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.

Storytelling and Technology

January 2013 SAI blog post

Maria LoBiondo

 

If you, like me, are tiptoeing your way into using digital technology and are alarmed by the prevalence of electronic screens in our midst, you may find a recent book some comfort.

 

Jonathan Gottschall’s The Storytelling Animal: How Stories Make Us Human is a breezy summation of research and musings on why we love stories. An English professor at Washington and Jefferson College, Gottschall defines story broadly, including folktales, dreams, video games, and reality TV. He argues that we humans can’t live without story and that technology may change the form stories come in, but not their essence.

 

There’s a lot in this book that sounds familiar but I enjoyed Gottschall’s take on it. The paradox, the author says, is that stories in all forms are pleasurable and may temporarily free us from our troubles, but without some kind of conflict you don’t really have a story: “Beneath all the wild surface variety in all the stories that people tell—no matter where, no matter when—there is a common structure… Stories the world over are almost always about people (or personified animals) with problems.”

 

You knew that, right? But one conundrum that hasn’t been solved is whether stories serve an evolutionary purpose. Gottschall considers many theories, all still conjecture. What no one seems to doubt is that stories are part of what make us human, and that they are good for us.

 

Gottschall calls stories “flight simulators,” allowing us to safely train for big challenges in the social world. A fascinating example refers to research on “mirror neurons” that may help explain how newborns as young as 40 minutes old can imitate facial expressions and manual gestures. These neurons may be the basis of our ability to run powerful fictional simulations in our heads.

 

Gottschall also addresses the idea that story as we know it—mainly in the form of fiction—may disappear. He most surprised me with his suggestion that as digital technology evolves our attraction to story in ever more varied forms may morph into an addiction and take us over completely.

 

As a storyteller, my fear is that the bells and whistles of technology will mask the depth of what story can bring when we connect face to face through sharing and listening. Nourishing the human connection, allowing stories to nourish our hearts and minds, must never be allowed to fade away.

 

Maria believes that a story is a gift from heart to heart between teller and listener. A professional writer and editor, her love of fairy, folk, and wisdom tales has been lifelong, although studies leading to her bachelor’s degree in education from Boston College and years as a preschool teacher deepened her appreciation.

Maria’s life experiences have included work in low-income communities with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps in Utica, N.Y., and Providence, R. I., and participation in artist Judy Chicago’s needlework effort, The Birth Project.

She has told stories for the past 13 years at several venues, including Princeton’s Littlebrook School, the Princeton Montessori School, the Catholic Community of St. Charles Borromeo in Montgomery Township, and the New Jersey Storytelling Festival. She is a member of the Princeton Storytelling Circle.

Making New Things Familiar

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

The Need to be Heard, To Express, To Communicate

It's hard to think, or write, or even talk about anything right now, while so many of us in this region are whirling off balance over the sheer devastation caused by Hurricane Sandy.  But as I have been moving through my days this past week, what has caught my attention, as it almost always does (me being a storyteller, after all) are the stories people have and are sharing.  This even is so large and so all-encompassing for those of us in this area, that everyone has a tale to tell.  Whether it be stories of complete safety, or utter destruction, people seem to be yearning to share what their lives have been like in the last seven days.  I have seen time and time again this NEED, this absolutely primal need, to express what is in us, by way of a story.

 

 In the last year, I have been dazzled on so many occasions by how much storytelling is about relationship.  The relationship the teller has to the tale, the tale to current events, the tale to the audience, but the big one I keep coming back to is the relationship between the teller and the audience.  The way there really isn't a story until there is someone to hear it, before that, what is it?  It's a series of events.  But when there is someone to listen, someone to "hold" the words, the images, the experiences - THAT'S what makes a story come to life, whether it be a folktale or a person's saga of seeing their belongings blow away in a  storm.  It's the listening, as much as the telling - it's the communication between the teller of the tale and the listener - its relationship between one human being and another.

