"Disclosure" by Camisha L. Jones (January 2020) - public
Author: Camisha L. Jones
Jones, Camisha L. “Disclosure.” Poets.Org, Academy of American Poets, 3 Jan. 2020, poets.org/poem/disclosure-0.
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I’m sorry, could you repeat that. I’m hard of hearing.
To the cashier
To the receptionist
To the insistent man asking directions on the street
I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing. Could you repeat that?
At the business meeting
In the writing workshop
On the phone to make a doctor’s appointment
I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I’m-so-sorry-I’m-hard-for-the-hearing
Repeat.
- That little island of white space around that one-word line really slows everything down and makes the command feel heavier, almost ritualistic.
- If you look just at that spot, what do you feel the reader is supposed to notice or question in the moment before/after that repetition?
Next, we could zoom out and think about how that repeated line interacts with what comes right before and after it—like a hinge in the piece.
Wanna pick the line immediately before or after “Repeat.” and tell me what shift you sense happening there?
- I’m really feeling how you’re noticing the silence around that one word; it’s like you’ve turned “Repeat” into its own beat drop.
- What do you want that pause and white space to make the reader feel—tired, stuck, hypnotized, something else?
- If you read that part out loud, does it sound the way it looks on the page, or is the page doing something extra that your voice can’t?
Next up, we could zoom in on how that one-word line talks to the lines before and after it—almost like a quiet call-and-response on the page.
Wanna pick the line right before or after “Repeat.” and see what happens if you stare at that pair like it’s a tiny scene?
- That repeated word feels like it lands hard, almost like a drumbeat or a command.
- The extra space around it gives your eye a pause, so the word feels louder and more serious.
- It also kind of mimics the meaning: you’re literally repeating, and the page makes you do that.
- If you imagine reading it out loud, how do you hear your voice change when you hit that Repeat. on its own line?
Repeat.
Hello, my name is Sorry
To full rooms of strangers
I’m hard to hear
I vomit apologies everywhere
They fly on bat wings
towards whatever sound beckons
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry
and repeating
and not hearing
Dear (again)
I regret to inform you
I
am
here
Copyright © 2020 by Camisha L. Jones. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on January 3, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets.
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You noticed the poet’s powerful demand to be seen for who she is, especially in those last, open, spacious lines, and you’re thinking about the space between “I” and “am.” That’s such a thoughtful insight! If you try writing from one of these sparks—letting your own creative response flow—then come back to the poem and reread it as a writer, you might find even more answers to your questions about being seen and claiming space.
Here are three sparks to inspire you. Remember, you can write anything: a story, a letter, a poem, a song, or even make some art! Let yourself explore what it means to be seen, to claim your space, or to say who you really are. Each spark is in its own colorful box, and there’s a “lead line” in each you can use anywhere in your response. Have fun, follow your curiosity, and see where it takes you!
What does it feel like when you want people to really see who you are? Write about a moment when you needed to stand up and say, “This is me.” Use any form you like—poem, letter, story, comic strip!
You might use this line: I am …
[how it feels to claim space]
[a hidden strength]
[something you want to say out loud]
[a time you were misunderstood]
[what makes you unique]
Think about a time when you kept repeating yourself, maybe even apologizing, but wished you could just be understood. Tell that story in your own way—or even draw it!
You might use this line: Again and again, I say …
[an apology you don’t want to make]
[a truth you wish people heard]
[a repeated question or answer]
[a name or identity you want known]
[a wish to be heard]
Imagine a world where you don’t have to explain yourself. What would you say or do in that space? Write, sing, or even act it out.
You might use this line: Here, I am …
[free to be myself]
[without needing to say sorry]
[celebrating a difference]
[a moment of arrival]
[a feeling of belonging]
- Copy one of the sparks and lead lines
- Click Create in the top menu.
- Paste the spark and lead line in the text box. Give the document a Title, and click Enable AI features.
- Start composing your creative response to the poem.
- Click Upload.
