Quiet Mountain Essays
Copyright©, 2004
Writing To Know 'Safe'
Excerpts from The Safehouse Teaching Journal
by
Nicole Gervace
Prelude: During the Fall of 2003, I facilitated a writing workshop at the Boulder County
Safehouse in Boulder, CO. Since the population of people I worked with was a sensitive one, all
the initials used in this essay do not reflect the true identity of the individuals.
From the beginning, I knew that this was going to be a difficult practicum but I was determined to
work with this sensitive population. Here are several excerpts from the teaching journal that
chronicled 6 weeks of the 2 hour-long classes.
8/25/03
When I arrived, I rang the doorbell and a volunteer answered; the residents are never allowed to
answer the door. Once my identity was confirmed, I was allowed in. The entryway led into a
living room where women were lying on the couch watching T.V., only half awake in the middle
of the afternoon. The house was stale. A window air conditioner ran on a high setting but did not
seem to change the temperature of the room. I was led through the house and into the office,
where I introduced myself to the staff. On the wall next to the copy machine, a board listed which
woman was in what room. There were 18 women and children living at the Safehouse; two of the
rooms were empty because of a fire code violation. I was shown the computer room, where I
would conduct the workshop. A sign hung on the wall stating, “NO food or drink allowed in this
room.” However, mold grew on the floor where someone had spilled a soda; ants had come to
investigate. The color of the mold was black and lime green, and it had grown into a volcano
formation. There was a futon in the room, which I preferred not to sit on, and some folding chairs
that I arranged in a circle.
The women came in and were a little unsure of where to sit, wondering if they should answer the
phone, or if they would need materials, etc. I had the materials; they found seats, and eventually
they stopped worrying about the phone. I asked them to write about why they chose to come to
the workshop. In some cases this was the women’s first exposure to creative writing, or it had been
a long time since they had written anything. J wrote that she wanted to overcome her insecurities,
then asked me how to spell insecurities; I told her not to worry about spelling but to write. I ended
up spelling it for her. One woman, I’ll call her L, said she used to write but stopped out of the fear
that her abuser would read it and retaliate.
I introduced the book My Life by Lyn Hejinian. I chose this book because I wanted the women to
see the possibilities that exist in writing. Too often, people think creative writing has to conform to
certain rules, but I didn’t want these women to write sonnets. I wanted them to break rules. I
thought Hejinian's book would help them see how shifts between ideas and consciousness make
meaning, and are acceptable and interesting. After we read out loud several sections of My Life, I
asked the women to pick a line they found interesting and write what came to them from that
line. The women discussed the sections of this book and decided they were complicated and
irrational, but enjoyed certain moments that somehow reminded them of their past. As they
discussed lines, they digressed into stories. I let the chatter go on for a little bit, but I then tried to
bring the conversation back into focus, encouraging them to write about the abuse rather than
talk about it.
The women wrote lines that described nature, the smell of lilacs, open windows, and love. I
thought this was their attempt to create something out of nothing. From lilacs, they moved
forward, writing as freely as possible, yet they were still afraid to fully free their imaginations.
They constantly apologized for not writing long enough, not being able to let go, and for not being
able to read their own writing without crying.
9/01/03
Today was a challenge. I thought the women seemed to stop writing just when something was
beginning to happen. Eventually, I believe they will write beyond their comfort zone, but their
work now is very plain. They use language such as, “sadness, loneliness and unhappiness,” which
are words that don’t expose their sources but remain on the surface. The words lacked detail. I
wanted the women to see their work as captured moments. I want them to find poetry in their
words; have a poem at the end of each workshop. But maybe I need to let go of trying to produce
a product and just let them write.
For this day's exercise, I used the section titled “Heaven” from Rebecca Brown’s book The End of
Youth. I chose this book because it discusses troubling information about the past. I wanted the
women to realize that their lives have meaning and that their stories are worthy of witnessing.
This time I asked the women to mimic the piece and write their ideas about heaven. L commented
that to her “heaven was anything better than life here on earth, because [she] spent the last 25
years in hell” with a man who burned her body many times with his cigarettes. Burn marks were
apparent on her arms, neck, and legs, but she did not have a single burn on her face. She also
showed the group how her arm has a permanent bend at the wrist where her abuser once broke it
during a fight. She was willing to elaborate verbally about this incident but did not write about it.
I assumed it was too much for her to write about the events.
I then introduced a collaborative book called The Poets’ Encyclopedia, because under section ‘H’ is
a piece titled, "Heaven" written by Dottie le Mieux. At this point, M, another woman in the group,
wrote about the physical abuse she endured as a child by her father. She was able to write about
this for only a few minutes before she abruptly stopped. M read what she wrote, then discussed
the impact of the abuse on her life. She said she hadn’t realized how much this continued to affect
her. She had not intended to discuss her father, but through writing, she saw the pattern of abuse
in her life. M cried while discussing this. She had started crying halfway through reading what
she had written. L shifted her weight on her chair, continually crossing her legs, unable to sit still.
Eventually, L cried too. I didn’t know what to say; I just listened and acknowledged them.
09/08/03
This day in workshop we looked at Skies by Eileen Miles. I chose this book because I wanted the
residents at the Safehouse to see the possibility of creating poetry from the ordinary aspects of life.
I wanted them to notice that even the sky had stories. We wrote about the clouds. Today was a
great day for it, there were many clouds to choose from. Cumulus clouds. Not the normal
spaceships or flying saucers. Not the thunderheads either, but great big balls of cotton that pulled
apart as they floated past us. The residents had fun with this exercise. They laughed with each
other. T wrote, “the clouds are gray/ the color of boredom…/ [the sky] can have colors/ of your entire
life.”
