FAMILY

Stories & Essays by

The PPL/CWP Collaborative
Writing Project
 About Project for Pride in Living (PPL)

P roject for Pride in Living, Inc. (PPL) is a nonprofit organization

dedicated to helping low-income families develop the tools they
need to achieve self-sufficiency. Since 1972, thousands of people from
throughout the metro area have built brighter, more stable futures and
stronger communities as a result of PPL’s innovative, highly integrated
approach.
“Helping people help themselves,” is PPL’s organizational vision.
We believe in empowering individuals to be accountable and
responsible for their own growth toward self-reliance. These values
reinforce our mission: PPL works with lower-income individuals and
families to achieve greater self-sufficiency through housing, employment
training, support services, and education. PPL’s integrated and holistic
approach gives individuals and families a voice in changing their lives
for the better.

About the Community Writing Project (CWP)

T he Community Writing Project hosts writing workshops and

publishes the reflections on everyday life of people who may not
have thought of themselves as writers, thinkers, and artists. Because
only the collective efforts of ordinary people can make a better
world, the CWP is interested in the creative expressions and unique
understandings of those who have been relegated to the margins
of society, including the poor, the oppressed, immigrants, and those
who risk their privilege to join them.

Writers
Patricia Arana
Terri Ervin
Domaso Ferrer
Brandee Jourdain
Lorna Roy

Teacher
Hal Adams

Group Administrator
Jessica Frehse

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 Introduction

T
he writing class is a collaboration of the Project for Pride in
Living (PPL) and the Community Writing Project (CWP). The class
meets every week, using the workshop method, which means
the writing submitted by the participants and the discussion of it
determines the content of the class. The atmosphere is relaxed and
emphasizes the participants’ strengths. The teacher participates in the
class as an equal and active member. His primary role is to encourage
the participants to recognize their strengths as writers, thinkers, and
artists.
The central purpose of the class is for the writers to recognize
they are talented thinkers, artists, and philosophers, and that their
contributions are essential for making better, more egalitarian
communities.

—Hal Adams, editor

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 Sunrise
TERRI ERVIN

A
s I sit back and
reminisce in my mind,
I see how far I’ve
come. I look out my window,
now decorated with pure
white lace. I see the break
of day. My mind takes me
back to a place where I was
trying to make it back to my
A Mom Asks Questions substandard living condition
TERRI ERVIN that I called home. I was

I
tricked to ride in a car after
walked in the door. Felt
the club one night. Off a
oppression so heavy and
promise, I believed and I was
thick. (Hmm…question?)
deceived. How do I get back
I walked to the office, a small
across town? No shoes, no
room with glass walls, a young
coat, no purse, no money!
receptionist with no concern at
Yes, I was in a trap house,
all. I find my child roaming the
just hoping not to be caught
halls—no one around. (Hmm…
in a raid because it was
question?)
poppin.
On our way out I see a child,
I stayed up ‘til I saw
a boy, being pulled violently from
the break of day. It was my
the bathroom, not by a man,
light, my hope, my chance
but by a woman who was as lost
to escape. I fled out the
as my child. (Hmm…question?)
bathroom window, and ran
She had no clue. It wasn’t right.
‘til I saw a bus. Not knowing
I was ill. She didn’t even check
where it was going, I hopped
to see that the other boys in the
on, so ashamed, but no one
bathroom were done. (Hmm…
knew my name.
question?) Who’s to say what
Thank God for sunrise,
she saw, who she offended, who
because his “son” gave me
she embarrassed? Are kids not
a break that day.
our future? Don’t they deserve
respect? Who are we because we
have the power of age? Let us
not take our frustrations on the
kids. Let’s fix our own rage. Love,
nurture, and protect if you think
you deserve respect.
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 Hair
TERRI ERVIN

A
ugust 26th 1982 was the first day Mom and Dad met my hair.
I was told it was brittle and short, not growing, but it was jet
black until I tuned eight months. I was told it became silky
and very curly. At nine years I wanted Mom to stop using a comb.
My hair was upset. It matted up and became uncombable so Mom gave
me a perm. As I got older I wore my hair natural. It goes from straight
to curls, to mixed people hair. I don’t use gel, just a little water and
grease and a good brush is all I need. My hair was my best asset until
it was burned on Mom’s forty-second birthday, in a candle. I cut it
down---only two inches left. It grew back in two months until it came
past my shoulders. Then I met the stress of relationships at twenty,
and being in an abusive relationship I didn’t take care of it, and the
abuser pulled it all out. This is the first time I ever got braids with
a weave, I’m loving the anticipation of the length.

