TUN Fellow Claire Plagens For her fellowship project Claire wrote a personal essay about her experience being a survivor. The numbers were added to replicate page breaks in the original submission. (1) This piece explores the lived experience of an adult survivor of child sexual abuse. Survivors, I am with you. I believe you. You are not alone. Your safety and wellness are very important to me. Please read with care and protect your heart. If you are in need of immediate support, reach out here: National Sexual Assault Hotline: a service of RAINN Online chat hotline Spanish online chat hotline Telephone hotline: 800-656-HOPE (4673) National Helpline for Male Survivors: a service of 1in6 Online chat hotline Resources in Michigan 24/7 Sexual Assault Hotline: 855-864-2374 Find resources in your county (2) I was eighteen, and I’d just moved to East Lansing for college. I got my first job at a non-profit in the neighboring town called the Firecracker Foundation, an organization that provided services to child survivors of sexual assault and their families. I was an administrative assistant – I drafted emails, tracked donations, took notes during meetings. On my first day, we moved all the organization’s belongings from my boss’s attic into a small, shared office space about a mile down the road. At the time, the block we were on felt particularly empty and quiet, except for the pub across the street and the small thrift store next door. Once we’d finished moving for the day, Tashmica, the organization’s executive director and my supervisor, suggested we celebrate with a drink. I declined, sheepishly sharing that I wasn’t old enough yet. She threw her head back in laughter and insisted we go anyway. So we did, and she asked the bartender for a tall glass of milk for me. I am pretty sure she was only half-joking. It has been almost a decade and she still asks if I want a glass of milk when we visit together. Tashmica is and was a force. She moves with strength and conviction. She has the type of laugh that is contagious and life-giving and fills up the whole room, and the devotion she has for the work that she does is magnetic. We often had meetings on her front porch, which sat behind her beautiful, billowing garden, and her little dog Lucy was usually in her lap or at her feet. The work always felt personal, because it was, not just for Tashmica, but for the rest of us on the team, too. I am a survivor. And when I was eighteen, very few people knew that I was one. I had spent my adolescence in “survival mode”; on high alert, always waiting for the shoe to drop, wound viciously tight as to avoid experiencing the unsafety in unraveling. I had been taught to schlep those hurting, shameful parts of myself around on my own, without disturbing anyone else. The disclosures I’d made as a child that had gone ignored or dismissed taught me that much. As a teenager, I thought that the very best thing I could do for myself – and for my family – was to become divorced from the things that I had experienced as a little girl. And I thought that “justice,” “healing,” and “closure” were unobtainable, abstract concepts in the context of my trauma, meant for other survivors but distinctly not meant for me. I became fixated on fighting for those things for others if not for myself. I worked at the Firecracker Foundation with Tashmica. I got a degree and then another, both in social work. I went to marches and rallies, organized with other survivors on my college campus, interned at a handful of other organizations that provided services to survivors and their families and communities. I studied and won awards for my research and advocacy. I spoke at conferences and on committees with state and federal legislators. It was a lot, but it was a lot on purpose. I was busy. I was distracting myself. I was trying. Deeply avoiding and quieting my own lived experiences while being submerged in advocacy work for and with survivors often felt unbearably complicated. I still struggle to explain why it felt like somewhat of a solution for what I was experiencing at the time. But I was basically still a kid in the midst of the important task of Getting Through, and I was getting through the best I could. January 2018 I started to learn about and interface with the systems of accountability that we collectively recognize here in the US. From the outside, these systems often operate in largely inaccessible ways, with painfully complex laws and statutes that exclusively rely on punitive and carceral solutions. For many victims and survivors, these processes are not what they want or need to heal, but are the only options presented when seeking safety for themselves and others. I quickly realized how the nuances in each case impacted their trajectories and outcomes. If an assault happens one block off campus, the university is not liable and Title IX-related recourse may not be an option. To avoid a jury trial, a prosecutor may offer a plea deal that significantly diminishes charges, perhaps avoiding sexual misconduct being on a perpetrator’s record entirely. A day or year too late in coming forward and you may have no path forward due to various statutes of limitations. Victims might sit in the hallway of the emergency room for many, many hours before being seen by a nurse examiner and hospital staff may neglect to dispatch a victim advocate. A police report number must be presented to access the crime victim compensation application and other supports, like breaking a lease to leave an abusive living environment. The roadblocks and demands that landed on the backs of victims and survivors felt endless because they were. It wasn’t at all like Law & Order: SVU. There weren’t any Olivia Benson’s around courageously fighting for what was right. There weren’t any glittery bows tying these stories up with triumphant, hopeful endings, either. Sometimes survivors weren’t believed. Sometimes there wasn’t enough evidence. Rarely did survivors get to “have their day in court,” and even less often did they see their perpetrators held accountable in the ways we constantly tell them they would or should be. Usually there were just strings of raw, thorny moments stuck together in time by nudges of solidarity and support from the few of us who chose to stand by. The survivors I knew were profoundly strong and brave, but they seldom saw that in themselves. They were depleted, isolated, marred. They were hurting and afraid, which I understood intensely, and we were reliant upon a deeply flawed system for relief. In Michigan, the statute of limitations on second through fourth degree criminal sexual conduct (CSC) is 10 years from the date of the assault or the victim’s 21st birthday, whichever is later. As a 21 year old senior in college, buried deep in my work and studies, I began wondering if my experiences were up against a clock too. (I would later learn that the abuse