storytelling Archives - Page 7 of 8

On honoring Tarana Burke, the #metoo movement & the power of true storytelling

A disturbing finding in leading TMI Project true storytelling workshops over the past 8 years is the prevalence of sexual abuse among our participants. Early on, I noticed if one person shared a story about sexual violence, inevitably, others would chime in. What I didn’t realize until a year ago, is what they were saying to each other was: Me too. Tarana Burke, #metoo

This past October I presented Tarana Burke, founder of the #metoo movement, with the Eleanor Roosevelt Medal of Honor. I believe she was the best person to receive this award at this particular moment in history and I was deeply honored to present it to her.

My world and the world of women across the globe shifted dramatically when a small hashtag with a big history took over the internet like wildfire. #metoo unleashed a pent up fury, an outpouring of stifled shame that didn’t belong to us. We were given permission to break our silence, to share our most difficult stories, not alone, but in droves. We’ve since been held and supported by each other instead of blamed and not believed

An eruption of this magnitude is not created in an instant. For more than 25 years, Tarana Burke’s unrelenting dedication to creating empowerment through empathy for those impacted by sexual violence, has been laying the foundation for this movement, now strong enough to hold us all.

Like many women, I was personally impacted by the #metoo movement. I had buried memories that needed uncovering. In that uncovering, I realized that one experience, which for decades I had convinced myself wasn’t that bad, was actually rape. The more stories I hear, the more memories come back, the more I find myself saying, “Me too.” I realized, as a survivor, I never listened to my body or trusted my instincts. The #metoo movement gave me permission to talk and to write about what happened to me. I now understand the power of intuition held within my own body.

My community has also been impacted by the #metoo movement. Collectively, we talked about things we all knew but never gave voice to. We joined forces and faced our fears about speaking truth to power. Like many others, we also faced consequences for speaking out, and dealt with more harassment for stepping forward. But, we got stronger and made it clear that men and women abusing their positions of power would not be tolerated in our community.

Tarana Burke, #metoo I recently heard Tarana say, “I never thought I’d see a sustained national dialogue about sexual violence, but here we are, which lets us know anything is possible.” I believe her. I believe survivors. I believe anything is possible. I also believe that after dialogue, action is required. I hope all of us here today will renew our commitment to keep fighting for those most impacted, to keep our focus on the healing of survivors and to end sexual violence once and for all.

– Eva Tenuto, TMI Project Executive Director & Co-founder

If you are interested in joining the #metoo movement, check out their new website. If you’d like to share your story with the TMI Project community fill out our online story submission form.

A Message about Life Lines from Trevor Project’s James Lecesne [Video]

In the 20 years since The Trevor Project launched its life-saving suicide prevention and crisis intervention lifeline for LGBTQ youth, they’ve helped thousands of young people across the country. But they have never collected stories from those that have used the service.

The Trevor project and TMI Project came together in 2018 to do just that: to locate the people, to hear their stories of survival, and to help them to write and share those stories with the world.

Watch the video below to hear a special message from Trevor Project’s co-founder James Lecense, and to meet a few of the courageous storytellers who will join us on stage for Life Lines: Queer Stories of Survival on Nov. 5th!

[embedyt] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lq1oIcG62hs[/embedyt]

Life Lines: Queer Stories of Survival
Monday, November 5th, 2018, 7pm One Night Only!
The Irene Diamond Stage at The Pershing Square Signature Center
480 W. 42nd Street, NYC

LGBTQ LGBTQTMI performances storytelling Trevor Project true stories

Get Your Early Bird Tickets ($25 off) for Life Lines: Queer Stories of Survival!

Life Lines: Queer Stories of Survival
November 5, 2018, 7pm
The Irene Diamond Stage at the Pershing Square Signature Center
New York, NY

In honor of The Trevor Project’s 20th anniversary, a cast of 11 LGBTQ storytellers from around the country, selected from a nationwide call for stories, will take part in a TMI Project true storytelling workshop this November led by Academy Award-winner James Lecesne alongside TMI Project Co-founders Eva Tenuto and Julie Novak. Life Lines: Queer Stories of Survival is the culmination of that work.