Special Place
TERRI ERVIN

M
y bathroom is where I
dwell. Whether it’s the
rush of me having to
pee or the quiet peace I feel
when I close the door. Its bright
pink high beam lights shine
even in the dim candlelight. I
go in and out of this room a lot
to smoke a cigarette or to sing
a song. This is my sanctuary.
I pray and talk to God, and
always come out with peace of
mind. It’s something magical
that happens there. I can even
go on vacation there. I sit back
and think how good it feels to
be in my favorite hotel suite.

5
 Health and Stress
TERRI ERVIN

T
he documentary, Places Matter, narrated by Dr. David Williams,
goes deeply into the impact of environmental stress. Williams
argues, “health campaigns that only focus on changing individual
behavior are naïve because, the choices of individuals are often limited
to the environments in which we live.” Williams also talks about
improved housing as well as substandard living environments. The
different points he touches on, reminds me of my neighborhood and
places we lived in.
I think back to when I moved into public housing, and how it
sounded like a sweet deal. On the bright side of things, I was moving
my family into stable housing that was affordable, only 30% of my
limited income. But we joined a community that had the resources
that we needed to take another step. There is a community center in
walking distance. They not only provide services for kids, they service
all families by providing food shelves, free clothes closet, free books
and toys. They offer parent classes and drug and alcohol treatments.
I believe this kind of system is set up to reinforce the behaviors that
cause us to need these services.
I also remember vividly how the system is also a setback. The
negative side to me is that every block doesn’t have block clubs.
There is one on every block besides mines, which is a high crime are.
But what about our safety? Do we not deserve people to stand with
us also to create safe environments? We also have a slow response
to emergency calls; if it’s not a priority, “they’re” not coming “They”
meaning the cops. This has created a very stressful environment for
me. I suffer from PTSD, anxiety, and major depression. My nerves are
always on edge and it’s hard to sleep at night. I have a chronic illness
that I believe comes from my different environments. Neither the
doctors nor I know how I contracted Colitis, a gastrointestinal disease.
It attacks your digestive track and is a very painful thing to live with.
My niece has lead poisoning, from living in affordable housing because
that’s all her mom could afford, with four kids and raising them on
partial welfare and trying to keep a job by her.

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 So when I said, “setup.” I meant that environment factors played
a huge impact on how healthy we become or unhealthy. We need to
come together as neighbors and fight for what we want to see change
in our own individual communities, fight for change. Minnesota has
so many resources that so many people take advantage of, and don’t
use the programs for their purposes. That’s when they begin to shut
programs down and it ruins it for the rest. So in closing, love the
community which you dwell, and keep fighting for change, push these
programs and let us all be equal and come together, because change
starts with ourselves.

7
 Origins
DOMASO FERRER

I
n the past two to three years
I have become very much
acquainted with the Native
American culture. It has been a
rewarding experience to say the
least. Being myself Taino of the
Arawak Nation better known as
Boricua or better yet Puerto Rican,
I find many similarities that are
literally aboriginal in nature. Where
the Great Spirit is concerned,
we call it Chango because of our
African roots.
Though I’ve been in Minnesota for 35 years, it was only when I met
Mike, the owner of “The Wolves Den,” that I began to learn about the
Ojibwa people of Minnesota along with the Lakota, the Black Foot,
Sioux, and other tribes of the Midwest, Arizona and New Mexico. For
the most part, our topic of emphasis concentrates around the Creator
or the Great Spirit (Manni Hands or the Great Mystery). Mike not only
has knowledge of the Ojibwa legends, but also is also well versed in the
Bible although we often disagree upon our understanding of it.

Birth Pains
PATRICIA ARANA

H
er chest collapsed. She
took her last breath,
gasping, taking in all
that she could, and then, like
a balloon that had been popped,
the air escaped her. She told
them she could feel the burning
as they cut the incision across
her belly. They disregarded
her words. This was the fourth
time. She knew something was
wrong. They weren’t listening
to her. They didn’t believe her.
It was too much for her to bear
as she lost consciousness. They
both almost lost their lives. One
had barely begun. The other had
lives depending on her, but what
the devil intended for harm, God
intended for good.
This was the ultimate
depiction of her struggle.

