Homeless is Where Your Story Begins: Writing from Sylvia's Place

HOME Homeless is where your story begins

WRITING FROM SYLVIA’S PLACE

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HOME Homeless is where your story begins

Writing from Sylvia’s Place Summer 2009

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Copyright © 2009 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor /Layout: Geer Austin, Nancy L. Weber Cover Photo: 115 Shelter, 2007 © Lucky S. Michaels. Used by permission.

Home/Homeless Is Where Your Story Begins contains writing by the members of a creative writing workshop conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. for MCCNY Homeless Youth Services at Sylvia’s Place.

NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that provides free creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 80 Hanson Place #603 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org Sylvia's Place is an emergency overnight shelter for LGBTQ youth that operates 365 days a years and provides drop-in services Monday through Saturday.

Homeless Youth Services c/o MCCNY 446 W. 36th St. (between 9th & 10th Ave.) New York, NY 10018 (212) 629-7440 Ext 226 www.homelessyouthservices.org

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Sylvia’s Place no one knows what really goes on here except me and we all say that Jeffrey Ream Adult Volunteer at Sylvia’s Place

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Contents Remembering a Photograph Bella

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Untitled Ryan Kennedy

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My words are broken Cashmere Ferragamo

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I Remember Kenyatta Taiste

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I am from Kenyatta Taiste

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7 Years Bad Luck Kenyatta Taiste

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Loss Kenyatta Taiste

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Life Aries

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In this one and Makeup works Jo

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why do people hurt other people E

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Pink and Purple City Gary Andre McCoy

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Santa Monica and La Brea Gary Andre McCoy

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Last Laugh Jason Maldonado

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My Addiction D.H.

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Amber Palace Mavinga King Warner

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Life/Opportunity Vincent Knowles

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Love Addiction Vincent Knowles

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Walking Out Justin

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Untitled Love

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My Mom Matthew Vega

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Rainbow Power Damian a.k.a. Divina Divinity

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Sylvia’s Place Diego G. Spoolstra-Marquet

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INTRODUCTION Sylvia's Place is an emergency night shelter for homeless lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and questioning youth. It occupies the first floor of the New York Metropolitan Community Church, on West 36th Street, down by the Lincoln Tunnel off ramp. Often, the youth who end up there are refugees from nuclear families: some of them were kicked out of their homes by their parents; some ran away; others aged out of the foster care system. They are bookworms, dancers, computer game addicts, writers, students and fashionistas. Some of them have jobs – they might have waited on you at Banana Republic or Duane Reade – but none earn enough money to rent an apartment in New York City. Many have nothing more than the clothes on their backs and a small knapsack filled with a few possessions.

By some stroke of luck, they have landed in Sylvia's Place. I say "luck" because in New York City there are an estimated seven thousand LGBTQ young people who need shelter every night, but less than one hundred beds dedicated to them.

My time at the shelter began about a year ago. I show up every Tuesday night at 6:30 toting a canvas bag full of notebooks, pens and snacks, and several of the youth sit down at a table and write with me. Following the NY Writers Coalition technique, I offer a writing prompt.

We write together for a few minutes, and we choose to read, or not to read, what we have written. Every week I hear something that surprises and delights me from at least one of the writers.

I culled the poems and stories in this chapbook from dozens of small pieces written in the workshop, sometimes at a table set up in the midst of the chaos of the shelter, sometimes in a quiet corner of the church.

All of these pieces speak to the theme of home and/or homelessness. I hope you will enjoy reading them.

Geer Austin

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Bella Remembering a Photograph I remember Christmas Day. The warm fire. The apple cider. The sweet smell of sugar cane filling the home. Every year you pull out that old leather photo album, blowing away the past year’s dust. It opens like a new storybook, and we are submerged into a new story. I remember the nieces and the sweet smell of cotton. I remember the soft dirt beneath our feet. Sun beating down. Hiding our faces. Dying from the heat. I remember torn families n broken dreams. I remember Massa barkin’ to sew and mend the seams. I remember the fires and those riots. I remember when all seven aunties swore to try one hundred and fifty of them fancy diets. I remember holidays being so great. I remember it being a good time to escape. I remember my first bike. My first fight. My first night with the Man of My Dreams. I remember to remember. You can’t sweep everything under the carpet.

