When I was still small enough to sit on my great grandmother’s lap I wasn’t afraid of anything. I remember trips out to the Olympic Peninsula where my siblings and I slept in tents or beneath the stars. The murmur of adults speaking against the last embers of a fire and the crawl of the waves on shore would lull us into dreams. I’d wake early when I heard grandma cooking, then trail after her along the beach as she dug for clams until midmorning. While she cleaned and gutted fish I’d launch into story. I’d tell her everything I saw on the beach that day. I’d sing her songs and reenact my favorite fairytales for her in an enthusiastic play by play. I’m going to be a storyteller like you, I’d say. There is a photograph of me on my great grandmother’s lap, mid story, mouth open and smiling, eyes bright and one tooth missing. Bathed in my grandma’s attentive listening I am a small thing, radiating with bravery.
But somewhere along the way I learned silence. When you’re young trauma is transformative. And it turned my bravery into a whisper. I put stories away and in their place I found a quietness. I found other peoples’ voices. I fell in love with making mix tapes and lost myself in Plath and Shelley. I traded trips to my great grandmother’s beach for hitchhiking down the interstate. I spent my time in steamy venues and crowded basements, the loud hum of feedback and guitars took up the space for stories.
Some nights when it got too loud, or I felt too far away, I’d remember her voice, the way her words floated around the campfire when she spoke in the traditional language. On tours, across oceans, in cities far from my ancestral homelands I was always tethered to something. She was always calling me back, reminding me of that fearless child who woke at dawn, to climb the ladder down to the beach, waiting to tell her my stories.
I still love music, and mixtapes, and loud guitars and crowded venues. But I no longer let myself go quiet. I remember my great grandmother’s patient listening. I remember my promise. I’m going to be a storyteller like you. And Red Paint is my first story.
Celebrate Sasha taqʷšəblu LaPointe and the other winners of 2023 Pacific Northwest Book Awards with the virtual event on Zoom Feb 9, 2023 at 6:00 PM Pacific Time. REGISTER NOW.
Also, for a limited time, you can still get a virtual ticket to watch LaPointe’s recent event with Seattle Arts and Lectures. Digital passes to watch the recording are available through January 30, 2023 at 7:30 pm (PT).
NWbooklovers posts original essays from this year’s award winners as featured posts in January and February. You can enjoy essays from past winners of the PNBA Book Award in our archive.