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 Looking into history, we must consider the contact that the
European man had with the Natives of Boricua. The Natives showed
him how to navigate the Lesser and Greater Antilles. In return, the
Europeans came with terrible diseases that exterminated the island.
They also tried to impose Roman Apostolic Catholicism at penalty of
death by burning at the stake, and as legend has it, pouring hot oil
down their victims’ throats.
Looking at my personal history I find myself coming to grips with
reality very often. My family composed of one brother, mother, and
father were very close; yet somehow we gradually drifted apart.
Perhaps it was for the better. My father was a disabled veteran and
very difficult to live with. He didn’t speak much and kept us kids shy.
I distinctly remember how he kept us away from my mother’s
immediate family. It was taboo to see my uncles, aunts, cousins,
etc. Conversely, it should be mentioned that he was a loving father.
You see he suffered from some sort of neurosis. As far as my brother
is concerned, I really disliked him. My father’s favoritism toward
him kept us apart. I always did believe, relative to the Natives and
Europeans, that it was due to the fact that I was darker skinned like
my mother’s side of the family, and my brother was lighter.

The pain of life was so hard

to bear. Her broken heart had
collapsed to make way for
the end, but it was only the
beginning. She had born the child
of her affliction. Her intent was
to abort it. Her desire was not
to continue. Yet out of strength
and endurance, obligation, and
conscious will, her birth pains
produced a miracle.

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 A Mother’s Reflection
PATRICIA ARANA

H
e was born two days before his due date, and right on time!
He turned the number 13 into a lucky number right before tax
day! I could barely lift my head, but when they laid him on my
chest all I could think was, “He’s perfect.” His facial features were so
distinct. He was beautiful! It’s amazing how the unknown worries seem
to wash away once you have that child in your arms. All those things
you didn’t know how to do suddenly become first nature; yet nobody
taught you.
Our children teach us. We fend for their survival although he was
so independent I would have sworn that he could survive on his own.
He wasn’t the type of baby to whine or cry. If his diaper was wet, he’d
take it off. If he wanted a bottle, he’d find one that had previously
magically disappeared. There were certain things that didn’t seem to
develop as quickly. Still there were other things that developed far
beyond his years. Most people couldn’t understand his words until
after he turned three. Mama could. He resisted being potty trained as
well until he turned three, but once he did there were no accidents.
However, he started walking at ten months and dressing himself at an
early two! No, he didn’t always exactly match, but he liked to do it
himself.
His sense of humor was one of a kind. One day he came to me letting
me know that he had put his shoes on himself. I told him, “Good job,
baby, but they’re on the wrong feet.” He went about his business. I
thought he was fixing his mistake. I guess you can say that he did. It’s
as if he stepped away only to devise his plot. Shoes still on the wrong
feet, he crossed his legs and mischievously said, “Mom, are they on
the right feet now?” I busted out in laughter, amazed that a child at
such a young age can have such an intelligent sense of humor. I recall
another time when my son suddenly burst out with what seemed out
of nowhere, “Mom, you’re such a wooonderfuuul woman!” I didn’t even
know that word was yet in his vocabulary. The way he said it, the tone
in his voice and the sincerity behind it melted my heart away.

10
 After ten years of motherhood it hasn’t been easy, but it’s been
rewarding. You have your good times and bad times, your fun times
and your heart wrenching moments. You get criticisms left and right,
outsiders opinions, and judgments that at times even make you battle
your own instinct as a parent, but nobody knows her child like a mama.
When it’s all said and done and I look into the face of my wonderful
son, I can’t help but believe the only opinion that matters, and I know
it’s true that I’m such a wooonderfuuul woman.

