Telling Stories: Assisting Living

I recently attended a workshop entitled “the art of story listening and creating a personal mythology.” The stories told by the presenter were personal ones, and although to him they may have been contained truths representative of his life, to me they were just anecdotes. I left the workshop wondering what the term “personal mythology” could possibly mean.

Although I wasn’t inspired by the presenter’s strategies, I think I understand his motivation. He, as I am, was well past the midpoint of life, and I think that as we age, we feel more urgency to make meaning of our pasts and find meaning in the time we have left. And I do believe that stories help us make sense of life. So I decided to seek my personal mythology.

By simply combining the two terms, “personal” and “myth,” I came up with a working definition: personal mythology is a story, or cycle of stories, that expresses deep truths about one’s life and personal beliefs, truths that are impossible to articulate without the help of metaphor and narrative.  It wasn’t great, but it was a start. So now my question was, can an individual find a way to make sense of his or her own life through its stories? 

My reflections about how my own aging effects my life have been brought into focus by recent experience. For a year, I have been facilitating a writing workshop in an assisted living apartment complex in northern NJ. The complex houses older people who want to live independently, but need help with some of the day-to-day tasks they can no longer safely or effectively do on their own. Before this project, I have never taught a whole group of people older than myself, and all of the people in this workshop are at least a generation older than I. When I began the workshops, I didn’t think I would tell stories. I’m not exactly sure why, but I think my concerns had something to do with the fact that telling to my elders was putting things upside down. They should be imparting wisdom to me, not the other way around. I also worried that workshop participants might resent my storytelling because of the common misperception that it is an activity for children. Having reached the age where I am addressed too loudly, smiled at too brightly, and called ‘dear’ by rank strangers, I know how humiliating it can be to have people perceive you as childish or mentally deficient just because you have grey hair and wrinkles. I also think that the tendency of our society to treat “seniors” as if they are less capable than their youngers can make very old people especially sensitive to anything that hints of condescension.

 However, after the first couple of workshops with no stories, I realized that the group needed the common metaphors that story would provide. The people in my workshop lived in the same building and even shared a daily meal, but they didn’t know each other well enough to converse comfortably. Also, although they are of the same generation and of similar cultures, they couldn’t easily make life-to-life connections with each other because there was no web of common experience or familiar stories to hold the group together. They are a diverse group of people who find themselves thrown together because age has deprived them of the physical ability to live independently in the community of their choice, and they are all trying to navigate strange waters.

‘Assisted Living’ is a term that softens the harshness of ‘Old Folks Home’ or ‘Senior Housing’ and, actually, the assisted living facilities I have visited bear no physical resemblance to the places in which my grandparents dreaded to end their lives. The building where I teach is not new, but it’s clean and homey. The library, where the workshop takes place, is well stocked with books and films, and it opens out to a patio garden graced by a pretty gazebo. The building staff is friendly and helpful, and the monthly calendar is filled with options for daily activities. It seems a nice place to live. But I wouldn’t want to live there.

Yet, I know, first hand, the difficulty of finding a suitable place for an older person to live. When my mother-in-law realized that she could no longer live on her own, she had been living far from her children for more than thirty years. She and her husband retired to a warmer climate when they were in their sixties and, little by little, she had seen the support system developed there: friends, family, and her husband, drop away. When she first moved back north, she lived with my husband and me, but we both work during the day and, because she had no network of friends or relatives outside our house, her days here were lonely and, occasionally, dangerous. She gave up her independence reluctantly, but assisted living was her best option.

Assisted Living facilities have become a social necessity. The mobility in our culture that allows young people to move away from families and hometowns, and encourages older people to colonize with their peers in exotic locations, has left us with monogenerational communities in which there are no old people to watch over the very young, and no middle generation to keep their eye on the frail elderly.

When I began telling stories to open the assisted living workshops, the group became more cohesive. By providing impersonal material for conversation, stories allow people to speak more openly, and of course, find common ground to tell their own stories. Stories do other things, too. They entertain, and take people out of themselves for a bit. Also, the intricate texture of even the simplest story allows each person to find an intellectually satisfying approach to the tale. Good stories never condescend to the listener; they offer ideas that match the understanding of each individual. 

