A-Pod 2 Arts Connect

If you’re a girl who really needs help, daring to draw a straight line and painting a map of your interior world can take you to new and more hopeful places.

PICTURE THIS: Photo illustration of one of the “rooms” in Alpha Pod, wallpapered with the self map reproduced below. In reality, the girls’ cells are a good deal less colorful than this.

Every Friday, Diana Falchuk leaves her home on Seattle’s Capitol Hill in time to teach a 9:00 a.m. art class to the girls in Alpha Pod at Remann Hall in Tacoma. Falchuk is program coordinator for Arts Connect, an arts-based mentoring program for young women who are in the Pierce County justice system because they broke the law and were apprehended. About the time Falchuk passes through the metal detectors in Remann Hall, greeting the lobby guard and waiting to be buzzed in the main control doors, the girls in A-Pod, one of eight cellblocks in the facility, begin their fifteen-minute morning lockdown.

Detention staff — the guards — are about to take their scheduled break. The girls, dressed in baggy, bright orange jumpsuits, file out of the general recreation area and into their cells — about eight by ten feet with a bed, a sink/toilet combo and a window high on the back wall that lets in light, but no view. Staff at Remann Hall call these the girls’ “rooms.” Heavy metal doors slam behind the girls. From the recreation room, through slits in the cell doors, you see flickers of orange shapes moving inside.

   
EXPRESS YOURSELF: Artwork by girls who have participated in the Arts Connect program.

Down by Law

You’re inside Remann Hall, the detention center for Pierce County Juvenile Court. It’s a short-term facility that houses boys and girls, nine to eighteen years old, while they await sentencing for crimes ranging from excessive truancy to theft and assault. (Juvenile Court judges make every effort to keep offenders under age twelve out of detention.) The kids who wind up here have been determined to be ineligible for alternatives to incarceration, such as diversion, a method of avoiding the court system available to first-time, low-risk offenders, or electronic home monitoring. “When kids fit the criteria of being a danger to themselves or to society,” explains Dave McGovern, detention manager at Remann Hall, “we hold them here pending whatever resolution occurs on their particular case.” 

Dave McGovern, detention manager at Remann Hall, is supportive of new initiatives in juvenile rehabilitation such as Arts Connect.

The resolutions juveniles have to look forward to include probation, or, for more serious offenders, being sent to a state-run juvenile prison. On average, eighty young people are held in Remann Hall at any given time; approximately 20 percent are female. Individuals can reside in Remann Hall for as little as one day and as long as a year, depending on the seriousness of the offense. The average stay is around nine days. While in detention, juveniles get the benefit of health care, including drug screening and STD testing.

And they go to school. Monday through Friday juveniles attend class from around 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., like most other kids in Washington, though students here are routinely called out of class to attend court hearings or meet with their probation officer. If they refuse to go to class or exhibit behavior problems, they go into lockdown: isolation in their room for up to twenty-three hours a day.

Through the doors that separate the cellblock from the main hallway, before you reach the Alpha Pod cells, is Jo Anne Martin’s classroom. It houses three long tables for the girls to sit at, filing cabinets, storage shelves and desks for a few computers. There are no windows; light comes from overhead fluorescents.

But compared to the institutional gray and pistachio cinder block walls around Remann Hall, it’s an explosion of color. The girls’ artwork — various school projects — is hung all over the walls: self portraits, abstract paintings, artistically rendered reports on the history of Japanese internment camps.

Jo Anne Martin pops out of the room as you approach, to greet you and to check you out — see what you’re doing here on her turf. Martin, a petite woman with a large presence, has been a teacher for nearly twenty years; for thirteen she’s taught the full range of academic subjects in Remann Hall. She says she prefers this school to all the others where she’s worked.

Following lockdown, it’s time for PE. Doors to the cells open and the girls form a line. They file past the classroom, one by one, hands behind their backs. This is required protocol for moving through the halls of the institution. The matching jumpsuits make certain features jump out right away: dark circles under the girls’ eyes, tangled hair, smiles that are surprisingly bright and free. Martin follows quickly behind them.

While waiting with Falchuk for the girls to come back, I look around the pod. I hesitate to look inside the cells — it feels like a breach of privacy. A few girls are still in lockdown.