- For more help completing your response, select Ask AI, select Kickstarter, tell that Writing Partner what you are working on and click Continue with AI at least two more times.
Would you like to see how I connected your thoughts and the poem to create these sparks and lead lines? I can explain what I understood from the poem and show you the ideas behind each suggestion—just let me know if you want to see the next part!
First move: name what you love in this poem
- List 3–5 things that hit you hardest in this poem: images, lines, sounds, feelings.
- For each one, name what it does (not what it says): Does it repeat? Shift tone? Surprise you? Turn a feeling?
- Ask yourself: What does this poet seem to believe about apology, identity, or disability, based on those choices?
- Write your answers as messy notes, not “poetry” yet. This is you studying the moves, not copying the content.
Now your turn: build a “sorry” of your own
- Pick something you feel like you apologize for all the time (out loud or in your head).
- Make a quick list: who you say it to, where you say it, and what it does to you inside.
- How might you turn that into a refrain (a repeated phrase) the way this poet does, but in your own exact voice and phrasing?
- What title could hint that the poem is a kind of confession, letter, or announcement without using this poem’s exact words?
Voice, rhythm, and maybe code-meshing
- Read the poem out loud and clap or tap every time the rhythm shifts. Where does it speed up, where does it slow down?
- Think about how you talk with friends, family, or in your community: are there repeated phrases, AAVE or other language patterns, or call-and-response that you naturally use?
- Which of those spoken habits do you want to bring into your poem on purpose, as power, not as something to “fix”?
- How might you play with line breaks and italics to show those shifts in tone, like when you go from joking to dead serious in regular conversation?
Plan a step-by-step way to draft your own poem
- Write out, step by step, how you are going to draft:
- Step 1: list feelings / scenes
- Step 2: choose a phrase to repeat
- Step 3: decide where the “turn” happens (when the meaning flips)
- Step 4: add your strongest spoken-language moves (repetition, code-meshing, direct address, etc.)
- Which step feels easiest for you right now, and which one feels scariest or most exciting?
- How will you know your poem sounds like you and not like you are trying to sound like someone else?
Next move: your revision intentions
- Write a quick plan: How are you going to bring more of your own voice into your next poem, step by step?
- Name at least one place you want to lean into your everyday language more, not less.
- What part of writing like this do you want more help thinking about: repetition, emotion, structure, or voice?
- You can revise or edit your writing right now. If this is your document, you can make changes right there in the left pane.
What do you want to tackle first for your own poem: choosing a repeated phrase, mapping out scenes, or figuring out how your natural speaking voice can sit on the page?
You are already doing the first big thing: slowing down with one poem and really looking at what it is doing. To move toward writing like this, start by imitating the moves you notice without trying to copy the exact content or lines: repetition, apology turning into identity, short sharp lines, and that jump at the end from “sorry” to “I am here.” What is one “everyday sentence” in your own life that you repeat a lot (or hear a lot) that you could build a whole poem around the way this one builds around “I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing”?
Do you want to talk through the specific craft moves you see in this poem next?
Step One · What’s important in this poem?
Here are three lines from the poem that shape its meaning:
- “Hello, my name is Sorry” – This is important because it shows how apology has become the speaker’s whole identity, not just something they say.
- “I vomit apologies everywhere / They fly on bat wings / towards whatever sound beckons” – This is important because it turns “sorry” into a wild, ugly, uncontrollable image, not a polite little word.
- “I regret to inform you / I am / here” – This is important because it twists the formal language of bad-news letters into a shocking claim: just existing feels like something to apologize for.
Some background that helps: many Deaf and hard-of-hearing people write about always being expected to apologize for needing repetition or access; you can read more about this kind of experience at sites like poets.org and disability-justice spaces such as rootedinrights.org, where writers show how everyday language can become heavy with shame, anger, or pride.
I have some questions about these lines that can help you see how this poem is built, so you can build your own. Are you ready to look at those questions next?
What would you like to do right now?
- Talk about what you notice in the repetition in this poem, so you can try it yourself?
