This phrase was offered last week for the women writing inside Chittenden Regional Correctional Facility to start their writing during group time. Many tender pieces emerged, including this one. DB, who wrote it, was unable to read it aloud. But at the end of group, she wrote ‘I have to learn to read my work aloud, especially when it’s about my children. Maybe it will help me in the end.’ Comments like this reinforce the value to the individual of writing and having her words witnessed. Her quickly-written response to the prompt follows:

“For years I longed for . . . . someone to call me mom, look up to me for advice, guidance, send them to school. I finally got that opportunity and I fucked up worse than I ever could have. I’m sitting in jail with no one to call my own. Continue reading →