In the middle of the room are a couple of tables, bolted to the ground, with stools attached like the arms of an octopus. A dry erase board lists the name of the girl in each cell. On the far side of the room is a wall of windows, looking out onto a courtyard. A basketball rests on the ground. Usually the girls can get fresh air periodically, but all Remann Hall courtyards are temporarily off-limits due to a recent escape attempt.

Self Maps for Beginners

One of the self-maps created during the "Self Map" project.

Finally, the girls return from PE and we all crowd into the classroom to begin art class.  Falchuk, a willowy woman with a warm but determined demeanor, introduces herself and explains Arts Connect. She lets the girls know that if they’re sentenced to probation, this program is available to them once they are released; all they need is a referral from their probation officer. If they receive a jail sentence and are subsequently paroled, however, they aren’t eligible.

Falchuk is sorry to exclude any interested girl, but in the world of juvenile detention, mixing populations of, say, girls who have committed serious crimes with girls who are runaways is considered extremely dangerous and is not allowed. “We don’t want to keep marginal kids with the worst of the kids,” explains Shelly Maluo, administrator of the Pierce County Juvenile Court. “If I didn’t know how to steal a car when I went into detention, thirty days in lockup with more savvy kids might teach me how. We don’t send them to detention to gain better criminal skills.” 

About four out of the fifteen girls in the class seem interested in the project Falchuk is explaining to them. She’s working very hard to keep their attention. Some of the girls rock in their chairs, whisper and giggle to each other or stare off into space. Falchuk isn’t bothered by this. “The girls love having Diana come into the pod,” Martin explains to me later. “They like doing the artwork. They just can’t show it. It’s not too cool to be positive all the time — especially in front of new inmates.”

Today’s project is called “Self Maps.” The girls study variations of topographical maps and note colorful place names. “Shark Reef,” “Devil’s Canyon” and “Flat Point” are a few that are called out and listed on the whiteboard. The class discusses how the idea of mapping can work as a metaphor for the course of a person’s life. Later, the girls use these concepts and terms to visualize their lives in the form of a map, which they draw and then paint with watercolors. But first the girls participate in a writing exercise. They complete a worksheet, which asks them to create three lists: “Where have you been?”  “Where are you now (not just today, but this general time of your life)?” and “Where are you going?”

This kind of self-reflection is a thread that runs through Arts Connect projects. The creative process becomes a constructive way for the girls to recall the experiences that brought them to the program, while encouraging them to articulate more positive goals for the future.

But the girls find this task challenging. They don’t understand how to answer the “Where are you now?” question. “Uh, I’m in jail,” Monique replies with a scoff.  A few around her laugh. Many give the same literal-minded answer to the question.

Falchuk holds up her own self map. A suspension bridge connects the Island of College and the Continent of Seattle. Also pictured is the Archipelago of Future Manifestations — where she’s listed an assortment of long-term goals, one of which is to make art all the time. The girls consider this; they still seem cheerfully confused.

Falchuk perseveres. She approaches Shandra and asks her how she’s doing. Shandra says she doesn’t know what to write for “Where have you been?” Falchuk responds: “I wrote down that I’ve had a lot of breakups.”

All of the girls look up, surprised and interested. One asks, “Did you cry?” “Oh, sure,” Falchuk answers, unabashedly. The chemistry in the room changes; suddenly it feels less like a classroom in jail and more like a group of kids in school.

Falchuk asks the girls again what they’ve written on their worksheets. Hands begin to rise, and now the girls offer more thoughtful answers: “I’m stuck in a hole and I can’t get out.” “I want to complete my last year of high school.” “I want to be a mechanic and run my own body shop.” Falchuk picks a few geographical terms and asks the girls to mesh them with items on their list. They take the cue and respond: “Straits of Being on the Run,” “Peak of Hanging by a Thread,” “Waterfall of Tears.”

As they express more of their ideas and feelings, the girls are matter-of-fact and focused. No one makes jokes about what others share with the room. Some talk more than others; no one needs to apologize for anything they say. This is clearly a safe space for them.

Falchuk shifts gears; as in a traditional art class, the focus is now on techniques of watercolor painting. Falchuk explains the function and methodology behind wet on wet, wet on dry and dry on dry. Everyone is asked to practice these techniques on a piece of scrap watercolor paper. Then the girls are given newsprint paper to begin sketching out a rough draft of their maps. The difficulty of drawing a straight line or a circle and getting it just right has some of the girls ready to quit in the first five minutes. 