“T”, the young man I just referred to, is a teen-age boy living at the Safehouse with his mother.
The dynamic between he and his mother is interesting. I asked his mother if she wanted to join the
workshop, but she did not speak English. As I don’t speak Spanish, I assumed T could translate.
He refused, saying it would be too complicated, and I realized maybe it wasn’t because of this
complication that he refused, but rather because he needed the workshop time for himself. When
the writers group went outside, his mother sat watching us, while her younger children played in
the yard. It was very important to me to take the writing group outside the house, because the air
inside was stale and confining.
9/29/03
Today a new resident came to the workshop. She is 23 years old, and not a U.S. citizen. Both her
English speaking and writing skills were limited, but I was impressed with her desire to be in the
group. She wrote a small paragraph, and seemed interested in the idea that writing could help her
move through her abuse issues. One odd thing about this woman was that she desired to take my
possessions. First, she liked my shirt and asked if she could have it. Next, she liked my notebook
and also asked to have that. Last, she liked my pen and wanted it, too. Of course, I was not going
to give her the shirt off my back, and I was not going to give her my notebook. But I could not
help but wonder why she felt she had to test me? Was it a test? Or was it merely her way of
removing herself from her situation and attempting to create a new identity through my
belongings?
As I explained, I would not give her my shirt or my notebook, but I thought why not the pen? As
an undergraduate, I received a scholarship because I was a first generation college student. When
I finally made it to graduation, the scholarship administration department had a banquet for the
scholars, which was where and when I had received the pen. It was something that had cost no
more than a few dollars, but looks like it could be worth more. The lower part of the pen has a
cushion where the fingers rest, and to make it appear a more expensive item, the top boasts a logo
sticker. The pen was nothing I couldn’t live without but, in the end, I refused to sacrifice it.
Looking back on the situation, I wonder if my refusal to relinquish the pen was my way of setting
limits, perhaps showing my authority as the group's facilitator. I was not this woman’s friend, nor
was I another resident at the Safehouse sharing in a common bond. I was there to help these
women write in order to construct a creative outlet, not to begin friendships. Yet, I wondered if I
needed to soften up. Does my refusal to give up the pen prove I have an ability to alienate others?
10/06/03
Today all the women seemed anxious, as if they had a lot on their minds. They smoked more than
usual. Some of them had dealt with social services earlier in the day, and their faces showed their
worries. We worked on writing descriptions of places. I wanted them to get to the specifics, and I
thought if they wrote about a special place it would be easier for the details to come through.
At the beginning of each workshop, I have the women 'free write' for 5 minutes to get things out
onto the page so that their inhibitions went away. Some of the women complained today that
they wanted to do more journal writing; however, other than coaching their 'free writing', and
asking them to write daily, I did not know how to teach them to “journal write.” I knew their
notebooks were not very full, and I thought they might be using the excuse that they didn’t know
how to journal write in order to keep from writing.
C was really excited about the workshop today, but she was loud and domineering. Sometimes I
had to cut her off to allow the other women a chance to speak, ask questions, or voice their
opinions. C is in her mid forties, and says she received her undergraduate degree in Creative
Writing. However, she did not continue writing after graduation. C said that the workshop
inspired her and she was happy to be writing again, but T had a lot of interesting things to say,
too, and she kept cutting him off. C's excitement appeared intimidating. She was exhibiting
behavior of the oppressor.
Conclusion:
If these women continue to write, I think they will eventually be able to let go, and to use writing
as a tool, a time to consider the events in their life. Maybe they would be able to see negative
patterns in their lives and break them. I imagine that in these women’s lives, previous to the
Safehouse, they were not waking up with the smell of lilacs drifting in through open windows.
I saw in their writing, an attempt to create a world that contained fragrance and other pretty
things, in order to flee their pasts. During the workshops, these women tried to mimic more than
just the written words of other writers. It seemed to me that they wanted to mimic the lives of the
writers I introduced them to - even my own life - because it was a way to escape. My idea of
aiding in this liberation was an idealistic one. Still somehow, through writing, I thought these
women were able to momentarily forget that they were living in a house full of victims trying to
leave abusive situations, constantly dealing with the issues that surround abuse. These women in
the writers group needed an outlet; one which I was able to provide.
The statistics below were given to me upon volunteering at the Safehouse:
This information was complied in 1994 with statistics from the FBI, the Surgeons General’s Office and the National
Coalition Against Domestic Violence.
“Domestic Violence” is a common crime that occurs between two intimate people—regardless of their
legal status—when one person uses either physical or psychological harm to maintain power or control
over another person.
60% of all couples experience at least one violent incident; in one in 25% of these couples, violence is a
common occurrence.
20% of all murders in the US are committed within the family, and spouses commit 13%.
Men commit 95% of all spousal assaults.
21% of all women who use the hospital emergency surgical services are battered.
6 million American women are beaten each year and 4000 of those women are killed.
Battering is the most common cause of injury to women—more frequent than auto accidents, muggings,
and rapes combined.
Acts of Domestic Violence occur every 15 seconds in the US.
While you read these statistics 4 women were severely beaten.
Contributor's Notes...
Nicole Gervace is a practicing yogini and writer living in Nederland, CO. Her first book of poems titled Bite
Marks Visible chronicles the intricacies of intimate partner battering and is forthcoming by Binge Press in
January 2005. She recently received a mini-Addison grant from the Boulder County Arts Alliance to support
the publication of the book. Currently, she teaches Writing and Research at the University of Colorado at
Boulder.