I’d experienced was a collection of first degree felonies. First degree CSC does not have a statute of limitations.) It wasn’t the first time I’d considered reporting, but it was the first time I felt confronted by the possibility that if I left it any longer, I may not have the option available to me. My abuser, a family member on my mother’s side, was starting to have children of his own, and the deep-seated desire to protect others from his harm was bubbling up against my dependence on remaining detached from the situation. The complex history and relationship I had with my abuser made me fear “getting him in trouble,” and I felt like a monster for even considering the idea of entering into a process that could end with the loss of some or all of his life to jail time. I wanted to understand August 2002 why he had chosen to hurt me, and why the adults in my life had failed me so miserably, but I had seen what the process had done to others and didn’t believe I had the fortitude to make it through. And still, I felt selfish for not having done enough to stop him as a kid, and there was a burning obligation to “make it right” as an adult. The severe dissonance between the beliefs I held about myself and those I held towards the survivors I’d worked alongside added a layer of turbulence while I weighed my options. It was agonizing. And then I realized that the magical readiness that I had been waiting for, the ‘a-ha’ moment when everything would fall into place and choice would be clear and make sense, was never going to come. I was never going to be prepared. There was never going to be a “right” time. There was simply going to be a better time, perhaps the only time, and this was it. I continued working and going to school while we sorted out details and waited to meet with the police. My internship with a domestic and sexual violence agency in town had started that fall, and I was working three days a week in their shelter facility on the crisis hotline. It was January, and the multi-day sentencing hearing for Larry Nassar was wrapping up. The sentencing hearing in Ingham County was historic as more than 150 victims and survivors shared victim-impact statements over the course of several days. On the final day of the hearing, local nonprofits had organized a crowd of support to appear outside of the courthouse. The shelter had asked me and another intern, my friend Sydney, if we could go to the public library down the street to host a sign-making event that afternoon. We had a small room in the basement reserved for us, and we sat there for a few hours while community members and volunteers wafted in and out. They somberly and wearily wrote their messages of hope and affirmation on poster boards, often disclosing their own experiences of abuse to us as they did so. The crowd outside grew despite the weather, everyone bundled up and huddled close, and I knew many of their faces: former clients, classmates, old bosses, friends. Even those I’d never met before were familiar, fragmented in recognizable ways from living, working, and surviving in a community experiencing this kind of extraordinary crisis. Medals honoring the survivors’ bravery were passed out as they made their way out of the courthouse, and crowd members coordinated to ensure reporters couldn’t access the survivors on the way to their cars unless they chose to engage. It was a deeply emotional and, for the most part, near silent demonstration. But the community showed up that day and their message to the survivors affected by that case was clear: We are with you. Your truth matters to us. You matter to us. You are not alone. January 2018. Still from Athlete A, documentary by Bonni Cohen and Jon Schenk on Netflix. Two weeks later, I drove myself an hour and a half down to the Oakland County Sheriff’s Office (OCSO) to make my in-person statement to the detectives assigned to my investigation. I spoke to the detective and his sergeant in a dark and decidedly uninviting interrogation room, unlike the soft interview rooms many departments have created for crime victims. I wondered if they had a separate room for interviewing perpetrators, or if my abuser had been in the chair I was sitting in, too. The officers were stiff from across the table. They asked me to recite the statement I had written down for them aloud. They asked me to clarify how I had been restrained during one of the assaults, so I lifted my arms to show them. They asked why I had waited until I was 21 to report, and I explained to them that I had told – my parents, my high school English teacher, my friends – but that none of the adults in my life had intervened. They shared that they were having trouble locating my abuser and asked me if I could drive by the address to confirm the number on their house on my way out of town. “Just send me a text when you have it,” he told me, short and without eye contact, as if driving by the house I was assaulted in as a little girl was a simple task and one that could safely be done on my own. And then, towards the end of the interview, the detective asked if I had decided to come forward because of “that Nassar thing.” It was a casual comment, thrown in at the end of the conversation, sort of like he’d put the pieces together - my line of work, my experiences, my relationships - while we talked that morning. A cold shock plunged down the back of my neck, and I gave them a restrained, “No, that had nothing to do with it.” Calling the Nassar case “that thing” was painfully reductive for how massively devastating and disruptive the case had been - for those survivors involved directly, of course, but also for those survivors simply living, working, and trying to heal in that community too. At the time, I couldn’t go to work or class without it being brought up; couldn’t stop at the drugstore or go out to eat without seeing a headline or news story; couldn’t walk down the street without spotting a teal ribbon wrapped tree trunk or telephone pole honoring the survivors involved in that case. I couldn’t even sit in a police station 90 miles away, discussing the details of the abuse I’d endured as a little girl almost a decade prior, without talking about the Nassar case. I struggled to feel inspired or hopeful or like I had a sense of solidarity with other survivors, despite the way the media talked about the situation, and felt guilty for how exasperated I was instead. I was tired. Maybe even resentful and a tad envious. For me, there was no “sisterhood,” no community. I had fought tirelessly to make space for myself in the offices of legislators and leaders, only to have that space filled with a narrative that wasn’t mine before I even had the chance to speak. Sometimes I was told that voicing my lived experiences or identifying myself as a survivor in professional settings was inappropriate, sloppy, a testament to my character and unreadiness for the “work,” despite seeing others, particularly those involved in high profile cases, respected as subject matter experts, lauded for their bravery and their truth. The detective’s question was a simple one, and made sense given circumstances. But in its simplicity was the foundation of my advocacy for the next several years: dispelling the idea of “good” or “worthy” victims and survivors, and calling out the impending fallout of sensationalizing victimhood in the #MeToo movement. My abuser was arrested in early March. I walked at my college graduation on the first Saturday in May, and the following Monday I was in court. His parents - my aunt and uncle who had been involved in raising me - and his girlfriend were there. His parents were sequestered, but his girlfriend sat behind him throughout the hearing. The judge interrupted me spelling my name for the record, asking me to speak up, my voice quiet and muffled and wavering in panic. In our preparation minutes before, the prosecutor told me I didn’t have to look at him when they asked me to identify him – I only needed to know the color of his shirt and jacket, and to glance at the back of his head to pick those out when I was escorted into the courtroom. My advocate Brooke sat on the bench behind the prosecutor, and I focused on her as much as I could while on the stand. I was asked many things, including if I was a student, replying, “Yes – well, I graduated with a degree in social work two days ago.” For some reason he chuckled at that, sitting up in his chair more forwardly, and I reflexively looked his way. He was smirking, eyes sunken, his frame much smaller and frailer than I remembered. He was different but still the same, and I suddenly felt small again. His defense attorney, a severe looking woman in her forties, dragged me through a line of questioning so foul I thought my bones were lighting on fire as she spoke. It deeply rattled me. Truthfully, it still does. I was led out of the courtroom when she was done and waited to hear if the judge bound the case over to circuit court for trial. She did. As we left, we watched my abuser and his family hug each other and then his attorney, with pats on his back and his hand clasped in his girlfriend’s. In the parking lot, Brooke asked if I was okay, if I wanted to grab coffee before heading back. I declined. My knees were like Jell-O, my heart sunken and missing from my chest, my head detached from the rest of my body. I just wanted to get home. A page from the court transcript of the preliminary hearing in May 2018. ‘Q’ is the defense attorney. My responses are marked ‘A’. We were referencing an incident that took place when I was twelve. After his initial arrest, he had been released on bond with conditions, including a GPS ankle monitor. Several times throughout that summer and fall, I would get a call from pretrial services to notify me that his monitor was off – a dead battery, a tampered or broken strap – with instructions to check in with the detective the following business day. I had very little awareness of the activities happening in court, and often learned of new developments by searching for public documents online. The detective and prosecutor called me when dates were changed or pushed back, or if they needed something from me. The case was not about justice for me – it was about public safety and justice for the State (it was, after all, the State of Michigan vs. Him), and my presence was only dignified in so far as it served that pursuit of theirs. I knew that, I guess, from having watched it on the sidelines in school and at work. But I didn’t realize just how dehumanizing it was until I became the evidence myself. Trial was initially slated for August. Then September. Then later in September. Then early November. Then the week of Thanksgiving. I was told to brace for just one more delay, likely until after the new year. It was an impossible guarantee, that it was the last delay. But I clung to it, exhausted and weary and alone, genuinely uncertain how I was going to continue. I became quite desperate for an ending. My life had been ripped wide open for ten months at that point, and strangers were poking around at it with a sharp, hot stick. My family, both immediate and extended, had long since retreated, and friends became withdrawn and exhausted by my constant distress. I was on autopilot, in that familiar survivor mode from my adolescence, and had barely enough in my tank to make it from one day to the next. I tried my best to keep myself centered and focused on my “why,” but even that had become muddled and poorly defined as time wore on. For the safety of the kids in his life. For those he may have harmed in addition to me that I did not know. To learn why he chose to hurt me. To see him and others in my life who failed me as a little girl forced to face their mistakes and abuses. That’s what this is all for, right? Right? It had all become so weakened and blurred, and I was struggling to convince myself that those reasons were enough to carry me through. At the end of October, I got a call from pretrial services. It was Sunday morning, and I was about to head out for my weekly grocery shopping trip with a friend. A woman greeted me from the other end of the line. She was quiet, an apologetic and regretful timbre to her voice, and said, “I’m just calling to let you know he’s not being monitored anymore, and to contact the detective on your case as quickly as you can.” Her message was direct and jarring, with a new script that was unlike the others I’d received from that phone number before. I asked if he’d been arrested, or if he was hospitalized, and ran through other explanations that might make sense. She stopped me and simply repeated herself to me, adding, “I would maybe call your family. I can’t say anything else. It’s our policy.” It was a strange conversation. Maybe he had violated the terms of his bond. Maybe he had returned to some of the things that had gotten him in trouble with the police in the past. Maybe he had removed the tether entirely and decided to run. I didn’t know. I didn’t know. I called my mother, and it rang twice before she answered. She didn’t say anything. The silence hung in the air, and then it clicked. I asked if he was alive. She didn’t say anything. I asked if he had died. She didn’t say anything. I fell to the floor and asked again. She didn’t say anything. I heard her breathing. I asked one more time. “He’s gone.” It was an accidental overdose. Fentanyl. I hung up without saying anything, and for about 30 seconds, violent, heaving sobs came from my chest. And then, just as suddenly as I learned the news and crashed to the floor, it stopped. Everything stopped. I stood up, washed my face in the sink, and drafted an email to Brooke, who was away at a conference. “I just found out he overdosed last night. I didn’t know if I should email or wait to tell you in