“Many of these girls are not used to being successful,” explains Martin. “They’ll do anything to sabotage themselves when they’re working on a project. They’ll say, ‘This is ugly’ or ‘I can’t do this’ because success is not their comfort zone. Most girls are not coming from places or people that have been very positive. Screaming, hollering and talking negatively is more often the par.”

One of the girls in the Arts Connect program enjoys a moment of friendship in the Museum of Glass with a probation officer who provides supervision and encouragement for the class.

On the Outside

It’s Wednesday evening and the post-detention Arts Connect class is meeting in the education studio at the Museum of Glass. The  girls here are either on diversion or on probation and many have previously been in art class while in Remann Hall. But here it’s easier to see that they are teenage girls. In place of orange jumpsuits is a wide range of carefully selected outfits, dark eye-makeup and other bold personal statements.

Falchuk asks the girls to present their “Signs of Our Times” designs to the group. This is a project that challenges the girls to observe how text and images work in the world around them. 

Emma, a student who has been through the program before, presents a drawing of an M16 rifle with a hypodermic needle in place of the barrel. The image is shocking and certainly effective. I assume it will not be received positively. The basic context here, after all, is girls who have been in jail — in some cases for violent crimes — and who are working to find paths that won’t lead them back to Remann Hall. 

But Emma is allowed to continue, uncensored. She explains that she wants to create an antiwar message, inspired by an antidrug campaign and Stanley Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket, her favorite movie. She’s borrowing a violent image of war to speak against it. Her idea is met with interest and constructive criticism from the group. Falchuk tells me that Emma worked harder on this project than she has on others.

Emma takes art supplies home over the weekend and continues to refine her idea. She returns to class with her finished sign. Cut out in the shape of an M16, it’s painted in a red leopard skin pattern. The spots spell out the words “Support the Troops Not War.” The message represents a strong metaphor for the program itself: recontextualized, the weapon’s association with violence is subverted. Similarly, when the girls show up for art class, they are recast and can replace self-defeating behavior with creative expression of even dark and difficult feelings. 

Arts Connect is a free program, which, if all requirements are completed, contributes to the fulfillment of the community service portion of a girl’s probation. The catch is that girls must attend regularly, show good behavior and complete the “final” for the course, involving public speaking at an event open to the community.

“This program is hard work for the girls,” says Susan Warner, director of public programs for the Museum of Glass. “But they can stay in the program as long as they need to. So it’s intensive and it has continuity; those are hard qualities to find in the social services world.  Typically there’s a finite beginning and end for any program you qualify for. It’s nice that we don’t have that.”

Each of the eight- to twelve-week Arts Connect sessions centers on a project in a different medium. So far the girls have created, in addition to their signs, stop-motion animation short films and albums of original photography. They’ve worked with glass fusing and glassblowing, tackled self-portraits and even practiced the art of storytelling. Each project is designed both to challenge the girls and to provide unique opportunities to work with guest artists or experiment with materials they might otherwise not have access to. 

There are always Pierce County Juvenile Court probation officers present at Arts Connect meetings. They are here to ensure good behavior, help Falchuk supervise the girls and provide transportation for girls who need it. But mostly those who attend as regularly as their schedules permit, including Rebecca Larkin, Joy Schaad, Toni Wilson and Karen Gaugh, come to support the girls.

Pierce County Juvenile Court probation officers Karen Gaugh, Rebecca Larkin and Joy Schaad refer girls to the program and encourage them to learn new problem-solving skills.

“The more positive activities we can get them involved in,” says Schaad, “the less time they have to get in trouble. And the more supportive adults they will interact with. That’s a positive side effect of the program. I drove three kids home last night, none of whom are on my caseload. I spend a lot of time talking to them outside of class that way. And we get more accomplished than we would in a formal counseling session because they’re not all defensive and guarded.”

Larkin agrees. “Arts Connect allows the girls to grow, to be safe, to learn to love themselves,” she says. “And to have confidence in themselves, to know that if they are put in a hard situation they have the problem-solving skills to work it out.”

Not all probation officers in Pierce County refer girls to the Arts Connect program. “You might not see the importance of a creative outlet if you never had it yourself,” says Larkin. Perhaps research now being done to document the program’s effectiveness (see sidebar on next steps) will encourage broader support from the probation department.

