Pongo Project Journal

Sharing stories of our work with teens
Mar 02
I Am Thinking


By a young man at CSTC


Friends are on my mind

I’m worried about them

They’re in a bad place

She wasn’t doing too well

She was having a rough time

She’s been having a rough life

Her anger gets out of whack like a

Hot boiling pot of water

It makes me feel blue                                         

There’s nothing I can do

Makes me down like I’m

Drowning in my own depression

Then I feel weak

I start to crumble like a cookie

I can’t shake it

It makes me not want to talk to people


Hidden away in a dark corner

I think about things getting better

My mind clear of all my problems

I’d want to go outside and swing and think

Think that things do get better


This poem is a result of a session I experienced with a youth who had first come into our Pongo class several weeks earlier. That first day, he joined the group session for a few minutes (with his headphones in, pretending he wasn’t into it) but then had become agitated over something unrelated to our class and had left the group angry and acting out. When he came back to Pongo a few weeks later, smiling and ready to try writing poetry, I was really happy that we could give it another shot. We began as he spoke about his concern for his friends in general, then about a particular friend. As he moved through his thoughts, he began to surface his own feelings. I was so proud of him when he offered the line, “I start to crumble like a cookie” — this big, tough-acting boy was being so bravely vulnerable. After he wrote and read this poem, he said he felt good and proud of himself. I felt so proud of him, too.

-- Natalie, mentor at CSTC






Feb 25
The Last Time


I remember the first time,

I came to Seattle,


Riding freight trains.

Whatever would take me somewhere.

I finally landed here,

Think I hitchhiked in,

Made a home.

Wound up in Pioneer Square,

Sleeping in the park.

I remember,

Couldn’t wait to get out of there.

Bounced around town for awhile,

Sleeping here,

Sleeping there.

Finally got tired of sleeping in the sleep off,

The drunk tank.

Ended up over here.

Been 11 years.

The shit I’ve seen.

Have your old lady die on your lap.

In her apartment,

Right down the hall.

Not one of my fondest memories.

I remember the last time,

I had a beer.

Wasn’t soon enough for me.

The first time I stepped into 1811 Eastlake, I didn’t know what to expect.  I’d worked with people experiencing homelessness in my day-job, helping connect them to food assistance programs and health benefits, but I knew this would be different.  We’d make art together, write poetry and give a voice to life on the street for a chronic alcoholic.

After each time I sat with a resident to bring their stories to the page, even the short sessions that didn’t seem significant, I’d read back on their words and realize how real each of these people were with me.  Creating a safe space, not asking anything of them but to talk about whatever they had on their mind was powerful, heart wrenching and honest.  Witnessing the words come forth and hearing their unique perspectives turned into poetry has been life changing, certainly for me and hopefully for the people of 1811.

In those times of quiet writing in the Art Room or the corner of the Community Room, within the chaos of their daily search for the next drink, we talked of memories that usually stayed deep and were seldom spoken.  I worked with two different authors (on the same day) who each watched people die in their arms.  I learned how when times get really tough, some will turn to hand sanitizer to ‘get well’.   I also heard uplifting stories of kindness on the streets, twenty-dollar bills dropped in guitar cases for singing Patsy Cline, the etiquette of holding a sign on the corner and who gets first dibs on the best spots to panhandle.  I found that there are many musicians, some who still play guitar, piano and harmonica and others who pawned their gear long ago.

When we finished the first eight-week session, we held a reading so the 1811 authors would have a chance to share their words.  In between sporadic interruptions from inebriated residents, we heard some of the most open, heartfelt and tragic words one could imagine.   We were also told that Pongo, “changed the ecology of this place.” We gave people a space to be creative, open and calm.  Listening and writing with the authors at 1811 is inspiring and knowing that we are giving a voice and documenting small parts of their incredibly interesting lives is a true honor. 

(The poem at the beginning of this post is by a resident who passed away shortly after we wrote together.  Before working with me, he had never written poetry in his life.  This blog post is dedicated to him.  May he rest in peace.)   