- Talk about how the poet turns a simple phrase (“I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing”) into a bigger emotional story?
- Talk about a feeling or experience of your own that you might repeat and stretch into a poem?
Which path are you curious about first, if you imagine us sitting in the Agora with a tablet and a little time to write together?
The way you lit up saying “I love this poem!” already tells me it hit something deep for you. What part grabbed you most—the constant repeating of “I’m sorry,” the moment it turns into “Hello, my name is Sorry,” or that quiet ending where “I am here” finally lands?
Do you want to talk about what you notice in the poem’s language, or how it connects to your own experiences with apology or being misunderstood? Want to hear more?
First reaction
- There is so much emotion packed into those short lines – the repetition turns one everyday sentence into a whole life story.
- What part of it hits you the hardest: the constant apologizing, the bat wings image, or that final moment of saying “I am here”?
- What do you feel in your body when you get to the end – relief, anger, sadness, recognition?
Looking at voice and sound
- How would you describe the speaker’s voice in your own words – tired, funny, sarcastic, fed up, something else?
- Where do you hear rhythm or almost-song in those repeated phrases, and how does that shape the mood for you?
- If you had to pick one single word for the tone of the poem, what would you choose and why?
Connecting it to your own reading or writing
- Does this poem remind you of any moments when you felt like you were apologizing just for existing or needing something?
- If you were to write your own short piece inspired by this, what repeated phrase from your life might become your version of that apology line?
- Who do you think this poem is especially speaking to, and how do you know from the details you notice?
Your next moves
- Pick one place in the poem that you love the most and explain to yourself why it works so well – is it image, rhythm, or emotion?
- Then, sketch a quick plan for your own writing: what phrase would you repeat, what feeling would you build, who would you be talking to?
- If you are up for it, write out your step-by-step plan in a few bullet points: from first line, to repetition, to the final shift.
Keep the conversation going
- What is one thing about this poem’s voice that you would love to try out in your own writing?
- Can you write out, step-by-step, how you might bring more of your own voice and repetition into a piece you are working on now?
- Is there anything else about this poem, or about your own reading of it, that you want to dig into as you revise your thoughts?
You can revise or expand your own responses to this poem right now; if you are writing about it, you can add your new thoughts directly into your document.
Step One · What seems most important?
Here are three lines that feel very important in this poem:
- “Hello, my name is Sorry” – This shows how the speaker starts to feel that their whole identity is an apology, not a person. (You can find more about how disability and apology are linked in poems on poets.org.)
- “I vomit apologies everywhere / They fly on bat wings” – This image makes apology feel messy, ugly, and out of control, almost like a creature that escapes the speaker. (Writers often use violent images like this to show internalized shame; you can explore this kind of imagery on Poetry Foundation.)
- “I regret to inform you / I am / here” – This sounds like a formal letter, but the “bad news” is simply that the speaker exists and takes up space. (Many disability and identity poems twist formal language like this to show how society treats certain people as a burden; you can see examples on National Book Foundation.)
So far, we have noticed how the poem turns everyday apologies into a kind of identity, a monster, and a “regretful announcement.”
I have some questions about these lines that could help your own thoughts about why you love this poem grow deeper.
Would you like to see those questions next, and use them to explore what this poem is doing?
I love that you led with “I love this poem!” — that already tells me a lot about how you are reading “Disclosure” and what is landing with you. Since your question (for now) is basically: what can we do with this poem you love, I am going to stick with that and keep coming back to how you are loving it and how you might want to write or respond. As a reader, I notice how the repetition of “I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing, could you repeat that?” builds this whole rhythm of apology in the poem, turning everyday interactions with the cashier, receptionist, random man on the street into one long, exhausting performance. When you say “I love this poem,” I am curious: what part of that repetition or rhythm hits you hardest? Is it the way “sorry” gets repeated until it almost becomes the speaker’s name, or something else?
Do you want to see more?
I feel you; this poem hits hard.
