Last semester, during Linguistic Justice Week hosted by the Center for Latin American and Caribbean Studies here at Duke (CLACS), I watched a documentary called “La Mujer de Estrellas y Montañas,” which translates to “The Woman of Stars and Mountains.” It was this spring evening in which I first learned about the story of Rita Quintero — and about the power and impact of storytelling. So, let me begin by telling you about her.
Rita Patino Quintero was a Tarahumara indigenous woman from the state of Chihuahua in Mexico. Rita was born on June 15, 1935 and grew up with her tribe in the Sierra Mountains of Chihuahua in a place called Cerocahui. Rita was a restless, free-spirited woman who did not care to confine herself to the rigid implications of a woman’s role in her society at that time — for this she was ostracized. Therefore, finding the courage and motivation to leave, she began traveling around different areas of Chihuahua City and beyond.
Eventually she crossed the U.S.-Mexico border and arrived at Johnson City, Kansas, in 1983. She was kept in Kansas’s Larned State Hospital from 1983-1995, wrongfully and involuntarily institutionalized, having been deemed “mentally ill” and “a danger to herself,” simply because no one could understand her native language. She was finally released in part of efforts by Kansas Advocacy and Protective Services, and was able to return home where she lived with her niece until her passing in 2018. Although she died of natural causes, the psychotropic drugs being pumped into her system for twelve years at Larned State Hospital, without her consent, inevitably shortened her life span. She came out of Larned having developed tardive dyskinesia, as well as symptoms of steppage gait and bradykinesia. Not only did she have declining mobility — the trauma of being stripped from her culture and isolated would undoubtedly have caused Rita to come out of Larned a different person.
I was immediately struck by how horror and beauty are weaved so tightly together in Rita’s narrative. My mom’s side of the family is from the same state of Mexico in which Rita lived, and my great-grandfather spoke the indigenous Tarahumara language, Rarámuri. Due to this familial connection, and to how deeply Rita’s story resonated with me, I felt called to bring more awareness to her story, beyond articles who have written her off as a mere “news spectacle,” in the hopes to honor her and aid in efforts of bringing her justice. In this way she is Hamlet, and I, an aspiring Horatio.
But I also wanted to know the parts of her story not defined by tragedy. I began to dig beyond the spectacular. I reached out to the director and producer of the documentary, shared a poem I wrote about her with them, and simply expressed how moved I was by their film. A couple of weeks later, I was on the phone with the director Santiago, who had had a friendship with Rita — I learned more about Rita, about who she really was, from this phone call than from any article I had read. I learned about her tenacity and stubbornness; I learned about her kind heart.
These are the parts of stories that matter just as much (if not more) than the spectacularities. As much as it hurts us to admit, at the end of the day, we are not defined by our accolades and accomplishments — but by our character, our heart, our personhood. It is from stories that we learn about people's humanity. It is from stories that we learn about people’s idiosyncrasies that make us love them even more.
And so, storytelling matters, especially for those unable to tell their own stories. Storytelling works to recognize, preserve, honor and empower.
What exactly are we recognizing and preserving? In Rita’s case, by telling her story, we recognize the duality of harm and beauty in her narrative. We recognize her anguish and her loneliness. We recognize her love for her culture. By telling her story, we preserve her legacy of strength and audacity to take the road less traveled. We preserve her story as one among countless victims of ignorance, hatred, racism and neglect. We preserve her story because it is important to — and because we should care about indigenous justice. Her name deserves to be known.
Who are we honoring and empowering? In Rita’s case, we honor her and her family. We honor those we tell stories about simply by telling their stories — and by telling their stories we empower not only them, but ourselves. Sharing Rita’s story empowered me to begin telling my own.
One outlet has been Say the Thing here at Duke, which is “a rad experiment in storytelling and moral agency development” as written on their website page. It is a truly special collective, and I have just completed one of their projects called “the Hamster” — an incredible initiative that induces life reflection and introspection. Think of it as a meaningful version of digital scrapbooking in which I was able to highlight the moments, places and people that have made me who I am.
Another way I have been telling my own story is through a class I enrolled in this fall called “Death, Burial, and Justice in the Americas.” One of our assignments of the semester titled the “Chosen Ancestor Project” involved genealogical research, which made me realize how little I actually know about my ancestors, despite having two living grandparents with whom to share my inquiries. Inspired, I have made a pact with myself to ask my grandfather to tell me about my Irish ancestors when I see him this Christmas. This project ultimately lent me the opportunity to return to Rita’s story and uncover even more about her, as I selected her as my “chosen ancestor.” Through her, I learned more about myself and my Mexican culture. By presenting her story to the class, I presented my own, in a way.
This being said, one does not need to find established collectives or classes at Duke to begin their own journey with storytelling. Storytelling begins simply by asking people how their day is going (people are receptive to kindness!), and giving life updates to friends. Indeed, it is through human connection and love that stories are carried on.
As I write this, I sit in front of an ofrenda I put up for Rita in my home for Dia De Los Muertos, I feel close to her — the true gift of storytelling is that it bonds the storyteller and the subject of the story forever. In the picture I printed out of her, her palms rest on each side of her face, resting above her chin. Her kind, crinkled, tired brown eyes look up at me, watching me type. It is the Tarahumara’s belief that once they die, they return to the sky and become stars: “otra vez al cielo volverá,” I write in my poem to her. Even though Rita suffered unimaginable injustice during her life, I see her among the stars, surpassing the story of violence that had once hoped to define her.
Natalia Harnisch is a Trinity sophomore.
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