Loud Unheard Voices

Loud Unheard Voices is, perhaps, my greatest failure. I think about it often, and I still reflect on its lessons today, almost 20 years later.

When I was 25, I was living in New York City, attending college and working as a bike messenger. I’d just returned from an unforgettable month in Thailand and Cambodia, feeling both deeply grateful and deeply guilty about my privilege. I wanted to give something back. Through a couple of late-night adventures and unlikely coincidences, I became friends with a homeless man named Jeff Mendoza. Maybe that’s why, when I saw a local shelter was looking for volunteers, I reached out.

They wanted to start something called the “Letter Home Project”—a weekly drop-in space where residents could use writing supplies, envelopes, and stamps to contact loved ones. I was put in charge. Every Tuesday night, I’d show up for an hour. At first, no one came. For months, I’d make an announcement in the common area and then sit alone at a folding table in a back room, waiting.

Eventually, though, people started showing up. A core group formed. Others drifted in. But we didn’t end up writing many letters. Instead, we wrote for ourselves. The group became a quiet writing circle: 30 or 40 minutes of silent writing, followed by reading and discussion. Shaquest was a poet. Nabu wrote philosophical reflections. Jay brought jokes, song lyrics, observations. I loved those guys.

Anyone who wanted to could leave their work with me, and I saved it all in a manila folder. After a while, we realized we had something special. I applied for a grant from my college to create a one-time print journal of the group’s best writing.

From then on, new participants were told about the project and could choose whether or not to contribute. As we discussed the journal’s theme, one idea kept surfacing: the daily fight for dignity in a world that looks away. These were people with dreams, memories, ideas—who spent most of their days being deliberately unseen.

We decided the journal would be both a showcase of writing and a kind of survival guide—offering practical advice, encouragement, and resource listings for anyone trying to survive on the streets. Our hope was to distribute it across Manhattan. Some members talked about mailing it to their children. I bought a copy of Adobe InDesign and started teaching myself print layout. We spent our weekly meetings writing, editing, and debating fonts and formatting.

Over time, I’d grown suspicious of the shelter’s leadership. Residents had shared stories that made me wary, and I’d seen firsthand how funding and image often seemed to matter more than people. I had a good relationship with the front-line staff, but I intentionally kept the project under the radar from management. I didn’t see why they needed to be involved. After all, the funding came from my school.

Were I doing this now, I’d understand the wisdom of building buy-in. I’d appreciate the complexities of running a nonprofit and the balancing act between ideals and institutional survival. But I was young and a little self-righteous. I told them only that we were publishing a small newsletter.

Then things moved fast. I received a volunteer appreciation award. A week later, someone from leadership dropped by our group and saw what we were really making. They called it “promoting the homeless lifestyle” and said they couldn’t allow it to be published. I pushed back—angrily, self-righteously. I insisted it was outside their jurisdiction. I was wrong.

They fired me, banned me from the building, and contacted my college to threaten legal action. The funding was pulled. I was told I could reapply if I worked with the group offsite and only used newly created writing.

I tried. We met in the park a few times. But the structure, consistency, and shared sense of momentum had been broken. We couldn’t hold it together. And this file—this journal—has been sitting on my hard drive ever since.

To Sha, Nabu, Jay, and everyone else: I’m sorry. You had more at stake than I did. I should’ve handled it differently. I hope you have a home. I hope feel loved. And I hope you’re still writing.