 

That's why storytelling has been around so long, and always will be.  Nothing electronic, nothing on our beloved i-phones, i-pads, or i-pods, that we were so desperately trying to charge this week (and I was as STRESSED out about this than anyone - believe me!!) can replace this basic human connection, this basic need - to be heard, to express, to communicate.  As we all struggle to get back to "normal", I think it might be nice to - along with remembering to be thankful for light, heat, water, plumbing, and public transportation, to remember that along with these things - and food and water - that there is a basic need in us all to have our stories told and listened to.  To communicate what is in us, to those who are around us, and in this beautiful way, we make community. 

 

JULIE PASQUAL is a self-proclaimed “creativity junky” whose first art form was dance. After graduating from New York City’s High School of Performing Arts, she danced and sang in numerous musicals across the country and Off Broadway. She has acted in everything from Shakespeare to the work of young playwrights in NYC high schools. Along the way she learned stilt walking, clowning, American Sign Language, and how to tell stories.

Her storytelling work encompasses all her skills as a performing artist, as she brings every aspect of a story to life. Her stories have been heard in such venues as the Kennedy Center in Washington, DC, the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the New Jersey Storytelling Festival, and in schools, libraries, bookstores, hospitals, radio and private events across the tri-state area. As an artist for Hospital Audiences Incorporated, Julie performs in halfway houses, drug rehabilitation centers and senior citizen homes.

Truth in "Lies"

Last week I told stories for nine groups of first graders: one in which a tortoise rides on eagle’s back, one in which a strange visitor arrives one body part at a time, one in which a wolf demands that a little girl sing to him, another in which a man’s doctor is none other than a python.  Midway through the second day, I realized I had not yet heard that oft-asked question, “Is that true?”

 

These six and seven-year olds seemed entirely comfortable in the imaginative world of folk and fairy tale, where every story is really a story about the human condition, providing metaphors which do not have to be analyzed in order to be useful.  They seemed to intuit that these traditional tales contain truth even if the events never happened.

 

As teachers and parents we want our children to value honesty and to be able to live in the everyday world where we cannot count on physical magic, understand the language of the animals, or witness a giant pumpkin’s sky-born seeds turning into stars.

 

Perhaps it was partly this desire to prepare children for “the real world” that was behind one teacher’s consternation when a boy in her class told me that his father had gone to a skeleton doctor (not an orthopedist, but a doctor that was a skeleton) and got better.  “I forgot to tell you,” she quietly told me as I left the room,  “He is always lying.  He’s been referred to counseling.”  Her concern for her student was palpable.

 

In the days since that session, I have found myself trying to “unpack” this brief episode.  Many of us often feel the need to soften or stretch the truth, and we sometimes to go even further in both our discourses with others and our internal conversations.  The stories told by this little boy, new to both the school and the community, may come from his need to be acknowledged and to fit in. 

 

For me, his claims certainly confirmed that he had absorbed the story I’d just told, a folk tale from Zimbabwe called “Nyangara, the Python.”  In the tale, a group of brave children accomplish a task from which the men of the village flee.  They carry a chief’s doctor, a huge snake, down from his mountain cave and the very ill chief, gently tended by Nyangara, immediately regains his strength.

 

Coming to this story as an adult, I have always focused on the irrepressible innocent courage of the children, rather than on the magical powers of the snake.  But I am guessing that the boy who spoke of the skeleton doctor was hearing something very important about a child/father relationship.  In the tale, the chief refers to all of the kids as “my children” and prepares a great feast for them because they were able to do what the men were too frightened to do.  It is clear that the children save the man’s life.

 

Though I know nothing of this student’s family, I do know how it feels to be able to make an ailing parent feel better.   I vividly remember the months before my own father had the back surgery he so needed.  I was seven, the oldest of five, living on a busy dairy farm.  In school, I was a rather timid second grader.  At home, I was the capable one who could feed and dress my baby twin sisters while my mother was out in the barn or keep my two other sisters occupied by reading to them.  Nothing, however, made me feel as useful and as important as giving my dad a back rub.  “Press hard,” he’d say as I leaned into the tight muscles along his spine.  “That’s right.  That helps.”  