— Jefferson Rose, Mentor at Downtown Emergency Service Center’s 1811 Eastlake Housing

Feb 25
I Am Not From Nowhere


I’m from a town of death, drugs and storms

I’m from a street where a color can get your skin punctured like a thorn does your thumb

Sound of violence leaves your heart numb

So you grow up protecting yourself with a gun

I’m from a street where when you see the cops you hide or run

If you sell drugs you should buy a gun

If you are scared to put in work

You should go to church

Because in these streets if you are soft you will get really hurt

It makes you cry and wonder when you see your homie dead with 30 bullet holes in his shirt

So if you wanna survive turn your life over to god and go to church

And when people ask do you wanna bag or sling say no

So you don’t end up on a shirt

JR* is a young man with gravitas beyond his years. While we wrote he was quiet and focused; the lines of his poem emerged with facility. He wrote with confidence and clear-eyed sincerity. He knows of what he speaks. The last line of his poem gives me a visceral reaction. It's simultaneously prosaic and profound. (*a pseudonym)

— Kathleen, Mentor at Detention Project

Feb 23


by a young man at Child and Study Treatment Center

Tired sad hungry depressed fucked



This is how I’ve been feeling lately

Life just ain’t going the way I want it to


Every day someone knows to mention her

Exactly what I want to forget

But I can’t forget her


When you’re in it you don’t want to go to sleep

Because you want to be with her

When you’re out of it you don’t want to go to sleep

Because you’ll dream of her

Also I had my wisdom tooth pulled

Pressure, pain that leads to everywhere

Pain that sinks in

But love is so much worse

Leads to scars, broken bones, reckless behaviors

Puts you in a facility called

Sacred Heart.

Shitty, nice, more shitty, depressed

I want a taco, a burrito, a grill and a truck

I want to get in my truck and go

When I worked with the teen who wrote this poem, we had already seen him once or twice this year in Pongo. I admired the way he came into the group. You could tell he was carrying a lot of weight on his shoulders, but he also seemed, under the jaded and sometimes angry exterior, excited to be taking this small window of time to do poetry. After being asked to share a poem he liked from a pile of provided poetry books, he acted momentarily shy, kind of “I’m not into this.” But then he shared a poem, smiled a side grin, and talked honestly about what it was that inspired him. When I moved to work 1:1 with this student, I asked him how he was doing that day. The first line of the poem is how he responded, and we went from there. As we talked, he revealed a strong self-awareness as he spoke about his hurt around a broken love relationship. I sensed that he wanted to explore this more in his writing. I had to hold back from jumping out of my chair when, in the middle of explaining his heartbreak, he mentioned seemingly out of left field that he had recently had his wisdom tooth pulled. This was, I thought, a brilliant connection to make about what heartbreak feels like physically. The added twist of how, when heartbreak is so bad it leads to deep behavior troubles, you get sent to a psychiatric facility named Sacred Heart, was very affecting. I love how at the end, the writer responded to all this hard, hard stuff with a very universal reaction, one also every teen has had at one time or another: to grab your wheels and just take off, to get away from it all. The fact that he made sure not to leave out his yearning for a grill and favorite foods was like that side smile he shared early in our group session—a wink, and a ray of hope, for his readers and himself.

— Natalie, mentor at CSTC

Feb 17



By a man living at 1811 Eastlake, DESC Housing Program



Eight years old

living in Forks

my dad left my mom

for another woman

then Mom had depression

and left us kids.


Nine of us

I'm the oldest

we survived finding beer bottles

trading them in for change.


All my siblings

down back roads

side roads

finding the bottles 

trading them in

buying a box of cereal

and some milk.


Then the sheriff showed up


Where's your Mom?


I said

I don't know.


He returned with

shopping bags of food

then three days later

showed up

found mom in the backseat

near the reservation

passed out with everyone else. 


Now I have fortitude

haven't been through the worst

but had my share.


And I am a stronger person. 




After a long bus ride from Everett to downtown Seattle on a Thursday morning, I immediately head for my cup of Pike Place roast and the Starbucks facilities, one of few facilities near 1811 Eastlake that remain unlocked for customers.  Relieved and revived, I leave the morning rush in the Metropolitan office building and think about how it would feel knowing that restaurants and office buildings locked their restrooms to keep me out—not me in particular, but me as a certain type of person.  The phrase “homeless person” does not describe a specific person at all.  It is a generic label our culture applies to people we assume do not truly belong anywhere and therefore cannot be validated in their particularity.  When a human being’s particularity is not validated, human needs are easily dismissed.      