Quiet, quiet because Uncle Bryan is now Aunt Peaches n isn’t just like u.

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Ryan Kennedy Untitled You say you love me You say you care But yet I feel unwanted and unloved Every day I get put down Degraded and criticized You say you hate what I’ve “become” But I’ve always been this way I know I am a survivor I’m strong and a fighter But yet I feel weak around you I crave the love I’ve never had Void is all I feel Heartless and cold is all I know

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Shelter 38, 2007 © Lucky S. Michaels. Used by Permission.

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Cashmere Ferragamo My words are broken So I write to understand what it is I’m saying to see in print what my mind sees. It’s the only way to talk to myself when everyone is listening cuz when I speak no one is listening so I write just to say my words are broken.

When I take a walk along a pier in a place in an old city that’s foreign to me, I may have channeled a feeling from one of Mariah Carey’s songs, where she sings “there is a light in me that shines brightly.” My light can be seen in my words and my spirit, but my words remain broken to those that don’t understand me.

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Kenyatta Taiste I Remember I remember when I was young and full of patience.

I remember taking vacations to Hilton Head Island with my mother and abusive stepfather and yet still having a good time.

I remember when having a good time consisted of sitting in my room, shopping through magazines with my friend Elizabeth Stacey and Brandi Pace.

I remember going to Elizabeth’s house and helping her feed her family’s horde of Chihuahuas.

I remember wanting and getting dogs and them all mysteriously dying.

I remember my grandmere’s funeral and watching my mother and other family cry.

I remember my mother braiding my hair after brushing it.

I remember attending etiquette classes and going to all of my girl cousins’ debutante balls.

I remember watching Katie Lankford walk gracefully down the stairs of the country club and trip on the last step and her escort going fully down as well.

I remember prom and graduation and crying with my friends because we were never going to see each other again. Then 12

seeing them at the club the following weekend.

I remember Patricia Something and Jessica Walter asking me to get dressed for Halloween and them picking out the dress I would wear.

I remember my first drag performance that was held at Patrick’s Pub and Lounge in West Ashley.

I remember meeting my first husband, then introducing him to my mother.

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Kenyatta Taiste I am from I am from field strawberries and grazing horses. From clucking hens and feisty roosters. I am from inherited land where the neighbors are all alike and everyone knows everything and nothing. I’m from laughing children and crying adults. I’m from nicknames like Pancake and Sage, where summers were spent elsewhere and everywhere. Where shopping was a pastime and parties were a must. I’m from perfectly constructed teeth and false smiles. I am from a society that looks at itself with such high regard that it would make angels cry. I’m from the old country and the new country. I’m from maize and livestock, from shoppes and boats. I’m from lace gloves and teatimes. Where posture is key and wit is a must. From sharp tongues and dull minds. From intelligence and ignorance. I am from my mother and grandmother. Where family means something.

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Kenyatta Taiste 7 Years Bad Luck Ah, mon Dieu! I broke the mirror, and now I’ll have 7 years bad luck. Or at least that’s what we’ve been led to believe. Okay, so this past b-day of mine, my good friend Hunter (whom I call Hunt) gave me this compact mirror from Sephora. It was white with this glittery casing and was so handy. Well, one night while out and about in a drunken stupor, I happened to break it while it was in my bag. Of course I didn’t realize this at the time, but I don’t think the whole “bad luck / 7 years” thing happens once you’ve noticed. I think it might start whenever the glass is initially cracked. Anyway, I noticed it one day, and ever since I’ve been waiting for the bad luck to kick in. Although I guess it has. I mean I am technically sleeping on the floor in a homeless shelter. On the other hand, I sleep on the counter and am being filmed for being homeless. Another thing would be that I don’t have a stable job, yet I meet a new “sponsor” everyday, it seems, and a modeling career I didn’t want got started and now my schedule is crazy. So when is this bad luck truly going to kick in? Watch it be that I get super fat, end up single and surrounded by people I don’t like. Wait! I’m already going though that.