person or something but I’m not exactly in the clearest of head spaces so I figured I would just pass it along.” I left my body that day. I made my friends dinner and paced in the kitchen while they watched a movie on my couch. I taught a class the day after. I sat across from my therapist in her office and told her none of it had mattered. He was gone, and all that remained was an unfathomable, indescribable wake of devastation. There were kids without a dad. A mom without a son. I would never know why he had hurt me or if he was sorry, and the web of people who had failed me and him both got to return to their lives as if there had never been an investigation at all. The detective didn’t know who I was when I reached out to confirm what I’d heard. The prosecutor left her job three weeks later. I never saw or spoke to either of them again. There was no justice, no healing. There was just a life, my life, in pieces, and I was alone in picking those up and putting them back together. It has been four years. I am still crawling my way back to myself. I am still sorting through that year of my life and the years that led me to it. I am still tending to the younger versions of myself that carried the years of betrayal and deep pain that erupted out of 2018. And I’m still coaxing my story back out of me. I attended a performance of the Vagina Monologues on campus with my friend Ale early on in college. The show explores women’s experiences with body image, sexuality, and violence, among other things. At the end, in somewhat of a tradition, the show’s director had asked survivors in the audience to stand. Ale hesitated, and I hesitated, and then she reached for my hand and whispered, “I’ll stand up with you if you’ll stand up with me.” I squeezed her hand back. We stood, and so did hundreds of other survivors in the audience. I realized then that we were not alone, that all the standing people had squeezed hands and exchanged whispers before standing too, each of us with a story and a full and colorful life beyond the traumas we all shared. That moment profoundly changed how I felt about being a survivor. But I lost that sense of connection, that sense of hope, in big and small ways in the years that followed. I learned that in our communities, there’s such thing as a “good” survivor or victim; that only certain narratives that are worthwhile; that there’s a willingness to engage with others’ experiences when their stories are unprecedented or are abstract to the majority; and that there is a line in the sand - a deep fissure, actually - that prevents us from engaging when it involves holding our loved ones and ourselves accountable for their or our own behavior, both abusive and enabling in nature. Those realizations, heavy with loss and disillusionment, coupled with the immense grief and trauma of the last few years, led me sharply inward. I stopped sharing my experiences with the same level of vulnerability or regularity online. I couldn’t bear to be in the environments I had existed in throughout school. I struggled to maintain relationships with those I met during that time of my life. I began thinking others must be tired of hearing from me, and that nothing I had to share was of importance or hadn’t been said already anyway. I stopped daydreaming about my desire to work with and for other survivors. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, I stopped writing. Writing and sharing pieces of my story in the past usually served as a tool for my advocacy - I could only justify opening up when it might’ve been in service to others in some way. It had to feel permissible and appropriate, or when I thought my words might convince those in power to do more or do better. If I was lucky, I might be able to connect with a person or two who might feel less alone or isolated reading what I chose to share and know that I believed them and hoped they were able to find peace and healing. But I could never stand the idea of my story being shared simply because it is worth being known. As I find my way back to myself and those I love, I’ve realized that the sharing of our stories, and of each other, is everything. Our stories teach us how to love each other well. Storytelling is healing. It is strength. It is declaring, “I am here, and you are here, and that is enough.” So, while I am rekindling the fire in my belly that has long since gone out, I will leave us both with this: Your story does not have to look a certain way to be worth knowing. Sharing our stories - in their complexity, their mess, their sour endings, their clunky, awkward, painful parts - is one way we build shared connection and community. It is the way we understand ourselves and, importantly, each other. It’s how we inform change. And it is how we learn what justice, healing, and closure all look like when they’re actually lived in. So maybe that is where we start. I’ll tell my story, and I hope you’ll tell yours. Because I am here, and you are here, and that is enough. Claire Plagens is a survivor, social work professional, and advocate. She received both her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Social Work from Michigan State University. While a graduate student, Claire concentrated her studies on gender-based violence in the context of activism, advocacy, and organizational and community leadership. Claire is currently a project coordinator with the National Council for Mental Wellbeing. She lives in Michigan with her pup, Juniper. (c) Claire Plagens 2023 for The Untold Narratives

Tags: Caribbean, History, African, religion, non-fiction

Excerpt from Creaex Flex by Desmond Ugoji “I don’t want any trouble at all.” I slowly brought my hands to the air and gave him my most innocent smile. “Relax,” I told him and myself. It was a bright sunny day, perfect for a stroll. The enormous trees of the forest surrounded us and I remembered passing by a dazzling pond. Of course, I would have loved to have taken full advantage of this beautiful day but with the patch of grass still on fire next to me, and a very unstable man with his hands ignited with fire in front of me, it was impossible to do. His skin was similar to mine, a coconut-colored brown. He had short, black hair that was cut in a mohawk and a sharp nose. He wore a black hoodie with ripped jeans, which looked more like this guy made the holes himself because they looked like the size of melons, and he finished the look with some grey, leather boots. I didn’t really know his name or why he was throwing fireballs at me. I was just walking casually through the forest till he started yelling. “Don’t try to hide it! I know who you are” he growled as he launched a barrage of fireballs. I shifted my body to the right to avoid one to the arm. I turned around and sprinted away from more fireballs heading my way. It had been a couple of months since I’d run anywhere close to as fast as right