The inclusive arts are not just shifting society’s misperceptions of populations typically cast aside – they’re uncovering people’s self-worth and transforming the lives of generations.
Photo Courtesy of Karen Peterson Dancers
Karen Peterson Corash has been choreographing physically integrated dances for almost 35 years. While one might think the Karen Peterson Dancers’ (KPD) movement reminiscent of Martha Graham, the queen of contemporary, physically integrated dance bends the traditional perception of the “body” – where it ends or begins, what makes it “whole” and how the wheelchair a body sits in transcends the freedom to move by achieving the freedom to dance.
“I've given them the space over the years to also be researchers as well as performers. One thing about working with people with disabilities, it is never the same. Each medical history creates a whole new set of problems and a whole new set of opportunities,” Karen says.
The annual Forward Motion Dance Festival, powered by KPD, is a spectacular celebration of inclusive dance, showcasing a diverse range of dancers with and without disabilities. Outside of Forward Motion, KPD hosts residencies for Miami dancers and travels the world, teaching classes and performing everywhere from Guatemala to Ireland to Montenegro, and most recently, the KIADA dance festival in Seoul, South Korea.
“Every time we go to a different country or city and work with performers, we teach individuals in different places about commonality,” Karen says. “The common thing we share is movement, so you don't necessarily have to speak the same language.”
The organization also teaches dance classes for Miami teens with physical and intellectual disabilities. After a nine-week residency with Karen Peterson Dancers, these young performers take to the stage to share their achievements with the community. The performance is a vibrant display of inclusivity, demonstrating how dance can empower and bring joy to individuals of all abilities. Whether KPD students go on to become professional dancers, or not, Karen says that they learn more than just dance.
“For a lot of the students, they end up working at Publix, bagging or doing simple jobs. But I do believe that the skills they learn in the studio will move over into real life: discipline, taking directions, being mindful of others, taking responsibility,” Karen explains. “When you put a group of students on the stage and they're responsible for duplicating choreography, learning something they had done in the past, there are a lot of lifelong skills in that three-minute dance outside of physical awareness and physicality and having fun.”
Photo Courtesy of Karen Peterson Dancers
Dancers who performed at the 2024 Repertory Favorites took their post-performance bows and questions from the audience. While their bodies and cultural backgrounds differ, they spoke about what their experience with KPD means to them, and their perspectives revealed recurring themes of freedom, connection, and communication.
“It’s a possibility to share my world with others,” says dancer Penelope Huerta. “The body talks.”
Karen started working with disabled dancers in California in 1990, the same year the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed. As studios began designing more inclusive classes, Karen developed a passion for making dance more accessible. This experience inspired her to bring these opportunities to Miami.
“A woman by the name of Mildred Levenson, she used a wheelchair and was an activist and an actress from New York; I created my first dance with her, using her language and her story about her medical condition. I think audiences at the time were really engaged. I don't think they had ever seen a person use a chair in a performance,” Karen says. “Audiences should give themselves a chance to go to performances and come with an open mind.”
Transformative Years
For Kathie Klarreich, the founder of Exchange for Change, her path to the inclusive arts also started with a dance performance in the early 2000s, but the performers were women in prison.
“Honestly, I'd never been in a prison before and I was completely blown away. And I think this is one of those things where you have an experience, and it sits in the back of your mind, and it just percolates, right? You know that it's there. But you're living your life, and you're doing other things. And I was doing other things.”
Kathie was working as a journalist and had already spent nearly 13 years reporting in Haiti. She wanted to get involved with Miami’s Haitian community, so she worked with a local nonprofit to teach writing lessons to incarcerated Haitian women in Homestead.
When the catastrophic 2010 earthquake struck, Kathie went back to Haiti, reporting for three more years. Upon her return to Miami, Kathie visited the women’s prison again and found herself reflecting on experiences of deep contrast:
“I felt my world had been turned upside down. But then I walked back into the prison where everything looks like it's exactly the same. You got your same uniforms, you've got your same pattern of walking, you have your same routine. And I was sure that that's just an appearance – that their lives have changed too. And rather than tell stories about other people – which I had done for several years – let's figure out a way to get these women to tell their own story, to include their voice in the conversation. It's always about them, but not with them.”
