Since 1995, PEN in the Classroom (PITC) has helped thousands of Southern California high school students discover the power of their unique voices by sending professional writers into their classrooms for creative writing residencies. PITC residencies emphasize the importance of language and the transcendent quality of words, while cultivating the tools young writers inherently possess.  Each residency concludes with the publication of a student anthology.  Students also have the opportunity to participate in public readings and submit to our annual PEN in the Classroom Literary Contest.   Response to the program has been overwhelmingly positive, with teachers, students, and writers alike expressing unequivocal support.

For more info, contact:
pitc@penusa.org

After receiving a request for a PITC residency, the PEN office will coordinate a residency.   PITC instructors are asked to align their lesson plans with the California Arts & Language Content Standards.  Instructors are selected from PEN’s diverse membership to best match the needs of the school where they will complete their residency.  Working with the classroom teacher, the PITC instructor will develop a tailored curriculum.  An instructor’s residency is comprised of a teacher/writer meeting; in-class writing workshops; publication of a student anthology; and a culminating public reading.

Classroom
PITC Instructors will develop a tailored curriculum before the start of the residency. The curricula are often genre-specific, meaning students will write poetry, fiction, plays, or creative nonfiction. A typical residency combines selected readings with classroom discussions and thematically linked writing exercises. Students will be expected to participate in discussions and complete in-class writing assignments. Homework and creative projects may also be assigned. Though the instructor will run the workshops and provide written feedback to the students, it is the responsibility of the classroom teacher to ensure credit is given for completion of assignments and to maintain control of the classroom (though this is seldom an issue). Student work will be collected by the instructor at the end of their residency and published by PEN USA in an anthology.  PEN hosts a public reading of student work and will provide each student with copies of the anthology.

Time
Instructors typically conduct in-class workshops once a week, for a period of twelve weeks. Classes are one hour, depending on the school schedule. In the case of block scheduling, workshops are adjusted accordingly.

Stipend
Writers are paid a stipend for each writing workshop, as well as for compiling a student anthology.

Join
If you are a classroom teacher who would like to host a PITC instructor or a PEN member interested in conducting a residency, contact the PEN USA Program Manager, Michelle Meyering, to receive an application.

 PITC Instructors will develop a tailored curriculum before the start of the residency. The curricula are often genre-specific, meaning students will write poetry, fiction, plays, or creative nonfiction. A typical residency combines selected readings with classroom discussions and thematically linked writing exercises. Students will be expected to participate in discussions and complete in-class writing assignments. Homework and creative projects may also be assigned. Though the instructor will run the workshops and provide written feedback to the students, it is the responsibility of the classroom teacher to ensure credit is given for completion of assignments and to maintain control of the classroom (though this is seldom an issue). Student work will be collected by the instructor at the end of their residency and published by PEN USA in an anthology.  PEN hosts a public reading of student work and will provide each student with copies of the anthology.

 Instructors typically conduct in-class workshops once a week, for a period of twelve weeks. Classes are one hour, depending on the school schedule. In the case of block scheduling, workshops are adjusted accordingly.

Writers are paid a stipend for each writing workshop, as well as for compiling a student anthology.

PEN in the Classroom is supported in part by grants from the Dwight Stuart Youth Foundation, the Herb Alpert Foundation, The Kayne Foundation, Los Angeles County Arts Commission and the National Endowment for the Arts. PITC has also received support from Los Angeles Unified School District, which has included PEN in the Classroom in its Arts Community Partnership Network. Past funders have included, the Times Mirror Foundation, the California Community Foundation, the California Arts Council, the Fulfillment Fund, Northrup Grumman, the Rosenthal Family Foundation, Sony Pictures Entertainment, the Tiger Woods Foundation, and the Winnick Family Foundation.

If you are a classroom teacher who would like to host a PITC instructor or a PEN member interested in conducting a residency, contact the PEN USA Program Manager, Michelle Meyering, to receive an application.

Another successful year of programs concluded in June 2009 with public readings and the publication of student anthologies. This year’s participating schools included ANIMO FTA, Fairfax High School, Hollywood High School, Odyssey Middle School and Venice High School. For the first time we also exported PITC outside of the Southern California region to Capshaw Middle School in Santa Fe, New Mexico. We look forward to future opportunities to share PITC with additional states.

We are pleased to share the following highlights from these readings and anthologies . . . .

I am
by Sergio Peralta

My mom and dad jumped the fence of opportunity to discover a new world.