The production will feature inspiring true personal stories of triumph in the face of suicidal attempts or ideations with a goal of raising awareness about the importance of The Trevor Project Lifeline and similar suicide prevention services.

LGBTQ storytelling tmi project Trevor Project true stories

Vicarious Resilience to hit the film fest circuit!

Woodstock Film Festival & Atlantic City CineFest Official Selection 2018

We are proud to announce that TMI Project’s documentary short film Vicarious Resilience, produced in partnership with the Mental Health Association in Ulster County, is an official selection of the 2018 Woodstock Film Festival and the Atlantic City CineFest!

Vicarious Resilience follows three Hudson Valley residents over the course of a 10-week TMI Project storytelling workshop presented at The Mental Health Association in Ulster County (MHA). In this workshop, the participants face mental illness, childhood neglect and addiction head-on; and, ultimately, share deeply personal stories about love, loss and triumph.

The screening will be followed by a Q & A.
We hope to see you there!

Date, time and other details about the Atlantic City CineFest to come!

Mental Health storytelling tmi project true stories

Black Stories Matter in Academia: My Journey from the Projects to NYU

Tameka Ramsey (she/her), Black Stories Matter program director

This story is presented as part of a series of true narratives collected for TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter initiative.

Out of 232 four year public schools studied over 10 years, 53 percent saw gaps between black and white students either stay the same or increase, resulting in a growing gap between the numbers of black and white students who graduate. Moreover, nearly one-third of the colleges and universities that improved graduation rates overall actually saw graduation rates for black students remain flat or decline.

In the of fall 1994 I took the E train from a rundown basement apartment in Jamaica, Queens to attend my first day at New York University. At 19, I graduated from SUNY Delhi with an associates degree, a 3.8 average and multiple scholarships.

Since I grew up in the projects in Brooklyn, SUNY Delhi legitimately felt like it was in the middle of nowhere BUT the student body was 15% black and primarily from inner cities. The entire student body hovered somewhere around 3,000. Black students found each other easily and formed a community that frankly felt identical to the one I’d left. We even mostly all lived in a dorm affectionately nicknamed “the projects.” So, yeah, there were some issues even within a culturally diverse student body. But ironically, 170 miles from home, in what often felt like a town where people were outnumbered by cows I experienced almost NO culture shock. A life spent in NYC’s public education system had prepared me for an environment where the faculty and staff were 99% white. I joined the black student union. We went to “black” events on other campuses. We sat together in the dining hall.

Going to college and living on campus at Delhi for two years was great, but I wanted to come home to the city I was determined to conquer. SO, when I was accepted as a transfer student to NYU, I was excited, even though that meant living at home again. Or so I thought.

That summer I arrived back home, my single mother and I were evicted from our one bedroom apartment in the projects. My mother sat me down in our living room and announced that she and her boyfriend had tried to find a two bedroom apartment so I could continue living with her, but they couldn’t. So together, they were moving into a one bedroom apartment in Far Rockaway, Queens (emphasis on the word FAR). Here were my options: Sleep on the couch and commute two hours a day each way into the city for classes or figure something else out. I became an adult that day.

The summer that I should have been preparing for two years of rigor at one of the best colleges in the country, I was scrambling to figure out where I was going to live. I remember walking into my first political science class, under an inordinate amount of stress, unusual for an NYU college student. When I arrived, I stood frozen in the doorway looking at a sea of 125 white faces. The average class size at Delhi was 30.

NYU tried to support me via the HEOP program but it was almost like trying to connect through a distortion field. Everyone was white. Everything outside of the HEOP office was structurally set up to support a specific kind of student that came from a specific background – white, middle to upper class, steeped in “American” culture (i.e. white). All of my professors were white, all of the administrators, counselors, etc. and I had not fully honed my code switching skills yet.

Occasionally, I still presented as, “standing at the bus stop sucking on a lollipop”. “Don’t get it twisted, imma blow this midterm up”, in response to my professor’s concern that I might be juggling too much. He looked at me like I had two heads.

NYU’s black student population was 4%. Four percent of 50,000 students. I knew there were other black people… somewhere. But I had NO idea where to find them. Nothing in the NYU culture was for me. What the hell was a “Spring Break”? For my peers, a ruckus trip to party in Cancun. For me, an opportunity to work overtime. Networking? Not much of that to be done at my job at Burlington Coat Factory.

