I really owe my life to the women who write. The ones who have written me into existence. My father who named me after Judith, a hebrew warrior woman who decapitated Holofernes and saved Israel. My mother who gave me my middle name, De Jesus, because she bore me without my father. And my last name Angeles, because my family has always lived on the mountains, a little closer to the sky with a birds eye view of La Vega. I owe my life to the hands that cooked and fed me, to the stilts that got up every morning to press and dress me for school, to the breast the comforted me in those long nights of ear and stomachaches. These stories, often, unpublished, are the words that hold me together, that propels tears into ink and sweat into feverish late afternoon rants of wisdom and creation. Our creation myths aren’t always written in English. Language isn’t the only tongue. The fingers, the arms, the knees, and toes write in so many silent ways. In ways that are impermanent but still permeate through every rising chest and pore of our bodies. We are walking scriptures. Our lives are owed to them-and the men that came from women.