I am from the streets of south central.
I am an unfinished, complicated blueprint, in progress for 16 years.
I am living with an alcoholic guardian, who would rather guard his own plate.
I live with a kind, vicious idol, my first teacher, the woman in my life that I look up to.
I am from a vast ocean of unknown families, nothing but shame.
I am an identity crisis, not knowing who I am.
I am a whirlpool of drama.  Emotions trying to drown me in the Devil’s kingdom.
I am from not believing and not trusting my faith.
I am from low self esteem, not trusting my soul, giving into confusion.
I am from a vision of music and sound, which helped me to understand this strange world.
I do not know the good life, only bad luck and struggles.  I think the good life doesn’t exist.
I am from not trying enough and almost destroying my dreams.
I create my own drug, consuming what is inside of me, my spirit.
I am from a rough childhood, balancing responsibilities.
I am going to rise form my pitch black hole and come back to the light, which is my life.
I am BLoO, the color of inspiration and sorrow.  I am a street poet.
 

Lingers Long On Love Street
by Marisela Toro
 
Ecstacy.
Can you feel what I feel?
Accept this token of my love—
Fly with me,
Run with me,
Join me.
 
See what I see.
You see, drugs
Are a bet with your mind.
Let’s get out of these swarming streets.
My mind rebelled, refused.
Then defeated.
Took it in,
It accepted.
 
I’m human.
But I’m not an ordinary man,
No, no, no.
I’m a poet who aims to achieve, if anything,
To deliver people from the limited ways
In which they see and feel.
 
You see, real poetry doesn’t say anything,
It just opens all doors,
All possibilities—
And you can walk through any one that suits you.
Limitless, eternal.
 
I am troubled
Immeasurably
By your eyes.

Uncover the Stream
by Tania Sandoval

Fishing for a missing hit
The net won’t release, hiding out behind
The drum.  Fluff and bits of fleece.
Wind is blowing, not that cold.
Sun is up, weather is good.
Passing boat makes a splash.  Cutting board,
Hidden on a rock.  Headless shrimp in a pack,
Nervous fingers bait the hook.
The fish jump, they spark great hope.
Fish die and come back in many forms.
Find the ideal spot to throw, to the edges
Of the visible flow.  Hope to catch bigger than yesterday,
Swinging that fish pole, letting it stray.
Fishing line lands on the bay,
Teasing fish, to bite is okay.
A promise is open.  What awareness can you sense?
Vibration from the fishing pole, a struggle.
To be free from a boiling kettle,
I am a bouncing fish in a big fishing hole.
 

ANIMO student Josh Ramirez reads from his poetry.

ANIMO FTA poetry workshop students with instructor Michelle Meyering.

Love is a Puzzle
by Adriana Choquehuanca

Imagine 500 colorful pieces in a box
The image increases like
Anyone’s eventual creativity

First there’s an anger of finishing confusion
Then, as it is with heart and passion
Confusion usually ends up in the trashcan

Picture a set of missing pieces
Where your love is an incomplete picture
Missing faces unfinished
And forgotten

Think of the image which
Appears on the noggin

But finding the last piece is too hard to repeat
When it was passion, after all,
And not love which was incomplete

Love, Painful but Delicious
by Carol Luna

Love is so delicious
I hate to see it die
but I’m mistaken

one probably
thinks they
are loved

By that special
someone

But in the end
one feels cold
and lonely

Forgive me
but I do not
believe in love anymore

This is Just to Say
by Laura Rogers

I have picked
the sweet roses
that were in
the garden
which were the color
of an inflamed sunset

and which you probably
grew for
their delicious beauty.

Forgive me,
they reminded me
of the
fiery,
candy apple
passion
which I had lost

PITC Instructors Patricia Abrams and Jamie O'Halloran with the Fairfax High School students.

Fairfax students read from their work.

Blessing & Cursing
by Min-Ji

Bless the man with the devil’s appearance
Curse the woman with the immaculate soul

Bless the man with the witches in his house
Curse the woman whom no one respects

Bless the man with a heart made of sulfur
Curse the woman who dreams of the world

Bless the man who’s wicked and tempered
Curse the woman whose virtue is truth

Bless the man who surrenders nothing
Curse the woman who’s a hero to all

Bless the man who sleeps in hell
Curse the woman of no protection, no future

Bless the man who nightly cries “Witch,”
Curse the woman who stands tall and speaks

Bless the man who cuts down the dreams
Curse the woman who blesses them

Bless the man who is forsaken by life
Curse the woman who heals herself in love

Bless the man whose grip is slipping
Curse the woman who is dangerous with hate

Bless the man on the threshold of murder
Curse the woman newly born into this world.