I felt too ashamed to explain what I was going through to what felt like a composite of well meaning but completely foreign white people. In my family, you didn’t “spread your business” with people you didn’t trust. And for the most part, you didn’t trust white people.

It would have been easy to blame my mother entirely for putting me in this situation but the reality is that our lives and the lives of all people of color are shaped by the class and race construct by which we live.

A few years before I started college, my mom, tired of being passed over for promotions for a decade in favor or white people with less experience, sued Brookdale hospital for discrimination. It was settled out of court when it became clear that she would win, but the settlement was barely sufficient and my mom had to agree to leave her job in order to accept it. What if my mother had been given those promotions and we’d moved up from working poor to middle class? Maybe she would have made different choices. Maybe she would have bought a house. Maybe I would have started college with a place to live.

Two years became 2.5 years. Then three. Then 3.5. I dropped out then re-registered. Then dropped out and re-registered again. I had to transfer to the continuing education division to work full-time so I could escape the basement apartment in Queens where unbeknownst to me, people were breaking into my apartment and stealing my belongings.

Most importantly, I had a pervasive feeling that I just didn’t belong. Graduation seemed more like some amorphous and unrealistic brass ring. I felt like the other students were in on something that I just couldn’t and would never understand and I was growing depressed.

As a community, we cannot ignore the impact that race has on the probability of success in higher education or the fact that our higher education system, along with all of our bedrock systems, set up a biased foundation. Our stories are unique and our struggle is real.

We need to start talking about how to create cultural environments that allows students of color to thrive. And in order to do that, we have to hear the stories of the lives that are impacted to foster understanding across the chasm.

To that end, TMI Project is bringing Black Stories Matter to Bard College! On April 4th, we present inspiring true stories and monologues about Black people surviving and thriving in the Hudson Valley– both for the school community and for the general public.

Performances will be followed by a panel discussion, which will allow the audience to tackle hard questions around race, identity and community. Black Stories Matter @ Bard College is open to the public ($20), and all local college students are encouraged to attend for FREE.

#blackstoriesmatter Black is beautiful black lives matter racism in america storytelling true stories Writing & Performance

Reflecting on a year of Black Stories Matter and what lies ahead

Tameka Ramsey (she/her)

One year ago today, on Martin Luther King Day, Eva and I launched TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter initiative at the Hudson Valley Writers Resist in Woodstock, NY.

In true TMI Project fashion, I’ll be transparent; we didn’t know we were launching anything! We knew that we had a platform through TMI Project and that in the wake of Trayvon (and Eric, and Dante and Sandra, and…) that we wanted to use that platform to amplify the voices and stories of Black people in America, and specifically in our own community.

So over the course of 6 months, Eva, Sari and I worked with a group of committed writers to craft the Black Stories Matter inaugural show. Rev. James Child at the Pointe of Praise Church in Kingston, NY agreed to host us and the show debuted on March 25, 2017. We hoped for an audience of 200, maybe 300 if we were lucky, and 600 of you showed up to watch the Brooklyn Technical High School all girls step team perform and eleven writers read deeply personal stories about the richness and complexities of their lives.

That evening was the true start of Black Stories Matter as a TMI Project initiative. In the year since, we’ve developed a few projects that carry and extend the original production: we’re working with the Kingston Public High School to to develop a teen version of Black Stories Matter. And in the Fall of 2017, we collaborated with Historic Huguenot Street to create and perform Reclaiming Our Time, written, in part, during an overnight stay in enslaved people’s quarters in New Paltz. Now, one year later, I’m excited to announce that I’m officially coming onboard to work with TMI Project as the Black Stories Matter Program Director!

“I am convinced that men hate each other because they fear each other. They fear each other because they don’t know each other, and they don’t know each other because they don’t communicate with each other, and they don’t communicate with each other because they are separated from each other.” Dr. Martin Luther King

What is Black Stories Matter and why are we doing it?

