Storytelling and Community: A Tale of Middle School

Image by Arthur Rackham

A great, great experience at Frelinghuysen Middle School this fall. Sixth grade ELA teacher, Sarah Satkowski, is a joy to work with, an amazing teacher. I loved watching her extend the discussions and writings to fit the needs of her different classroom communities. She really knows sixth graders.  Sarah took lessons from the stories, characters from the stories, and words from the students and expertly wove them into mini-lessons of respect, character, language building and community formation.

As a storyteller hired by an ARTS council, I wanted to emphasize the ‘art’ part of storytelling in all three sessions. (Paula subbed for me on day 2, but we were in conversation). I researched storytelling performance and culture from Haiti and Africa. Paula spoke to the same in the Artic. Because the underlying theme was community I wanted to stress how storytelling brought (brings) communities together, and how storytellers are responsible for keeping the traditions and cultures viable in these communities.

Another underlying conceit was that of storytelling as a form of communication in all forms, oral, physical and written.

In discussion via email Sarah and I developed the following plan of attack.

Day 1: What is storytelling? What is community? Listening and oral response were the focus.

We started with blank chart paper titled “What is storytelling?” The students worked in groups with post-it notes and developed ideas of what they thought was going to happen. These were put on the chart and added to or subtracted from as the students got to hear stories. A few of their ideas were: Storytelling is  the art of creating a story, suspenseful, entertaining with creativity and imagination, beautiful language, connect to audience, magical, stories explain the unexplainable.

I told a story from Haiti. We discussed briefly answering such questions as “Why did so and so do this?” “What happened to so and so?”  Then another post-it note session for students to generate ideas to answer, “What is Community?” Some of what they wrote: Community is working together to solve a problem, to be respectful and responsible, rules and laws, connecting to each other, a civilized group.

I spoke about storytelling in Haiti and then told more Haitian tales from The Magic Orange Tree. Deep oral discussion followed. Inevitably the question arose, “Are these stories true?” Staying quiet, I waited to hear how they would respond. One girl said,” It could be true without the magic in it.”

Day 2:  Exploring stories and characters through movement

Paula told The Girl Who Dreamed Geese and led the class in movement exercises.  Sarah and students told me all about it. As you will see in her response (below) Sarah honed in on the aspect of empathy. She brought this up as we listened to stories on Day 3. I believe it’s true. We feel empathy for the characters as we listen. Even if it is only for those 6-10 minutes of the story, we have at least experienced empathy.

Day 3: Exploring storytelling and community through writing

Sarah came up with some great questions to be used as writing prompts. These were written on chart paper. Before we even talked about what students were going to write, stories were told and discussed. This time stories came from countries in Africa. Again, we explored storytelling traditions and cultural values.

At this point students wrote. Sarah lets them chose from different writing prompts. 

These were posted.

1)    How are storytelling and community connected?

2)     Chose one story and explain what it tells us about community.

3)    How has the storytelling experience changed our classroom community?

The students chose one prompt,wrote and then shared a bit. We made sure to save enough time for a short wrap up story.  Here are some of the students’ writings. Sarah’s is here as well.

Excerpts from student’s writings:

·       “The community and storytelling are both alike because the stories that a storyteller tell (sic) can be true.”

·      “Storytelling is time when you need a community to talk and discuss about storytelling People participating is a sign of community.”

·      “The story I chose was Anansi’s Six Sons. This story tells us that to have a good community everyone has to do their part. All of Anansi’s sons helped him in their own way...”

·      “A story that involved community was Tipingee. When the girls teamed up and saved Tipingee from becoming a servant, they worked together as one little community.”

·      “Most storys (sic) or folk-tales are about a community coming together or working together just like a community would. The things we need to have to have a successful community is another thing we learned from storytelling. Story telling helped us learn more about communitys (sic) work and how important it is to have a successful community.”

·       “I think we have changed in a happy way because we enjoy storytelling and love hearing the fun stories and activities we do. That’s why I think storytelling has changed our classroom and also we learned about different cultures.”

·     

Sarah Satkowski (teacher) This was written in the time, at the same time, allotted to students.

     “Over the three storytelling sessions with Julie and Paula I think that our classroom community has changed dramatically. To begin, I feel that listening to stories leveled the playing field and really allowed everyone equal access to understanding and engagement. The content of the stories we heard facilitated conversations around many of the pillars of community and allowed us to examine our roles in communities. I believe the most challenging aspect of this experience has been our willingness to share, increased comfort level with one another and our ability to empathize. (Something that is often sorely missed in middle school.)

