And this is Writing Class Radio. You'll hear true personal stories and learn how to write your own stories. Together, we produce this podcast with equal parts heart and art. By heart, we mean the truth in a story. By art we mean the craft of writing, no matter what's going on in our lives, Writing Classe is where we tell the truth. It's where we work at our shit. There's no place in the world like Writing Class, and we want to bring you in.
Today on our show, we bring you a story by artist and writer Corey Devon Arthur. Corey has served 25 years on a life sentence for robbery and murder, and is currently housed at Otisville Correctional Institution in New York. Corey has been published here on the Writing Class Radio podcast and the Marshall Project, among others. To hear Coreys previously aired stories listen to episode 120, My Pen Uncovers The Real Me, episode 128 My New Manifesto and episode 143, Cutting Needless Words. Today's story really drives home the importance of being vulnerable. And we talk about how often it takes writing with people you trust to get to the deep shit. You'll understand what I mean after you hear Corey's story. And as you listen, I also want you to notice Korea's excellent use of metaphor, which is not easy. So what is metaphor? And how is it used in a story? Okay, so well metaphor is a literary device used to compare two unlike things so in this story, Corey compares himself to a broken black crayon. And we'll talk more about Corey's use of metaphor after he reads his story.
Back with Corey's story after the break. We're back. This is Andrea Askowitz and you're listening to Writing Class Radio. Up next is Corey Devon Arthur reading his story broken crayon.
Brooklyn, 1982. In kindergarten, I began to draw. I used a dirty, no-name-brand black crayon to scribble a big round circle on top of a crooked stick figure cross. It was misshapen and awkward—a depiction of how I felt about myself. Like the dirty, broken, black crayon, I was the one nobody wanted.
I was raised by my great grandma and mother. Back then, I felt more "in the way" than useful. Mama was always at work or just out. Grandma was up in her years. She didn't have the energy to chase after me.
I played tag with other kids at an old-abandoned public school. Besides being condemned, it was crammed with crackheads engaged in all sorts of criminal activity.
I watched the fiends smoke the waxy white rocks. The piss and spit coated walls became my first public art gallery. I wrote as big as my child arms could stretch: "COREY DEVON ARTHUR."
"Get your little nasty ass black hands off me and go wash up." That's what Mama and Grandma used to shout at me. Unfortunately, the white soap wasn’t strong enough to cleanse my childhood. Nor did the soap ever make the pictures I drew on paper, clean enough to hang on the refrigerator, like I seen white parents do on TV.
There weren't any men around to show me how to be a boy. It wasn't until I started socializing with other boys at school that I realize I was peeing like a girl. The other boys teased me to no end.
"Stop playing with your wee wee," my grandma told me. “That’s not what good boys do.”
I felt embarrassed and ashamed because I didn't know how to tell Mama and Grandma that touching myself felt good. I hid when I wanted to feel good, and I never felt like a good boy.
The hood in the 90s was full of older males who sold crack. They hung around the abandoned school and showed me how to draw myself into a street savage. They became my role models, and I continued to sketch self-portraits with the only crayon I had.
My artistic mind went to work. The white kids drew comics with their brand-new, colorful Crayola crayons. I drew crime with broken, black nubs. I blended the darks of my identity in drug dens with other dangerous dark places. I drew the gutter and the alley. I drew myself as a drug dealer. I drew the fist I used to fight, the crack I came to sell, the guns I used to frighten, and the dick I used to fuck. I kept the dirty, broken, black crayon at my fingertips because I loved to draw.
Later, I would draw my graffiti on the street corners of Brooklyn. I called my pieces Wounded because the critics of society said I was sick. "You were born nothing but a no-good nigga." That’s what Ms. Smalls, my eighth-grade guidance counselor told me. She caught me spray painting my name on the side of the school instead of sitting in science class.
Society has a place where they fix broken bottom niggers like the one I drew myself to be. It’s called Rikers Island. At 16, I got busted for selling crack. At Rikers, they animalized me inside cold cages and taught my demons how to come out and cut each other up. Then they locked me in the box (solitary confinement) for becoming what they socialized me to be.