now. I’d been told that my speed put a cheetah’s to shame and since Primary 2, I’d been in a bunch of statewide races, winning gold in the 100 meters, the 1 mile, and the infamous 400 meters where, as a 14-year-old, I completed it in 10.7 seconds. I scurried up a short tree and lifted myself onto a long, sturdy branch. I leaned toward the bole of the tree and grabbed my heart. I haven’t run for at least fifteen seconds but I was already covered in sweat and my breathing was out of whack. I took out a small photo from my pocket of me and Leeb when we were eleven or twelve. I sighed in relief. “Good, the picture is safe.” Because of the flash from the camera, I was frowning while my left hand covered both my eyes. In contrast, Leeb was smiling widely as he always did. I put the photo back in my pocket and jumped down from the tree. I didn’t see any more fireballs so I thought it was safe, more or less. I’d love nothing more than to continue sprinting away but I left my bag back there. How am I gonna get my bag with that homicidal lunat—? “Found ya!” The crazy guy hollered. Around twenty feet in front of me, he stopped at a dime, and in his right hand, he held a fireball the size of a bicycle wheel. It looked just like a spitting image of the sun if it were smaller and way less bright. He took the stance of a major league pitcher and gave me a bitter stare. I put my hands on my knees to stop them from trembling. It’s like being held at gunpoint. I could either run or be a hero and fight. Of course, running is always my first option but I couldn’t afford to lose my bag. I sweated ferociously, so much that it stained my green sweatshirt and my grey sweatpants. A bird flew near the Fire Man and immediately combusted into a fire. I still heard the rapid pounding of my heart despite the loud cackles of the miniature sun. Suddenly, one by one, trees combusted as well. I’m used to heat, heck, I used to light stuff on fire when it was like 110 degrees. But when I tell you the heat the miniature sun was emitting, it was like living on the sun with another sun blasting a heat ray. It got hotter and hotter as more and more trees and birds combusted, and his miniature sun increased to the size of a truck tire. He finished his pitch by chucking the bigger miniature sun straight at me, and, in half a second, my feet moved before my brain could think. I sprinted toward the miniature sun. Now I had one option left and that was to use my own creaex. As I got closer to the miniature sun, my clothes cemented onto my simmering skin, and my right boot combusted on fire. I couldn’t breathe. At this point, it couldn’t be called sweating anymore; I was melting, dripping, possibly evaporating, and anything else ice cream did on a hot day. In a matter of seconds, I stood a few feet away from the miniature sun, showing why having speed can be considered both a blessing and a curse. I saw its ugly, fiery face. I also saw that if I messed up my estimation on the spacing between me and this giant fireball, if I missed one single second and if I overestimated how much heat my body can take, I will die painfully. “Die,” he snarled. I slid my hand to my butt and a thick, green tail, a couple of inches taller than me, appeared. At the base, it started a couple of inches wide and as it curved up it got wider and wider. Leeb used to tell me all the time that it looked like a green chili pepper from his grandma’s garden, which when I thought about it, was a really good comparison. I pivoted 360 degrees and with an immense swipe of my tail, the miniature sun instantly dispersed, leaving only fragments of cinders. To be quite frank, I didn’t know what to expect. I was just as surprised as the guy who threw the fireball. He was frozen stiff as a board and his eyes were wide, bitterly staring at me. I gave him a stare of my own that lasted a couple of seconds, just to show him he ain’t as tough as he thought. I exploded off my left leg and ran straight toward him at top speed. He tripped over himself and closed his eyes, probably thinking, I’m gonna get my head popped off, and he’d be exactly right. I leapfrogged over him instead and continued running because I was on fire. “Hot! Hot! Fire! Fire!” I screeched. I patted down my shirt and pants. I didn’t feel anything but heat. Just the thought that I could be engulfed in a fire had me shook. I ran frantically to the pond I walked by earlier. My tail wobbled up and down and, as usual, the tail felt a little uncomfortable and threw off my balance. But after a couple of seconds, I got used to it. “Ahh—” I was about to scream till I remembered that fire had smoke, and smoke was a big no-no to the lungs. So I held my breath and continued running. After about a minute or so, I spotted the large pond about twenty feet away. Just seeing it made me run faster. I’m not usually the religious type but I could only thank the Almighty up in the sky because I did not think I was going to find it, especially in such a small amount of time. I made it to a small beach and I felt the sand on the sole of my right foot, which was weird because my boot was supposed to be there, but I can solve that mystery another time. As I was at least eight feet away from water, I belly flopped into it and created a huge splash that scared some fish. The water immediately extinguished the fire. I’d never been so thankful for water. I couldn’t care less if the water was contaminated or had sharks. I floated on my back and swiped my tail through the water like it was a paddle. I drifted farther and farther away from the coast. I picked up my head and smelled a toxic scent of smoke coming from the forest. It burned fiercely. Wow. I thought it was just a saying, but fire did spread quickly. I don’t know how to feel about the forest burning. I was happy that I was not in the forest anymore, but I kinda felt bad for the trees that the animals used as their homes. And the burning forest, in a way, looked as if it was painted on a portrait. I looked at my favorite green sweatshirt that I knitted myself. The sleeves were burned off of my shoulder so it looked less like a sweatshirt and more like a tank top. I looked at my grey sweatpants and from the height of my knee to my ankle, it burned off and turned into shorts. I looked at my black fleece boot that I had also knitted as well. The sole of my left boot disappeared and my right boot was completely gone, probably somewhere in the burning forest. The sole of my right foot and toes could’ve been seen through a huge hole in my sock. I lifted my arms over my head and inspected them. I sighed in relief. “Ok, good. Only blisters.” I grabbed my chest. It felt like it’s on fire. But that’s nothing my good ol’ inhaler pump couldn’t fi—, I covered my face with the palms of my hands. “Crap. I forgot my bag.” I take my palms off my face. “I forgot my bag!” I cringed. I forgot! I forgot! I forgot!” What the heck?”