Black Stories Matter is TMI Project’s way of making an impact in addressing incidents of hate, bigotry and racial injustice in our local community while also participating as an organization in the national outcry of injustice. In alignment with TMI Project’s mission to empower people and bring about change through true storytelling, Black Stories Matter seeks to raise awareness around issues of inequality and injustice through true storytelling and amplification of the voices of those who have inspiring stories to share about black people surviving–and thriving–in the Hudson Valley and throughout the United States. We aim to provide audiences the opportunity to listen, expand their awareness, possibly identify internalized racism or uncover unintentionally racists points of view. This heightened awareness will enable audience members to replace biased belief systems with informed knowledge, deepened compassion and an active commitment to work for justice for all.

What’s next for Black Stories Matter?

This year we’re focused on creating true stories that will deepen the listener’s ability to feel empathy and compassion; programming that will ignite the humanity of the audience (our readers, after all, are already human) around issues of race in America and how that manifests in our own community. In addition to performing the show with the original cast at both Bard and the Kingston African American Library, we are expanding the programming to include facilitated community discussions so that we can work through and face the problems caused by systemic racism and segregation together.

We wish there were no need for an initiative like Black Stories Matter, but events like Charlotteville clearly demonstrate the need to combat ignorance with truth. These stories and so many more that are reflections of Black life in America, past and present, must be shared and amplified. Especially in our own community, where segregation (and the insidious redlining that enables it) is as alive here as it is in everywhere in America.

So on this Martin Luther King Day, one year to the day that Eva and I stood on stage in Woodstock and announced our intention to create Black Stories Matter, we’re pledging our renewed commitment to working hard in 2018 to create and support the development and amplification of Black stories through our platform.

Tameka Ramsey, TMI Project

#blackstoriesmatter black lives matter racism in america storytelling tmi project true stories Writing & Performance

Kevin Barron

(he/him)

One of the most difficult times of my life was listening to the guilty verdict in my wife’s trial, watching her taken away in handcuffs, and then having to tell my five children ages 2, 5, 7, 10, and 20 that their mother would not be home for a very long time, which turned out to be nearly ten years.

I immediately had to shift my focus to the care of my children and how I would manage that without my wife. I had to assure my wife that there would be no lapse in their education, healthcare, clothing, and food needs. I had to be there for them emotionally and psychologically.

Because we no longer had my wife’s salary we had to sell our house that we worked so hard to purchase. We had to move twice; once to her mother’s house and then to my mother’s house. Even though we appreciated the accommodations the conditions were not the best.

The trips to visit my wife were both joyful and stressful. There was joy in seeing her but the pain of her not being able to come home with us was extraordinary. At one point, for no apparent reason she was transferred nearly six hours away to another facility far from me and our children. The visits were stressful due to the waiting and searching procedures (two times the kids and I were randomly selected for drug searches, during which in further humiliation, tape and a sticky roller was used to run over our clothes, money, and footwear in search of drug residue), the restrictions, the bad vending machine food, and the high cost of purchasing the food.

We were blessed to have support from family, friends, and church members. Most families of the incarcerated don’t have this support. When my wife was finally released there was an adjustment period for her and for us. It took her over a year to find work, and because of crowded conditions we still weren’t able to live together until we found an apartment of our own. Thankfully, today we are a united family again under one roof. I have great admiration for my wife and children. They showed courage, love, and resilience throughout the whole situation.

My heart goes out to all families of incarcerated loved ones who are often neglected and forgotten. I can only imagine how hard it is for those who don’t have a base of support, which is why I will be participating in the March for Justice from Harlem to Albany to raise awareness about the inhumanity and the injustice that is taking place in our criminal justice system.

#AFJMARCH4JUSTIC #blackstoriesmatter black lives matter discrimination racial profiling racism racism in america storytelling tmi project true stories

WandaLynn

(she/her)

Growing up, mom gives Meme, Eddie, Jessy and Hicri her attention and cares for them. Me, I’m known as the ugly child. Not the beautiful one with the nice hair. No, I’m the smart one. I’m the “Black Bitch”.

I call my mother by her by her name, Alzonia. I don’t call her mom, because she doesn’t mother me; she doesn’t protect me, or show me love, or care for me. All she does is drink and then look for men to love her. We never have enough food, clothes or anything. I hate my mom and despise her weakness. I always want to ask her, “Why Mom?” I want to tell her how angry I am at her.