The Dream
by Ice Marrow

She served the people all her life
Splashing through the water
Mixing into the songs of mockingbirds
Across the tree tops
I’m afraid
Splashing through the water
Candlelight flickering
But the dream was true
I sniff the air
She served the people all her life
Candlelight flickering
I sniff the air
And mix into the songs of mockingbirds

Rhythm
by Laura Rogers

The gurgling waters of the river sang
To the hum of the turning earth
They grew rhythmic
Calming the wild beauty of our moonlit hills
To the hum of the turning earth
The beauty of the llano unfolded before my eyes
Calming the wild beauty of our moonlit hills
And I saw safety and warmth
To the hum of the turning earth
There is always room for one more person
The beauty of the llano unfolded before my eyes
The pulse of the living earth pressed its mystery into my living blood
The gurgling waters of the river sang
There is always room for one more person
The pulse of the living earth pressed its mystery into my living blood
They grew rhythmic

  Letter from Rudolfo Anaya, author of Bless Me, Ultima

Untitled
by Salvador Escamilla

I can hear little kids
Screaming on the streets
Smell the pupusas from far away
The fireworks continuous and loud

My grandma is cooking in the kitchen
Panes con pollo
The family is waiting in line
Just to taste the appetizing chicken
If you go outside, you could see the happiness of the people

I try throwing a silvador at my sister,
But I don’t let go fast enough.
I look down at my hand and there is a big burn on it
With lots of blood dripping on the floor

I run into the house
Looking for my mom
And when I find her,
She gives me a kiss and says
It’s okay; go outside and play.
So I do and I see people dancing in the streets
Ready to dance all night long.

Unwanted Storms
by Melissa Muñoz

How can it be possible that after so many years nothing has changed?

Their screaming and yelling could be heard from my back yard, where the summer flowers were starting to bloom and the hummingbirds waiting for their arrival.

The background yelling scared every living thing, including the people in the yard. They seemed to argue about something so useless, like the color of the wall or even the taste of the food. But the storm grew greater to problems with their communication.

I looked over my shoulder, where my scab from falling down the stairs was; I took Edgar and Kimberly by the hand, terrified from what they had seen since they had never experienced my parents’ storms before. I held them close telling them everything was going to be ok… while still wondering how long their storm was going to stay.

I ignored the yelling and stepped inside the eye of the storm holding onto Edgar and Kimberly, their tears pouring down their small innocent faces. My parents looked at us with astonishment and embarrassment.

Then when the storm was almost over my mom took the moment to say “look what you have done, it’s your fault that we live like this!”

And the storm began once again!

Hollywood High PITC Students read from their work at the Will and Ariel Durant Library.


 

Ode to Word to Word
by Stephen Figura

They pass like a death at last
you have left says the person
who is listening. They pass like
a car you forget the color
you forget the word. Wasted
forgotten, Drifting into the wind
for someone who is aware,
who is listening. Words clump
up and stick together like
cancer on a body you are
scattered, you are forgotten,
you are, confused.

I Am
by Ebony Ellison

I am
as pink as a
full bloom flower,
the rush of blood in
babies’ cheeks, or
the beginning
of a setting
sun.

I am
a diamond,
sparkle and shimmer,
flat and
sharp.

I am
the glide
of a swift
moving wind
in the open air.

I am
the sound
of the song
bird.

I am
the deer
that prances
in the wild.

I am
the song
of heaven’s
angels.

I am
the number
that never
falls.

I am
the pillow, soft and
fluffy.

I am
the food
of the starving
family, and sweet
to the tongue.

I am
the vocals
of the heart.

I am
the waterfall,
loud and
strong.

I am
the dreamer
of all big
brown eyes.

Hate
by Jared Akins

wears cardboard
shorts
has only no
eyes
eats happiness
for
breakfast
listens to hard
rock
takes dead roses
to his
date
he takes his
fishes
and it is also
his
dinner
his favorite
food
is raw squid
his favorite music
is jazz
 

Odyssey Middle School PITC students with instructor Deena Rosen.

Please Say You’re Sorry
by Laura Gonzalez

When my father moved to the United States, he didn’t imagine that he would have no option other than to be a gardener clipping hedges for rich people in Santa Monica and Malibu. At home I could see his desperation and depression start to rise.

At home my father seemed to take his anger out on me. When this personality took over, I feared him. Powerless at work, he could be powerful over me. One day he hurt me so badly I couldn’t walk.

It all started because my mother and younger brother were arguing over his clumsiness. I didn’t like violence or mouths full of venomous poison, so I got in the way and told them they should talk it out instead. I got accused of interfering with my parents’ “moral” values for raising a child, so I got slapped with a fist that was intended to teach me a lesson about the next time they were talking with my brother. Keeping my face up front, I demanded my dad give me an excuse for hitting me. He answered, fiercely, “I’m your father, and I can hit you whenever the hell I want!”