The first personal stories told in my workshop were stories of the past. Some of these were clearly painful for people to remember and more than once someone said, “I don’t want to think about these things.” I encouraged them to write about the stories I told, but an allusion to Cinderella’s slipper inevitably reminded someone of the ill fitting and shabby shoes she had worn as a child, the mention of a cruel king brought memories of Europe between the wars, and no one could even begin to entertain the idea of “happily ever after.”  However, even with ghosts from the past gibbering around the circle as people told and retold stories of childhood and youth, we began to move past individual stories to the realization that the members of our group shared stories. We were telling a collection of stories about living through the first half of the twentieth century and there were threads connecting each person’s stories to those of others. There were stories of fear, poverty and loss, but there were also happy memories of parents now long gone, and children who are now grandparents, themselves. We were getting to know each other through our stories.

Conversation in the workshop became more comfortable and people began to talk and write about the present, about the circumstances that had brought them to the assisted living apartments, and about trying to adapt to that change. Again, the stories shared themes and motifs. But could you call them personal mythology?

We began talking about the mythology that the workshop members think of as their own – the stories of the Old Testament and the traditional midrashim that have become attached to them. These are stories that observant Jews read or hear, in a long-established order, year after year. The first five books of the Bible are read in weekly segments over the cycle of a year’s Sabbaths; and each season and holiday has its own story. The Binding of Isaac is told at the New Year, Jonah on Yom Kippur, the Miracle of the Oil near the winter solstice, The Redemption from Egypt in the spring, and Ruth at the beginning of summer. What is the effect, I wondered, of hearing these stories –  stories of family trials and triumphs, of community struggles, of war and affliction, of victory over tyranny, of man’s struggle to understand the inequities of life and to reconcile them with the idea of an omniscient creator –  over and over, year after year, in their own time, each on its own occasion? Does listening to these stories give us a structure for telling our own? Do they help us make sense of our own life experience? Aren’t these stories the ‘real’ personal mythology of the people who hear and tell them?

Myth is much larger than the story of any individual’s experience. It expresses the truths, dreams, desires, and fears of  whole cultures through many generations. In a community that knows and retells its own mythology, there is no need to search for a personal story to bring self-awareness.  The story has already been told, over and over and over again by all the generations up to our time. Furthermore, the Community of Man, has passed on its myths in the form of folktales, fairy tales, and legends, as well as in the myths of specific religions. It is telling and listening to these stories that allow us to make meaning of our own life experience, and to transcend it.

After several weeks of storytelling in the assisted living workshops, a participant said, “I keep coming back here, not because I want to write, but because I always leave feeling that something has touched my soul. It uplifts me and leaves me with something to think about.”

This is the magic of story – its ability to pluck the heartstrings in a way that brings harmony to the spirit. It frees the soul even when the body is an unremitting prison. The understanding that it brings isn’t intellectual, although we can analyze it to our benefit, and the stories that have the most power to affect us are the ones that have been in the world forever. I think we find our personal mythology in the myths of mankind. It’s why we need to continue telling and listening to them.

 

“I’m shocked by how much J____ remembers and how much he had to say,” Ms. D____ quietly tells me as I put the cloth carrot and two small stones back into my storytelling sack, then turn to give her first graders a cheery good-bye.

They have been sitting crisscross applesauce style in the carpeted corner of the classroom for an hour, not counting the stretch and breathe break we took halfway through. I can simply see how their capacity for listening and reflecting is growing.

This is day three of a seven-day storytelling residency at the Florence L. Walther School in Lumberton, NJ, where I have been working with eight groups of first graders and their topnotch teachers. Designed to support the language arts curriculum and to further the goals of community building, this brief residency brought me to each class for three hour-long sessions, one in the fall, one this past week, with another scheduled for April. A two-hour teacher workshop in December focused on engaging students in responding to and extending the stories they hear and read through movement, conversation, and retelling.

