Little girls usually play with dolls, but I had my nose in books before I understood what was on the page. By the third grade, I was reading biographies of prominent figures from Old Hollywood, like Betty Davis, who fearlessly challenged the male-dominated studio machine, Katharine Hepburn, who refused to conform to Hollywood’s expectations of women, and Joan Crawford, who refused to age out of Hollywood and transformed herself into a business mogul. I was mesmerized by these true life stories, and found Lucille Ball being the most inspirational of all the Hollywood starlets. She was a powerhouse of a writer and was the first woman to have a production company of her own. I wanted to be like these women – powerful, creative and making their own rules. When I wasn’t in the mood for a long read, I thumbed through my gram’s oversized Oxford English Dictionary seeking to imbibe from the fountain of new words. Thanks to this habit, I made it through high school graduation never missing a word or definition on any vocabulary tests.
This obsession with words was likely because my own were consistently limited or cut short. My dad used to say, “this girl started talking when she was 6 months old and hasn’t shut up since!” While most people laughed and thought it was funny, I began to take offense to being seen and not heard. I was constantly hushed, quieted, and stifled by everyone. I brought home straight A’s with notes that read, “very talkative in class,” “too many side conversations,” and my all-time favorite from the fourth grade, “vocal and opinionated!” The message I received was that I should be quiet and say nothing, despite that, I had ideas of my own and so much to say!
Throughout elementary school, I spent hours writing and escaping the “noise” of a quiet household. I wondered at what age my voice would hold value to others and found that when I wrote out my thoughts I was free to say whatever I wanted. My characters could have big personalities, voices, and differing opinions, even if in real life I had to conform, my characters were free. Every time I brought home a story with a coveted red ‘A’ on it, my parents acknowledged that my voice had value. Yet, I was still left wondering – when do I get a license to speak my mind? My truth? My joy? When is it acceptable for me to share my ideas without the threat of repercussions for a difference of opinion? And because I didn’t know if that day would ever come, I wrote it all down.
When high school and college came around, I begged to go to the University of Iowa to immerse myself in the prestigious writing program and community. I had the grades and the drive but not the money. I was determined to save while attending community college in pursuit of Iowa, but life had other plans. I started college in 1989 and stopped no less than a dozen times. The reasons I stopped were always for someone or something else – my parents got a divorce and I had to help pay my mom’s bills, my mom was moving to another state and I had to find my own place, work wouldn’t accommodate my school schedule…the circumstances never lined up, until they finally did.
Amidst Covid in 2020, my mom came to live with me in her final months of life. It was difficult to watch someone dying after living an unfilled life overflowed with shame and secrets. She had one hell of a story to tell, but she took it to her grave because she too was taught to be quiet, look pretty, and take care of everyone else. I spent night after night next to her bed, wishing I could explain the catharsis that would come with using your voice in any capacity. She remained as impenetrable as a vault.
As I sat listening to her breathing become shallower by the hour, I contemplated the regrets I would have if I died sooner than later. The 3 regrets I wrote were:
- Not earning my MFA in Creative Writing.
- Not writing and publishing my work.
- Not having a child with my husband.
At 49 years old, I was only able to remedy 2 of those regrets, so after my mom’s passing and being mired in handling her estate for 2 years, I applied to Fresno State for the dream I gave up on a dozen times, because I knew this time I wouldn’t stop for anything or anyone. It was finally time for me to put myself first and chase the dream that eluded me for decades.
My dream was to write fiction, but after reading the thought-provoking content in my classes and writing some of my own story, my focus has shifted to writing creative nonfiction. I believe there are inspirational stories in everyone. Everyone has a story, but not everyone knows they have a voice – I want to help those people find their voice, like I found mine.
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Author Bio: Deborah is fulfilling her lifelong dream of earning a Creative Writing degree while balancing a career as a realtor. She channels her passion into poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, delving into themes of love, grief, friendship, and self-acceptance. A lover of travel, old bookstores, and independent coffee shops, Deborah finds inspiration in capturing moments and places through her obsession with words. Committed to authenticity, she strives to create work that deeply resonates with readers.
Artist Bio: Moises’ work varies from artwork to artwork. He simply depicts what he finds interesting or important at the time. This artwork, Below The Surface, specifically, depicts how an individual can appear fine and even happy, a facade that hides their real need for help. Mental health is a prevalent crisis that is being addressed little or not at all. More attention must be brought to this issue.
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Recollections: Of Being is a literary column brought to you by The Collegian, founded and organized by Aura Peredia. We publish writing and art, either political or personal, to create a bridge between varying valley voices.
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Previous Installments of Recollections: Of Being
Le Timbre, Toujours le Timbre
Amor de Otro Mundo
How to make the first move when you’re both women