. I begin to think of the fun I was having with my friends. I turn to them to see if they are laughing, but they are not. They are asleep, rose petal still running down their faces, they are not responding. We all sleep now; we all sleep in different beds, placed in the ground surrounded by roses. I hear the birds chirping, never to touch them again, never to feel the sun embrace my face, never to laugh again. I hear the sorrow of my mother, why does she cry, does she not know that I now sleep in eternal bliss. Wait, it was my baby sister and baby brother in the car with me. What have I done I left her alone; she has no one, what have I done. My mother will never hold me again, I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t cry on her shoulder for she does not hear my cries. Mom I am sorry, I just wanted to be like the animals in the wild and venture out, I am sorry I never thought this would happen. Help me please I need to go back, back to where it began with the roses; I will be careful not to prick myself, but learn to enjoy the beauty, while taking care that they still radiate beauty in my eyes the way I did in my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes.

JOSE QUILES

Grandparent â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;48 Comadrona 1948 was a special year for me, and my grandmother. Her name was Dolores De Jesus, and she was present for my birth.You see she was a midwife, and she attended many births in Arecibo, Puerto Rico. We lived in a wooden house near the Atlantic Ocean. I can imagine the sound of the ocean waves hitting the shore, while my mother cried in discomfort. My birth was complicated, and at one point I stopped breathing. Good thing my grandmother had many years of experience, and knew what to do. Thank you Grandmother, you will always hold a special place in my heart and life.

The Last Kiss We were young and in love. To me she was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. We decided to become a couple. Shortly afterward (several months later) we found a two bedroom apartment, in the South Bronx. A walk up four story building, near a park. Life was great. We both were in school, and had jobs. Our rent and utilities were paid on time. Everyday was exciting. I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t wait to come home and be with her. Several years later I kissed her, and walked out of our life together. To this day I regret leaving her. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never forget the last kiss.

Weird It was a hot summer day in 1966. I had already bought my drugs. Heroin was the choice at that time. I had scored in a dilapidated building, from some gang, hispanic â&#x20AC;&#x153;men,â&#x20AC;? who openly carried weapons at the ready. The rumor was that several people had O Ded from the drugs. So you can imagine how crowded the hallways were. Everyone wanted this powerful batch that had taken lives. It was a powerful force that had us out there at 2 AM in the morning. After buying I walked briskly to Morningside Park, where I mainlined what I had just bought. It was a crazy time, playing Russian roulette with our lives.

Lonely It began when I noticed one by one they were gone. My family was a large one in Puerto Rico. Besides the immediate family: father, mother, brothers, sisters; we had aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, tia y tio politco. There was always someone near. Round trips to this familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s home. Family gatherings; picnics; birthdays; weddings; graduations; holidays together. And then it begun. We made a move away from the family. A trip to a new destination. A new state, town, neighborhood. Suddenly it was a very small family, just my parents, brothers, and sisters. With time we met new neighbors, friends, teachers, store owners, so onâ&#x20AC;Ś We grew older and with time heard about a cousinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s death, then an aunt passing. One by one the nuclear family became smaller. Some moved away to distant neighborhoods. Eventually everyone was gone. Left alone with memories, pictures, and letters.

Haiku on Demand I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe it he wants me to write haiku oh my God, whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s next?

SHEILA REYNOSO

The Paradox of Addiction This world was made for you and I Your love is raw So exposed There's so much pain in your stories It's all on display For everyone to watch Yet a power given to everyone else to define. You and I were made from the same cloth Your love is genuine Contains so much warmth But you've been made to feel undesirable. I wonder many times the characters that came across your path and played a role I wonder many times how you've been able to survive it all. I'm an addict you tell me one day You tell me this as we're in group Remember I'm an addict...