This is year two for the residency. Last year I also worked with the first grade staff and students, presenting an October teacher workshop on learning to tell stories. That year, each teacher added at least one story to her teller repertoire and told it before my winter visit. With great delight, the students told me about the stories their own teachers had told. And they remembered them, replete with details. The value of the Walther residency has been due, to a great extent, to the way in which Principal Janet Horan and her entire staff have embraced the process and integrated story into their work.

The immediacy and intimacy of eye-to-eye, heart-to-heart communication of storytelling provides a subtle, yet powerful, contrast to reading silently or even aloud. Caught up in the rhythms and music of the language, and physical presence of the teller’s gesture, posture, and facial expression, the listener takes the story directly into his or her mind. Each student in the classroom creates the story along with the teller, feeling its structure, getting to know the characters and imagining the scenes. Story recall, as in the case of young J. is heightened.

I believe, however, that there are even greater advantages to this ancient and always fresh art. When stories are told, a profound gift exchange is taking place. The teller offers, not only the story itself, but perhaps more important, her whole attention to those who receive the story. Without altering the essential lineaments of the tale, she improvises, responding to raised hands or quizzical looks, incorporating suggestions or gestures and dialogue suggested by the listeners. The story becomes a living thing, nurtured by both teller and listener. No wonder a six- year old or 16-year old or sixty-year old recalls with delight the trick fox played or the way a silly boy found his courage when he had to deal with the ugly troll hag on his own.

This is the kind of gift that allows a boy like J, whose expressive language has been so limited that he is being referred for testing, to find his voice. It is a gift that teachers, as well as professional storytellers can amply offer to their students and to each other.

Luray Gross, Storyteller

Hop online

Hello, I am Julie Della Torre, Master Storyteller with Storytelling Arts, Inc. I have been working as a Professional Storyteller since 1985 and have 9 years of elementary school teaching experience along with the study of child development and curriculum. More information about our work in storytelling and education can be found on the Storytelling Arts website http://www.storytellingarts.net/

I find I'm hopping online more and more often when I need to find a story. I'd like to share a few of my favorite sites with you, and hope you will respond with a few favorites of your own.

SurLaLune

By far the site I visit the most is SurLaLune http://www.surlalunefairytales.com hosted by Heidi Anne Heiner. It is a site that is quite easy to use and I recommend you play in it and discover all it has to offer. The site has stories galore as well as essays, illustrations and so much more.

When you first open the site you immediately see on the left, an index of popular European fairy tales. Click on any one of these and wonders appear. The full text of the story is given with annotations. Another index appears on this new page and you can find a history of the tale, illustrations of the tale, similar tales from across cultures, modern interpretations, a bibliography and a book gallery. For some of the most popular tales there are links to other explorations of the tale.

But don’t stop there. Go back to the home page and across the top is another menu. Click on Introduction and a number of essays can be found. Yet another index pops up and you can go to discussions of such subjects as Disney and Fairy Tales, Women and Fairy Tales, a Guide for Teachers, and many more.

Speaking of discussions, the discussion board is a place to find out what storytellers, authors, folklorists, professors, and illustrators are thinking and working on in the field of fairy tales. There are current discussions as well as archives covering many topics of interest.

And there is more on the home page. Scroll down and you will find an empty box with ‘search’ beside it. Type in any word, for example, wind, or daisy, or self-control, and the whole of Surlalune will be searched for your topic. You may find annotations, or discussions, or illustrations. It is a very useful search engine.

And one more overlooked feature. Under the search engine is SurLaLuune Storytime. Here you will find ideas for preschool story programs developed around themes.

SuLaLune has recently introduced a blog to the site. I find it to be funky and eccentric. I go to it for fun, but am still trying to get used to it. You will find many reviews of new books, movies and movie trailers, advertising, allusions and the like, all related to fairy tales.

Story Lovers World

Another site I frequent is Story Lovers World hosted by Jackie Baldwin. This site is more for gathering ideas around themes, countries and educational levels. This site does not have stories available, but when I am working on programs, I find this site quite useful indeed.