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Kenyatta Taiste Loss Once again in one of my absent-minded sessions I’ve lost something. Keys? No, didn’t have any to start with. Cell? No, in my pocket.

I-pod? No, in my other pocket. What the hell is it that I’ve lost? Hmm? This is some b.s.

Clearly it’s something important or at least I would like to think it is. If only I could remember what it is that I’ve lost that I’m supposed to have due to its importance. My virginity? Now that couldn’t possibly be it. Still a virgin in some eyes, but a sexual deviant in others! Okay, let’s think. I have friends, a family (or at least one that’s good enough to play that role). Some fame, enough fortune, my health, sanity. I care enough, but not too much to stress. Clothes.

Check. Money in the bank. Check. Semistability. Check. Shit!!! I know what it is. I’ve lost the respect that I once held for people. I now see people for who and what they are.

They may not all be bad people, but the ones that are bad are like chameleons. Hiding and blending in with the good people. The good people who give without being asked. Asking for just enough and never being greedy. Loving those who enter their lives with open arms and no questions. The good people who are respected by some and admired by most.

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Aries Life Never knew I would be here.

Sometimes wish I wasn’t here.

But when I picture death, I see fear I’ll never be as picture perfect as you want me to be.

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Shelter 86, 2007 © Lucky S. Michaels. Used by Permission.

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Jo In this one I am happy in Jersey.

It is my first pic of my first time.

I am smiling because I just got my hair done.

I have new makeup and hair extensions.

I am in my stepsister’s room and the walls are yellow.

I am excited to go out.

But nervous.

Makeup works Builds not just looks but confidence.

It bridges inherent beauty with the style of inspired artistry.

It defines and gives distinction to what is unique.

It brightens, contrasts and glosses.

It gender crosses.

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E why do people hurt other people because some people dont give a shit about who they hurt and have no feelings 4 others so y should life have 2 be so hard to deal with well i feel like i have been hurt so much that i want 2 give up on life and love because i feel alone in this world i am feeling so bad i think i made a big mistake and i don’t know what 2 do now so i need some help please if u can try 2 help me with what i need

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Shelter 78, 2007 © Lucky S. Michaels. Used by Permission.

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Gary Andre McCoy Pink and Purple City When I walk through my meditated doorway I’m gripping a glass of Hennessey.

I see a street of shakers and movers rambling into their cell phones.

Chatting about who’s having dinner with who.

Trying to figure out what street you’re located on.

Crying and worried over lovers they can’t tame.

Sipping coffee, anxiously confirming if they got the role.

But everything is shaded in pink and purple.

Pink represents the beauty and nature within the street.

The youth playing handball in the park.

The old Korean man that sells you your cigarettes and newspaper in the morning.

Or that lover you love unconditionally.

Or the fact you’re being productive expecting no pay.

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Purple represents the darker side The shootouts in the park over a freestyle battle.

Or that person who did get the role they auditioned for, for 15 years, only to sell their body and soul for publicity.

Or that fiend who’s dead inside, but still walking and talking to GOD. But none of it could affect me, because I’m only standing in the doorway peacefully drinking my Hennessey.

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Gary Andre McCoy Santa Monica and La Brea I love you Jason Born into a life of silicon.

Pretending and auditioning for roles to be raped.

Parents always w/ their passports while we met Scorpio and Taz on the block for crystal meth.

You and your poetry really made love to my brain.

I stepped on your feet and begged you not to go before the fact you had to go on tour.

The way I wanted to put my wet warm mouth on your manhood.

You lifted me up and said No! And went inside me softly.

Parents, and men, and agents, sending me privileges.

But I still waited a full year for you, and I’m still waiting‌

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Jason Maldonado Last Laugh The phrase he laughs best who laughs last.

What does that mean? The past nine months I’ve been asking that same question. I have been almost everywhere in the city. Big difference from Texas. I’ve slept on the A, B, C, 1, 2 and 3 trains.

From hotels to jail and hospital, many have laughed, saying just go home. Time and time I just wanted to give up, and say they were right. I’m glad I didn’t. I now have a great job, wonderful boyfriend, clothes on my back, roof over my head. And I wouldn’t mind seeing a few people to tell them they were wrong. I’ve made it. I’ve seen them laugh first. I want to see them again and laugh last.

