The Power of Words: A Spoken Word Story

The scent of coffee drifts through the air,

rich and bold, mixing with the warmth of my grandmother’s stew,

garlic, onions, beans simmering slow,

like time itself had decided to rest for a while.

Late afternoon, the day settling down,

and there we were,

me and him—

his hands, rough like the roads he’s walked,

gripping a pencil like it was something foreign,

something that had never belonged to him.

His notebook, pages filled with uneven letters,

some standing tall, others leaning,

some fighting to stay on the lines,

like him—

trying to hold on to a world that had never waited

for a man who couldn’t read.

I watched my grandfather,

watched the way his lips moved,

forming sounds, trying to recall,

trying to make sense of the puzzle in front of him.

And I knew—

this wasn’t just about words.

This was about time.

About years spent navigating life with nothing but instinct,

about pretending to understand,

about trusting that the world wouldn’t trick you

when you couldn’t read the signs.

The kitchen hummed—

conversations in the background,

the clink of dishes,

the distant sound of a car rolling by,

but all I could hear was his breath,

steady, focused—

until the scent of dinner pulled him away,

just for a moment.

“Let’s stop for today,” he says,

his voice calm, but I see it—

the weight behind his eyes,

the battle between frustration and hope.

I nod.

Because I know.

I know the fight isn’t over.

I know he’ll be back at this table tomorrow,

pencil in hand,

staring at a language he was never given the chance to own.

And I think—

how much bigger is the world

for the ones who can read it?

How much wider are the doors

for the ones who know the words?

The street signs, the letters, the contracts, the books—

the power of knowing,

the power of signing your own name,

the power of reading your own bible.

He was in his sixties,

but learning isn’t for the young,

it’s for the ones who refuse to stop.

And watching him,

watching his fingers press against the pencil,

watching him chase down the words that had always run from him,

I saw it—

persistence.

Not loud, not boastful,

but steady, like a heartbeat.

And that night, as I lay in bed,

I whispered a promise to myself—

to never take these words for granted.

To never forget the weight of literacy,

the power of a name written in your own hand,

the doors that open when you hold the pencil.

To never stop learning

Because words are freedom.

And I have them.

And now so does he.


by
Luciana M Pires

In this class we continue to explore our relationship with literacy and language, building over the narrative we previous worked in response to the question: Talk about a moment where you change your relationship with literacy and language.
Here I share my translation of a story telling form to another genre. In my case I decided to turn my narrative into a poem. I chose this genre because I thought it would allow the most the explore the emotions I wanted to express.
Pride, shame, determination, giving up, isolation, companionship, achievement, privilege and self reliance.