The site is a little overwhelming and a bit more confusing than SurLaLune. That’s because there is just so much information tuck away in different places. Go to SOS Site Map (Searching Out Stories) http://www.story-lovers.com/listsofstories.htm and scroll down and down and down… You will find categories based around theme, age of audience, country, holidays, emotions, and many more. Keep on scrolling because the list is extensive. If you stop at a find at the top of the scroll, you may miss some very interesting stuff. If you wait to the end though, you will have forgotten what’s at the top.

When you click on an interest, you will find lists of books and stories, as well as ideas and discussions from other storytellers. Most of these discussions are from the popular listserv STORYTELL. My creative juices get flowing as I explore what other storytellers have chosen for a particular project.

Jackie Baldwin is a very generous storyteller and has complied stories, activities and books around such themes as water, winter, January and so forth.

Briefly, here are other sites that are bookmarked on my computer.

D.L. Ashliman’s Home Page: http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/ashliman.html

This is the site I go to for the text of stories.

Aaron Shepard’s Home Page:

http://www.aaronshep.com

All Aaron Shepard adaptations. But, he does have some good activities and some readers theatre that I send teachers to.

Generosity of Spirit: Myths and Folktales

http://learningtogive.org/materials/folktales

This site is sponsored by the Fetzer Institute. I found it and used it when I was collecting stories to accompany a program on character education. I used some of the stories, but found that the stories listed made me remember other stories in my repertoire. A site to explore at least.

Sacred Texts

http://www.sacred-texts.com

Texts of many books of myth and fairy tale.

Spirit of Trees

http://www.spiritoftrees.org

A beautiful site of folktales, myths, essays and poems of trees.

Pourquoi Stories of Nature

What does it mean when a New Jersey cherry tree blossoms in late November? Or, when an antlered deer wanders into a densely populated suburban neighborhood?

The newspapers will tell us that we can look to global warming and overgrazed natural habitats for explanations. But if we look beyond the surface (not to belittle that surface), we can mine our imaginations to explain these phenomena. We can develop pourquoi stories.

Pourquoi is the French word for “why.” Pourquoi stories are told all over the world to explain why an animal behaves the way it does, or why a spider weaves its web so beautifully, or why a rainbow appears after a storm. These stories go beyond rational scientific explanations. They span the absurd to the sacred. They are part of the human experience.

In September, I told the Lakota Indian legend Tonweya and the Eagles at Morris County’s Juvenile Detention Center and Youth Shelter. The teenagers at these facilities are facing problems I can only poorly imagine. For our September workshops, I wanted to explore with them a story that could act as a metaphor for their situation and possibly give them tools that could help them make sense of what was happening to them.

The protagonist in the story, a young Lakota Sioux named Tonweya, wanders away from his hunting party and becomes stranded on a rocky ledge without an anchored rope. There is nothing for him to grab onto to either climb up to the top of the cliff, or climb down to the ground below.

Also on this ledge are two fledgling eaglets. They are abandoned by their mother. Tonweya and the birds keep each other safe using their natural instincts and talents to rescue each other from certain death. The story concludes with an explanation for why only the fearless and brave wear eagle feathers tipped with red. It is a majestic and soulful story.

The residents at the youth facilities listened attentively and analyzed Tonweya’s qualities that helped him survive dire circumstances. I left hoping the kids would think about the qualities they have that will help them survive. I hoped I had given each of them a metaphoric eagle feather to wear.

Stories can serve as tools to explain why things are the way they are.

But perhaps it is more important that stories can serve as tools to imagine the way things can be.

______________________

Ellen Musikant is a performer, teaching artist, workshop facilitator and story coach. As such she has been a storyteller in residence in schools throughout New Jersey including preschools, elementary, and middle schools. When working with the very young, Ellen plays within the story landscape and narrative, giving the children new worlds and new words. For older students, she inspires self-expression by enlivening folktales with creative dramatics. As a story coach, Ellen helps children custom and adults find their storytelling voices. Each residency and workshop she offers is designed to meet the needs of the client. In addition to her work with Storytelling Arts, Inc., Ellen enjoys performing in festivals, museums, libraries and a host of other venues. She is Storyteller-in-Residence at the Zimmerli Art Museum, Rutgers University, New Brunswick.