I drew myself going Koo Koo. "SNAP!" That’s the sound I heard the second my mind broke. The sensory and social deprivation left nothing else for the demon to feed on except my mind and heart. My own demon would have consumed every morsel of my humanity, had I not redrawn myself as a 15-year-old white girl named Anne Frank.
Despite Anne being 15 and me being 16, we were just two teenagers being oppressed and killed slowly. During my two years at Rikers, I was able to reimagine enough of Anne Frank's dairy to save what I could of my diminishing humanity. I didn't want to lose my sanity in solitude, so I slipped some of it in between the pages of her dairy. While there I saw Anne suffering in a way that showed me how to survive and fend off the savage I was becoming. Anne found a way to color kindness within the cruelty that kept us confined. Anne kept me alive. Unfortunately, Anne couldn't save me on the day it counted the most.
A year after my release, at 19 years old, I participated in a robbery with two other men that resulted in the death of my former 9th grade English teacher. I didn't draw the gun. I didn’t fire the shot, but his blood is still on my hands.
I went into Rikers a broken street thug, and I left an angry monster.
In the winter of 1998, at 20, I shuffled into Attica Correctional Facility chained and shackled with guns pointed at my head. The prison guard at Reception said, "I was born and bred to break niggas like you."
The prison guards saw I wasn't shook, so we began to shake. The snuffs, stomps, and slaps didn't stop, until the officers were sufficiently satisfied that my slumped body resembled that of a slave. The assaults lasted six seconds, six minutes, or six hours. Either way, it always felt like it went on forever. When a beat down occurred, the sense of time shifted with the breaking and dislocating of my bones. I drew myself in a still-life pose so they would stop stomping me out. I sucked in my breath so I wouldn’t scream. I allowed myself to exhale when I was sure (by silence) they had stopped.
That’s when I slipped into a place where tortured artists like me learn to draw sick shit. We call our style, Surviving in the System. I immediately sharpened my crayon into a shank, securing contraband in my rectum, and engaging in a string of cuttings and stabbings that shaped the scars on the only canvas I had left: my flesh.
Most folks saw a 20-something broken, Black crayon who had drawn his own savagery. Two women saw something else.
After 25 years inside, I wrote and published an essay about the Covid crisis in my prison. For the first time, I wasn’t just a dirty, broken, black crayon. I was Corey Devon Arthur, the writer and artist. Emily Nonko, a professional journalist and founder of Empowerment Avenue, saw the writer. Emily recruited me to squeeze on free society by writing about life in the joint.
Alli Langer, the dopest white girl on earth (DWGOE), found me through Emily. Alli’s a podcast producer, activist, and all-around pro. Alli loves to say "fuck” but assured me that fucking is something we would never do. I told her I've been handling my own dirty, black crayon long enough to please myself (despite my grandma’s scorn). Alli's my homegirl.
Alli uses her superpowers to get at the bag. Being a beautiful, nosey, persistent task master is how she penetrated my truth with her Jedi mind fuck tricks. She took me to a place of vulnerability that no one has ever taken me to before. The DWGOE shared her pain with me so we could heal together.
She stared at me the entire time, while I told her what happened the night my 9th grade English teacher was murdered. Together, she and I sketched out the worse thing I had ever done. It was the hardest thing I wrote. That was the first and only time I have ever been truly penetrated by a woman. She slid inside me slowly and deeply. She showed me how beauty could be drawn by a dirty, black, broken crayon.
It’s likely I’ll never receive the forgiveness I crave. I know how people see me. But I’m hungry to make meaning out of destruction. It's been two years since I began writing with Alli. Since then, I've been published over a dozen times. I have redrawn myself as an artist, a feminist, and an activist for restorative justice. I launched a one-man art exhibit in a gallery in Brooklyn. Hundreds of people, including my mom and some formerly incarcerated people, crowded into the room to see my work, read my stories, and meet the people who believe in me.
Unlike the abandoned school I played in as a kid, the gallery walls are clean, respected spaces of positivity. I didn't just use my dirty, broken, black crayon to draw the people who inspired me, I redrew myself.
