Diane Wokltein's Stories Touch Us All

Diane Wolkstein was a teacher, mentor and close friend. I miss her greatly.

One of my favorite stories is ‘I’m Tipingee’ from her collection, The Magic Orange Tree.( You can hear this story on the SAI YouTube Channel ) It is a story of community, among other things, and it has brought community to me through the telling of it.

‘Tipingee’ became a favorite of an elementary school in Glen Rock, New Jersey. For 12 years I told stories in this K-5 school. I taught students and teachers how to tell stories. The school year of stories culminated with a school wide storytelling festival. Everyone, students and teachers, told stories for an afternoon. Before splitting up into small mixed age groups, the school population would gather to start the afternoon with an annual telling of Tipingee. Everyone knew the story; everyone chanted and sang as one. Imagine 350 kids and teachers listening so quietly and then bursting into “I’m Tipingee. She’s Tipingee. We’re Tipingee, too.” We all delighted in the experience together. Diane writes of this extraordinary community in the introduction to the 20^th anniversary edition of The Magic Orange Tree.

Professionally Tipingee has broadened my community as well. I tell ‘Tipingee’ in tandem with other tellers. With Elizabeth Nordell (SAI) I tell an English/Creole version. With Julie Pasqual (SAI) I tell an English/Sign Language version. In this way we spread the story to others.

‘I’m Tipingee’ will always have a special place in my heart. I thank Diane for bringing it to our storytelling community that we may pass it on.

--Julie Della Torre

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Diane Wolkstein grew up one town over from where I live, so when I first started appearing in local storytelling events, audience members often asked if I knew her.  I didn't at first, but when the opportunity availed itself to take a series of workshops with her I signed up.  I trekked in and out of a bitterly cold New York City to her apartment on Patchin Place in Greenwich Village.  There I was warmed by the stories shared and by her welcoming smile.  Her collection of Haitian stories, The Magic Orange Tree, is a legacy Diane Wolkstein gifted not only to the storytelling community, but story lovers everywhere.

--Ellen Musikant

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          There is a photo somewhere in my parents’ house of me, as a little girl, climbing on the statue of Hans Christian Anderson in Central Park.  One of the many advantages of growing up in NYC is that Central Park, and all of its marvels, were available to me anytime I wanted.  I did not attend any of Diane's storytelling there, but years later, when I heard about it, I could imagine my younger self, sitting listening to her, with the background of that beloved statue.  And, the year she asked if I - me, Julie Pasqual - would actually tell a story there, well, my heart about burst in pride.  It was an "I made it moment," just the fact that she knew my name floored me, but that she also thought that I was good enough to stand before that statue and tell to audiences that had cut their storytelling teeth on her, and Laura Simms, and other great and wondrous tellers, well - I was stunned.  It was another couple of years before I felt like Diane and I really talked, and that was about one of her passions - the people of Haiti, I had recently returned from working with a community there, and I could see the love she bore the brilliant, joyful residents of that troubled region.  We sat on a subway one day - I literally almost running into her, and swapped stories of the many smiles, and bright eyes we had seen on our visits.  Though she hadn't been in years, Haiti - as Haiti does - had not left her soul.  Some people just tell stories, some just write them, some just collect them.  But, Diane did this and more - she lived them with a full-hearted passion that set the bar high for all of us that have come after her, because of her.  If I ever get to stand before that statue and tell stories again, I hope her light will feel my soul, and guide my telling.

--Julie Pasqual

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When I was first starting out as a storyteller, I found in the library a copy of Diane’s The Red Lion. The tale is from Persia, and recounts a prince’s journey to face his greatest fear, which he must do to succeed his father on the kingdom’s throne. The prince runs away several times before summoning the courage to meet the red lion. And, of course, he is triumphant – but in a surprising way. I always enjoy telling this hero’s journey tale, especially to those on the cusp of adolescence preparing to face their own red lions. It has helped me face red lions of my own. I never had the pleasure of hearing Diane tell this story and I wish I had. The times I did hear her tell I could sense the passion she felt for storytelling and her intense desire to share it. She will be missed.

--Maria LoBiondo

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 I was in Diane’s physical presence only 5 or 6 times, yet her work has had a deep influence on me as a storyteller.   She was a model of grace and power in her telling and a model of dedication and scholarship.   As have other SAI tellers, I’ve found stories from The Magic Orange Tree especially compelling.  My favorites are “The Name” and  “One, My Darling, Come to Mama.”   The first for its sauciness and the second for much more.

  “One, My Darling” has sparked profound conversations among students.   How is it, many wonder,  that Philamandre, despised and neglected by her mother as a child, does not hesitate to lovingly care for her mother when the woman appears years later.    

  Although I rarely tell this powerful story to young children, I did tell it for a second grade class I had grown to know well.   At the close of the story, a hand shot up.  

  “Why,” demanded the boy, “is she so kind to her mother when her mother was mean to her?”  

     Before I could respond, another hand flew up.  It was Allora.  “I know.”

    “Tell us,” I said.  Allora stood to explain.