An addict Two words I repeat in my head You imply that things are different You and I are different Well yes, but NO. And so I struggle with this. You remind me... A bull-shitter can tell from another bull-shitter. Stopped in my tracks, but dare i ask, Do you think I'm a bull-shitter? Can you tell apart the days when I'm just trying to push through? You and I both occupy the same space But navigating through a complex system That is meant to separate both you and I Is troublesome. You remind me on a separate day I don't want to be treated like an addict. An addict... Again, what does that mean per se? It's a question I ask myself everyday. Society most commonly blames individuals who use And are addicted to drugs because â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Tear away the fabric of society. But many times I remind myself, What if the fabric in which you're accustomed to is caused By the tears of society? You and I deep down are the same Society teaches us to be divisive

To be against one another. You and I are both taught the “Not in my backyard” mentality. Both of us on different sides of the fence. You came into my world to show me otherwise. Your love is grand and sincere So again, I ask you An Addict… What does that mean? Because you have redefined what that word means to me. Some might see this as a fairytale, others know it as a truth,.

SHARON ROBERTS

What I Can Remember What I can remember growing up, it was fun times. Mommy, something we called her, and Daddy, my grandfather. Mommy was the matriarch of the family. I can remember living at 176 Moore Street, Brooklyn. Late night we would sit on the stoop eating ice cream that we would get from the truck down the street. Mommy worked cleaning peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s houses. Daddy was a mechanic. I can remember on Saturdays going to Daddyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s job. Seem like hours we would be there, until we finally fell asleep, and when we woke we would be at Coney Island. Daddy would take me and my cousin on the rides. We would eat Nathan franks. We had jelly apples, popcorn, cotton candy. And, when it was all said and done, back to sleep to wake up at 176 Moore Street.

COLLETTE ROCHE

Aspartame* aspartame, aspartame I love that chemical name a taste as sweet as sugar But not at all the same aspartame, aspartame they say it will keep your fat away Doctors say it will cause cancer one day Farewell my love, my sweet, Aspartame. *Aspartame is found in most artificial sweeteners, and your favorite no-calorie drinks.

The Cold and the Bike I am in a race I cannot possibly win pedaling desperately to avoid it. Frigid winds pull at ears and eyes squeezing tears from the corners as winterâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s icy fingers grab at my clothes and hair always advancing like the sun crossing the sky, inevitable, merciless. How many days or hours do I have left whatever direction I take, the cold is there. There will be no escape.

The Waiting Room It was a large room, full of chairs arranged within muted walls, with all kind of people sitting calmly. Women and a few men that moved among them, speaking to one another, then being escorted through the double doors, to another place, where she assumed they’d see a specialist, or have a procedure performed. She was vaguely aware that she’d been to this waiting room many times before, to suffer through tests and treatments for her long illness. But this was different, sort of like a dream and yet not. She tried to arouse herself from this strange apathy, but to no avail. Then she heard her own name spoken, and as she looked up she saw a person, neither male nor female just very attractive, and smiling warmly at her as it extended its hand, as if in welcome, and indicating she should accompany them. They passed through the double doors, and she almost gasped as her senses reeled. She suddenly felt better than she ever had. All aches and pains of old age and symptoms of her ailments seemed to melt away. As she glanced at her escort, she saw with surprise that the clothes it had been wearing were now changed to bright white robes of some ethereal appearance. The corridor had expanded to a great cavernous hall, with gold and pearls everywhere. As she looked around she realized she was standing before a great white throne, an image of man upon it, within a blinding light. Then she heard a sound like the crashing of many waters. These things encompassed her sight and sound, but gradually they lessened, and she saw with total clarity that this was the true “Ancient of Days,” in all his glory. She thought of all the times she’d offered thanks and prayers in her life, during

joyous and difficult years. Then she saw a man sitting at his right side. His hair was like the white wool of a sheep, skin like burnished bronze. His robes were glittering white, and he wore many crowns. She could see holes in his hands where the spikes had pierced them. But, it was his eyes that drew her attention. They were like fire. And as he gazed at her, he slowly blinked, and as he did they became a warm deep brown. She knew as he was looking at her he was filling her heart and mind with joy. Then a smile of recognition played upon his lips. He leaned over and spoke, “Father, this is one of my sheep.” Then she heard the sound of thundering waters again, but this time understood the words. “Child, you have traveled many roads, and crossed mountains and valleys on your journey, but I have known you since before the womb, I knew you since the very beginning.” “Your name is written in the Book of Life.” “I say to you now, well done good and faithful servant, you may go in peace.” Then the celestial choir, which had been singing in the background the whole time, erupted into a deafening roar as a new song was begun. The saints and angels were everywhere giving thanks and praise to the Lord of Lords and King of Kings. She then turned and saw old friends and family who’d passed before, and recognized family she’d never known. She was elated as they embraced and welcomed her back home, again.