 

Now my father is 87. His heart is failing, his memory in shambles.  Sometimes, instead of dutifully working on his checkbook or cleaning his kitchen, I tell him a story I’m working on.  He is an attentive listener, still a thoughtful man, one who appreciates the truths wrapped up in the “lies” of the story.  I am grateful.

 

LURAY GROSS works extensively in schools and the community presenting workshops and performances for all ages. She is a believer in the power of stories and poems as resources nurturing heart, mind, and spirit. Under the auspices of Storytelling Arts, Inc., she brings multicultural folktales into the classroom and facilitates response and elaboration, particularly through writing. Her own love of the spoken and written word, of the outdoors, and of music were all nurtured by her experiences growing up on a busy dairy farm in Pennsylvania.

Luray is the author of three collections of poetry: Forenoon was published in 1990 by The Attic Press in Westfield, NJ, and Elegant Reprieve won the 1995-96 Still Waters Press Poetry Chapbook Competition. The Perfection of Zeros, was published by Word Press in 2004.

Watching Snow White by Storyteller Julie Della Torre

 

There was no escaping Snow White in early 2012. At least two feature films were made of her, and made with big box office stars. So I took my adult daughter to Snow White and the Huntsman, and then borrowed a number of Snow White films from the library and sat down to watch.

Since  reading an article “Creating Variants With Illustrations” by Patricia Cianciolo (Blatt: Once Upon a Folktale), I’ve been studying picture book versions of stories I tell and noticing how the stories are informed by choices the illustrators make.  Different scene choices, styles, and character illustrations make their own variants of the story. As a storyteller, I have also been working with the Snow White story and its many print variants. I decided to explore this same concept of variants through film by watching films with an eye to specific choices made by script writers and directors. Here are some discoveries I made. Please note that my discussion of the movies will not be focused on the actors’ performances, the quality of the film or the director. I will not recommend, nor will I dismiss the films. These notes are not film reviews.

What I watched (Though I watched many more films, these are the ones I would like to discuss)

·         Snow White and the Huntsman (2012) with Charlize Theron as the Queen and Kristen Stewart as Snow White

·         Mirror, Mirror (2012) with Julia Roberts as the Queen and  Lily Collins as Snow White

·         Willa: An American Snow White (a Tom Davenport film  1998) with Caitlin O’Connell  as the Stepmother and Becky Stark as  Willa (Snow White)

·         Snow White episode in Fairie Tale Theater (Shelly Duvall 1984  ) with Vanessa Redgrave as the Queen and Elizabeth McGovern as Snow White

·         Snow White, Fairest of Them All (made for TV 2001) with Miranda Richardson as the Queen and Kristen Kruek as Snow White

What makes Snow White Snow White? What needs to be included so that we know the tale is a Snow White tale?

·         an evil, beautiful stepmother
·          enchanted woods
·          a particular season
·          dwarves
·          a mirror
·          a huntsman
·          a prince
·          magic killing objects
·         coffin, sleep
·          and of course, Snow White

I’ll concentrate on only a few of these.

WOODS AND SEASON

Snow White is a tale of winter and return of spring. Willa is set in the southern part of the United States. No winter here, but all the other films have scenes of cold winter, ice and frozen lands. Sometimes winter is just mentioned at the beginning… three drops of blood on the snow. Sometimes just including an animal associated with winter is enough. Interesting in Fairest of Them All that the film starts with apple blossoms falling like snow. Father wishes for a daughter with skin as white as snow, etc. There is snow throughout this movie. The enchanted forest in Mirror, Mirror is blanketed with snow.

Going over and into the enchanted woods is a part of all of the movies. The woods Barker goes through in Willa are realistic, but scary woods. The time she spends with the ‘dwarves’ is on the road in a traveling medicine show. Duvall’s woods are supposed to be just realistic woods. The others are truly magical. We know we are in an enchanted place. In Huntsman and Fairest we are transported to these woods with sweeping aerial views.

