"In the beginning was the Word," quotes
the Christian’s Holy Bible. The Buddhist
religion proclaims spiritual power comes
from intoning the simple and sacred
monosyllable, "Om", which stands for
Absolute Reality. In school, we learn the
pen is mightier than the sword. When
Woodward and Bernstein’s Watergate exposé
toppled a supposedly omnipotent American
president, we were shown the power of the
press,. Freedom of speech is considered by
many to be the most important of an
American’s constitutional rights. Hitler
demonstrated the power of the word to sway
the feelings of the masses. The most
powerful sentence? Perhaps it is the reply
when Moses asked the burning bush to
identify itself: "I am that I am."
Realizing the powerful feelings words can
invoke, I request female inmates to whom I
teach creative writing to write non-stop for
fifteen minutes. During that time, they
cannot edit, scratch out, nor lift pen from
paper. Every sentence must begin with, "I am
. . . ." After 15 minutes of furious
scribbling or laborious hen scratching, each
woman is asked if she would mind standing
and sharing what she has written. The
standing is an important part of this
creative process. It is the announcement of
one’s presence, the pronouncement of one’s
creation.
I distinctly remember one
eighteen-year-old black woman. She was very
attractive and intelligent but beaten down
by life. She had been raped at nine by a
family member. At ten, she had been told one
Saturday night that her mother was going out
to get pizza for the family. Her mother
never returned. With little education, this
child had been snared by the numbness
offered by drugs and by thirteen was on the
streets, prostituting. As she stood to read,
she mumbled. Almost inaudible, anguished
utterances. Her head was bowed. Her paper
covered her face. "I am a woman. I am black.
I am a prisoner. I am eighteen. I am sad. I
am afraid. I am angry. I am out of hope. I
am searching for a way to make my life
better. I am unsure." I am…I am…I am that
I am
By the time she finished reading aloud
her two-and-a half pages, her words were
enunciated, and she was almost shouting. Her
head was high, her expression one of
newfound dignity. Cheering mixed with tears
erupted in the classroom. Toilet tissue was
passed around to staunch those tears. I knew
a miracle had taken place. During that
fifteen-minute writing drill, designed to
break through to the subconscious, she had
found the power of herself through the power
of the word.
- Parris Afton Bonds 2002