The Moonlit Vine The Moonlit Vine can be a wonderful addition to your English and History curricula. To learn more about the content of the book, visit The Moonlit Vine overview page. To enhance student understanding of the material, you can bring the author, Elizabeth Santiago, to your school for a visit. Here are details around school visits, lectures, workshops and other discussions . Potential Curricular Topics to Accompany The Moonlit Vine To help scaffold integrating the book into your lessons, below are some potential topics, guiding questions, and articles to include in your planning . These are only a few ideas to consider. Topic 1: Who are the Taínos? Background Reading (to begin): Genes of “Extinct” Caribbean Islanders Found in Living People . Science Magazine Researchers Find Cave Art in Uninhabited Caribbean Island . Repeating Islands Abuelas, Ancestors, and Atabey: The Spirit of Taíno Resurgence . Smithsonian National Museum of The American Indian What Became of the Taíno . Smithsonian Magazine Guiding Questions: Taínos are still here! Recent discoveries reveal the truth about the existence of people who were said to have become extinct. What does that say about the power of narrative and which stories and histories are elevated and learned ? Why are the Taíno called Taíno? Why do Puerto Ricans refer to themselves as Bori n queños? What are the Taíno contributions to language, history and culture? Topic 2: The History of Puerto Rico and Puerto Rican Identity Background Reading (to begin): The History of Puerto Rico . Britannica.com Puerto Rico - History and Heritage . Smithsonian Magazine History of Puerto Rico . Frommer's Guiding Questions: How has music, food, religion, and belief systems been influenced by Puerto Rico's African, European and Indigenous cultures? What is the Jones Act of 1917 and what is its relevance to Puerto Rican history and identity? How is Puerto Rican migration to the United States similar or different to other groups who have come to the U.S. to pursue economic stability? Do you want something more in-depth? Check out publisher Lee and Low's Teacher Guide ! School Visits and The Moonlit Vine Specific Workshops In person or virtual school visits, lectures or presentations 1-hour to 90-minute long presentation and book talk $500-$750 In an hour or 90-minutes, there will be an overview of the book and the inspiration for it, selected readings from the book and open discussion. Elizabeth has also met with student creative writing groups to review student projects and discuss writing craft. In person or virtual workshops 90-minute to 3-hour long workshop $500-$1000 Workshops typically include an overview of the book and the inspiration for it, selected readings from the book and open discussion. Building off that, workshop topics include identifying and capturing little known histories, tapping into your story, writing about ancestors and writing about family and community. Covering Travel for In-Person Events Local (within 1-2 hour driving distance of Boston, MA) does not require an overnight stay. No additional coverage for travel needed. Non Local (more than 2 hours from Boston, MA) depends on location, but train or airfare should be covered by requester as well as one night of hotel stay, again, depending on location. Visit Elizabeth's Teaching Books page to learn even more about her and The Moonlit Vine! Reach out to discuss options and schedule a visit! Contact Us

I Will Always Be Muslim and Jewish I've long felt shame that I knew much more about my Muslim heritage than my Jewish side, but this year, I'm diving in. By Dr. Tamara MC Posted August 23, 2021 Click on image to access the memoir

Dairon's Project Conversations Across Time: An Interview with a Compassionate Spirit "I made this poem because his [Leo's] journey resonated with me so deeply. The way he’s changed things for the better is nothing short of incredible. It got me thinking about the ripple effect one person's actions can have, and it sparked a flame of creativity in me. I wanted to capture that essence, that spirit of change, and share it through my words. He shared his struggles and triumphs, and it was like watching a movie unfold so vivid and moving. That's what sparked the idea to write a poem. I felt that the beauty and rhythm of poetry could really do justice to his story. It's a form that allows emotion and imagery to come together. Writing it was a journey in itself. I reflected on every detail he shared, the highs and lows, and I tried to weave those moments into each line. I wanted the poem to be a mirror of his resilience and hope. Choosing poetry felt right because it's a timeless way to express admiration and capture someone's importance." - Dairon In Boston's heart, where history's deep, lived a man named Leo, with dreams not cheap. Roxbury raised, on streets so bold, in Massachusetts' cold, his story's told. His words, a river, flowing free, a treasure trove story. With hands on wheel, and heart in motion, he served with pride, the DOT devotion. But Leo's love, oh, it went far beyond the daily grind, to which he was fond. At his side, a wife so dear, whose art was loved, far and near. Her pieces stunning, a sight to behold, in every brushstroke, a story told. Their home adorned with creations so fine, a testament to talent, a visual shrine. Together they crafted a world of awe, where art and love forever draw. In conversation, time did fly, his life’s journey, under Boston’s sky. A great time had, in interview’s dance, Leo’s story, given voice and chance. Go Back to Inspired By ... 2024 Project List