Aggravated by his response, I offered him my left cheek as well. His eyes had a glare of fire in them. He took off his belt and started hitting me. Each time the leather stroked my skin, burns of pain rushed to my heart. I was heartbroken because I’d never imagined he had the courage to hit me in such an abusive way.

My left arm began to turn purple, green, and red. Covered in bruises, my hand looked like a puddle of red wine. I looked at my skin and it seemed to me ready to explode.

In the end, my eyes looked like two giant strawberries, exhausted by crying and remembering. And my heart was shattered into a thousand pieces because the father who had once changed my diaper and fed me my bottle had turned into an unrecognizable creature.

I wanted to wake up and say, “Hitting, screaming, whining, and battering, thank God, it was all pretend!” But unfortunately it wasn’t pretend; it was the reality that a 14-year-old girl must carry until the day her dad says, “I’m sorry.”

Mind, Body, and Paint
by John Rodriguez

I’m relaxing my mind, sitting on my bed, letting the music massage my ears. I’m looking out the window, watching the sun’s every move, waiting for it to set. The whole time I’m in my room writing, killing time, waiting for my parents to fall asleep. I’m practicing different styles, making sure to get them stuck in my head. I peek out my bedroom door. It looks as if the coast is clear. I slide my closet door open. I slip on my black Levis, a black t-shirt, and the dirtiest black shoes I can find. I open up the top drawer of my dresser and gather my tips. I pick out the finest colors of paint. I unzip my backpack and stuff all my needs towards the bottom. Now I’m off.

I slowly open my front door. I hold my breath and take light steps. Now, I’m outside. The cold air hits my face and wakes me right up. It has me eager to get there. I walk through this mellow city, Inglewood, California. The streets are quiet. Walking down each block, I can hear my every footstep. The cans in my backpack rattle. I glance left, right. All I see are light poles and parked cars. No people. I’m near. I look around to see if there are any cops or people who might call the cops while I’m jumping in.

I’m in! My feet hit the dirt. It smells as if I landed in a nursery. The floor is covered with branches. The gigantic grey walls that surround me are covered with tagging. My heart is pounding. I look into the heavens and all I see are the blurred clouds. I make my way down the hill. The branches are constantly causing me to lose my balance. I take every step carefully. I’m at the bottom of the hill. I glance towards my right. Cars speeding at me at 70, 80 mph. I take a deep breath. I make a run for it! Across the 405 Freeway. The headlights coming my way are blinding me.  My ears are crying from the cars’ obnoxious honking.

Thank god, I make it across the freeway safely. I’m now near the exit on Manchester Boulevard. I can see the wall staring at me. It’s the wall I’ve been wanting to “hit.” It’s beautiful. I love the way the wall is positioned so that when people are driving by, it clearly stands out. I approach the wall. I take a breather and rip my backpack open. I pull out my spray cans. My hand immediately bonds with it. I feel the coldness of its skin. I can hear it screaming my name. I put my “New York Fat” tip on the can because in my eyes it’s perfect. The way the tip flares the paint out, and the thickness of the lines is just right, not too wide, not too skinny.

I’m spraying away, letting my hand guide itself, letting it go free. The paint comes out getting a tight grip on the wall, leaving a trace of fine lines. I’m rotating the can as I write, getting the perfect flare and thickness of the line. While I’m writing, my body purifies itself; relieving itself of my stress and helping me forget my worries. No more getting screamed at by my mother. No one telling me what to do. There is no other better feeling than this. I’m in another world. Nothing bothers me. It’s just me, the wall, the can, doing what we do best. This is my home.

I AM
by Angelo Martinez

I am strong and loving.
I am powerful, yet passionate.
I am a ball swishing through the net.
I am Heavens gates slowly opening.
I am falling through the sky.
I am a loved one dying.
I am the rain gently dripping.
I am always myself!


I AM
by Laurel Martinez

I am arbitrary and thoughtful.
I am free.
I am the sound of growth.
I am the molten core of a celestial star.
I am wings of a bird in the sky.
I am the lost and lonely.
I am the light of the moon over the ocean.
I am human.


Status Quo
by Laurel Martinez

I want to be free
Of this world’s categories
Individual


I AM
by Tisha Garcia-Trujillo

I am random and complicated,
A unique individual.
I am beautiful, and refuse to be judged.
I am the sky singing, so lovely and sweet.
I am the stars dancing, glittering in the sky.
I am a bright future, full of happiness
I am a puppy without love, alone in the world
I am his smile that brightens up my day
I am irreplaceable.

PITC Instructor, Kate Buckley, and teacher, Mariah Runyan, with students from Capshaw Middle School.

An article on the program appeared in the Albuquerque Journal North and can be viewed at http://www.katebuckleybooks.com/pdfs/JournalNorth052309.pdf.