EVIL STEPMOTHER

Be she Queen or not, all the stories have a beautiful, evil stepmother. It’s a wonder that the title is Snow White since the strongest character is really that evil Queen. What’s motivating this stepmother? Choices made by scriptwriter and director give different impressions. In Huntsman and Fairest of them All, the Queen is surely beautiful, but more than vain, she is power hungry. Theron wants to rule the kingdom and live forever. She doesn’t just need to see Snow White dead; she needs to eat the girl’s heart. Richardson does eat the girl’s heart… or so she is led to believe. The message here is beauty equals power. Julia Roberts also wants to rule the kingdom, but more than craving power, this Queen is vain and terrified of aging. She can’t bear to see the daughter, young and beautiful. Redgrave is only concerned with beauty and age. O’Connell (an aging actress, not a Queen) is obsessed with aging and a fading theatrical career soon to be usurped by her beautiful stepdaughter.

Watching these women lose control and come unraveled was quite intriguing. Redgrave does it just with her hair. The more her hair is out of control, the more crazed she becomes twirling madly to her death at the end.  Only in Willa does the Evil Stepmother meet her demise by fire.

Some of the films bring in mythological allusions. In Mirror, Mirror and Fairest of Them All, there are explicit references to the moon goddesses through use of jewelry and moons. And peacock feathers can be found in Disney’s queen and on Julia Roberts. Is that mythological?

THE MIRROR

The mirrors were the most fun to study-- some fantastic mirrors and what a different message the physical properties of the mirror send. First of all, who or what does the stepmother see when she looks into it? Who or what responds? Do the mirrors have any other magical powers? In Huntsman and Duval’s Snow White the face/voice of the mirror is a man. In Duval’s the mirror is Vincent Price and is the narrator of the story, holding conversations with the Queen: a mirror with attitude. In Willa, the mirror is a vanity table mirror that reflects the stepmother’s last performance of Romeo and Juliet with all of the ovations she received clearly audible. Apparently, all mirrors are dangerous to her for all are covered throughout the house or locked up in drawers. In Mirror, Mirror, Julia Roberts walks into the mirror (like Alice?) and sees her beautiful self-reflected. She also holds conversations with the mirror (herself): another mirror with attitude.

I thought the Huntsman mirror was the most arresting. (you can see it here YouTube) Then I saw the mirror in Fairest of them All. The concept for this mirror outdid the rest. It’s a bit complicated. The Queen is ugly at the beginning of the movie. She is given an evil mirror which she breaks because she is afraid to see her reflection. A piece of it flies into the eye of the King. (Anderson’s Snow Queen?) He sees her as beautiful and he is now in her power.  But one bigger piece remains and it is placed on a special stand in a special room. This room is a dressing room and the mirror is a dressing room mirror, the kind where you see your full self-reflected on and on and on. I had done some study on labyrinths and one labyrinth is just such a mirror. You can lose yourself in a mirror like this. Very fitting. Richardson sees her whole self-reflected until Snow White becomes more beautiful and from then on Snow White reaches out from every mirror and answers “Who is the fairest of them all?” with “I am, I am, I am…” The remaining piece of mirror has other powers as well. It can show the Queen exactly where Snow White is. (I remember this quality in some other films as well) It can transport the Queen when she steps into it. It can transform the Queen once, to look like Snow White’s mother.  It is the weapon used to kill the huntsman. Quite a powerful mirror indeed.

Some other things I noticed and found intriguing

The sashes in Duvall’s piece and in Fairest of Them All were worth noting. Vanessa Redgrave’s beribboned crone twirls around making those beautiful ribbons impossible to resist. And the magical sash in Fairest quickly turns from a pretty, tied bow to a suffocating knot.

Puppets played prominently in Mirror, Mirror and in Willa.  Both movies start with puppets. The beginning of the tale is told through puppets in Mirror, Mirror. Later Julia Roberts is able to destroy the dwarves’ house by manipulating puppets. Willa opens with Willa (Snow White) playing out a fairy tale with her little puppet theatre. Learning of her stepdaughter’s interest in theatre, the stepmother is enraged when she finds this puppet theatre.  The whole of Willa is about acting and theatre.