In less than two minutes I round the corner of Eastlake, resisting the urge to lower my gaze, assume a hurried, determined air, or pretend I don’t see the faces of people who have created a temporary refuge under the overpass.  Slow down.  Don’t check out.  I notice a woman with beautiful long black hair moving leisurely down the sidewalk in a wheelchair near the DESC building.  Does she live at 1811, or not?  Is this even relevant?  I slow down and decide it feels more awkward to walk too close behind her than to go around her.  In spite of my default assumption that people do not want to be bothered, I force myself to turn and say hello as I walk by.  Apparently it is the woman’s birthday.  She asks me how I am, so I try to be honest.  We share the same birthday month and are about the same age.  In those few minutes of conversation she is remarkably open, though she knows nothing about me.  We discover we are headed for the same place.  I learn she is a resident at 1811, and she learns I am with the Pongo poetry project.  She tells me she enjoys writing and hopes to work with us eventually.  A week later she flags down our Pongo team while we are waiting for the elevator and gives us a copy of a poem she wrote about her birthday, a poem she eventually shares with other residents at the celebration of our first eight weeks there.  I have never written a poem with the woman I met that morning, but our encounter was one among many memorable encounters I have had with residents 1811.  This community continues to teach me that we cannot underestimate the power of any human encounter, however brief or insignificant it may seem. 

I first heard about Pongo while writing a paper for graduate school.  At the time, I assumed the healing power of the Pongo method was located in the creative process itself.  Creative writing had long been my primary means of coping with depression and anxiety over the years, particularly in adolescence.  When I applied to be a Pongo mentor last summer I had been journaling more often due to a difficult phase in my life.  I knew mentors were expected to write a weekly poem and share their poetry with other mentors as part of their commitment.  Writing poems on vulnerability, shame, change, feeling invisible, beauty, new beginnings, and healing during a time of personal struggle has not only helped me to take care of myself emotionally, but has strengthened my connection with the members of the 1811 community. 

One resident, who is passionate about the project and hopes to see more residents participate, believes poetry and other art forms can help people process trauma and grief.   What is most important to him, however, is the power of truly being heard and understood by another human being.  Just a few days ago he wrote about the growing loss of human connection he has observed, both at 1811 and in the larger society.  On buses and elevators, he told me, “everyone just stands looking forward; they don't even acknowledge anybody.”  The poetry we write with residents can give shape to emotions, thoughts, and ideas many find difficult or painful to articulate and share with others.  Whether or not we write together, every encounter is a gift.  I have talked with people who don’t want to write, wonder why we are there, and do not believe there is poetry in the suffering and tragedy they witness regularly in their community.  Some residents will not write, but are willing to talk with us and be themselves, whether they are feeling angry, despondent, grateful, energetic, or cynical.  I have worked with a woman who posts her poetry throughout the building to bring courage and hope to her neighbors.  I have written with people who desperately want to stop drinking and are determined to keep trying in spite of the hell of detox and the discouragement of setbacks.  I have written with people who have known excruciating loss, abuse, physical challenges, and trauma, often from a very young age.  What I will always remember about the residents at 1811 is their refusal to allow their sufferings to define them.  They play the drums, piano, guitar, and harmonica.  They sing, paint, write, and reflect deeply on the issues in our world.  In each person I have met I have found a deep, lively well of creativity, compassion, humility, resourcefulness, humor, and above all love.  They have loved deeply and continue to love deeply, in spite of the temptation to detach and grow numb in the face of grief and wounds from past relationships.   