    “Philamandre was kind to her mother because she did not want to be like her mother.”   

    Students have also responded deeply to “White Wave,” a Chinese folktale that Diane published with beautiful illustrations by Ed Young.  I tell the story in my own words, but frame it by telling the children how Diane found the story and include, as well, the way she ends the story:

    Many years pass.  Finally nothing remains of the young man, the shrine he built for a goddess and the moon shell in which she once lived.  

   Nothing remains except the story.  That is how it is with all of us; eventually what remains of our lives are our stories. 

--Luray Gross

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   My story has something in common with the experience Julie Della Torre recalls. It includes a tale from Diana’s The Magic Orange Tree and there is community singing, too. However, the community in my story is one that feels far away from a Glen Rock elementary school.

 Almost fifteen years ago, I began telling stories in the Morris County Youth Detention Center. When I introduced myself to my first audience of about twenty teenage boys, they scoffed at the idea that I had anything to offer them, but as any storyteller would expect, most of them changed their minds somewhere during the first five minutes of the first story. After that, I taught storytelling workshops at the detention center every week and, although residents came and went, there remained a consensus that Storytelling was, ‘okay.’ That is, it was okay to listen to, discuss and, sometimes, retell stories, but most kids drew the line at active participation as tellers or listeners.

   One day, maybe five months into the program, I invited my friend and colleague, Mary Rachel Platt, to be a guest artist at the facility. The boys who were in residence that day had been there for a long time and most of them were frustrated and worried. They walked into the classroom and slumped into their seats, each one wearing the sullen expression that only teenagers can achieve. Mary began her telling with “Cric, Crac,” the ritual we all learned from Diana to introduce a Haitian story. Her friendly ‘cric’ was greeting with a rolling of eyes, so she just started the tale of Tayzanne, a magical fish.

   There is a song that recurs throughout this story. Its words are simple, but the melody is haunting. By the first time Mary sang it, the boys were engaged in the story. When the song was repeated for a second time, I thought I heard it softly echoed by someone else in the room. I truly didn’t believe my ears, but at the third repetition, the echoing voice was stronger. More voices joined in until, when Mary finished the story by singing the refrain one last time, she was just one voice in a choir made up of every boy in the room.

   Tayzanne is not a happy story, but it was the story those boys needed that day, a tale to take them away from their own worries, if only for the time it took Mary to tell it. There is a lot of Diana in this memory. She truly understood the power of story to describe and mold cultures, preserve rituals, and change lives. From her I learned to forget myself, the teller, and trust the story to catch and hold its listeners.

--Paula Davidoff

Listening: the other side of telling

As a teaching artist, I do much of my work in other teachers’ classrooms. Over the years, I have both spent a fair amount of time talking with administrators, planning with teachers, and observing student / teacher interactions. One thing I have observed is that in most school situations, students are given few opportunities to speak at any length. There are many reasons for this, some more legitimate than others, but I think that however valid the reason for keeping students quiet, the result is that, by the time they get to middle school, many children are uncomfortable expressing their opinions in front of teachers and classmates. There is always the suspicion that when an adult poses a question, he or she does so with an answer already in mind, and students quickly learn that wrong answers might be greeted by classmates with distain or ridicule. The irony of this situation is, of course, that one of the best ways to assess what a student knows is by listening to him talk. Student discussions throw light on the speakers’ misconceptions and missing knowledge in a way that most pen-and-paper tasks cannot, and aural assessment can be done in a fraction of the time it takes to read and evaluate a stack of essays.

Because we don’t have to worry about things like test scores and administrative edicts, my colleagues and I have the luxury of allowing students to spend hours of workshop time in talk. Although the work of our programs develops literacy skills and broadens our students’ knowledge base, these outcomes are a means to our main program goal, and not the goal, itself. Creating opportunities for unfettered student discussion is a crucial part of our process toward the goal of encouraging independent thought and increasing self-confidence. It is through discussion with each other that students develop their own ideas and gain assurance that they can voice them convincingly.

That said, productive student talk has to be directed, and I think directing classroom conversation is one of the most important skills we teaching storytellers can develop. I would bet we all agree that the most crucial element of that skill is our ability to listen. There are times when student discussions call for adult intervention, but they occur less frequently than most adults (myself included!) imagine. A guidance counselor who co-teaches in one my programs once told me that before interjecting a remark, a facilitator should always say to herself, W.A.I.T. –  Why Am I Talking? I have learned that the reason for my own impulse to speak up is usually that I’m afraid the kids won’t be able to resolve an issue unless I lead the discussion. Silence and patience have taught me that, given enough time and direction, they usually reach on their own the point I wanted to make. As they talk without adult interference, students gain confidence in their ability to speak for themselves. The model of an adult respectfully listening, voicing agreement or disagreement with only a word or a nod, teaches them one of the most important rules of successful social interaction, namely that it requires a balance of action and observation; of speaking and listening.