     Overall--- I think we are all better community members because of storytelling.”

Post by Julie Della Torre

Trusting the Tale

Illustration by Arthur Rackham

    Seven Ravens, from the collection of the Brothers Grimm, is one of those stories in which a sister is unwittingly responsible for the suffering of her brothers. In the stories I’ve read, seven or twelve brothers are transformed into birds: swans, geese, or, in this case, ravens. The fate of the brothers is dependent upon the actions of their sister; she is their only hope for a return to normal human existence, but to save her brothers she must make some sacrifice.

In Seven Ravens, the brothers are transformed on the day of the sister’s birth. Because the babe was sickly, the father sent his oldest son to the well to fetch water, so that she could be christened immediately. All of the brothers ran off together and, in the ensuing commotion, the vessel in which they were to carry the water home was knocked into the well.  After waiting a time for his sons’ return, the father supposed that they had been distracted by friends or play and, frantic with concern for the sickly newborn, he spoke the words that must have haunted him for the rest of his life, “I may as well have seven ravens as seven sons.” At that moment, he heard a rustle of wings and, looking up, saw seven ravens fly over the house.

Of course, the sickly babe grew strong, even without the ritual lustration. In time, she discovered the story of her brothers’ disappearance and set out to rescue them. At this moment in the story, it becomes different from the other brothers-to-birds stories I know. First of all, the sister is very young when she begins her journey and she remains a child throughout it. Her journey takes her out of this world, to the homes of the sun, the moon, and the stars. In this last place, she learns that her raven brothers live in a glass mountain, and she is given a bone that will unlock its door. After another long journey, she reaches the mountain only to find that she has lost the bone-key. She despairs until, realizing that her own little finger is the same size and shape of the bone, she cuts off her finger, puts it into the keyhole, and unlocks the door. After this, the events of the story flow smoothly to the brothers’ change back into human beings, and all of the children return home to their parents.

I tell this story a lot. I sympathize with the poor father and pray that I will never be held to such close account for thoughtless speech. I am moved by the courage of the heroine, and I love the fact that, unlike many folktale sisters, she is granted her accomplishment while she is still a child. I love the images that come to my mind as I tell: the boys, looking at each other as the splash from the fallen pitcher echoes in the well, and therefore, each witnessing the transformation of the others; the seven great black birds flying over the thatched roof of the house; the sister walking through the world carrying her little chair on her back; the stars in shining raiment, each sitting in its own seat, and the little girl placing her chair among them. I remember the faces of my own children as I watch her earnest explanation of her predicament. Later, I see the thick, black velvet curtain behind which she hides to wait for the ravens’ appearance. I see the dull gleam of the mother’s golden wedding band at the bottom of the seventh raven’s wine glass, and I see the brothers and their sister start, hand-in-hand, on their journey home.

However, there is one moment in the story that I do not see clearly, that is the child’s self mutilation. My cerebral imagination by-passes the event. It is only accessible through the heart. I hope that the children to whom I tell the story also experience that moment as I do, but of course, I don’t know. I watch their faces as it happens, and I have never yet seen a sign of the horror that a vivid image of the picture must evoke. When the story is over, they often ask about it. The occasional fifth grade boy says, “gross” or “cool” when he refers to it. But children seem to understand that difficult tasks require a sacrifice and that the best things are worth it.  

Yesterday I was telling Seven Ravens to a mixed audience of about thirty people who were attending a holiday arts celebration in Madison, NJ. The storytelling site was a small, lovely alcove in the Museum of Early Trades and Crafts. Children sat at my feet on a richly colored Persian rug; their parents and other adults sat in chairs behind them. As the little girl in the story approached the glass mountain, I looked into the faces of the children on the front row. They were completely absorbed in the tale – their eyes were fastened on me, their mouths slightly open. I looked beyond them at the adults and saw that a young adult couple sitting on a bench at the side of the room were just as present in the story.

The youngest children in the room were between two and four years old, much younger than my usual audience, and as I moved toward the story’s climax, I began to doubt myself. I wasn’t sure that I should tell it properly. I was afraid of what the children might see. I thought that maybe I would just say that the sister put her finger in the keyhole without cutting it off. It wouldn’t be so different, I told myself. She would be using her intact body to release her brothers, instead of sacrificing her finger to her quest.