The resident who is so supportive of Pongo is right that alienation is a growing societal malady.  Pongo is not just about poetry as individual catharsis, but about restoring human connection.  In the midst of personal upheaval in my own life, I could be scribbling out my emotions in a private corner of my home, but instead my commitment to the Pongo project has required me to voice my emotions in a communal space and listen to the voices of others.  As healing as this may be, it demands an enormous amount of trust.  I understand why it takes time for the residents to be willing write personal poetry with a stranger.   With our commitment to openness, patience, compassion, and respect, Pongo poetry mentors can help diffuse the fear that keeps people trapped in isolation.  Isolation is not just a problem for chronically homeless, alcoholic adults, but plagues most of us at some point in our lives.    


-- Stephanie Ramos, mentor at 1811 Eastlake, DESC Housing Program


Feb 16

As part of a new effort to share more youth poetry, we’ll be sharing poems from our three sites—King County Juvenile Detention, the Child Study & Treatment Center, and 1811 Eastlake. Take a look!


by a young man at Child Study and Treatment Center 

My brother and I don’t get along

But someday we’ll have to forgive each other 

For all the hard times & the things we’ve done to each other

It will be hard

Hard like trying to take a pencil and penetrating a titanium wall

It’s equally difficult for us to forgive each other

Difficult like … to forget the things of the past

Like you can’t forget, but you can forgive

I would feel relief

Like the titanic being lifted from my shoulders 



I've written one on one with this youth a couple of times now and forgiveness continues to be an ongoing theme within his poetry. He mainly speaks about forgiveness towards himself and how it relates to his family. Talking about a subject like forgiveness is not an easy task for any of the youth that we work with, especially when asking them to write a poem about it. It takes great strength and honesty for someone like this young man to be open to the Pongo process and to share some of his personal struggles.


— From Ashley, Recreational Therapist and Pongo mentor at CSTC

Feb 10

As part of a new effort to share more youth poetry, we’ll be sharing poems from our three sites—King County Juvenile Detention, the Child Study & Treatment Center, and 1811 Eastlake. Take a look!


Even though it looked like I was well off, 

truly I fell off,

truly I fell off. 

Having the things you need 

but not the things you want

made me want to go and get money the wrong way.

Why are you doing the stuff you know you shouldn’t do, 

if it’s going to get you in jail? 

I ask myself. 

So I sold drugs, 

crack cocaine is what got me in here. 

These little crack rocks in my hands 

will be the downfall of my life, 


These crumbles in my hand 

will begin the crumbles of my life. 

Having the things you need

but not the things you want. 

When I was selling crack, 

I wanted people to look at me 

like I knew what I was doing –

young success is what I felt.

Even though it looked like I was well off, 

truly I fell off

truly I fell off. 

If you knew where I came from, 

then you’d know this wasn’t me. 

I had a good family behind me,

there was no need for the streets. 

When I stepped on the block, 

I left so much behind me. 

Oftentimes the sight of fiends would remind me.

Shit, I left everything behind me. 

The way the money was coming 

I thought I’d never go back home. 

With the APB out on me, shit was hectic.

My parents were posting missing posters of me.

They knew I wasn’t missing, 

knew I was selling drugs in the streets. 

Your parents are looking for you, 

they’d say. 

The fiends were telling me this, 

and I had the pockets that they’d pay. 

These words I don’t know how they made me feel.

But I knew eventually that I’d return home 

and be back on that football field. 

Your parents are looking for you, 

they’d say. 

The fiends were telling me this, 

but my pockets were the ones that they paid?  

(Dedicated to kids lost in the sauce)


Nathan* began writing this poem with me with lively energy to tell his story. He remarked that he hadn’t written much before but eagerly leaped into my question: “is anything on your mind today?” He started talking about selling drugs to get money, making a precise distinction between our needs and our wants and how our wants can twist our decisions. He writes about “young success” later in the poem: achievement, stability, image, and the navigation between those complexities. The idea recurs throughout this poem with the refrain that Nathan played with and adjusted and moved around throughout the poem to create flow: “Even though it looked like I was well off/ truly I fell off, / truly I fell off.” What stood out to me the most in the poem and what felt most poetic to me and to Nathan emerges in the fourth stanza:

These little crack rocks in my hands 

will be the downfall of my life, 


These crumbles in my hand 

 will begin the crumbles of my life.  