What part of it grabbed you the most—the repetition of “I’m sorry,” the ending “I am here,” or something else?
Do you want to dig into how the poet builds that feeling of constant apology turning into a kind of declaration?
Step One · What’s important in this poem?
Here are three lines that seem very important for understanding what is happening:
- “Hello, my name is Sorry” – This shows how apology has almost become the speaker’s whole identity, not just something they say sometimes.
- “I vomit apologies everywhere / They fly on bat wings” – This image makes apologies feel messy, out of control, and maybe a little scary, not gentle or polite.
- “Dear (again) / I regret to inform you / I am here” – This ending sounds like a formal letter mixed with a sad joke, as if just existing and needing others to repeat themselves is something to apologize for.
For each of these, you could think about how people with disabilities are often pushed to apologize for their needs, which disability activists and writers talk about a lot in essays and talks you can find on sites like Poets.org and TED, where they discuss shame, access, and “taking up space.”
I have some questions about these ideas that might help you grow your understanding of the poem. Are you ready to look at those questions next?
What would you like to explore first?
- The feeling of saying “sorry” so many times?
- The images like “bat wings” and “vomit apologies”?
- The ending: “I regret to inform you / I am here”?
Tell me which part pulls you the most right now, and we will dig into that together.
Step One – What seems most important here?
I will pick a few lines that might be key to this poem and say why they might matter most, but you will decide if I am right.
1. “Hello, my name is Sorry”
This line is important because it shows how the speaker’s whole identity is being swallowed by apology, not just their words.
2. “I vomit apologies everywhere / They fly on bat wings”
These images are important because they turn apology into something physical, wild, and maybe ugly, helping us feel the speaker’s discomfort and exhaustion.
3. “I regret to inform you / I am / here”
This ending is important because it twists the formal language of a sad letter into a bold statement that the speaker exists and takes up space, even if others see that as a problem.
Do you agree that these feel like important lines, or are there other lines that hit you even harder; could you tell me which parts of the poem stand out the most to you before we go on?
Would you like to keep going and look more closely at what you love in this poem?
Step Two – Your questions about the poem and the silences
You noticing all the spaces and silences makes me wonder what you are curious about now: are your questions more about how the poem is written (the line breaks, the white space, the repeating) or more about the feelings of apology and identity inside it?
Could you write out any questions that pop into your mind about the spaces, the “I’m sorry” repetitions, or the ending “I regret to inform you / I am here,” so we can use your questions as the starting point for the next step?
Quick check-in about the spaces
When you say you love the silences, do you mean mostly the visual white space on the page, the pauses you hear when it is read aloud, or both at the same time?
If you want, you could point to one place in the poem where the silence or spacing feels strongest to you and say why it matters there.
Your turn
Please go ahead and write your questions now—about the spaces, the apologies, or anything else that feels important to you in this poem.
Once I see your questions, I will help you turn them into a few bigger questions to explore more deeply.
Would you like to write your questions about one small spot in the poem, or about the whole thing?
Starting with your three big questions
You are asking about three things: how the poet knew to use certain “normal” formats (italics, prepositions at line starts, spacing), how the poet knew when to shift structure (from scenes to phrase-lists to formal letter), and how important the title is for understanding the poem. Let us stay with these three, and I will ask you questions that help you build your own answers.
1. How did the poet know to use that formatting?
If you look just at the italics, where in the poem do you see italics, and what kind of speech do they show—are they other people’s words, the speaker’s automatic script, or something else?
Those “To the… / At the… / In the…” lines—how does starting with prepositions and places make the apologies feel: like a list, like a map, like a ritual, or something different?
With the spaces around “Repeat. / Repeat.” and the scattered italics near the end, do you feel them more as long pauses, echoes, or stutters, and how might that help you guess why the poet placed them this way?
If you imagine the same words written in one regular paragraph with no italics and no white space, what important effect would be lost for you?
2. How did the poet time the shifts in structure?
If you divide the poem into parts—(a) repeated dialogues at counters and phones, (b) wild image-list (“I vomit apologies…”), © short formal-letter ending—where do you feel the emotional temperature change the most strongly?