Partner With Us! We offer a wide array of services and support in storytelling, narrative change, learning experience design, and creative and academic writing. What Workshop Participa nts are Saying We elevate learning by: Conceptualizing and developing learning experiences via curriculum and training design (both online and face-to-face) Developing quality learning design from writing personas to storyboarding to course design, development and delivery Designing and delivering professional development to support k-12 teachers, college faculty, nonprofit and corporate professionals, and others in building quality learning experiences for youth and adults . Curriculum Spotlight We partnered with The Service Year Alliance to design and develop the skill attainment portion of the Strengthening Service Years as a Postsecondary Option curriculum We elevate untold narratives by: Offering The Untold Narratives , a free web service to support multiple storytelling methods. Everyone has a story to tell, yet not all stories are told. Our goal is to change that through the following: Narrative fellowships Educational events Collection of original stories Writing contests Listen to the founder of The Untold Narratives discuss the importance of storytelling in the Reimagining Youth work Podcast Series, published by Dr. Torie Weiston-Serdan, founder of the Critical Mentoring Institute " Owning Your Narrative " P artner with us to create nar rative experiences for your constituents! Contact us to learn more. "I love the way Dr. Santiago works and teaches. I felt comfortable enough to show up and participate fully as a person of color. Her skill at inclusivity and implicit & explicit awareness of diverse needs - really impacted me profoundly." Candice "The instructor was thoughtful about inclusion and creating an equitable environment. I would definitely take a class again with Dr. Santiago and would recommend her to others." Carrie We elevate stories by: Creating content such as books, articles, blog posts, book reviews, toolkits and briefs. See content samples below: Becoming a Better Mentor, Chapter 8: Honoring Youth Voice and Building Power written by Minnie Chen and Elizabeth Santiago. Published by MENTOR National Move Beyond Imposter Syndrome: Be a Champion Instead . Personal blog written by Elizabeth Santiago Designing and delivering workshops in storytelling, narrative change techniques, creative writing, and cultivating voice. Contact Us

Marriage and Weddings in my Tamil Muslim Family By Amina Abuthahir TUN Fellow Amina Abuthahir created a pictorial with detailed descriptions to tell the story of marriage and wedding traditions in her Tamil Muslim family. She interrogated the question of, "W hy do people get married?" In particular, she was interested in her family and their history as told through deeply meaningful and intricate, longstanding traditions. Marriage and Family in My Tamil Muslim Family Cover image for TUN Fellowship project by Amina Abuthahir Map of Tamil Nadu Map of Tamil Nadu, a southern state of India The Gender of it All What is your first memory of a wedding? Marriage and Family in My Tamil Muslim Family Cover image for TUN Fellowship project by Amina Abuthahir 1/7 (c) Amina Abuthahir 2023 for The Untold Narratives

Nabila's Project Go Back to Inspired By ... 2024 Project List

Chapter One: The House By Slyvia Simmons As I closed my bedroom door and began my nightly rituals, they began to move, to prowl, to greet each other. I could not see them, but I could hear them. Who are they? Some may scorn, others may laugh, yet others will know. They are the ghosts of Clifford Street. I was not afraid, I did not yell and scream, I felt at peace. I felt protected. The house where the ghosts or spirits dwelt is on Clifford Street, number 19. The house is what you would call “a big house”. It would be seen as a mansion in other circumstances, but it was a victim of its location. I was the sole inhabitant. At the time of this writing my husband had passed away, and my children and grandchildren, who once filled the house with noise and laughter, had departed to focus on their own lives. My first attempts at first to sell Clifford Street so I could move on with my life had been fruitless—no off-street parking, no yard, the location and on and on. At the time I had a vision of myself as Mrs. Havisham from Great Expectations, as she sat dying among the cobwebs, sweet and bitter memories of the past circling around her. Let me tell you about #19 Clifford - this house of ghosts that was a central part of my life for so many years. It was and still is an imposing Queen Anne structure at the end of a street that connects two main thoroughfares. You could have seen a similar house as the imposing structure in a haunted house movie or as, described in a history about Boston, as the perfect summer home for the residents of downtown Boston which was only two miles away. The house was built in the 1850’s when a carpenter from Beacon Hill decided to move away from the city to a town, called Roxbury. At that time, as was mentioned before, Roxbury was a summer colony for the Beacon Hill crowd. We do not know the circumstances that motivated the carpenter to build a home for himself and a home for his mother-in-law at 19 Clifford Street. Perhaps the mother-in-law was a widow, and her daughter would not move beyond the city limits without her or perhaps the carpenter was a loving and compassionate man, and just thought that this was the right thing to do. Whatever the motive, my husband’s family benefited from this decision and the Simmons’ in 1930 became the fourth or fifth owner of 19 Clifford at a time when few families of color lived in the neighborhood. My husband grew up in this house until his parents divorced. As part of the divorce settlement, my husband’s father remained at 19 Clifford and his mother moved on to a new house, a new life and new marriage. I first met my husband when I was about 11 years old. We were good friends for many years but did not start dating until I was a senior in high school. I remember the stories he would tell of his weekly visits