An elder once told me that our ancestors still speak to us, and I am a firm believer that character legacies can be passed down through generations. Somewhere, however far back, someone in our family was a storyteller. In her wisdom she passed that gift on to my little sister. Maria can conjure a tangible tale out of thin air. Maybe it is the inflection in her voice, or the words she uses that makes the stories so alive. It could be the way her face changes from a cantankerous old man to a regal queen that captivates her audience. Whatever the recipe of the charm, it is exactly the right combination of all things impossibly empirical that winds its way in between her words, and lands on the softest spot of human cognizance. Her stories are medicine. They calm me when I allow fear to overwhelm my adult mind. They force me stop and think when I’m about to do something rash. Sometimes they scare me, especially her ridiculously vivid dreams. Usually, they just make me laugh harder than anything else can.
Despite the high level of enthusiasm with which they are told, what I have always found to be most curious is how they used to put me to sleep. I hated going to bed as a child. The long nights were tortuous, spent tossing and turning while alternating between insomnia and sleep terrors. Little Maria would volunteer stories of princesses named Maria who lived in far away castles, and owned ponies with deep voices. Her nightly ritual of storytelling eventually turned out to be the only way I could fall asleep. I don’t mean to say they were boring, or that her squeaky five-year-old voice was soothing. They were definitely too long. Sometimes I would feign awareness with a grunt to ensure the continuation of any tale. Our dad used to ask her for the Reader’s Digest version of whatever story she was telling because as our mom would say, “it took her four years to tell you how she tripped over a speck of dust.” She would start talking, and five minutes in, I’d be out. No, it wasn’t the length of time it took to create the setting. It was mysterious, a type of magic she didn’t know she had.
Today it isn’t just evident in her stories, but in how she whispers love into her food, which gives it that otherwise unattainable flavor, and in how her plate always manages to look more delicious than mine. It is in her eyes when I seek her out as a cowering child asking for advice from someone years older and centuries wiser. I find it in her contagious laughter when we are ankle deep in a bathtub of sewage cleaning up my dying grandmother from one of her unpredictable explosions. The ability to deliver joy in times of chaos is her gift, and the power of her inner strength manifests through detailed description in the form of stories. I’m not afraid to sleep anymore. In the quiet of my mind as she starts to speak my eyes close and are met with the light of the landscapes she painted as a child.
Laura Elena Guzman is 24 years old. She graduated with a BA in Communication, and a minor in American Indian Studies from the University of Illinois is Champaign in 2011. Born and raised in Chicago, Laura’s ethnic roots are from Zacatecas Mexico on her father’s side, and her Native tribal affiliations from her mother’s side: Stockbridge Munsee Mohican, Oneida and Menominee. Laura is a growing child of God, a strong and level-headed woman, and a silly big sister.
–Art by Brent Bluehouse