These lines ring of honesty, profundity, and bravery, and Nathan delicately assembled how the word “crumbles” would repeat. Nathan was incredibly proud of this beginning effort at poetry, as he should be; it is stunning work for a brand new poet. Many young people choose to have the mentors read their poems aloud to the group; Nathan stood confidently in the center of the room to read his words and to tell his story.

--from Emily Caris, Pongo Assistant Project Lead at King Co. Juvenile Detention

*a pseudonym


Feb 09
To Love Life

As part of a new effort to share more youth poetry, we’ll be sharing poems from our three sites—King County Juvenile Detention, the Child Study & Treatment Center, and 1811 Eastlake. Take a look!

Group Poem, Child Study & Treatment Center

Even when your throat is filled with ice, you have to keep the fire in your gut.
Power through, stay with your goals. Thaw your frigid esophagus, take a fresh
breath.Even when your throat is filled with matted dryer lint, with a stack
of wet leaves, with swallowed expectations. Even when your throat is filled
with hatred—you want to kill, you want to be killed, you don’t believe life
is worth living, how can you? You remember all the people who cared,
and forget those who didn’t. It can only go up from there.
Even when your throat feels like a belching bullfrog, when your throat
is filled with lava, with red raging, furious fire, with hot sticky tar,
ants that are biting. To love life, even when your throat is filled
with unspoken words, jagged and rusty as the tangled wreckage at edges
of railyards, the coppery flavor mixes with the grit of jumbled words, packed
as poorly as a midnight flight suitcase. To love life, despite this traffic jam
of the unsaid waiting in long-since dead vehicles, skeleton fingers wrapped
around the crooked wheels, you need the skeleton key to unlock a scream
that would clear your throat, caught in somebody’s ballpoint pen, somewhere.
To love life, even when its hardness sits like a broken-down car
in your driveway that no one can afford to fix, when its hardness sits
like a Volkswagen bus on your chest, sits like the Titanic on your shoulders,
like a million-pound cat on your neck on four needle-like legs, skewering you
to the floor, like a Boeing 747 has sliced through you. To love life.

To warm up, in our poetry circle at Child Study Treatment Center, we write group poems that relate to our theme of the day. This day’s theme was Grief, and inspired by the Ellen Bass poem “The Thing Is.” Bass’s poem opens with “To love life, to love it even/when you have no stomach for it/and everything you’ve held dear/crumbles like burnt paper in your hands…/” It’s hard to talk about liking life, no less loving it, when your minutes, hours, and days are infused with a complexity that may be many decibels higher than most of us experience. But it wasn’t hard for the youth to paint images that were crisp and original… “when your throat is filled with ice, matted dryer lint, a stack of wet leaves, the tangled wreckage at edges of railyards.” And it is never hard for them to express through poetry, their honesty, authenticity, and vulnerability. When they share their work, there is a pride, camaraderie, and a sigh of relief, as they realize, oh, you feel like this too.
—from Child Study & Treatment Center Site Lead Ann Teplick  

Nov 16
There Is Just Us

“There is Just Us”— Poets Finding Themselves Out of the Ashes

by Shaun McMichael

This spring (April-June 2015)’s collection of poems submitted to Pongo built upon the past winter’s themes of finding solidarity within the self in response to trauma, neglect and conflict with family—things all of us can relate to on some level. Many of these young authors chose this past spring to face and embrace themselves. They did so fully, courageously admitting their contribution to their own difficulties and outlining the vital role they play in their own recovery. Their forthrightness deserves our admiration, their words our analysis.

Let’s start with this quarter’s winner:

by a young woman, age 16

When I was small,
I would listen to fairy tales and wish I was a princess.
I would dress up in a dress,
put on makeup and a crown,
and feel as if my prince was on his way.
He never came.

As I grew,
I wanted a superhero to save me from my demons.
Someone to come down,
pick me up and fly me away.
Far, far away.
He never came.
Now, I want a villain.
Someone to blame
for everything I get mad for.
To blame for my hardships, my bad times, and the deaths.
He never came.
There is no prince
waiting to sweep you off your feet.
There is no superhero
waiting to save us.
There is no super villain
waiting to cause terror.
There is just us.
We make worlds and dream of fantasies.
But that's all they are.
I wish I got saved by my superhero,
got my prince,
defeated my villain.
But no.
I didn't get rescued.
No prince is on their way,
and no villain is here to blame.

