COLLECTING:THE SOURCE OF MY DESIRE TO BECOME A WRITERBy Dominique Vargas

Some time ago I began a collection. Some people collect stamps, coins, spoons, even rocks; I collect stories. Some of those stories were in books, but most of them were stored in the recesses of my mind. For a while, I did not even know that I had this collection. I gleaned it at the knees of my grandmothers. While their knotted, careworn hands washed my clothes, braided my hair, and cooked my dinners—their voices and stories permanently embedded themselves in my mind.
Both of my grandmothers and my father’s grandmother are very short women. Each of them looks quite different from the other, but I look like all three of them. They do not have much in common with each other; each of them is of a different generation, religion, country, and ethnicity. However, they are all oral storytellers. From them I heard true stories, personal histories, myths, legends, and fairy tales.
These stories gave us power. They were rituals and rhythm. When we were hungry, they fed us. When we were thirsty they quenched our parched throats. Collecting these stories gave me a purpose. I was not the smartest or the most talented person in the family—but now I am a reservoir for memories.
My desire to write did not begin with a singular “light bulb” moment. It was something that I struggled with. I often wish I had some kind of divine revelation, which would tell me I am doing the right thing. If an angel cloaked in shimmering gold would appear before me right now and give some kind of divine message like “My child you are on the right path,” or “God told me to tell you: Writing is really not for you—bail out now.” Or perhaps I should have my cards read again. Would I get The Oracle, or The Fool?
Since neither of those things have happened—I will continue to listen, collect, and write. And to the women who taught me all that I know I offer the smallest and most humble reverence in this poem:

The simple, backstitched hem of your skirt

danced as you scrubbed,

rinsed and hung my clothes to dry.

The threadbare white cotton

soared as you swept and

mopped our concrete kitchen floor.

The lace-less edge

twirled as you cut,

chopped and cooked our dinners.

One day you turned a corner and the hem of your skirt swung behind you.

For an instant I only saw the suspended fabric—

so light—so free—then it followed and you were gone.

You sacrificed so much,

may I remember that and more.

Your voice-my voice, your thoughts my thoughts and the words are ours.