More About Community and Imagination

The Fool of the World and the Flying Ship (postcard illustration)

"Over all what I learned from this experience is that a community is a very powerful and that imagination is very big." This comment is from a 6th grade student I (Paula) taught in the storytelling project described by Julie in the previous post. 

For this project, tellers and 6^th grade ELA teachers were paired to collaboratively plan and teach a three-day storytelling program that would reinforce the teachers’ literacy goals in their English Language Arts classes and give all participants an opportunity to reflect upon the role of community in various aspects of our lives, and on the responsibility of the individual to his or her community. Although we had guidelines in the form of a general residency plan for each day, storytellers were given the freedom to choose own own material and plan specific workshop activities. Each day of the residency focused on an aspect of working with story: discussion, movement, and writing, respectively.

I collaborated with Ashley Daly, an experienced English language arts teacher whose enthusiasm for teaching and learning is obvious in everything she does in the classroom. She made me, a guest teacher, feel welcome and comfortable, and it was clear that, even at this early stage of their first year in a new, much larger school, sixth graders feel safe in her classroom. Although we began the residency with a detailed lesson plan for each day, we continued to tweak the plan from day to day and, even, from class to class, as we worked through it.

The first day, the discussion day, was also an introduction to storytelling for most of the students and for Ashley. For this reason, I choose to tell three stories during the eighty minute workshop. I began the workshop with Stone Soup because the story provides an example of how collaboration enhances everyone’s experience, but it also reminds us that successful collaborations may require creative persuasion to get the ball rolling. My second story, Sungara Muddies the Water Hole (http://www.sacred-texts.com/afr/mlb/mlb19.htm), also provides an example of how successful communities put aside differences when working towards a common goal. However, because the main character is Trickster, the story raises the question of how the community deals with an uncooperative and, possibly, destructive presence.

Students recognized themselves and each other in the Sungara character when they talked about the kid who refuses to do his or her part in a class project, or whose behavior diminishes everyone else’s experience of a special event. Most of them had come up with or been given strategies for dealing with the character. They also recognized that Trickster has strengths that could enrich the community.

The third story I told this day was Tatterhood. I chose it after discussing plans with my colleague. Jack McKeon, who paired the tale with Jack and the Beanstalk as examples how a non conventional individual struggles to integrate into a community. I thought Tatterhood would provide students with an interesting contrast to Sungara.

Students really enjoyed Tatterhood, but it was the most difficult story for them to discuss. In all of our discussions, it was hard for students to admit their connection to the outcast character. I don’t think they weren’t empathetic, but that the fear of being ostracized is so integral to the sixth grade psyche that public discussion of it is taboo. I imagine, judging from the comfort level she has already established, that this will change in Ashley’s classes as the year progresses.

Day two of the residency was creative drama day. For this workshop I told The Girl Who Dreamed Only Geese from Howard Norman’s collection and used a series of creative drama exercises that gave students the opportunity to ‘live’ in the tale. I could write pages about this story, but I will only say that was perfect for our theme. Ashley and I adjusted the creative drama activities throughout the day based on the impact we thought they made on previous classes. We had a very strong workshop by the end of the day and I was lucky to have a second chance to teach it in Sarah Satkowski’s classroom. Here is what we ended up doing: After hearing the story, each student was assigned a character. (We began by letting students choose a character, but after the first session, we felt that imposing the character would better suit our goal which was to help students empathize with story characters and understand how characters change as the narrative progresses.) A visualization exercise allowed students to become their character. After walking and talking in their new persona, students told, in first person as their character, a part of the character’s story that wasn’t revealed in the story narrative. These narratives were often insightful and, sometimes, quite moving.

Day Three was writing day. I told The Fool of the World and the Flying Ship and asked students to compare it with the first story of the residency, Stone Soup. Students wrote about how their experience with the stories and with storytelling changed their ideas about community. Here are some of the things they wrote:

Story telling really changed the way I thought community was because I thought that community was just a town... Now I learned that community is a very important thing in our lives.

At first all I knew about community was that it’s a group of people who help each other to make a better place. After the stories I learned that in a community everyone depends on each other. It’s somewhat like an ecosystem.

I’ve learned that you should always be cautious about what you say about other people because they might not be what they appear to you.

From Tatterhood, I learned… it’s okay to be you. Also I have learned from the Fool that not all intelligence starts off as clever.

Sometimes 1 person can ruin all the hard work you had worked on.

The stories taught me to give people a chance to prove themselves.

I learned that a community can turn a weak and small person into a big and strong person. What I’m trying to say is that a community is stronger than just one person because everyone has a useful talent and with a group of talents, you can do anything.

Overall I learned that if you build a better community or help out with things in your community you may meet people you never really would have or try new things you didn’t know you could do and maybe even make friends by what you are doing in the community with the people you meet.

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

INTRODUCING

By Storyteller, Julie Della Torre

When I get a new collection of stories, whether from a used book sale, library or bookstore, I immediately go to the story I’m currently working on or one of my favorite tales to see what this new reteller has done to it. Then I always settle down into the introduction. I’m looking for illumination and inspiration. After reading a well written introduction, I can’t wait to dive into the tales themselves.