Only me.
My prince is me.
My hero is me.
My villain is me.
I am the protagonist.
I am the antagonist.
I am my story.
But I'm just me.
I can't fly.
I can't throw mountains.
I can't shoot lasers out of my eyes.
The odds are against me.
Not in my favor.
But that's my story.
The story of me.
The story of the non-special me.

I don't have powers.
I don't have anything special.
But i have me.
And that's all I need.
The prince probably met someone else.
My hero probably saved someone else.
My villain probably terrorized someone else.
But that's fine.
Because I can make my own story
With only me.

This is a coming of age story in a few short stanzas. The poem’s beginning tracks the author’s craving for some external force—even a malign one—to intervene in their life. But none do, leading the author to the existential conclusion “there’s just us.” This is a frustrating reality for many of us—this feeling of aloneness. But rather than live in frustration, the author’s locus shifts from external to internal: “I am the protagonist. I am the antagonist. I am my story”.

These short declaratives are packed with insight and grant the author some freedom. “…I have me. And that’s all I need…I can make my own story.”

Might we all repeat these words and reminder ourselves of our own sentience in the narrative arc of our lives.

But it’s not always so easy being the author of our own story. We sometimes have to make hard decisions about certain things we have to cut out of our lives. Our first honorable mention reminds us of this:


by a young woman, age 18

The truth about recovery?
It’s a process meant to break you.
Recovery is a demanding bitch.
A shadow of what you are
beating you senseless into what you are striving to be
Pulling you up by your withered wrists.
And robbing you of every inch of the skin that you’re comfortable in.

Because comfort was not part of the agreement.
But having a powder blue glove shoved heavy and cold into your gut is.
Pulling out pills and broken wreckage.
Chipping the decaying hate from the fleshy walls of your stomach.
Placing compliance in your mouth
because if it doesn't hurt then you don't really want it.

Taking your eyes and pulling them out because they're both dry glassy and haunted.
Giving the drums to your ears a different base
Because everything you shoved down those raw and rubbed canals was dank garbage.
Taking out razor blades and dusty pill bottles because depression and anxiety
Forced you to forget what grieving in moderation is.

Another powdered glove spots a forgotten fuck up.
Or as you knew her,
A skeleton of a girl with her head still bowed for thin.
Recovering is pain and damaging truthfulness
Meant to mold you into a new you
But leave enough scars
So you never forget the process
From which you rose from black ashes
Like a cautious but strong phoenix.

The final image of the phoenix is hard earned and beautiful. The poet has spared none of the details (as no poet should) describing the ash they’re rising from. But the poem isn’t trying to dissuade us from the road of recovery. It’s bracing us for the ironic pain of getting better. “It doesn’t hurt when you don’t really want it,” the poet writes. The detox process that feels like it’s going to kill us, is the same thing that lets us fly free.

This also poem admits that part of the perceived noxiousness of the recovery process is allowing others to help.

But it’s worth it. Our next poem reminds us all why:


by a young woman, age 14

I don't know who I am
I don't know what, do you?
Where am I? Where am I?
I don't know, do you?
I try to remember everything that happened
I just can’t seem to remember
I look around the room and I see nothing but white
I can barely see a thing. What happened to my sight?
I look down at my arms and all I see are bandages.
Blood bleeds through.
I haven't felt this way in ages,
I don't know what happened and I'm the only one here.

I don't see my mom. I don't even know if she is here.
What the hell is going on? I hate feeling this way.
Can someone tell me? I can no longer stay.

Before you know it, the room gets dark.
I open my eyes and I hear my dog bark.
It was all just a dream. Thank god I'm okay.
Wait, never mind. That used to be me every day.
Not anymore.

I've been five months clean.
If I can do it, you can do it too. Trust me.
It’s not a fun scene.
I've been so strong. I'm so proud of myself.
When I look in the mirror today, I say ‘wow, you’re a star!
You did it yourself.’
So don't give up, no matter what you do
because if I got through then you can go through it too.

