February 7, 2020
Dear Brynn,
I read the poem you mentioned, “After the Pyre” by Li-Young Lee. It made my chest ache. I suppose that’s the thing about writing, right? It confronts you with truths you haven’t told yourself yet. The last two lines are lingering in my mind: what kept you alive all those years kept you from living. It makes me think of my parents, my family, my ancestors, my immigrant community.
You asked me if I know what keeps me alive. It’s them. I am alive because of the people that came before me, especially my parents who with their restless and resilient spirits endured too much for their children. But I wonder if being alive is the same thing as living? I don’t think it is, it can’t be.
In January of 2019, I spent fourteen hours in a car with my father. We were going back home to Mexico. We told stories from beginning to end. Want to know something I discovered that day? Stories bring people to life, bring people out of being alive to actually living. I felt alive and I could see my father come to life. Stories are a reminder that there was a time before and there is a time after. The things that once kept us all live – the struggles and injustices that toughened our spirits, hardened our hands and feet, and shielded our hearts – kept us from living once it was all over. How do you tell an immigrant father or mother they can now live life when the only item on the agenda was to survive?
Tell them a story.
This is what storytelling has meant to me: it is a language of vulnerability that heals and reconciles. I have you and Nikiko to thank for that – it’s a beautiful thing to receive, the gift of knowing how to live through stories. I am sharing that gift with those around me, with those in my community who have grown too accustomed to the sound of their silence.
Through stories I have met my father and mother. Hola, Adan. Hola, María.
It saddens me to realize that for so many years I knew nothing about them and they knew nothing about me. It saddens me to think it is common among immigrant families. We’re bridging the gap now though and that makes me hopeful and excited for the stories we will share tomorrow.
I want to leave you with a small prose poem I wrote for my parents as I lay between them in bed, watching a movie:
“Mamá, Papá, I hope you know your hands are not too rough to caress my cheeks – never too calloused or creased. If silent sounds could dance upon the drums in your ears, I hope you hear me whisper the word: gracias.”
With this letter, I want to say thank you.
Warmly,
Nohemi.