Now, she has Abe in the house. He fights with her and beats her. He gets fresh with me. One day I come into the house after mom has left to cash the monthly SS check, so it’s just me and Abe. I sit on the top of my bunk bed, rocking back and forth in fear. I daydream to soothe myself.

“One day I am going to meet a guy named Randall Grant and he is going to love me,” I tell myself. “We’re both going to finish school and get married. He’s going to get a good job and have a lot of money; we are going to get married. I’m going to be special to him. He’s going to shower me with precious gifts and love.”

I hear Abe come into the kitchen. My self-soothing fairytale halts and I’m quickly filled with rage. I think, ”If he comes in the kitchen and takes his dick out again, I am going to cut it off.”

I enter the kitchen, pick up the big cutting knife by the stove, and begin patting it in the palm of my hand. I was right — Abe has his dick out of his pants. But when he sees the knife he puts it back in his pants and goes to the back room.

I head back to my top bunk bed thinking, I am so sick of this shit. I soothe myself again, rocking back and forth, daydreaming of marrying a Randall Grant. My daydreaming is interrupted when I hear my mom come back. I jump off the bed and run to her.

“Mom when you were out, Abe took his dick out again!” I shout. “Mom, do you hear me? You need to throw his ass out of the house!”

My mom replies, “Ah, Lynn, that’s nothing.”

She walks to the back room and my anger grows. I grab the bottle of Clorox and follow her.

I shout, “Mom, move out of the way!” and then throw the contents of the open bottle in Abe’s direction. Abe gets Clorox in his eyes.

I keep shouting, “I’m tired of this fucking bullshit, Mom. This motherfucker took out his dick. I keep telling you and you do nothing! I’m going to kill this motherfucker!” I am full of rage and know I have to leave this house — this house of no love, no protection, no care, nothing. I’d better leave before I kill someone.

Even though I’m only 15 years old, I do leave. I move into Covenant House in the East Village. That’s where I do the rest of my growing up.

Somehow, with no support, I manage to graduate high school and college, where I obtain my B.A in Psychology. After graduation, I work part-time in the bursar’s office at The New School for Social Research.

I see him come up to the counter. I’ve never been one to hide how I feel and while I process his registration, I say to him, ‘Wow! You are fine! What’s your name?” He just smiles at me. “Here, let me give you my number?” I say.

He calls me and invites me out. I tell him all about me and my life growing up on the Lower East Side, and he tells me all about growing up in Morocco.

We get married. We build a life together. We have four children. We don’t have much, but we take care of all of all the kids. I work hard to not be like Alzonia, making sure my children have a safe and loving upbringing.

But then, after 27 years of marriage, he throws away our history of trust, honesty, loyalty and friendship by getting involved with another woman. It really fucks up my self-esteem.

It never occurred to me that while I was working hard for the family, being a good, loyal Muslim wife, caring for our four children and supporting his endeavors, I had been sacrificing my career and ambitions. I was neglecting me.

He thinks because he controls the money, I’m going to stay. But my peace and my purpose in life are more important than anything. I leave amicably, relinquishing my power back to me.

I start to look for work. I have an interview scheduled, however I don’t have any clothes to wear. My clothes are in storage and my storage fees are overdue, so I can’t get them.

Luckily, someone refers me to Bottomless Closet. Not only do I get a full outfit for my interview, but they also assist with updating my resume and provide interview training. I take workshops in personal enrichment, professional development and financial planning.

I’m still legally homeless and unemployed, but I am happy. Now I know all the negligence and negative experiences made me the strong, compassionate, intelligent, powerful, courageous and determined woman that I am today. I’m full of resilience and work hard for what I want. I sometimes feel lonely but I don’t accept less than what I deserve. I’m living my life, my story, my way and it is possible in this world.

I may never find my Randall Grant, but today I know I am not alone. I am supported. I am loved. I am healed.

#blackstoriesmatter black lives matter discrimination racial profiling racism racism in america storytelling tmi project true stories

Zoe

(she/her)

Growing up, I’m Daddy’s little girl. I love when I’m with him and he sings to me. The song I request most often is “Scarlet Ribbons.”