Where Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m From I am from a lie, feeling the anger and outrage of a ten-year-old, upon finding a letter that revealed my mother had concealed my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s long absence from the four of us children I am from late nights when my mother sat alone, awaiting my fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eventual yet sometimes months late return. I am from routine, when we folded our tents and stole away into the night like nomads but it was called moving. I am from fear, when we hid in the house for a year during the school day, while others went. To conceal all trace of our names from authorities. I am from bitterness for my father that grew in my mouth like the taste of rotten fruit, year after year, until I could identify no other.

Your Trust You gave me a gift awhile ago it was undeserved and rare resultant of peace and harmony an appreciation to share this gift goes by a common name one which reveal I must it is a noble word, faithful and true the gift of which I speak, is trust.

BRENDA SPIKES

An Angel Have you ever met an ANGEL? Right here on earth, Someone whose been touched by God Way before their birth When you hear the word ANGEL It's apparent what we think Of spiritual beings; disappearing in a cloud the second that we blink. Now, the ANGEL I met was extraordinary Made of flesh, someone you can see. Someone I could physically touch But who touched me spiritually. Someone whose heart was filled with love never thinking only of self And shared God's treasures sent from above Not putting them away or left on a shelf.

I'm sure you've met an ANGEL Think of someone you know Who can light up their surroundings With a bright heavenly glow Could you be that woman or man reaching out extending your heart and hand If so, I know a person won't forget YOU were an ANGEL that they once met.

MELISSA STEIN

Doc My first month working after I graduated from medical school was incredibly hard. I spent it in the intensive care unit working 80-100 hours a week. I got lost in the long and badly marked halls of the hospital, once ending up in the laundry area when I was looking for an x-ray. Xrays were actual film then, not just images on a computer screen. And sometimes they got lost. I spent hours running around after lost xrays, old patient charts, and even the patients themselves – taking them for xrays, CT scans, and other tests. I was frustrated and tired, and very scared. I was afraid that I would lose an xray (or a chart), that I would forget something important, that I would mis-read an EKG, that I wouldn’t be able to draw a patient’s blood, that I wouldn’t hear the heart murmur that everyone else did, that my pager wouldn’t wake me up when I finally fell asleep in the on-call room bunkbeds. When I left the hospital I took the subway home and slept and watched bad TV, counting down the hours until I had

to return. I slept badly and dreamt about sick people, beeping monitors, and yelling doctors. I called my parents and close friends to complain and they were sympathetic, but it didn’t help much. Although I knew that I was just beginning my career as a doctor, I was disappointed not to feel like I was helping anyone. The weeks passed, and I didn’t make any major mistakes. No lost x-rays, no forgotten lab results, and I was actually pretty good at drawing blood. And I started to enjoy my work, especially the part that involved talking to patients. Late one night I went to check on a patient who was in the unit for monitoring after a procedure. He was our healthiest patient of the week, and I had delayed doing his admission while I dealt with the other crises and problems of the day. We talked for a while about his health, what brought him to the hospital, his test results, his life at home, his smoking, and I then did his physical exam. As I was leaving the room to order his medications, he said, “Thanks Doc, I feel so much better.” I was so surprised to hear these words from him! I felt that this patient needed me even less than the other much sicker patients, who relied on the doctors to breathe, fight infections, and support their bodies enough to continue in life. But as I thought about in the months that followed I realized that sometimes my presence and words can be as healing to a suffering patient as any medication. This was when I began to feel like a doctor.

