Unless I’m actively promoting
myself as a storyteller, I almost never tell people what I do for a living.
When I fill out forms that require me to state my occupation, I write
“teacher,” and when asked about my job, I say that I teach literacy education.
It’s so much easier than saying I’m a storyteller. I learned years ago that
when I tell people what I really do, I have to explain myself. And the
explanation is never satisfying because a person who has not experienced
storytelling can’t understand what it is.
The conversation goes something
like:
“You read aloud?”
“No, I don’t read stories, I tell
them.”
“Uh huh.”
“I mean, I don’t hold a book, I
just look at an audience and tell the story.”
“You memorize it?”
“Not exactly, I sort of perform
it.”
“Oh, you’re an actress!”
So, after a while, I just stopped
saying that I’m a storyteller. It’s too frustrating.
But a few months ago, I was
sitting in my kitchen writing a check for a plumber who had just unclogged my
bathroom sink. He was telling me about a wedding he had just attended. Mostly
he was marveling about what it must have cost. When he told me the name of the
venue, I said,
“Oh, I know that place. I did a
job there once.”
Because it would have made no
sense to say I taught literacy at a wedding venue, when the man inquired about
my job, I had to come clean.
“I’m a storyteller,” I said,
resigning myself to the inevitable nonexplanation.
The plumber’s eyes grew wide. He
put down the pen he was using to write my receipt and said, “You mean you’re one
of those people who can stand in front of an audience, and just by talking,
make everyone feel like they’re in another world?”
I was floored! What could I do but
say “yes” as modestly as possible?
“I saw a storyteller once,” he
continued. “It was, maybe, fifteen years ago, when I was in high school. We had
an assembly and this lady came out on the stage. At first it was kind
of embarrassing, because the whole school was in the auditorium and none of us
knew why she was there. Honestly, she didn’t look like much, but when she
started talking, it was like she cast a spell over the room. Everyone was
sitting at the edge of their seat with their mouths hanging open. I’ll never
forget it.”
As we talked more about the
experience, he told me that the storyteller had left a stronger impression on
him than “shows or musicals or movies.” I wasn’t surprised to hear this,
because I’ve had the same experience listening to my teachers and colleagues
tell stories. The conversation did, however, make me wonder, once again, why
the quiet art of storytelling packs such a big punch. I decided to begin asking
my audiences about it. One of the places I asked was in the fifth grade
classroom of my friend, Joan Kenny.
I have been telling stories and
facilitating writing activities in Joan’s classroom for several years. At this
point, I look for opportunities to teach there because I know I will always
find myself working with a group of extraordinary students: children who are
passionate, curious, thoughtful, creative, and willing to take risks to learn
something new. Joan’s kids represent a cross section of public school students
from a racially, culturally, and economically diverse community, but year after
year, they defy the current stereotype of
the unmotivated and uninformed American public school student. You don’t have to be in
that classroom for long to understand why. Joan is a wonderful teacher, one of
the best I’ve ever seen. She makes everything exciting, and her classroom is a
place where students know their thoughts and ideas will be met with interest
and respect. When I told her what I wanted to ask her students about
storytelling, she said,
“Tell them you need their advice.
That always pulls them in.”
So when I met with the students, I
asked them if they thought listening to a storyteller might help kids learn.
Their answers were, of course, all positive, (They are very polite to classroom
visitors!) but it was their actions that impressed me. Some of the
things they said were,
“Listening to a storyteller helps
you learn because it makes you imagine.”
“And get ideas.”
“Stories evoke emotions.”
“When you tell us a story, it
makes new things seem familiar.”
“A story stays with you.”
When I asked the student who made
the last remark to give me an example, he stood up and gazed at a spot on the
ground in front of him with a worried expression. Then he spoke.
“When the man
saw the injured bird, he picked him up very gently.” As he spoke, he stepped
forward and bent over, cupping his hands as if he were scooping an object off
the floor.
I realized that he was mimicking
the actions and facial expressions I had probably used several weeks earlier
when I told his class a story called “Just Rewards.” Before I could say
anything, another boy jumped up and walked toward one of the desks. His hands
were also cupped as if he were holding the bird, and when he reached the desk,
he pretended to place the bird on it and make it comfortable.
“That’s the basket,” said a girl
who was watching.
“He’s putting in a soft blanket,” added another student.
As I watched and listened, I was
pretty sure that I was seeing a much more detailed version of the story than
the one I had told. The movements were more elaborate and continuous, as were
the visual details that students continued to describe.
When the second boy sat down, all
of the kids had their hands in the air. One after another, they told bits of
stories, using their faces and bodies as well as their voices. Each time, I
saw and heard something new. The children were not simply imitating me; they
had synthesized the information I gave them when I told the stories, and they
were giving back their own interpretations. Moreover, they had processed the stories after hearing them only once, and could still recount them weeks or, in
some cases, months later.
None of this anwers the “why” of
my original question. Why does my plumber have such a powerful memory of the
storyteller he heard when he was a teenager? Why are Joan’s fifth graders able
to remember and retell a story with so little effort? I know that there are philosophical and
physiological explanations for why people react to storytelling
the way they do, and I think some of them are probably right. I also think that
part of the answer to my question lies in something one of the fifth graders
said: Story makes new things seem familiar.
When a storyteller gives a tale to
an audience, she presents it in ways that touch each person’s mind and heart
and spirit. The story becomes more than words. It is a gesture that a
grandmother used to make, an expression on a father’s face, the sound of an old
friend’s voice. Each listener recognizes something in the teller’s words and
movements that helps him place the story within his own experience. The story
becomes more than text or spectacle. It becomes a personal memory, part of
the listener’s own life journey.
Receiving a story is a complex and
unique experience. Which is why people who have never heard a storyteller just
can’t understand what she does!
Paula Davidoff, Storyteller