It was a meeting with Bill Burnett of The Center for Social Change that influenced Kathie’s next chapter. With pad and pen in hand, he asked Kathie what she will call her nonprofit. “I'm not a nonprofit,” Kathie told him. “I'm just a single person who wants to teach. And he goes, No, no, no, no, you need to think bigger.”
In 2014, Kathie founded Exchange for Change, a program that teaches writing classes in prisons.
“The mission has always stayed the same, which is to improve communication skills for people who are incarcerated, whether it's a prison, a jail, a juvenile residential center, or a reentry center,” Kathie explains. “We then bring the voice of the incarcerated out to the public through our publications, these exchange classes, our prison visits, and our graduations.”
Photos by Greg Clark, Good Miami Project
Exchange for Change classes are taught by volunteers from throughout the Miami community, particularly students and academics. With programs like Exchange for Change, the goal is not to dwell on the past, but to help inmates look toward their futures.
“When someone comes to our class, they come as a student, because they want to learn. And so I have to respond to the person in front of me. I don't want to know what they did. I'm not saying that it doesn't matter. It's informed them on who they are. But what I'm looking at is the person in front of me,” Kathie says. “How can you not give someone a second chance, right?”
Incarceration affects entire families, but through Kathie Klarreich’s work, there’s a way to make a real difference and bring a sense of hope and connection that is often lost.
“When someone is incarcerated, the whole family is suffering. And this is a way particularly for people who, let's say committed their crime in Florida, but their family lives in Washington state or in Venezuela, or places where they're not going to see them, their family can take great pride in what their loved one is doing even in a prison setting. Because it's an accomplishment.”
It’s an achievement that truly transcends the walls.
Don’t Shake the Spoon is a literary journal published by Exchange for Change. Its title refers to the request incarcerated people often make to the kitchen – don’t shake the spoon so that those few extra crumbs can make it to the plate.
Hear Us: Writing from the Inside During the Time of Covid is a unique anthology of poetry, fiction, nonfiction and artwork. The pieces were submitted from incarcerated writers, family members and staff spanning from Alaska to California, Florida to Illinois, Michigan to Utah and more.
“I think that's probably one of the most successful parts of our program is this idea that their voices will be heard. They'll be in publications that are permanent.”
The real impact extends far beyond that. One notable story came early on, involving a woman at Homestead. Exchange for Change provided her with a few writing courses, Kathie recalls.
“She was released and went on to earn her degree from FIU. During that time, she supported herself by working at Dunkin’ Donuts. She excelled so much that she became highly sought after, which led Dunkin’ Donuts to reconsider their stance on hiring formerly incarcerated individuals. Thanks to her, they’re now open to providing such opportunities, where before they had been closed off."
Photos by Greg Clark, Good Miami Project
Like Kathie, Laurah Merisier also works with people in prison and transforms their lives through songs. She is the dedicated music educator and founder of Miami Sound Space and The Bluebirds, a men’s choir at the Everglades Correctional Institution.
“Because of the work that I do, I get to see the inmates human to human — as fathers, as husbands, as grandfathers, as lovers. I get to see them in their humanity,” Laurah says. “I think, because they are so far away from everyone, people don't get to experience that they are people, and we forget that.”
As part of the program, the Bluebirds participate in a songwriting course. In 2022, they wrote a song entitled “Be Free” with the help of Miami Sound Space volunteers and local musicians. The song explores their experiences with incarceration.
“It's kind of become our anthem, and it wrestles with how you experience freedom if you don't have access to your own freedom, or if your freedom is held by someone more powerful than you,” Laurah says. “Me and my team have taken the song the guys have written and we've done several community pop-ups where we teach the audience the song, we record it, and we bring it back to the guys so the guys can hear their song in the public's voices.”
Laurah explains that this human connection is one of the most impactful aspects of the choir.
“If you would ask the guys what the impact is for them, I think most of them would say it's joyful,” she says. “I think a lot of that is because we call them by their first names, which is not the case for the guards and the leadership in the prison. We talk to them like they are people. We know about their lives and their families and they know about our lives and our families. We sing with them and we make jokes. For those two hours, when we go into the prison, we treat them like human beings.”
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