Telling Their Stories

I have to tell their stories. When I was young, I used to wonder why I was so different from everyone else in my small coal-mining hometown. Why had I been adopted and brought to Pennsylvania from North Carolina when I was three weeks old? Why was I so shy? My adopted father called me “backward,” but when I discovered my love of writing, I found my true voice, my purpose. After that, being a lonely, uncoordinated, left-handed, African American Catholic girl didn’t seem so bad.

Nearly 50 years have passed since I was that little girl. Almost everything and everyone is gone now: my adopted parents died when I was a teenager, my birth-mother died when I was 31, my beloved immigrant neighbors are all deceased, the mine flooded in the ’80s, and my hometown became a suburb of Pittsburgh in the ’90s. But I’m still here to tell their stories.

When one of my essays about my mother was published in an anthology, I felt a connection to infinity. Long after I am gone, others will still be able to meet the kind, gentle woman that raised me. My illiterate father lives on only in my words. But readers will be able to draw strength from my profile of that strong, taciturn, coal miner and volunteer fireman. And even though I only met my birth mother a few times, she deserves to be remembered, too. I realize now that she made the choice she did because she loved me. When people from my hometown, those who were there “back when,” read my story about our long-ago annual Memorial Day parade, they were proud that someone still remembered the way it used to be. And as long as one person knows these stories, they will live on.

I feel compelled to tell their stories. I may never become an acclaimed or famous author, but I can still tell others about the people and places that shaped my world. “You are important. Your life does matter. Don’t be afraid to tell your story, don’t let it end with you.” Every chance I get, I encourage the homeless women that I work with, and everyone else I know, to put their narratives on paper or on tape, because each of us has a story. Every day, thousands of them are lost, never to be reclaimed.

Now I know why I was so different as a little girl. I believe those differences gave me a unique perspective, endowed me with a special ability to remember, to internalize the stories around me and to reproduce them years later. Maybe Daddy was right when he called me “backward,” because I’ll never forget my past. Looking back gives me the strength to go forward. So, I wake up one more morning, put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard, and tell one more story.

I’m have to tell their stories. I have to tell my story. That’s why I’m here.