The spring issue of the magazine is now out, and features a special section on Writing Through Trauma.  In this special section we asked writers in the schools from programs nationwide to describe their work with children and adults whose lives have been changed by violence, illness, the death of a loved one, or other tragedies. In the wake of the violence that occurred this past December at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, we asked these writers to offer their insights into how words can help comfort and heal in the face of grief.  Last week we posted a piece by T&W teaching artist David Surface on working with veterans in a writing workshop. In this second excerpt, teaching artist Autumn Hayes, from WITS Houston describes a lesson in which she had elementary school students write new year’s wishes to the children of Newtown Connecticut.

Reaching for Others: Writing New Year’s Wishes to Newtown Students
by Autumn Hayes

But—how do I know what they want?” Armarde asked, his face a dervish of anxiety. “I really want them to like it.”

I couldn’t blame him. I was at Lockhart-Turner Elementary School in Houston, Texas, working with Armarde and his fellow fourth-graders on an understandably daunting task: each child was to write and illustrate a New Year’s wish for the students of Sandy Hook School in Newtown, Connecticut. The tragic shooting there was only six days behind them—fewer for students I’d already visited at Kelso Elementary—and I had made it clear that these wishes would be mailed out to real people in real pain.

The idea started this September, with an exhibit entitled “Dear John and Dominique: Letters and Drawings from the Menil Archives.” I work at the Menil with Writers in the Schools in Houston, Texas, and I was particularly struck by a series of hand-painted New Year’s cards from artist Niki de Saint Phalle. The gorgeous, full-page artworks, splashed with whimsical watercolors, wished pleasures like “friendly monsters in your dreams,” and I knew—in a world of snark and online bullying—I wanted students to see and emulate such kindness, tenderness, and creativity.

Then Sandy Hook happened, and I faced the choice to: (a) pretend that this didn’t affect us and teach revision as planned, or (b) walk the walk and engage 160 children in the messiness of reaching for others.

Fortunately, each class had discussed the events beforehand. Some students immediately struck the meat of the matter: “I wish that Connecticut was here because we are family,” Aniyah wrote. But others, like Armarde, hesitated. What could he, or any of us, offer children so far away, confronting so much fear, confusion, and trauma? What would the children of Newtown really want from us?

Well, nothing. No amount of pretty words or kind sentiments can erase the terrifying memories or bring back lost loved ones, friends, and teachers. But kind words and hopeful sentiments can, I believe, part the dark curtains of loneliness. They can bring small reminders to the survivors—that happiness and life still await them when they are ready, beckoning in tiny, concrete experiences.

And so we talked about this, acknowledged it, for those afraid. We talked about how students in Connecticut are people—people who likely love SpongeBob and grandparents and sticky, sweet things, too—and about how we don’t have to have all the answers, or any. We don’t have to fix things. We can’t. All we have to do is notice each other and show it, to look at each other steadily through all the chaos and say—however possible—“I see you. I care.”

For some, that means sending flowers, gifts, or donations. For others, that means listening. For our band of fourth-graders, that meant sending forward bits of ourselves, our delights, our comforts and hilarities. It meant sending forward wishes for “homemade apple juice to drink when it’s a hot, hot day,” for “a nice little bit of music,” for “a warm sun deep down inside you.” It meant play and poems and prayers. It meant simple compassion—the best, if not the only, thing any of us can really offer in the face of tragedy.

The spring issue of the magazine is now out, and features a special section on Writing Through Trauma.   Each day of the week, here in New York City and across the country, teaching artists walk into classrooms to share their passion for writing. Too often, the stories their students have to tell are of lives disrupted by circumstances beyond their control. What can these teaching artists offer in response to a child who is sick, a teen who has lost a friend to gun violence, a veteran plagued by the war he left behind? What can the act of writing give to those who are suffering? The violence that occurred this past December at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, put these questions in stark relief, but they are questions teaching artists struggle with often. In this special section we asked writers in the schools from programs nationwide to describe their work with children and adults whose lives have been changed by violence, illness, the death of a loved one, or other tragedies. Each of their experiences is unique, but together their stories offer insight into how words can help comfort and heal in the face of grief.  

In the following excerpt, T&W teaching artist David Surface describe his work in a writing workshop for veterans.

The Story We Tell Ourselves Afterward: At the Veterans Writing Workshop
by David Surface

When I tell people that I work with military veterans, one of the first things they say is, It must help them to talk about their experiences, or, It must be good for them to get those terrible things off their chest.

The truth is that there are many other places where veterans can share difficult experiences. Group and individual counseling, as well as veterans’ support or “rap” groups, all provide camaraderie and an emo- tional outlet. The question is, does writing and the writing workshop experience offer anything more?

Most everyone agrees that creative or “expressive” writing can have positive effects for people who have experienced trauma. How this works is much less clear. In my experience, the explanation is to be found not in the language of psychology or neuroscience, but in the language of the writing process itself. I believe the key word in understanding how the writing process can help people living with trauma is revision.

As every writer or teacher of writing knows, revision can be painful. To revise, and revise well, we need to stop seeing our first drafts as something fixed and inflexible, and start seeing them a something malleable that we have power over and can change for the better.

When I met Frank M., he was living in a residence facility for homeless veterans and had just “graduated” from a Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) counseling program. His counselor had encouraged him to join the writing workshop I was running. “She says it’ll be good for me,” Frank said, shrugging.

Frank’s trauma had occurred not on the battlefield but on home ground, during his time as a military policeman on a naval base in California, although none of his fellow veterans at the workshop knew what had happened.

Week after week, Frank continued to work his way toward the incident he’d come to the workshop to write about. I never pushed him. This was not, as I’d explained, a “writing therapy” group—this was a writing workshop, and our goal was to create the very best stories we could write.

Finally, Frank brought in the pages he’d struggled so hard to complete. With his friend Eddie’s hand on his shoulder for support, Frank read to us about the day he’d gone out on a call to search for a missing child.

After ten minutes that felt like ten hours, I decided to go into the house myself. As I walked up the steps, something at the left of the entrance caught my eye. It was a medium-sized Coleman cooler with the lid closed. I walked up to the cooler and opened it up on a hunch. To my shock and dismay, the little boy was in there, his ball lying right next to his hand. The odor was overwhelming and his skin was clammy and gray. Instinctively, I reached into the cooler and pulled him out.

Taking deep, shaky breaths between words, Frank read about his unsuccessful attempts to revive the child, his subsequent realization that he could no longer be a policeman, and the hard-won wisdom he’d come away with.

It would be years before I accepted the fact that there was not anything I could have done to prevent that child from dying like that. As I look back now, I realize that there are things that happen in life that you cannot control.

Critics may say that for people living with the effects of trauma, the kind of “control” that writing offers is illusory because it can’t change what happened, nor can it prevent bad things from happening in the future. But the fact is it’s not the experience itself that causes us suffering—it’s the story we tell ourselves about the experience afterward, what we think it means about the world and about ourselves. And as writers and teachers of writing, that is something we can change.

 For more information, visit www.veteranswritingworkshop.org