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

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Mavinga King Warner Amber Palace There is a long history behind the palace of amber, but this specific story starts with a girl named Sangri who lived in the palace with her parents Emperor Muhammed Kali and his wife Empress Judifa Kali. This day was a very special day for Sangri. She was to be given away to her husband at age fourteen. Sangri Kali despised the man to whom she was being given away. So she decided once they were transferring her to the wedding in the west wing of the palace she would run away never to come back again. I remember this event very clearly.

It was a Saturday at about noon and I was working in the yard when I looked up and saw Sangri running from the wedding towards the gate. As soon as she started to run, the guards appeared at the wedding hall door and at the gates. Sangri stopped, looked both ways and yelled, “If I can’t marry the person of my choice then I will not marry anyone!” And as she finished speaking, she ran for the ledge and jumped to her death.

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Vincent C. Knowles Life/Opportunity I see people walking, not caring about the person behind them, or bumping into them, or giving them dirty looks. It’s like water in a pond, small but flowing up and down, same motion every day, every night, all the time. Cars stuck in traffic, patiently waiting for the light to go green so they can speed off into the horizon or to the next traffic light. I see a mirror shattering as if someone looked into it and realized life was going on around them, and they never enjoyed it. I see the unknown promise of something that might happen that will make you feel happy, ecstatic, pissed off, in a fighting mood, frightened, scared of racism, judgmental, loved, hated, obvious, obliterated from within oneself, torn between fantasy and reality, and then when you think you can’t feel no more, BAM, it happens. I can see the moment of reckoning, when the piper comes for his/ her due, from which there is no escaping, the moment when a person makes his/her final choice and you see the tear of pride, and he/she runs heroically to the horizon to victory.

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Vincent C. Knowles Love Addiction My name is Vincent C. Knowles, better known by my stage name Love Addict. I got my name by being addicted to loving a special someone who I still think is my better half no matter what we go through. I began this path of passion, love and hatred when I first became homeless. This person’s name is Calypso. Calypso is the goddess of love and hate (the balance of the scale). I befriended Calypso by asking the goddess to stop dragging her feet and walk and the rest is history.

Calypso is a simple person (loving and sweet), but she is also the devil of deception. Just when you think you know everything, she will change the playing field. However that is not Y she is known as the devil of deception; she is known as that because she is not afraid to test love. You cannot bullshit a goddess, I was warned, because she will call you on your bluff. Betrayal is not betrayal – betrayal is a test to see if your love can withstand the backlash of self-rage, self-doubt and insecurity. You go through all your emotions, and you find out that you have fixed yourself. You find out that Calypso has helped you far beyond belief and has taught you the ironic beauty of love which is two ppl still coming together after all the bullshit situations between them because they love each other even if they refuse to admit it. Then, you are left with one question: was this Calypso’s plan in the first place? Was or wasn’t it? Maybe this question willl be answered, or maybe it is not meant to be answered because some things are better left unsaid.

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Justin Walking Out If I could tell the minute I got in the door and dropped my bag I wasn’t staying do you know how much this would hurt A LOT it would rip my heart apart where would I go where would I sleep Just the clothes on my back The craziness outside those streets my head spinning round and round would I be guaranteed a place to stay or will I be out in the cold The snow falling rapidly The temperature below zero my body shivering and cold brrrrr no Food no Money though I understand I am not alone out there I’m scared and frightened would you get me broken or killed you don’t seem to care cause it’s the real world out there so slow to see to believe I am not dreaming cause this is real

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now I know

Love Untitled It’s a hard time, and my life is called why.

Sean my child is going to foster care.

Wonder what they will do to her. She say, why do I have to go there? And she look at me, and her pretty black eyes start crying saying why. It so hard to tell her because she just a baby. But at the same time I don’t want her to feel the pain no more.

Two weeks ago I told her that I was not her real mother. Her mother gave her away because she could not take care of her any more. I told her I love her too much to just walk out of her life. She said why don’t mom love me, and I just started to cry hearing a one-year-old saying my mother don’t love me no more.