SOPHIE TEXEIRA Butterfly Inside of my cocoon afraid to grow, hiding from the world scared to be known. Being comfortable and nested in this small cramped place, ashamed to ask for help and for that gentle embrace. My thought of life was blinded to see, just using excuses cause I was afraid of the real me. I decided that being in this small little spot was too miserable and small, but then I finally made a decision to stand up tall. I cracked out of the cocoon with its misery and shame, finally to fly and become this beautiful butterfly flying across the sky.

INELL TOLLIVER Heavenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s New Angel In Memory of Brenda Spikes Heaven has a new angel She was here with us But in an earthly form Giving us smiles when we were sad And always holding our hands When we were down and out Never having any doubt That God had a better plan for all of us Her wisdom and courage surely will Be missed, never giving up on anyone She touched with humor and true wit Never letting on all the pain she was in She never gave up on God to let her In his heavenly kingdom up above Heaven has a new angel And her name is Brenda Her name will be forever written In the clouds above.

Neighborhood images from Port Morris (Bronx, NY)

Photography by Irene Soloway 66

A CKNOWLEDGEMENTS As a small, grassroots organization, NY Writers Coalition relies on the generous support of those dedicated to getting the voices of those who have been silenced heard. Many thanks go to our foundation, government, and corporate supporters, without whom this writing community and publication would not exist: Allianz GI, Amazon.com, the Kalliopeia Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, and the Two West Foundation. NYWC programming is also made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Andrew Cuomo and the New York State Legislature. We rely heavily on the support of individual NYWC members and attendees of our annual Write-A-Thon. In addition, members of our Board of Directors have kept this vital, rewarding work going year after year: Louise Crawford, Marian Fontana, Sandy Huang, Matthew Krejcarek, Lisa Smith, Jonathan Tasini, and NYWC Founder and Executive Director Aaron Zimmerman. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d also like to thank those who were instrumental in the formation of both the workshop and this publication: To Inell Tolliver and Brenda Spikes (who unfortunately is no longer with us), thank you for coming up with the idea of this workshop. To Port Morris staff members Irene Soloway, Melissa Stein, Teresa Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien, Marsha Dommel, Sheila Reynoso, and Lauren Cockerham-Colas, thank you for all your help and encouragement. We especially want to thank Tania Carty, who has so generously taken part in most of our workshop sessions and readings and has played a tremendous part in putting

this book together. Thank you also to Katya PadronMorales who sat in for Tania for a wonderful month of writing. Our biggest THANK YOU of course goes to all those poets and writers whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve participated in this workshop, freely sharing your stories with all who came. You are the ones whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve made this workshop a success, and this book possible.

A BOUT NY W RITERS C OALITION NY Writers Coalition (NYWC) is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization that creates opportunities for formerly voiceless members of society to be heard through the art of writing. One of the largest community-based writing organizations in the country, we provide free, unique, and powerful creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society, including atrisk, disconnected, and LGBT youth, homeless and formerly homeless people, those who are incarcerated and formerly incarcerated individuals, war veterans, people living with disabilities, cancer, and other major illnesses, immigrants, seniors, and many others. For more information about NYWC programs and NY Writers Coalition Press publications visit WWW . NYWRI TER SCOALI TION . ORG

BEYOND THE STIGMA Writing from the Port Morris Wellness Center NY Writers Coalition Press is proud to present Beyond the Stigma: Writing from the Port Morris Wellness Center, a collection of poetry, prose, and art from NYWC creative writing workshops for adults in the Bronx, NY. Featuring original writing from Robert Michael Bibbo, Tania Carty, Lauren Cockerham-Colas, Patricia Craig, Jose Tony Delgado, Marsha Dommel, Leonard Gill, Tammy Knoblauch, Yolanda Maldonado, Tracey Maldonado, Elizabeth Nieves, Katya Pardon, Jose Quiles, Sheila Reynoso, Sharon Roberts, Collette Roche, Brenda Spikes, Melissa Stein, Sophie Texeira, and Inell Tolliver. Photography by Irene Soloway. Edited by John Maney, Jr. Learn more about NYWC Programs and NYWC Press at www.nywriterscoalition.org.

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