While the girls generally enjoy all aspects of the program, what keeps them coming back is seeing the people they like. Falchuk has no illusions about the program’s most important benefits: “The goal here is not to make artists,” she says. “I don’t believe that everyone is an artist but I do believe that the skills you can learn in practicing art can translate into almost everything else you do in life.”

 
Diana Falchuk (left), the passionate teaching artist who drives the program; Remann Hall classroom teacher Jo Anne Martin (right) believes in the power of creativity to transform lives

Samantha, a seventeen-year-old who was on probation for ten months, has been participating in Arts Connect for about a year. She’s willing not only to share her creative achievements with audiences attending Arts Connects’ Third Thursday presentations at the Museum of Glass, but also to be candid about her experience in the juvenile justice system. “We’ve been in the habit of not telling audiences that we’re on probation,” she explains. “It’s a museum policy to protect our rights. But honestly, I think people would appreciate our work more if they knew where we’ve been and how we’re trying to change things around.”

Falchuck works with a girl in the weekly Remann Hall art class.

Art Day’s End

Following a break for lunch in the A-Pod recreation room the girls are more energetic — fully awake. Three new girls have appeared; frequent comings and goings for court appearances and other meetings during class time are typical in Remann Hall. Jo Anne Martin is frustrated by the interruptions but accepts that they come with the unusual territory.

Diana Falchuk brings the new girls up to speed and Martin puts on a CD that gains all of the girls’ approval: Beyonce Knowles’ Dangerously in Love. Several of the girls sing along quietly; many are talented singers. As they listen to music they enjoy, I notice they speak to each other less and focus on their work, discovering, in other words, more individual means of expression — something that can be difficult for young people  surrounded by their peers in any setting.

As class comes to a close, the air of calm evaporates into the same hasty excitement you’d find at any school at the end of the day on a Friday afternoon. Girls rush around, completing the cleanup tasks they’ve been given. All pencils and erasers must be accounted for: if any go missing the girls all go into lockdown. One of the girls, eager to earn points on her honor roll card, begins vacuuming without being asked.

Keisha approaches me, her self map in her hands. “Do you want to see mine?” she asks, smiling and not taking her eyes off her work. I gush over it and not disingenuously. She’s not afraid to play with perception, to experiment with shape and texture. The map is humorous, touching and visually interesting. After a day of expressing impenetrable self-doubt, she is visibly satisfied with herself. 

In less than a day it’s clear to me how meaningful this class is to the girls who participate in it. And also how many important learning and growth opportunities it provides, often spontaneously. Moments later, Alice, who seemed totally uninterested in the project and had to leave halfway through for a court date, appears in the doorway, red-faced and with tears in her eyes. “Ms. Martin, do you have my project?” she pleads.

Martin hesitates and looks around the room before she answers, wanting to make sure it hasn’t been thrown away during the hasty cleanup. Alice repeats herself, more desperately this time. “Do you have it, Ms. Martin? Will you save it for me?” 

This Friday afternoon art class has clearly had an impact on Alice. But it’s probably fleeting: there’s no guarantee a girl can even complete a project in Remann Hall, much less reap lasting personal rewards from the experience. However, if their individual circumstances allow and they choose to attend Arts Connect classes when they are “on the outs,” the possibilities for change can only grow exponentially.

The mother of one girl who has been attending Arts Connect classes for almost two years says the program has been the catalyst for change in her child. “The first time she went, she was ordered to go and she wasn’t too happy about it,” says the parent. “After the second session, I saw she was improving. Now, she’s not fighting as much, her self-esteem has gone up, she can control her anger better. I can see she’s happier. She’s much nicer to be around. The program opened up avenues for her artistically.

The things they do there she wouldn’t normally get to do. I wouldn’t have been able to afford to sign my daughter up for an art class. I wouldn’t have even thought to.”

Months ago these girls had uncertainty, confusion and trouble on the brain. Now, at the very least, they can focus on what they’ll do next Wednesday at Arts Connect. They’re learning a new vocabulary. Guns are looking like signs of peace. Waterfalls of tears are flowing into oceans of dreams. They are imagining a different future. And over time, between A-Pod and Arts Connect, they may begin to map out the way to get there.

Photographs by Jennifer Richard

Names of Remann Hall inmates, Arts Connect students and parents in this story have been changed or omitted in order to protect their privacy.