Avra WingI'M NOT DISABLED, I'M A HIPPIEThe title of this piece comes from a poem by one of the members of my creative writing workshop. Everyone in the group, including me, has either a mental or physical disability. But when we come together, we are simply writers. Three years ago, I started a weekly writing session at the Center for Independence of the Disabled (CIDNY) in Manhattan. CIDNY helps people with disabilities on issues relating to housing, education, health and employment. The workshop is run under the aegis of the New York Writers Coalition, of which I am a member. The Coalition's mission is to give a voice to people who often are marginalized. Among the other communities the Coalition serves are the incarcerated, war veterans, the elderly, LGBT teens, cancer survivors and the homeless. The Coalition already had workshops for people hospitalized with mental illness, but not for those living independently with either a physical or mental disability. I suggested that the Coalition start such a group, and was delighted when CIDNY agreed to host it. The workshop is open to all CIDNY clients--anyone who is interested, no writing experience required. We began with a core of about six people, meeting in CIDNY's cramped office kitchen. Snacking on apple juice and cookies, we wrote together for two hours every Thursday evening. CIDNY promoted us to a conference room, and our attendance doubled. Most people show up for every meeting, and we have a clutch of regular irregulars. The workshop is not the traditional kind in which work is critiqued; rather, it is a time to write. (If people want to polish what they've written, they are, of course, free to take work home and edit it.) Each week I spark the writing process with prompts, which can be anything from a random collection of objects, to a list of rose names, or fortune cookies, or the first line of a poem, or an ad on Craigslist. After we write for about 20 minutes, members can choose to read their work and have it commented on. An essential tenet of the Coalition's philosophy is that anything said about someone else's writing must be positive. We are there to support each other, to enjoy each others' writing, to respect one another, to be attentive listeners. The "accentuate the positive" rule frees people to share their stories and poems and creates an atmosphere of trust and camaraderie. As one participant noted: Finding a safe place for the imaginative expression of experience is a good antidote to some of the effects of disability. Society often puts us in a box when it looks at us–and then shuts the lid so it can stop looking. During our meetings, we can escape from that box. We can reveal our authentic selves, and be heard as individuals with a unique experience, talent and vision. The writing ranges from the tongue-in-cheek description of a marigold-based potency pill to a scene of existential despair straight out of Samuel Beckett: "[Tomorrow] we could agree on something we want to do," urged the man. We write about everything and anything: the staff at a café closing up for the night; bagels; the origin of the sun, moon and stars; teaching kindergarten; the New York Yankees; aliens and superheroes. In one story, a member described the sunset: The blues and white-grey slate of the clouds are trying to force back the night. Despite their best efforts, the colors of sunset are relentlessly . . . arresting them . . . and keeping them captive in their castle of darkness. I am constantly amazed at the imagination of my fellow writers and their ability to turn out strong pieces in just a few minutes. Recently I brought in a box of assorted buttons. I distributed a different one to each member, and asked the group to write about the item of clothing their button might have come from and the person who had worn that garment. One man, who had received a particularly elaborate button, wrote that it had been made in honor of Galileo. Another member described a woman who fashioned an elaborate headdress decorated with buttons and other trinkets. Someone else, whose button was topped by a lion's head, created a story about a button that was a magical talisman for a lonely child. A fourth person, inspired by his shiny button, invented the character of a woman who always went for the bling. Clearly, disability is not the focus of our sessions, but sometimes we do refer to it. We can use our writing to chronicle our lives, kvetch, to express unfulfilled desires, to vent anger and frustrations. Sometimes the references are oblique: In the circus of life/I've seen many clowns/that don't wear makeup. And sometimes they cut right to the chase: I am from those hurtful words that burned in my mind–words so cruel I did everything I could to make them not true. We know that, whatever mode we choose, when we read these works we will be met with empathy, understanding and acceptance. Last December our group published a chapbook, Insight Out, containing some of the writing produced in the workshop (almost all the lines quoted here are from the book). And then we launched the book with a reading at the Victorian-era Jefferson Market Library in Greenwich Village. The book and reading were further acknowledgements of the seriousness and worth of what we are doing. It is always a thrill to see oneself in print, but it was especially meaningful and affirming for us to be acknowledged both on the page and in public for our creativity. To draw attention not because there was something "wrong" with us, but because we were worth listening to. As one member wrote, They didn't see my disability,/just my soul.
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