I was asked to teach a poetry workshop to the women in Breaking Free. These are women who have recently escaped from human trafficking and prostitution locally, and some of them have heard me perform my poetry at Breaking Free events. The thing is, I have no idea how to teach this stuff. Teaching is not an area of creativity I have much experience in, and all the formal education I’ve had in poetry has focused on close reading and scansion. Probably not the best jumping off place. So I hold up the workshop I shamelessly stole from my friend Moira, like a shield that will protect me from the failure that terrifies me.
I’ll be honest, I am a little afraid of these women. I have heard stories about them stealing wallets and cell phones, but those stories aren’t half so scary as the vague warnings that “these are women who have been living in survival mode, just be careful.” No matter how well meant that warning is, it sounds like there’s a small possibility that they might try to eat me if I let my guard down.
Heather, the woman who oversees my work at Breaking Free, kindly offers to introduce me and explain what I’m there to do. When she tells them that I’m here to teach poetry writing, a hand shoots up. “I have a poem! I have a poem!” Her eyes are green and shifty and she rocks constantly. I worry that something about Nantucket is forthcoming. But Heather nods patiently, and the woman closes her eyes and grows completely still. She recites from memory a beautiful, tender poem about someone she loves. She speaks softly, keeping her eyes closed, speaking to the heavens. I know without asking that this is about someone she lost, that she’s already learned to distill beauty from the pain. For a second I think about admitting that I don’t have anything to teach these women. But before I do that, I look around and I see the wonder on all the other women’s faces. They see what I see, and they want it too. So I decide to try.