to Clifford Street where he would receive his allowance for the week -- always being greeted at the door by his stepmother who was always polite and welcoming. I remember the first time I saw this imposing Queen Anne structure and was given the grand tour of this magnificent house. I entered from the porch through a huge oak door that opened into a hallway. The first thing I noticed were the high ceilings that were perfect for chandeliers, glowing with candles, and eventually electric lights. The living room and the dining room were on opposite sides of the hallway. Both large rooms had fireplaces and long windows demanding custom-made drapes, and curtains. The original wallpaper in both rooms was of flowery figures on a golden background. At the end of the entry hallway was the kitchen, the door to the earthen cellar and the doorway to the side yard. Near the back of the kitchen was the butler’s pantry that led to the dining room. Ah, if only more houses had such pantries, an extra space for special cutlery, dinnerware and special items that cannot be housed in kitchen cabinets. Come out of the kitchen, back into the hall and go up the wooden staircase to the second floor, and step into a large reception, space or sitting area surrounded by a bathroom and three bedrooms also with long windows and fireplaces. Fireplaces were also part of the living and dining rooms on the first floor. If you keep going up the wooden staircase to the third floor you will find a sitting area, three smaller rooms and a bathroom. This floor may have been used as the servant’s quarters. There were 38 steps from the first floor to the third floor. Many years later, I counted these steps and was satisfied that this was my exercise for the day because I walked these steps at least five times a day. On that first visit, I found the house a bit strange, not in a scary way, but in a way that I felt there was more to the house than this structure and its inhabitants. Did I sense even then that the house was home perhaps to others who did not want to leave a special place? When it became my home, I continued to feel it wrap around me like a warm blanket. I continued to feel that it was strange in a comforting way. The odd noises, shadows and unexplained events became what I loved about the special place. For my husband, it was always home-an imposing structure that continued to be his birthplace. And now as I look back and remember our homes together in various places, I realize that he always hoped that one day he would return to 19 Clifford, the six bedroom three story house that for over 150 years had been witness to wars, social movements, waves of immigration and times of poverty and prosperity. During our time at 19 Clifford, the house was one among other big houses on the street. A street that also included an apartment building, a seller of marble blocks at one end of the street, along with a florist shop, and at the other end of the street, a local grocery store, and— The site the marble seller occupied was once a stable, housing the horses for the residents of Clifford Street and the surrounding areas. During the days of our residency, Black families, many who had left the south after World War II, now made their home on Clifford Street. Once a place for the Beacon Hill elite, Roxbury, and Clifford Street became, after the elites with modern transportation moved to locations further from the city, a street with Jewish and Irish inhabitants. Many of the new residents were immigrants and lived together among a plethora of Jewish delicatessens, Jewish bakeries, and Irish dance halls. I visited this neighborhood as a child. It was not very different from my neighborhood. My Irish grandmother lived near Clifford Street. I remember walking with her and her dog, a Husky named Butch along Blue Hill Avenue strolling past the vegetable stands, the kosher meat markets, the delicatessens and following the scent of freshly baked challah bread. The circumstances by which Clifford Street became our permanent residence as were due to the death of my father-in-law, the patriarch of the Simmons family. His wife, my husband‘s stepmother, wanted to move to Florida after his death. So after months of struggling and meeting with lawyers to sort out the estate of my father in law because he died without a will, the way was cleared and my husband purchased 19 Clifford. It appeared to be the perfect solution at the time. My husband worked for the city, and there was a new requirement that city workers had to live within the city limits. My parents were in need of housing. My father had just retired, and my mother was ill. But we had various concerns, particularly me. We had a dog. I loved the dog. My husband tolerated the dog. After my husband moved into Clifford Street, I had tried several times to bring the dog to the Clifford Street house, but the dog could not adjust to city living, so I schlepped back-and-forth from Clifford Street to that western suburb to keep the dog and my husband happy. After a while, I realized I had to decide. As my parents needed housing, Clifford Street was the best solution for them. I could not expect my husband to live with my parents without me so we tried to figure it out. Lest you think it was an easy decision, it was not. But after rounds of sound and fury, and quiet and contemplation, the issue resolved itself. My daughter and son-in-law would move into the suburban house since they were renting an apartment and needed more room for their young twins. I would give the dog to a trusted friend. All barriers being removed. I became a permanent resident of 19 Clifford and my parents joined us. So there we were - my husband, my parents, me and the spirits and ghosts who welcomed us with a soft whoosh or the flash of a shadow. We were all happy to be together. Go Back to Inspired By ... 2024 Project List