I grew up in a family of storytellers, which I believe played a significant role in my love of a good story and my love of language. In a tribute prose poem to my maternal grandmother I wrote, “Her hands and arms floated as she conducted her way through a story. Netted hair escaped in strands and wisped above her. I watched her wrinkles curl and stretch their way around words and smiles.” If it hadn’t been for my grandmother’s stories about her life and the lives of her mother and children, I would have never learned my family history. My mother was a wonderful storyteller in her own right. My brothers, sisters, and I loved her stories. She described her experiences in mission boarding school and summers along the Moreau River in vivid detail. We learned about her sister who died of tuberculosis contracted at the mission school through my mother’s stories. Her stories were sad, joyous, and sometimes spooky (we loved the spooky ones).
I know that becoming a poet was informed by the rich language environment created by my grandmother, mother, and other storytellers in my family. My poetry is a reflection of the influence they had on me. They made me realize the importance of story to inform my sense of self. For that I am forever grateful.