by Luray Gross
It’s a rainy evening and I have not yet unpacked my suitcase
after a four-day stint in the central Jersey town where I used to live. I was there as the teller for a four-day
storytelling residency at Brainerd Elementary School. Brainerd opted to have me
see each of their sixteen kindergarten, 1st and 2nd grade
classes for one 45-minute introduction to storytelling. This seemed to work out just fine.
In each session I told three or four tales, including at
least one story in which the children participated through chanting, singing,
and/or movement. My hope was to activate
not only their mental image-making facilities, but to create a situation in
which they helped the story unfold with their participation. I was quite pleased with the involvement of
the students and touched by their wide-eyed attention and the many connections
they made with other folktales and with their personal lives.
Luray telling to Brainerd Elementary School students |
“Would you like to
tell us?” I asked.
Manny nodded and quietly explained that his mother’s parents
both used “bad drugs,” and sometimes they didn’t even give her anything to eat,
but her grandmother realized what was happening, took Manny’s mother to live
with her and took care of her. “And she
grew up and met my dad and got married and they had me, and now she is happy,”
Manny concluded. All simply told. All from a deep place.
This kind of happening is far from rare when age-old stories
are brought to life in a classroom.
Children explode with energetic laughter over silly antics and grow
thoughtful when the dilemmas of characters resonate with their own challenges.
One of the most rewarding things for me is when this occurs for a teacher. That too happened at Brainerd School. In another second grade class I ended our
session with the Native American story, “Gluscabi and the Wind Eagle.” In the tale, the larger-than-life boy
Gluscabi gets fed up with the wind and finds a way to trick the great bird, the
source of that element. He succeeds in
stopping the wind, only to discover how much we need it. Then he must reverse his actions to restore
the great bird to its mountain top. I
tend to end this tale by saying, “And so it has been to this day: sometimes the wind blows so hard we cannot
stand against it, sometimes it is a gentle breeze, and sometimes there is not a
breath of wind at all.”
Mrs. H, the teacher, was sitting behind her students for all
of the stories, attentive and drawn in, but the wind story was different. Her whole body was leaning into it, and when
I finished, she was the one who raised her hand. “That reminds me of something our pastor said
in a sermon about the winds of adversity.
That’s what they can be.”
Without her having to say more, I understood that she knew what that adversity
felt like and had found a way to stand up in its presence. When we saw each other again in the faculty
room, that bond of understanding remained.
For me, one of the deep rewards of this work.
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