Why do authors, collectors and retellers spend time writing introductions? As I read many introductions in a short time period it was easy to see why. Each writer has particular themes and concerns. Some want to set the collection in a historical time period. Some want to focus on the tales and still others on the telling of these tales. Some want to explore the importance of these stories in today’s world. Well, I guess all of them want to do that! 

Each introduction in the hands of a great writer is a perfect little essay in and of itself. How could they be otherwise with such authors as Jane Yolen, A.S Byatt, and Philip Pullman? I am only going to touch on a few introductions here, but I would send you to any of the introductions in the volumes published by Pantheon Press. There you will find Padric Colum in The Complete Brothers Grimm, Italo Calvino in Italian Folktales and Richard Erdoes in American Indian Myths and Legends among others.

 

I’d like to begin with my all-time favorite introduction, one I reread any time I need validation for what I do. Jane Yolen is a prolific and eclectic author and folklorist. Her introductory essay in the Pantheon collection Favorite Folktales From Around the World (Pantheon 1986) is the one I go to for inspiration.

 “Tales are meant to be told,” she begins, a point she reiterates in each of the five sections that make up this essay. Throughout the introduction Yolen’s belief in the power of story is evident. She speaks to the orality of the tales and how they change with the teller and with the purpose of the telling. The history of the collecting and writing down of the tales and even the history of storytelling in the United States is examined. Yolen takes us to an old storytelling culture where storytellers were apprenticed. This cultivation of new storytellers is a question we here at Storytelling Arts ask ourselves. Where are our future storytellers? The essay is sprinkled with poems and stories... even stories in the Introduction!!! The piece ends with a poem, ‘Why We Tell Stories’ by Lisel Mueller. How would you answer?

 A.S. Byatt is an author who loosely uses the folk tale form for many of her books. She would agree with Yolen’s interpretation of a William James anecdote: Literature. It’s story upon story upon story. It’s story all the way down. Byatt, in her beautifully written introduction to The Annotated Brothers Grimm by Maria Tatar (Norton 2004) writes her memories of reading the fairy tales and how the old fairy tales have influenced her own writing as well as most literature from the time the form evolved.  Why do I like this introduction so much? Byatt reminds me to take the fairy tales as they are; they make no designs on us. “I am not sure how much good is done by moralizing about fairy tales, “she states. The form itself with the flatness, stock characters and even violence put us all in the stories. “These tales collected by the Grimms are older, simpler and deeper than the individual imagination.” That’s why we tell these stories.

Maria Tatar is a renowned folklorist and author. She has studied and written about fairy tales for many years.  Her collections The Annotated Classic Fairy Tales (Norton, 2002) and The Annotated Brothers Grimm (Norton, 2004) both have outstanding introductions, but I would like to concentrate on the earlier edition. In this introduction Tatar focuses on the oral art of storytelling, that these stories should be told or read out loud. She speaks to the inherent morals in these old tales. Moralizing is not needed, though she gives guidelines on the importance of discussing these stories as they are told. In the introduction she clearly sets up the collection, explaining why she added the annotations, and the points of discussions that might ensue. She also speaks to the importance of illustrations of these old tales and includes many of the most famous illustrations. “...illustrations that provide not only visual pleasure, but also powerful commentaries on the tales, interrupting the flow of the story at critical moments and offering opportunities for further reflection and interpretation.” You can hear an interview with Maria Tatar on the importance of fairy tales in our lives here: http://www.onbeing.org/program/the-great-cauldron-of-story-maria-tatar-on-why-fairy-tales-are-for-adults-again/5073/audio?embed=1

 

One of the newest collections of Grimm’s fairy tales is Philip Pullman’s Fairy Tales From the Brothers Grimm. (Viking 2012) Philip Pullman is a masterful storyteller and author of His Dark Materials. (Knopf) This introduction begins with a James Merill poem which Pullman uses as headings for six different sections of the essay. He gives a fairly detailed history and biography of the two brothers Grimm, of their collecting style and how scholars from many fields have interpreted the tales over time. “But,” states Pullman, “my main interest has always been in how the tales worked as stories.” The qualities and characteristics of the form are explored: flatness, stock characters, lack of imagery and description and swiftness of pace. He then defends the retelling and reworking of the tales. Fairy tales are not a written text, they are “transcriptions made on one or more occasions of the words spoken by one of many people who have told this tale.” “The fairy tale is in a perpetual state of becoming and alteration. To keep to one version or one translation alone is to put a robin redbreast in a cage.” As storytellers we know this to be true. Our ‘stories’ change from one telling to the next and evolve over time.   You can read an interview with Philip Pullman about this book here: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/books/bookreviews/9571067/Interview-Philip-Pullman-on-Grimm-Tales.html

 

These are just some of my favorite introductions. Please let me know your favorites so I can look them up and enjoy them as well.

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

_______________________

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

_____________________

 

          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

____________________

 

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

_____________________

 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

___________________

 

   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