When he and Mommy separate, I only get to see him on weekends. Friday quickly becomes the best day of the week for me. Mommy has remarried a white man named Bob Blair. It’s the 60s and the civil rights movement is well underway. He lives with us in an all-Black neighborhood. This is not an easy time for a white man and a black woman in an interracial marriage. Mommy works nights and Bob Blair works days, so when I get home from school it’s just Bob Blair, me, and my younger siblings alone with him.

For years, Monday through Thursday, when Bob Blair touches me, I quickly press an imaginary button in my head and turn on “Scarlett Ribbons” so I can focus on the song and tune out his alcohol-ridden breath and the disgusting odor of his sweaty body hair. I squeeze my eyes and thighs tightly shut, while wishing my Daddy would pick me up bearing a handful of those beautiful scarlett ribbons.

But, reality reveals itself anyway. No matter how hard I try to close off my entrance, Bob Blair always manages to pry my legs apart to invade it. I try to hear Scarlet Ribbons again. I try to press the play button. But I can’t hear it anymore, not over his cruel words, delivered with stinking hot breath. “If you tell anyone,” he warns, “I am going to kill you Nigger! Then I am going to kill your mother and your father and make you an orphan.”

Years later, long after I’m out of the house and away from Bob Blair and his nasty ways, I’m still traumatized. Desperate to escape the lingering mental torture, I spend 21 years, from 1978-1999, smoking crack.

You can’t run from reality for that long without some serious consequences. By the end, my wardrobe consists of somebody’s stained trench coat, a Victoria’s Secret Teddy, some flip flops and a rag on my head. And, I think I look damn good.

I do nasty things with nasty people. I say “yes” when I want to say ‘no.” My own mother closes her door in my face, during one of the coldest winter nights ever, for fear that I’ll steal the heat. Eventually, I’m not Zoe anymore. I’m 99G0947, compliments of The Department Of Corrections.

During my mess, the only two people who love me unconditionally are my husband Bill and my best friend Quretta. No matter my condition, how bad I look or smell, they’re there for me. I get locked up for close to three years, but I won’t let anyone come visit me. I just write letters. I know I’m still sick in many ways, and I have already put my loved ones through enough.

On July 17th, 2001 I return to the world. When I get out, the only thing I’m certain of is that I do not want to get high ever again.

But when I return to the world, Bill is gone. While I was locked up, he’d been sentenced to ten years. There’s no time to say goodbye, to engage in a long kiss, or make love one last time. I immediately make the decision to do every day of Bill’s sentence with him.

During the time Bill is in jail, my legal status prevents me from ever visiting him, until the day he’s released. Our communication is limited to phone calls and letters. He instructs me to focus on myself, and that is exactly what I do. I work full-time while also attending school. I self-publish my first book entitled, “Poetic Recovery, Life Don’t Rhyme.” I carve out a career for myself and commit myself to recreating a new me for me.

When Bill is released, I’m ready for him. I get my husband back, and soon I’m offered a new job, complete with a decent salary and of course more responsibility. The job description says I will be responsible for providing eight teenage mothers with empowerment tools to help steer them towards self-sufficiency and independent living. It will require more information than I’m equipped with, and a how-to book will not suffice for this group. My area of expertise is that of a Substance Abuse Specialist.

This is when I become acquainted with Bottomless Closet, a dynamic organization, and take workshops in Personal Enrichment, Financial Development and Professional Development. During these workshops I receive handouts that I copy and reuse while facilitating similar workshops with my clients. I incorporate resume writing, creating a budget, proper attire in the workplace and etiquette. Each week I take what I learn at Bottomless Closet and teach others. I never run out of material. As a result, I’ve made myself more relevant in my position at work and have developed a strong desire to do more for the lives of the young teenage mothers I service.

Living a full life after adversity is a beautiful thing. Not only do I work doing what I love, I also have freedom. I can visit whom I wish. I can choose what I wish to wear and have much more than a trench coat and a teddy to choose from. I read my mail first, create my own menu and have keys to come and go as I please!

Bill and I have been together now for 38 years. We often reflect on the lives we’ve lived and survived. At the end of the day, before lying down for a good night’s rest, we make sure to make each other laugh before turning out the lights. We praise God daily for his grace and mercy because there were many close calls.

I’m no longer 99G0947. I am Zoe again. My name means life, and I am living it to the fullest.