This poem comes to us from a voice a little further over the hump of recovery. Yet, hospitalization is recent enough to be remembered as a palpable nightmare.
But the poet has lived through it. Because of this, they’re able to not only tell themselves they can do it; they can convincingly inspire others to do the same.


Part of healing is differentiating ourselves from the wrongs others have done to us. Our final honorable mention is an example:

by a young woman, age 15

I just thought you should know what I'm doing now.
I am a very sad and lonely person
who spends a lot of time online
because I don't have anything better to do or anyone to talk to.

I just thought you should know how I'm feeling.  
I am depressed
because you have put me down nearly my entire life, always criticizing me.
I just thought you should know what I've been through.

Since the last time I saw the real you, I have suffered so much.  
The time that you claimed I was arrogant and stupid was especially damaging to me.
 I just thought you should know what I wish for the future.

I hope that you can grow up and be a better person instead of bringing me down.
I just thought you should know what I won't miss about you.
I am glad I won't have to worry about your constant reminding me of my imperfections.
I just thought you should know what I miss a lot.
I miss the way we used to get along and laugh and smile as children.
I just thought you should know that I miss the old you,
and I hope that person reappears while you're away.

Unlike the first poem in this blog, sometimes there is someone to blame, at least in part, for how we feel about our lives. People have sent us messages that we’ve internalized. This author teaches us the first part of purging these messages from our self-concept is naming the wrongs done to us—particularly by someone who was as dear as the brother in this poem.

The poem also reminds us that we are all at different stages in our healing. For this poet, the wounds are still fresh and the path to moving beyond the hurt is uncertain.  Acknowledging where we are can help us aim for where we want to go.

One thing is certain however: poetry continues to be a venue for us to express ourselves wherever we’re coming from. We want to thank our authors for reminding us of that.

We also want to thank all the poets who submitted work to Pongo in the 2014- 2015 academic year. Keep writing authors and keep reading readers. Expression is hope!

Oct 30
What Makes You, You

What Makes You You—Turning to Self-Acceptance through Poetry

by Shaun McMichael

The collection of poems submitted to Pongo from January to March were full of the intense emotions of authors dealing with themselves—sometimes self-destructively. This is not an uncommon problem. Whenever we undergo traumatic experiences, we often convert the experience into negative feelings towards ourselves.  This is done perhaps to try to regain some sense of control. But instead of hurting themselves, these authors choose a healthy form of control by writing. There’s much we can learn from their words.

One example is found in our winner for the quarter:

by a young woman, age 18

Did any of them ever hear?
Did they hear the screams from the girl thrown against the porcelain sink?
Did they see her run down the stairs,
barefoot and dancing around the puddles
in nothing but a tank top and jeans?
the ones without rips in the knees, I think…
Did they hear her scream at windowpanes
or beat her heel against the door frame?

Well, they must have seen her when the Law came.
The vase smashed across the front porch,
the metal screen whinnying in the cool Washington breeze
like a dehydrated horse
the yells for hair to be released
the harsh slap of those wicked palms
the forced stomping of the pair of aggravated feet.

Did they see?
Did they see her leave in cuffs
until authority called the bluffs?
See her returned to the steps,
march up like a soldier and tell them it was just ‘family stuff’
and second guess when they left?
Do they know she tried to fight
or that the secrets kept
ruined her life?
Do they know she’s even gone,
that no one cared to help the broken one
until she began to lose control?
Until the yells became bellows
and she shook when she needed to hit?

But they never have.
They never did believe the broken kid.

Do they know she told the truth
and it never was the same?
That the situation solved nothing
and she nearly went insane.
That they said if she was better,
if she would just keep secrets,
then she wouldn’t be to blame.
I know neighbors saw me
but I was just another damaged face
without a solid name.

The poem—a series of rhetorical questions—uncovers a core problem many of us experience: the feeling of not being heard, seen or aided by our families, neighbors and communities. Potential Good Samaritans become bystanders who suggest the author keep silent for the sake of appearances. As the author alludes to, many of their later behaviors stem from this frustration of injustice and repression. “They never did believe the broken kid”; the line evokes both empathy and understanding for those of us who do things that are hard to understand. There’s always a reason and this poet chronicles theirs with incredible honesty.