Storytelling in the 21st Century

A professional writer and editor, Maria LoBiondo's 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, NY, and Providence, RI, and participation in artist Judy Chicago’s needlework effort, The Birth Project. She has told stories for the past 15 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, in addition to her work for Storytelling Arts. Maria is a member of the Princeton Storytelling Circle.

Going through old papers recently I found this note from a storytelling visit: “Thank you for telling stories to my class. I enjoyed listening to the story ‘East of the Sun, West of the Moon.’ I could picture the trolls in my head. I could see the prince saying, ‘Who can ever wash my shirt will be my wife.’ Hope you come back soon.”

Not only did the note make me smile, but it lifted my spirits after a day of feeling as if everywhere I turned there was another screen to view – my phone, my computer, a TV attached to the elliptical machine in the gym, another in the supermarket checkout line, and another in a favorite restaurant, not to mention the TV in my living room. I don’t have an e-reader or an iPad, but I do have an iPod, and even though it’s not the latest version, it has a screen, too.

All those screens vying for my attention, feeding me images, both stimulating and distracting. But how much of my imagination did they engage?

When telling a story, the images of what is happening as the plot unfolds cross my inner eye as they might a movie screen but I am creating the scenes anew with each telling, and no two tellings of the same story are the alike. I may have seen a troll with three heads and countless warts on each nose, but my student listener created her own troll, as scary or comical as she wanted it to be. Both of us used our imaginations to make the story come alive.

For some time now I have been trying to reconcile my feelings about 21st-century digital technology and the ancient art of storytelling. I know there is no turning back to fewer screens competing for our attention. I know that the future will bring more tools to use to converse, research, and entertain.

In frustration, I listened to Thomas Freidman’s “The World is Flat” in my car while driving to and fro this summer. Friedman’s storytelling – whether he gave an account of the fall of the Berlin Wall or the birth of a new company – won me over.

He employed short narratives to make his points rather than simply a barrage of information.

Friedman makes a strong case for beefed up science, math, and engineering courses in our schools, but he also suggests that stimulating the imagination is critically important.

To my mind, storytelling does this at all age levels. It helps us have all sensorial cylinders firing as we listen, visualize what’s happening, and create for ourselves the touch, smell, and taste evoked in the tale. The give and take between teller and listener means a story is never static, never just consuming passively, because the story becomes alive as it is told as the teller and listener create the images they “see.”

Imagination is a way of seeing. Before we can “see” big things like societal change or starting a new business it’s helpful to start with something as small as imagining trolls. All the number crunching computers can do won’t mean much without the imagination of people to apply the information in new ways.

Which brings me to Albert Einstein’s famous quote: “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” Telling and listening to stories, visualizing and reflecting on the images we create, promotes imagination. The ancient art of storytelling is as important today as it ever was.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

Last week I took my baby grandson on a walk along a greenway that passes by the edge of my neighborhood. As I pushed the stroller through a woodsy stretch, noting the change and fall of the leaves, listening to the blue jay who announced my arrival, I was suddenly startled by the sight of a ghoulish face peering through the trees. The face was bright blue, as lean as a skull, with eyes full of malice. It had been painted on the round end of a log, part of a tree that had fallen victim to the wind and rain of hurricane Irene, and positioned so that it seemed to hover in the trees at the edge of the path. After recovering from the abrupt rise in my heartbeat brought on by the unexpected vision, I paused a while to admire it and then strolled on, pleased that a little art had slipped itself into my nature walk.

As I continued walking, I began to think about the subject of the painting, the nightmare-inspiring face of a creature from beyond the grave, or certainly beyond the reach of mortal power. I don’t know who the artist is or what inspired the piece, but I’d bet the painter is a teenager. I’m making this assumption, in part, because the painting took me back to a discussion I had in one of my middle school workshops a couple of weeks ago. It was the first workshop after summer break. The students were 8^th graders, most of whom have been in my storytelling program for a couple of years, so the conversation was lively and comfortable. We talked about what we had done over the summer and, since we’re all story lovers, the conversation turned to what we’ve been reading.

