 When Reverend Jason London was released from federal prison in 2006, he sat at a kitchen table and began to break bread in an unusual way through the form of letters. Got to a point where I was writing to about 35 people and that wasn't really going to work for me to just write to 35 queer and trans folks. And so I invited friends over and said, hey, I will cook dinner if you will write letters. The melting distribution has expanded. Black and Pink reaches over 6,000 LGBTQ prisoners nationwide. What they're looking for is some semblance of folks who will remind them that they're not forgotten, people who will show some sense of care. It's a place where you can come and get answers and feel comfortable, you know? And me as transgender, you know what I'm saying? I feel totally comfortable with Black and Pink because I know that I can be me and come in and be me, chalk why I want and feel comfortable and be myself. The letters have become a staff of hope, a lifeline for many the only way to describe the unspeakable. Our letters are about showing the system that we actually value the lives of trans women of color, of white gay men convicted of sex offenses, of, you know, queer people who are doing time for all sorts of different things. And this shows that we see value in them. Black and Pink is more than a color. The organization proves daily that words, letters, have the ability to empower. Reporting for the BU News Service, I'm Taylor Walker.