I recently read Paule Marshall's "Poetry in the Kitchen." She spoke about the language and casual conversations the women in her family had in the kitchen. They discussed politics, their lives, the world, and of course the daily gossip. Marshall argues that these conversations, through Barbadian dialect and hyperbole, are their own pure form of poetry and art.
After reading this story, I felt an immense connection to her and to those women. I remembered the times I spent in Colombia listening, admiring my grandmother, my aunts, and my cousins discussing their lives and their struggles. I may have been about 14, but I understood there was magic in their words. They expressed themselves through their similes and hyperbole of life, and I laughed each time I heard a new one; the words and sentences were awful: literally left me reverently in awe. There is beauty in listening to these women, who work tireless day after day; they find these talks to be their world of relief and comfort.
I found comfort in sharing that space with them, but I wish others could hear them. As I've grown older, I pose more questions about their lives and experiences, and I hope to share their stories one day. They bring me to tears, leave me with goosebumps because their stories are heartbreaking and gut-wrenching, but so irrevocably inspiring.
It's so valuable to sit and listen to the people in our lives. Listening to these stories teach you to value your life and the people who are sitting in front of you. It's difficult sometimes to see that these people were your age at one time; they were teenagers or young adults, and they experienced hardships equal, lesser or greater than yours. Whatever their story may be, it taught me at least to wonder about the stories of others and value them all. Because everyone has a story, and everyone has one that explains why they are who they are today. In whatever language you speak to them and whatever language their story is told, it's all poetry. It's all magic because they're all non-fiction stories waiting to be written.