A couple of weeks ago, I sat at the back of a workshop that was being led by four student storytellers who participate in a storytelling program at Frelinghuysen Middle School in the Morris School District. In that program, which I direct, students learn to tell stories through a variety of artistic media. It is a long-term program and students who join in their 6^th grade year often remain in the program  until they leave the school after 8^th grade. Every year, when I introduce a new group of 6^th graders to the storytelling program, I ask some older student storytellers to take part in the presentation. The students who were leading the workshop in question had been in the program for a year.

Near the end of the session, one the workshop leaders, Anjel, said to the new recruits, “Storytelling is a very relaxed place.”

A 6^th grader responded, “Why? What do you do?”

Anjel paused. He and his classmates had just finished a twenty-minute explanation and demonstration of what they do in Storytelling, so that, clearly, was not the focus of the 6^th grader’s question. Anjel looked toward the back of the room where I was sitting. I shrugged. I didn’t have an answer. I was a bit surprised when I heard him describe our workshops as “relaxing.” Although I know the students enjoy themselves, the program isn’t easy. I expect participants to accomplish a lot in the 40 days I see them, and many of our projects require them to take risks, both socially and artistically.

One of the other leaders, a girl, spoke up in answer to the question. “Well, in Storytelling you can be yourself.”

“Right,” said Anjel, “you can say anything and you know no one will make fun of you.”

“And,” another leader chimed in, “we talk about everything.”

The sixth grader nodded his head as if his question had been answered satisfactorily, but I can’t believe he felt that it had.

However, upon reflection I realized that the student storytellers’ description of the atmosphere in their storytelling workshops demonstrates another way in which listening to students helps them grow, both intellectually and morally.

‘Unfettered student talk’ is an expression I used earlier. It’s hyperbole, of course. We fetter if things start getting out of hand, but I believe that another thread in the binding of the trust essential for our programs to succeed is our willingness to let students talk about anything. Anything.

Children have so many questions about the world, and in a world where many traditionally ‘adult’ topics are the subject of daytime talk shows and after school soap operas, today’s children must carry in their heads a stock of confusing information about topics like sex, drugs, health, and religion that they have no opportunities to organize or clarify. The traditional sources of worldly wisdom: parents, teachers, and clergy, are often not good sources of information for teens. Parents immediately worry that the child’s question refers to his own predicament; teachers are warned against broaching subjects that are socially or politically controversial; and the clergy usually toe the party line. Even when a child knows an adult who is willing to listen and engage in conversation, it’s often hard for the child to begin it.

By the time our children get to middle school, they are full of questions, and they have reached the time of life when their most interesting sources of information are their peers. Every middle- and high school teacher has overheard conversations between students that are so full of misinformation it would be funny if we didn’t realize that the likelihood they will make decisions based on these falsehoods is high. Here again, listening to student talk becomes an invaluable tool, because it allows us to recognize our students’ misconceptions and redirect their line of inquiry. It also gives us insight into what topics they worry and wonder about.

Once in a middle school storytelling workshop, I told the story of Bearskin, a Grimm tale about a soldier who makes a bargain with the Devil. I had told the story at least a hundred times before to audiences of teenagers and adults and it always introduces interesting conversation about a variety of topics. This day, however, the conversation turned in a new direction when a boy asked,

“Wait, was that the real devil?”

I had fielded the question before and I responded as I usually do when I want more information before committing myself to an answer by asking, “What do you think?” I was expecting a reference to something religious, and the boy was not a little kid, so I was taken aback when he replied,

“I just want to know if he was the real devil with the horns and tail and pitchfork.”

Luckily for me, this statement began a discussion among students about the possibility that such a creature existed. I listened to students offer their various interpretations of Old Scratch, before suggesting that the devil in my story might be a metaphor. This was greeted with protests along with citations from the story to prove the students’ point that the character was, indeed, real. Finally, the first boy, in exasperation, said,

“I’m talking about the devil who takes you to hell if you’re bad!”

Silence. The boy had opened a topic of conversation that is frequently censored in school, namely contemporary religious belief. The other students were uncomfortable, and I didn’t want my response to undercut the teaching of a parent or priest. The silence was broken by a girl who asked in a quiet voice,

“What really happens after you die?”

Unsurprisingly, this was the question that was really on every child’s mind. As soon as the girl asked it, they all began to talk at once. Some gave explanations they had heard in church or on television; others told stories of the death of a relative or friend. As I listened, I realized that it didn’t matter that I had no answer to the girl’s question. What these children needed was an opportunity to talk about life and death, a topic too loaded and too uncomfortable for many adults to entertain. I joined the conversation when I thought I should, but I offered neither answers nor platitudes. Just before the bell that would end the class, I told a short parable about the difference between heaven and hell which I knew would both clear the air and send the students away with something concrete to think about.

So, as it turns out, I agree with Anjel and his fellow storytellers that people are more relaxed in a place where they know they can speak freely and that their ideas will be taken seriously. And as talking helps students to understand and articulate their own thoughts, listening to students talk helps us understand them. Their conversation opens windows into their lives, their thoughts, their interactions, and their attitudes, and I believe that our willingness to let these scenes unfold without judgment or interruption offers our students a unique and important educational experience.