This this time when I heard this story, right now, first of all, whenever I get to the end, and this is so I've read this before, but I, I love it so much. I love the way he talks about you. But I want to get to that in a second. I feel like it's like I don't really always understand metaphors. And I hope I'm not getting this wrong, but he is a black crayon. That's a metaphor.
That nobody wants.
A broken black crayon. And then the language of drawing he weaves throughout. And that is so well done.
Yeah, well, I'm a little close to this especially, I mean, it feels a little uncomfortable to hear, like all the praise, and then to have it to be airing it. So I rather step out for a second and let you sort of give us more of your-
Well, let me then just then I'm sorry.
No, go ahead.
Yeah, let me then just talk about the very end, because that's the part where yeah like, okay, let's not be so self serving. But I want to be because, well, one, it's not about me. So let's serve you. But the way that he described what happened when you were his teacher, is fucking stunning. The two of you sketched out the worst thing he ever did. So he uses that language sketched out. He was like, This is the closest thing, this is the only time a woman has truly penetrated me. And I mean, it's a little tiny, maybe could seem scary. But no, I don't think so. Like he's really just saying, writing and writing that his truth was the most vulnerable thing he's had to do. And he appreciates you for putting him through that and also because you did it with him and I know that this is the Writing Class Radio way. We are always, always students and teachers, both. And I know that there's a lot of teachers who are like, are students who are like, 'Why am I paying you money to hear your story?' Because this is why because everybody in the writing room has to be vulnerable for the truth to come out for everybody. So congratulations, Allison for doing that. And congratulations to Corey Devon Arthur for kind of like going for it. It's so hard, and then showed me how beauty could be drawn by a dirty black broken crayon. So he turned around like he was using this crayon to like, draw ugly shit his whole life. And at the very end, there's change in this narrator there's change in his perspective. And he wrote 'I redrew myself.'
You know, I know that you've heard me say this a million times that like once I started going into prison to teach these guys to write and I I felt like every time I left I wasn't doing enough and I still feel that way. But when these guys Corey, in this instance, pours out their heart and can show me how much I'm helping them get through their sentence or their life or whatever it is. It does make me feel like alright, I'm touching one person. Not enough, but at least it's one person that isn't suffering as much. And I'm not saying it's even me. It's just a person believing in someone who everybody has given up on.
So this guy had two people, he had you and he had Emily Nonko from Empowerment Avenue. And because of that, he wrote a dozen he's gotten published a dozen times, he redrew himself as an artist, a feminist and activist. He launched a one person art exhibit that you went to.
In Brooklyn, yeah.
He's touched up hundreds of people. So I get what you're saying, I struggle with it, too. Like, are we doing enough? Because we're just like sitting here, navel gazing, and then teaching other people how to navel gaze. But if they can navel gaze this hard. It's so important.
The other thing I noticed when I listened to it this time, and I noticed this about him, and maybe everyone is that, so this guy I know from previous stories has navigated his life with sexuality. That's how he got people to see him to to assimilate with other people, white people, right, rich people.
I don't know what you mean, what do you mean?
So he grew up on the streets, but his ninth grade English teacher, the man who was murdered, was a friend a nd so was his community of other, you know, sort of New York, ex, you know, wealthy folks who were in the drug scene and the sex scene. And they took them on vacations. And, you know, they all had like orgies and sex, and it was very sexual to feel accepted. Yeah.
Oh, so wait, did he have sex with? Was he like involved in sexual stuff with this ninth grade English teacher? Or?
Well, I don't know that or, yeah, no, I think there was other people in the group. So there were a lot of drugs and sex going on. So but what I noticed between us is that, of course, there's a man in prison for 25 years and here's this woman paying attention to him. So there's it started sort of as like, 'Oh, what's this woman want?' You know, like what's and I just put like, okay, the kibosh on that completely. Listen, I'm not in for this. That's not what's going to happen here. We're going to develop a friendship, if that's what happens. But let's just take that off the table, so that we can be who we really are. And I think sometimes when sex is involved, or there's, you know, we hide behind things we don't want that person to know. But there was none of that. So he could be 100% vulnerable and so could I, because I wasn't trying to like, I didn't have an agenda and neither did he. So I think just that point that he mentioned, there's a reason why that's in there. And that's, that's the case in our writing classes. And when people start writing, because you get to know somebody in a deeply vulnerable way. That is, has nothing to do with being naked.