As I write this, it seems odd to me that I could have had this series of thoughts without breaking the narration of the tale, but in the five or six sentences between the time the sister realized she had lost the bone-key and the cutting of her finger, I went back in forth in my mind about what to do. Just as the sister realized that her finger might be a substitute for the key, I glanced up at the couple on the bench. They met my gaze and I saw that the young woman’s eyes were brimming with tears. In that second, I knew that I couldn’t betray the story. There was, at least, one listener who needed the tale intact. I didn’t dwell in the moment. As soon as the girl found the solution to her problem, I spoke in one breath, “She took the knife she had brought to cut her bread, cut off her little finger, and when she held it between her thumb and forefinger and stood on her little chair, it just reached the keyhole and the door of the glass mountain swung open.”

As I spoke, I enacted her movements, but when the girl entered the glass mountain, I stopped talking, stood still, and took as few seconds to see the interior of the mountain and to look into the little faces on the front row. The children’s eyes were open wide, but they were smiling. They knew that everything would be fine. I looked at the young woman on the side. There were tears on her cheeks, but she was smiling, too. 

Postcard illustration by Oskar Herrfurth

“Trust the story,” I say to parents who wonder if they should read the “real” fairy tales to their children. Sometimes, we tellers need to be reminded, too. 

Last week’s post spoke to my participation in a marathon storytelling performance of Monkey: Journey to the West and of the workshops, reading and studying with Diane Wolkstein and colleagues in preparation for our production.

This previous experience made the viewing of Monkey: Journey to the West at Lincoln Center even more enjoyable. Because I was so familiar with the story and the characters, I was able to understand and flesh out parts that may have seemed flat or unclear to others. Just a sentence or two, or a setting or a prop, prompted my memory of the whole episode being portrayed. I was also able to watch with a professional storyteller’s eye. What choices were made with regard to story, episodes, characters, music, movement, colors, costumes and expressions? These were some of the same decisions with which Diane and we grappled.

Here are some of my impressions of the Lincoln Center production Monkey: Journey to the West by the creative team of Chen Shi-Zheng (concept, text and director), Damon Albarn (composer) and Jamie Hewlett (animation and costumes).

THE MULTIMEDIA APPROACH

The production included animation, circus performers, martial arts battles as well as acting and singing. I loved this form. A live orchestra played in the pit, using some traditional Chinese instruments. The music composed for this production added much to the Chinese feel, and the live music brought the animation to a higher level. Although a colleague of mine hated the opening animation scene, I liked it. Hundreds of years passed by very clearly and led seamlessly to the live entrance of Monkey. I was taken right away with the live, loud drumbeats booming as the stone egg bounced off the mountain peaks. (In the Lincoln Center trailer cymbals are used- drums are much more effective.)

The other animated scene that worked well for me was Monkey’s trip to the Undersea Palace of the Dragon King. Again I felt to length of the journey and the depth of the sea. When the scrim lifted to the live scene on stage, I found I was holding my breath as if I were underwater.

I don’t know much about martial arts, but it certainly added to the battle scenes. One tended to meld into another for me, but that’s the same with the hundreds of battle scenes in the novel.

The circus pieces were colorful and fun to watch and though they may have added some to the mood on stage, I don’t think they added much to the story. But I don’t get to see the circus much and loved watching the rope-swingers, fire throwers, acrobats and contortionists. Again, it certainly added to the Chinese feel of the story.

CHARACTERS

I was glad to have spent time exploring the characters in depth before attending this production.

Dear Monkey King was delightful, naughty, audacious, irreverent and exciting. Diane would have loved the portrayal and probably would have ‘lifted’ bits of the performance. However, in the novel, Monkey reaches enlightenment only through much internal struggle and many mistakes, as we all d. At the end of this production Dear Monkey King is made Buddha because he was a great protector of the monk. But throughout the journey in the novel, Monkey grows in self-control, understanding and compassion. This aspect of his character was missing in this production.

The Monk, Tripitaka, was beautifully portrayed. The costume was perfect and the monk appeared calm and serene with much bowing and prostrations, but again I was a bit disappointed. I was able to embellish his shock and disbelief that Dear Monkey King would kill for any reason and then banish him, but the anguish is only hinted at and it is unclear how and why Monkey is forgiven and allowed to return as protector. And where was the trembling and crying? The monk is ALWAYS crying in the novel.