I was fascinated to find a Betty Boop cartoon (1933) of Snow White on YouTube. It is of its time, but it does include many of the attributes of Snow White discussed above. Watch and notice the Evil Queen, the mirror, snow, the huntsman (prince?) the ice casket and the demise of the queen.  (Betty Boop 1933 Cab Calloway "Snow-White" on YouTube - Betty Boop)

Julie has been telling traditional and literary fairytales to audiences of all ages since 1985. Her nine years of elementary school teaching and her study of child development and curriculum have made Julie finely attuned to stories that are age appropriate. Julie says, “My background in education helps me to choose stories that are appropriate to students’ developmental levels. The myths and folktales which I tell are filled with ethical dilemmas which provide a catalyst for deep discussion and reflection. For this reason I prefer classroom telling.” 

 

 

 

Wishing on the Stars

By Storyteller, Maria LoBiondo

Maria believes that a story is a gift from heart to heart between teller and listener. A professional writer and editor, her love of fairy, folk, and wisdom tales has been lifelong, although studies leading to her bachelor’s degree in education from Boston College and years as a preschool teacher deepened her appreciation.
Serendipitous discoveries make travel all the sweeter and so it was when my daughter and I came upon a beautiful garden in an otherwise nondescript Tokyo neighborhood on our recent trip to Japan.

After watching turtles basking on rocks and carp swimming below as we crossed the bridge, my daughter settled down to sketch the scenery and I rested under a wisteria bower outfitted with picnic tables. On two sides of the structure bamboo branches festooned with multicolored streamers flapped in the breeze. On closer examination, the streamers had Japanese characters on them. Then I saw a table with markers, blank papers, and the invitation (thankfully in English as well as Japanese) to write a wish and attach it to a bough.

The colorful branches celebrated Tanabata, the Star Festival, held on the seventh day of the seventh month. On Tanabata, so the story goes, two lovers – now the stars Altair and Vega -- meet annually on the Milky Way. Originally a Chinese legend, the Japanese tale revolves around a weaver princess and her love for a cowherd. Her father, Emperor of the Sky, separated the lovers when the princess neglected her work but allows this night to reconnect. The lovers hope for clear skies; if it rains they must wait another year for the chance to be together again. Wishes are made for their happy reunion – and for personal dreams to come true.

The simplest version of the Tanabata story is a how and why tale about two stars in the summer sky. But I had stumbled upon a more complex version in preparation for our trip when I read several Japanese folk tale collections as well as touring guidebooks.

“The Woman Who Came From Heaven” in Folktales of Japan edited by Keigo Seki (University of Chicago Press, 1963) includes the well-known motifs of wooing by stealing the clothes of a bathing girl and impossible tasks for a hero to fulfill, and ends with the two lovers becoming Altair and Vega.

What I noticed in this story as well as many of the folk tales was the sense of a more serious mood, sometimes mysterious and sometimes melancholy. Consider the well-known story “The Crane Wife,” in which the crane sacrifices herself for her husband and then flies away. In Margaret Read MacDonald’s Look Back and See: Twenty Lively Tales for Gentle Tellers (H.W. Wilson, 1991), “The Singing Turtle” dies in the story.

I learned that there is a literary construct that helps illuminate the Japanese view: mono no aware. Most often associated with cherry blossom season, mono no aware  is not so much an expression of sadness as an acute appreciation for the beauty of the moment, knowing it will not last forever.

“The Woman Who Came From Heaven” hints at this. Seki’s book is a rich source for tellers and teachers who want to use this story or others to compare and contrast cultural perspectives on familiar motifs. Before each folk tale are cross-references with story types as well as explanations of the tale’s Japanese roots and particular Japanese terms.

My daughter and I each had a chance at different times to add our wishes to Tanabata branches. But one of the most noted Japanese Star Festivals, marked by the lunar calendar and held around August 7, is in Sendai, near where the earthquake and tsunami of March 11, 2011, did so much damage. It was still held there last year, and will be held again this month.