All of the students were reading Young Adult novels about vampires, werewolves, and wizards, or about the sinister four horsemen of adolescence: humiliation, depression, disease, and death. I have to say that, at the time of the conversation, I wasn’t surprised or alarmed to find that my students are drawn to books about the dark side. I was also drawn to darkness at their age. What I though as I walked (and watched the peaceful little face of my grandson) was, how ironic that our children are drawn to the very things we, as teachers and parents and grandparents, try hardest to hide from them. We want so much to preserve their innocence, to delay for as long as possible their awareness of sadness and evil in life, that I think sometimes we risk sending them into the world unprepared for the dark reality they’re bound to confront. In fact, their fascination with evil may be a survival mechanism that protects them from our over protectiveness.

When I first began telling stories to children outside of my house, I remember a lot of discussion among parents, teachers, and, I suppose, scholars and psychologists, about whether traditional folktales were appropriate literature for little ones. When I looked at children’s books, I found that many of the traditional stories from my own childhood had been cleaned up by authors and editors. Wolves no longer ate pigs, grandmothers, or little girls; sadistic step-sisters became spiteful but comical oafs; murderous mothers were no longer punished; and no one ever died. I remember trying to navigate my way through this controversy. On the one hand, I knew that the authentic, non-Bowdlerized versions of traditional stories speak to some deep part of the human soul and assist in its development. On the other hand, I wanted to work, so I didn’t want to gain the reputation of the storyteller who scared little kids. I found my way through this mist in an elementary school in a Northern NJ city where, for four years, I told stories to a group of children, looping with them from kindergarten through third grade.

The project was part of a study to see if children who were exposed to storytelling through their primary school years would show a measurable difference in literacy skills from students who didn’t receive the services of a storyteller. The control groups were the grade levels on either side of the students with whom I worked. The study was, I believe, inconclusive. There was anecdotal evidence from teachers of improvement in individual students’ abilities to listen, speak, and maintain focus during the storytelling sessions, but because of budget restraints, these sessions were limited to two forty-five minute workshops a month. Also, due to the transient nature of the school population, less than a third of the original students were still in the school at the conclusion of the study.

However, regardless of what anyone else learned through the study, I learned a great deal about the lives of my students. For example, one day, in the spring of their the second grade year, I told them “One My Darling,” a story from Diane Wolkstein’s Haitian folktale collection, The Magic Orange Tree. In this story, which shares motifs with “Cinderella” and “The Seven Little Kids,” an ogre runs off with the Bad Mother’s three darlings, leaving only her fourth, despised, daughter behind. After this event, the story follows the fortune of the fourth daughter without ever revealing the fate of the three abducted girls.

When the story ended, the children asked the inevitable question, “What happened to the three darlings?”

I answered, as I always do after this story, “The story doesn’t say. What do you think?”

Usually students think the ogre ate the three girls and I point out that, although that’s a possibility, there may be other answers, other stories. This usually leads the class into a story making activity in which they invent endings for the ogre and the other girls.

However, on this day when the question was asked, a little boy promptly answered,

“They probably got raped.”

I looked from the solemn face of the child to the horrified face of his teacher, and then to the twenty-some other faces in the classroom. A few children looked puzzled, a couple nodded sagely, and the rest sat looking expectantly at me. I knew I couldn’t ignore the little boy’s response, but I also didn’t feel equipped to talk about rape with seven year olds.

So, after a second, I just said, “Maybe. What else?”

“The ogre probably ate them,” said another student.

And so the conversation continued along the usual lines. With a couple of important exceptions. First, the teacher learned that at least one of her second graders knew something about rape. (This may not have been significant, but if it was, the door had been opened for further investigation). And second, the kids realized that they could say things in the storytelling discussion that they couldn’t say in other places. This realization opened a door into the out-of-school lives of the students that, among other things, reinforced my belief that children need a balance of darkness and light in their literary experiences. Young as they were, these children welcomed the opportunity to talk about scary things in a safe environment. My unexpurgated folktales gave them that opportunity.