So I like how he described the vulnerability of the writing connection that he had with you in a way that was very sexual. Even though you told him right from the start, fucking was not going to happen and he accepted that. But right, okay, so I get what you're saying this, this, our narrator experiences the world in a very sexual way, and has from from being even a little kid, the part where his grandmother told them to stop touching his weewee. Ah, that was heartbreaking to me. And then he actually had a callback about that. Wait, let me see. I noticed it. Where was it? There, there was definitely a callback to his grandmother, despite my grandmother, there was something about came up later in the story. And I was like, Oh, well done. I don't know where it is. Because I was too hung up in a great way on all of his language that was about coloring and drawing. He talked about drawing in a metaphorical way. But he actually also drew, like he did draw on the school yard walls. Like he was a real artist throughout also.
Yeah. What about the Anne Frank moment?
And still is. Yeah.
So I've seen a lot like did you ever read or watch? It's called Freedom Writers w.r.i.t.e.r.s. And they she gets this whole group of like, you know, low income kids to really bond with this book. And so it-
Was with the Diary of Anne Frank?
Mm hmm. And there's something about her survival or her struggle that seems to resonate with many people, but especially with people who are discriminated against, and so I just thought that he bonded to somebody who was like we do in stories. When we hear a story we connect. And so he connected with her.
He turned himself into her. Again, another metaphor. Like he became Anne Frank. I thought that was really cool for like a big tough guy to call himself Anne Frank. That was that was like such a heart like, opening moment for me. I just love that. Oh, and what about the part where he is talking about the crime? I didn't draw the gun, again, draw, but his blood is still on my hands. Full responsibility, that makes me love this narrator. And then he and then when he was getting like, pummeled to shit in prison. He drew himself into a still life. God, that was good. Yeah, yeah, the more that we can't hate them. That's exactly this. That's exactly the whole reason that we are storytelling advocates.
Yeah, I you know, I want to just bring this up, because I'm sure there are people listening that are like this guy murdered somebody. And we have told other this guy's as mentioned in the beginning, he has told other stories on this podcast. So I think it would be beneficial for people to listen to those because I feel like the more we get to understand and know somebody through their stories. I mean, it's, it's hard because there are tons of people out there that feel that he should fry and just be there for the rest of his life. I'm not one of them because I do feel that people can change. And I just feel like anybody who's listening to this, that, that has that opinion, that's okay. But just maybe try to understand.
I don't
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Thank you, Corey, for sharing your story with us. And thank you guys for listening. To read more Corey, or to listen to more Corey, don't forget to listen to his previous episodes and check our show notes for links.
Our show notes include the entire transcript. So like if you are hearing impaired, or if you just, you know you want to geek out and and be like a super fan, you can go to writingclassicradio.com and go to the blog show notes and everything that is spoken on the podcast is there in writing with links to like links to the other episodes that Corey has been on and links to anything that we mentioned. Just wanted to make that clear.
Writing class Radio is hosted by me Alison Langer.
And me Andrea Askowitz.
Audio production by Matt Cundill Evan Surminski, Chloe Emond-Lane and Aiden Glassey at the Sound Off Media Company. The music is by Marnino Toussaint. There's more Writing Class on our website, writingclassradio.com including stories we study, editing resources, video classes, writing retreats and live online classes. Join our community by following us on Patreon. And if you want to write every week with us you can join our first draft weekly writers group you have the option to join me on Tuesdays at 12-1pm Eastern Time, or Eduardo Wink on Thursdays 8 to 9pm Eastern time. You'll write to a prompt and share what you wrote. If you're a business owner, entrepreneur, community activist, a group that needs healing and want to help your team write better we can help. Check out all the classes we offer on our website writingclass radio.com A new episode will drop every other Wednesday. Join the community that comes together for instruction, an excuse to write and most importantly the support from other writers. A new episode will drop every other Wednesday.
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