Our first honorable mention also deals with intense emotions around the self and their circumstances:

by a young woman, age 14

Anger is a way for you to blame what you did wrong on someone else.
Anger is a beast that devours you, head first and heart last.
Anger is a waterfall of molten rock, and you have no way to stop it.

Angry because I have no clue how to fix the problems everyone else has with me.
Angry because no one else cares enough to care, or at least doesn’t show it.
Angry because I just don’t know what to do anymore, I don’t know how to, anyway.

Maybe anger won’t always rule my life, my head.
Maybe there is a new day for me when I won’t want to scream.
Maybe anger is here to help us learn, help us change.

But I don’t know how to fix it,
I don’t know how to stop it,
I don’t know what to do,
And I have no idea how.

This author articulates the utter confusion and helplessness they feel in response to their intense emotions. Though the writer may say they’re not sure what to do to cope with their emotions, they’ve found one thing to do: write. And by doing so, they teach us how we too might handle the ineffable storm of feelings inside us.


In their writing, authors have important messages about how to deal with their ambivalence toward who they are. Our last two honorable mentions for the January-March 2015 quarter provide nice examples.

by a young woman, age 13

When I was really little, I ran away from strangers
and the people in bizarre costumes at birthday parties.
I was afraid of the dark.
At the time, I ran towards my dad because he was big enough to hide behind.

I dreamed about being Beyonce and flying with Disney princesses.

When I got a little older, I ran away from the truth.
When I ran, I expected that it would hurt less if I didn’t hear it
but the constant wondering ate me alive.

At the time, I ran toward music. I could put in my earphones
and enter a whole new world
a world that gave me what I wanted.
When I ran, I hoped for a change.
I hoped that I didn’t have to face the facts and deal with it.
But the truth was always behind me, breathing on my neck.
No matter how fast I ran or which way I went.

Today when I run, I run away from myself.
I don’t want to identify who I really am
because I know that she’s not who I dreamed of as a child.
More than anything I wish I could run from my surroundings.
I never feel safe or like it’s where I’m supposed to be.

Today when I run, I run toward my future
because I know that when I’m older
I’ll be somewhere that makes me safe, warm and happy.
I’ll have a wonderful career with a beautiful husband and family.
I’ll travel the world and breathe the air of every country there is.

More than anything I wish I could run to the girl I hope to be.
The girl that I portray my future as
because that girl has nothing
but the good in front of her.

This poem, which began with a Pongo fill-in-the-blank, comes into its own through the author’s honest chronicle of their approach to themselves, which largely includes turning away from who they are to other things. Though they express disillusionment with how they’ve turned out, the future promises a meeting with reality and expectation. “I wish I could run to the girl I hope to be”, the writer says, indicating their desire to accept a positive outcome for their future.

All of us have aspects of ourselves we don’t like. We’re all unlike who we’d thought we’d be. But this author models for us how to cope with this feeling, anticipating our future self by embracing who we are in the present.

In our last honorable mention, the poet gives themselves some more immediate advice:

by a young woman, age 13

I see your face, that look in your eyes.
I know you can’t get over what you see on that scale.
But a pound or two isn’t gonna change you.
You’re still the one who makes people smile.
You’re still gonna be able
to see your favorite bands once in a while.
That number is not gonna change you.
It’s not gonna be easy
and it’s not gonna be fun
but I know it can be done.
Stop watching the others
and looking down on yourself.
It’s not fair to you.
Stop thinking about what you don’t deserve
and start thinking what makes you, you.

Whether this message is meant for themselves or someone else, the poem captures the author talking through the problem of a negative self-image. In using the second person point of view, the poet encourages the beholder to accept, finally, what they see in the mirror—a challenging task for all of us. Maybe we’re not tantalized by numbers on a weigh scale, but maybe we turn to the figure on a pay check or the digits of a GPA to define ourselves. This poet teaches us to move away from the quantitative message reported by the scale and towards acceptance of the quality of one’s own personhood. By sharing these insights this author, like all the authors here, becomes an active agent in their own healing and a source of wisdom for all of us seeking to heal as well.

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