"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