PIGSY was wonderful to see. My friend, Rita, will be happy to see Pigsy here. Diane debated for hours with herself and with others about whether to keep this character or gloss over him. She was still wrestling with this choice the last time I spoke with her.

GUAN YIN was the most unsatisfying portrayal of all. Such an ethereal, compassionate and central character in the novel, here she just floats in and out giving directions. I remember workshops where Joy Kelly (fellow storyteller) led us all, Diane included, in the embodiment of Guan Yin. Joy is the most graceful Guan Yin. We all became better Guan Yins because of her.

 

STORY LINE

Here is where choices become even more important. How does one find the essence of an epic novel and craft it into an understandable and entertaining two hour performance?

OPENING

The opening scenes of the novel are the most well-known part of the story. They stand alone as a complete tale and have been retold in many formats including picture books. Maybe this is why the opening was so easy to follow. As mentioned above, I loved the multi-media approach used in these scenes.

THREE EPISODES

How to choose three episodes out of hundreds, that is the question. Diane Wolkstein was always struggling with this. I was present during many of her performances of this tale and watched her try out one episode or another. The choices portray different inner struggles on the path to enlightenment.

Chen Shi-Zheng chose three episodes in which the heroes confront strong, entrapping women:

·        White Skeleton Woman

·         Spider Woman

·         Princess Iron Fan

 All three episodes incorporated acrobats, circus acts and martial arts battles. Each scene was different and effective; though I’m glad I had some familiarity with the story.

 

ENDING: ACHIEVING ENLIGHTENMENT

The ending here was much too abrupt. Nothing in the preceding performance led to the bestowing of gifts from Buddha. The scene was beautiful and the characters looked so little in front of Buddha, but the story and episodes were nothing more than that, a string of episodes. In the end, the ‘journey’ was not felt.

 

FINAL THOUGHTS

I am so glad I saw this production at Lincoln Center. I wish Diane Wolkstein was here so I could discuss everything with her. I think she would have delighted in the playfulness and experimentation. I think she would have taken insights from the choices made. She would have disregarded what didn’t jive with her understanding of Journey.

I have learned much about myself and about storytelling through my work with Dear Monkey King and my work with Diane Wolkstein and fellow storytellers. There are a few episodes I remember friends performing. I’m going to look those up again right now.

Anyone else see the Lincoln Center production? I’d love to hear your reflections.

Julie DT

SAI Blog: August 2013

MONKEYING AROUND: PART 1

On Saturday, after storytelling at the Hans Christian Andersen Statue, I took myself to Lincoln Center to see Monkey: Journey to the West. http://monkeyjourneytothewest.com Next week I will give my impressions of the show, but this week I thought I’d give you some background about my interest in the story,  and why I went to see it in the first place.

Jack (fellow SAI teller) and I had the joy and privilege of working with Diane Wolkstein and 23 other storytellers from North America reading, studying and exploring the epic Chinese novel Journey to the West. (We worked with the 4 volume version by Wu Cheg’En and his one volume version, Monkey.)

Diane had been working for years trying to develop an oral retelling of this story and she wanted to see the whole story played out so she planned a marathon telling of the story with 25 storytellers from the US and Canada. The performance took place from Friday night March 18 to Sunday afternoon March 21 2009. In preparation Diane assigned us each multiple chapters which we were to study and pare down to a 10 minute telling. The absolute hardest part was making  the choices of what to include and what to leave out... so much to leave out!

To help us Diane held workshops in which we explored the characters, the essence of the action, the meanings to be found and the language of the text.  We worked on our own selections as well as parts of the whole story. Though most of the work was done on our own, we learned much from our colleagues in these workshops. This knowledge went into our personal tellings.

Diane’s goal was to develop for herself a two hour performance of this story in a clear, concise and entertaining way. Watching her go through the process of developing this piece taught me much about the storytelling choices we make. Having to craft my own 10 minutes was the learning put into practice!

Some of the ‘marathon tellers’ read all 4 volumes, but, probably like most, I read at least huge chunks of the epic novel. And, of course, we all got to see many of the episodes retold by friends and colleagues. The hours spent discussing and analyzing scenes and characters, motivations and symbols, history and sutras led to a deeper understanding of the story. All of this I took to my afternoon journeying with Dear Monkey King at Lincoln Center.