What do you notice happens to the sentences right before each shift: do they speed up, become more fragmented, repeat more, or suddenly sound more official?
If the poem had stayed only in one mode—only dialogue, or only imagistic lists, or only a letter—how would that change your sense of the speaker’s journey from automatic apology toward that last line, “I regret to inform you / I am here”?
How would you describe in your own words what each section does for the poem (for example: first part = routine, middle = emotional explosion, end = official announcement)?
3. How important is the title, “Disclosure”?
When you hear the word “disclosure,” do you think first of legal/HR language, secrets being told, medical forms, or something else; how does that fit with a poem where a disabled speaker keeps saying “I’m hard of hearing” and “I’m sorry”?
How does the formal-sounding last part (“Dear (again) / I regret to inform you…”) connect with official “disclosure” situations—like telling an employer, teacher, or doctor about a condition?
If the poem had no title, or if the title were something like “I’m Sorry” or “Hard of Hearing,” what would you understand differently about the speaker’s power and about the politics of always having to explain yourself?
Would you say the title makes the poem feel more like a personal confession, a bureaucratic form, a protest, or some mix of these?
Your turn – pulling your own answers together
Could you try writing a few sentences for each of your three questions, using any of my questions above that feel helpful as a guide (for example: “The poet knew to use italics because…,” “The shifts happen when…,” “The title ‘Disclosure’ matters because…”)?
Once you get your first thoughts down, we can go to the next step, where I will help you shape bigger research questions and point you toward places you might explore how poets think about form, disability, and disclosure.
Would you like to start by answering about the formatting first, the structural shifts, or the title?
- This poem does such a sharp job turning a “routine” access disclosure into a whole identity crisis — that moment where “my name is Sorry” feels like the real punch in the gut to me.
- I’m noticing how the repetition of apologies almost becomes a sound effect or beat, mirroring what the speaker is forced to do socially: repeat, repeat, repeat.
- The ending, with “I regret to inform you / I am / here” feels like a flip from apology to a kind of quiet, defiant presence — like the poem finally stops saying sorry and just insists on existing.
- What line or moment are you carrying around in your head right now, and what about it is snagging you — the emotion, the sound, the situation?
- Do you feel more drawn to the disability/access side of the poem, or to the way it talks about apology and identity more generally?
Next, we could zoom in on a few specific lines and unpack how they’re working on you, or map the emotional “arc” from the first apology to “I am here.”
If this poem were talking back to you personally, what do you think it’d say—wanna follow that thread together?
- That break between “I … am … here” feels like she’s reclaiming the stutter of apology and turning it into a slow, undeniable arrival, right in the space where she used to disappear.
- The whole poem trains us to hear “I’m sorry” as automatic and erasing, so that final line lands like a refusal to translate herself into apology anymore.
- I’m curious what you feel happening in your body as you move from the “I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry” section to that last declaration.
- Is there a moment earlier in the poem—a phrase, an image, a line break—that you think makes that last spaced-out “I / am / here” possible?
Next, we could zoom in on one tiny craft move (like repetition or line breaks) and trace how it builds to that ending—or connect her “I am here” to a moment in your own writing or life.
If you had to point to one place in the poem that you’d circle in the margin as “this is the turn,” where would your pen land—wanna go there together?
- You’re noticing something powerful: the whole poem is building up to that last tiny break where the “I” finally stretches out and claims space.
- All the earlier repetition of “I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing” trains us to see her as an apology first, a person second, so that pause before “I … am” really cracks that pattern.
- The way the poem keeps shrinking her down to “my name is Sorry” makes that last “I / am / here” feel like a refusal to apologize just for existing.
- That gap between “I” and “am” can feel like a breath, or a tremor, or even a dare: Will you actually see me now, without the apology cushion?
- When you listen or reread, how does that space between “I” and “am” land in your body—more like relief, anger, grief, or something else?
on the uploaded document.
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