One of my favorite childhood memories is my father telling me a story. We sat in our living room, the lights dimmed, as he spun tales composed of magic and gold. My brother and I eventually joined in, adding our own chapters, our own contributions. The three of us took turns, making up the adventures of traveling buddies Truly and James. It became an active collaboration, one where my visions were vital to the tapestry of the story. The more fantastic the escapade was, the better. No idea was too outrageous. And the story became a passport into another world, filled with enchantment and wonder. A doorway that beckoned, calling to me. Come in. Come in. There were few things to me as a child that were as comforting as a story. Stories spoke to my imagination, my creativity, and sometimes, even my loneliness.
I had friends and was always social growing up, but I remember the feeling of being an outsider, always looking in, observing. Maybe that made me a little strange, a little different than the other kids. Books and stories became my respite, my solace, and my saviors when I felt alienated. I was often the most comfortable, the most like myself, hidden among the branches of a water oak tree in my neighborhood, lost in the pages of a book. I remember riding my bike around and around the cul-de-sac where we lived, making up stories in my head. There was a spirited girl who wore a jean-jacket, spray painted with the Manhattan skyline and fingerless leopard gloves, ready for adventure. There was a cute boy with green eyes who swept you away, like a prince in a fairy-tale. Dogs who talked and oceans made of bubble-gum. This was the way things could be in my imagination. Silly, perhaps, but just the way I wanted it.
When I was in the fourth grade, I wrote a poem called “The Pretend Mask.” The pretend mask falls over your face, when you’re mad or in disgrace. It was with that poem that I won a statewide young author’s award. I remember getting to miss school, going to a special luncheon. I couldn’t believe it. I was being rewarded for simply expressing how I felt, for creating a piece of art. A million possibilities opened up to me that day and my heart soared.
There is a wonderful quote by James Baldwin that says, “You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the world but then you read.”
I can still picture myself in sixth grade, sitting in the library, reading Alice Hoffman’s At Risk. I can still see the way the light filtered in through the glass, bouncing off the walls covered with books. I was a gymnast and so was the main character in Hoffman’s novel—a girl my age dying of AIDS. And I connected with someone who was so different, but was at the same time, so similar. This is the strength of the story. To show you things you might not know, and to irrevocably change you for the better. I understood from a young age that language has the power to build bridges, teach empathy, and help me see another perspective.
Reading and writing soothe my soul. They give me peace when there is nothing but turmoil surrounding me. The page gives me both freedom and control when life does not. Characters keep me company. Stories hold my hand. They ease my worries. Time and time again, I am saved by the story. And through the story, I can always find my way home.
Cynthia Singerman has recently been published in HerStory and Streetlight Magazine, and is forthcoming in Menda City Review. She holds a bachelor’s degree in English literature and Spanish from the University of Florida, from which she also received a law degree. She has lived in San Francisco for twelve years and worked as a practicing attorney for eight years.
