Over the past year, I have had the good fortune to become a member of the Black Seed Writers: poets and story-tellers from the homeless community of downtown Boston. I scribe, type, occasionally write, and collaborate with the writers on making text and image portraits.
The writers I’ve met have endured, survived and experienced life in ways many of us will never know. Some have overcome addiction, struggled with mental illness, served time. All have known the challenge of finding a doorway or bench, subway station or makeshift tent, to spend the night. While many are in various states of transition, more than a few remain rough sleepers.
But every Tuesday morning, they descend upon the Cathedral Church of St. Paul, opposite Park Street Station. In verse, narrative and stream of consciousness, they relate their travels, travails and time on the streets in ways that make a reader wonder, ponder and understand, at least a little, what it’s like to be homeless or unhoused.
Behind their struggles, I have found some of the most intelligent, interesting, and yes friendliest, people I have ever met. They have shown me both warmth and kindness. Geno, with his huge smile, greets me every week. Richie rushes over with news of his latest volunteer work. Bryant chimes in with some clever comment from his endless arsenal of wisecracks. Jan shares a new political insight. Laurel wants to know if I brought her cigarettes and often has a gift for me.
For welcoming me into their space, sharing their companionship, showing me their trust, and collaborating with me on the images you see here, I owe the Black Seed Writers a debt of gratitude.
Note: this is early work from an ongoing project on the Black Seed Writers.