11
 Abuelita
PATRICIA ARANA

I
remember one of my first
longings for her was in
elementary. I was at my
swimming lesson and I saw a
boy with his grandmother. She
reminded me of a vague image
that I had of my grandmother in
my mind. I hadn’t seen her since
we left Peru when I was five. That
wasn’t the first or the last time I
longed for my grandmother. I still
long for her today.
The first time I saw her again
was when I was twelve. That
blurred image that I had became
sharp and vivid. She was now
before me in three dimensions and
although her presence brought a
familiar comfort, the longing persisted. The language barrier between
us made me feel we were still countries apart, but her heart near mine
brought me home to my pachamama (my mother land). She made
familiar dishes that had been almost extracted from my diet: Lomo
Saltado, Ceviche, Arose con pollo, Arose con leche, fried plantains,
sweet potato pancakes, and home made baklava! The taste of her foods
were as rich as the culture she passed on to me through her blood line.
Strong she was! She has been a pillar that survived through the
storms and stood the test of time! One day while we were eating as
a family my father told us a story of a day my grandfather threw a
plate at his head from across the dining room table. He laughed at
the memory while he described how he barely moved on time to avoid
the collision with his face. Had he moved one second slower, he could
have suffered some major damage. None of us kids thought it was very
funny seeing how it was this poisonous anger that was inflicted upon
us as children. Still I thought as horrible as my father’s anger could be
at times, his father’s was probably worse. My grandmother survived,
and she kept the family together. When my parents would argue
she would plead for peace ironically with anger as well. I saw how
the strength of her heart endured more in her lifetime in the hopes
that her children and grandchildren would endure less. For that I’m
grateful. I live on with her legacy.
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 Resilience
PATRICIA ARANA
W
hen he speaks it’s
slowly. His sentences are
prolonged and several
are unnecessary to get the point
across. You have to be patient
with him, and you can’t count
the minutes ticking away on
your cell phone. He’s a kind man,
very gentle and whole-hearted.
He’s into the arts and music and
literature. He’s intelligent and
humble. He’s an inspiration to me
and to many others.
About twelve years ago he
fell off his roof at home. Active
as he was, coaching his son’s
baseball, going on regular runs,
and many other things, he still
remains as active as he can. He
still teaches college lit. He told
me he recalled a day running
down Summit Ave. with absolute
gratitude for how good he felt in
his body. Breathing in the fresh
air he raised his hands thanking
God for the use of his legs, not
knowing that one day he would
be a paraplegic. To this day, with
his mouth and his hands, he still
gives thanks to God for his legs
and his life.
My Mother
BRANDEE JOURDAIN
M
y mother, Bernice
Jean Lightfeather,
was the most
beautiful woman I know.
She was the strongest.
The bravest. She always
put her children and
grandchildren first. She
had a heart of gold. She
sacrificed a lot to support
her eight children. After
we all grew up she took in
her grandchildren. As time
went on she started getting
sick, coughing all the time.
We all thought it was just a
cold, and it would go by. As
the months went on, she
started getting weaker, but
she stayed active. She kept
going to school, taking
care of her grandson,
and going to work at the
casino. She never let her
sickness into the way of
her active life even though
she was so weak. She
never let me know she was
hurting, but I knew how
she felt. We used to talk
about everything together.
She was my only true best
friend. She always asked
me what I was gonna do.
Where would I go?
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 Disappeared
LORNA ROY

W
hen I was eight, I remember my little sister getting her head
burnt by a plastic that caught fire from a candle. The plastic
went in the air and landed in her hand. Now she has a big
scar on her left hand. The house we lived in at the time was the house
my father left and I haven’t seen him again for like about ten years.
I remember that day exactly. My father was over visiting, and my ma
was partying one block over at my auntie’s house. My ma came home
to check on us. She saw my dad so she ran back to my aunt’s to get my
auntie’s boyfriend to come kick my dad out. I cried so hard. I watched
my father walk away and not look back at me. I haven’t seen him again
for ten years.

Accident
LORNA ROY

S
eptember 2009 my sister got into a car accident on. She broke her
neck and almost paralyzed herself. She had a ninety five percent
chance of dying. Now she is much different than she was before
her accident. I almost lost it. I wished I could have taken some pain
for her. She was blacked out, but remembers going eighty-five miles
per hour. She hit a boulder. The car flew thirty feet in the air and
nose-dived. She was thrown from the car before it hit the ground.
I found out at 9:00am. I almost fell off my bike. I stopped and could
not believe it. She’s my baby girl. That’s what I call her. She is doing
good now. The last time I seen her she walked one hundred feet. That
was a month ago. Now she says she is combing her own hair. She called
me last week and told me she’s getting her kids back, and Duluth put
her on the top of the Section Eight waiting list.
My sister is twenty-three years old. She was wild and had
drinking problem. Drinking and driving almost paralyzed her. She is
such a caring and loving person now. It took her to have something
bad to get her life better. Her perspective on life is much better. She
changed a lot. I miss her and love her. She’s my best friend.

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Community Writing Project
Hal Adams
825 Summit Ave #1108
haladams@gmail.com
Design and production
Lori Korte Design
lorikortedesign.com
lorikortedesign@comcast.net
Thanks to all the writers
for their contributions.

AUTHORS RETAIN ALL RIGHTS

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Project for Pride in Living
1035 Franklin Avenue East
Minneapolis, Minnesota 55404