She look into my eyes and say, don’t go. I just cry. Because a one-year-old feels the pain I have to go through.

I just want to tell the young women out there to do what they have to do because having your child taken away is not a joke.

It like your life has ended.

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Untitled, 2005 © Lucky S. Michaels. Used by Permission.

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Matthew Vega My Mom My mom was always there for me. She motivated me to become an independent, self-sufficient person.

Even at the age of 13, I came out to her, and she embraced me with no judgment whatsoever. I just remember her telling me, “You are always going to be my son first. I do not care that you’re gay. I will always love you.” That positivity helped me accomplish most of my goals. I have so much love for my mother because I respect her for taking me as I am even through all of my mistakes, faults, trials and tribulations. When she went through her difficult journey after my father passed away, I was there to help mend her heart and share her pain. Now we are not only mother and son, we are best friends. For that I will always love her and appreciate her.

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Damian a.k.a. Divina Divinity Rainbow Power I walk through doors like an undefined shadow marking my lost speech spelling out New York City my eyes do not deceive what this world fails to preach fourteenyear-olds getting gay raped in the streets a blood pact I just want to scream these needles burn me I lost my voice to sing secrets hold me I can no longer bring breath to those who choose to weep across what cannot be seen a child using hiding her dream a child using cause gay is all she sees a child living in hate and abuse a child living in pain and seeking refuge a cloak over her shoulders only to stop cold shudder from the reckless hours of momentless wandering the tears they shatter like frozen glimmer chased by predators cause rainbows are our letters our name our power but a child runs and buys a bag only to trick on the streets and gag she can’t even vogue on the streets cause her pride is shot down as she’s called a fag a cunt a freak my eyes burn from the sight of deep alleyways scaring my life away that I’ve been running from fire blowing my cells away this cold battering my life away these pills numbing my sick to stay cause just one cold shoots a fever decay I raise my flag colors rain bombs in front of disrespect to differency done wrong that’s why we’re shot in a hole and our voices are choked our mind is hurt and our pride still shows cause after this we still let gay show why cause that’s all we were born to know

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Diego G. SpoolstraMarquet Sylvia’s Place Sylvia’s, the place we consider the best for fallen youths. Having no place to hide, we unite once more trying to figure the need we have always needed.

Freedom is limited here at Sylvia’s and the best we can do is try to love the hate driven from our own past. Once for only a second, I wish we could just sing kumbaya and get wealth and security passed around. If only for a second, life would reverse and our hurt would dissolve in the knowledge that this never happened. Then the best could be displayed in the colorful smiles hiding in such hurt love and deprived potential here at Sylvia’s.

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Photography Lucky S. Michaels, Program Director of MCCNY Homeless Youth Services, is a highly regarded photographer who was named one of the “Forty Under 40” in the June 2009 issue of The Advocate.

His book of documentary photographs, Shelter, published in 2007 by Trolley Press, portrays a group of LGBTQ youth who lived off and on at Sylvia’s Place.

All the photographs in this chapbook are drawn from the roughly 4,000 images that Lucky shot over a period of three years while he worked as an overnight counselor at Sylvia’s Place. None of the youth depicted in the photographs contributed writing to the chapbook.

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Sylvia’s Place Sylvia Rae Rivera, 1951-2002, was a Stonewall Riots Veteran and trans activist who served as the director of the food pantry for Metropolitan Community Church of New York where she was a member. On her deathbed, she insisted that Rev. Pat Bumgardner, Pastor of MCCNY, promise the church would provide refuge to gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgendered, transsexual and questioning youth who needed a safe space to spend the night when all other options were exhausted. Born from that promise is Sylvia's Place, an emergency night shelter for self identified LGBTQ youth from 16 to 23 years of age. Its primary focus is to provide a safe space, a good meal, bathroom facilities and toiletries, a cot for the night and breakfast in the morning. Care workers provide a listening ear, affirmation, and a friendly voice of encouragement. MCCNY’s Homeless Youth Services, in addition to running Sylvia’s Place, offers services such as food, clothing, mental health counseling, HIV prevention, and help with a variety of job and school needs.

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$5.00

167 Shelter, 2007 © Lucky S. Michaels. Used by Permission.

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