In my final months with those students I learned that many of them had first hand knowledge of the darkest content of the stories I had been discouraged from telling them. They had been subjected to physical and emotional abuse, witnessed the effects of drugs and alcohol, heard gunshots, seen neighbors or relatives arrested, lost loved ones to illness and violence, and lived in homes where there was not enough to eat. I think that we parents and teachers often forget that all of our kids live in a scary world, and even those living in the most secure homes and neighborhoods are exposed to fearful things. To pretend that these things don’t exist, to hush our children’s tears and reassure their fears by saying we’ll protect them isn’t ultimately comforting. Our children will face darkness on their life journeys. ‘Real’ literature helps prepare them for those encounters and gives them a fighting chance of surviving them.

THE SHOW FROM WHERE I STAND

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. She is also the voice for several children’s and young adult audio books for the Andrew Heiskill Library for the Blind and Handicapped in NYC. When not telling tales she can be found performing as a dancer in shows across the country and as a clown doctor for the Big Apple Circus Clown Care Unit, entertaining children in NYC hospitals.

“I’m soooooo sorry,” the mother of a six year old in my audience says. Her eyes begging for forgiveness, her head bowed in shame. “He just always gets like this!”

I shake the offered hand, and tell her, “Your son didn’t do anything I haven’t seen before.”

“Really?” she utters incredulously.

“Really,” I reply. And I mean it.

One of the joys/challenges of being a live performer is that I see the audience every bit as much as they see me. The dad in the back row on the cell phone – hi there, sir! The seven year old who keeps forgetting to cover her mouth, when she lets loose a juicy, mucousy cough – where’s my Purell? And the baby on the lap of a mom in the back, who’s either laughing or pooping – coochie-coo!! I kind of hate to admit it, but sometimes, the show I see from my angle, is a heck of a lot funnier, and more interesting than what the public is getting from me! And while every audience and every child is different – there are definitely patterns.

In folktales, there are specific character types know as archetypes: the Hero, the Villain, the Sage, and others. Though the details differ from story to story, the roles these people (or animals) play in the tales are remarkably similar. The Hero in one folktale might have to overcome an ogre, while in another he is charged with finding magical fruit. Different circumstances to be sure, but he always has an obstacle to overcome, and usually a young maiden to find/save/wed. And just as often, as I describe an archetypical trickster or silly for my audience, my viewing public is enacting, in very real time, some classic archetypes of their own. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I introduce the “Mimic”, the “Know it All”, the “I’m Over It”, the “Performer”, the “Talker”, and last, but certainly not least, the “Nose Picker”.

The “Mimic”: I have to admit that the first time I witnessed this behavior, it freaked me out! There I was, going about my business, telling some story or the other in typical “Julie physical style” when all of a sudden, I saw at least a dozen little bodies mimicking my every move. Eyes wide, and absolutely silent, they were so absorbed by the story, I don’t even think they realized they were moving! Their focus was absolute, and they looked, I thought, a bit like marionettes. I raised my arms, they raised their arms. I scratched my head, they scratched their heads. They weren’t trying to pull focus, or get attention, they were just completely inside the story! After getting over the shock, I felt a little power crazy!! What if I could control other people this way? If I told a story to a bank teller, and mimed handing out money – would they copy my actions, and give me a fist full of dollars? Alas, the people at my bank know me by name, and just shook their heads, and laughed, saying, “Oh, that Julie!”

The “Know-It-All”: This is the child who, even before the story has begun, loudly announces to everyone, “Oh, I know this one!!” During every open-ended question, their hand is raised, and their face set in the smug smile of righteousness. If someone else answers the question first, the “Know-It-All” isn’t fazed. “I was going to say that” or “That was my second guess” are their quick come backs. Some people dislike the “Know-It-All” – not me! I adore (and wish I had more of) their self confidence and love of knowledge.

And the “Know-It-All” is often that sub-species known as the “Shusher”. Because the “Know-It-All” wants to hear the story BADLY – if only to prove they do in fact know it all, they give me their full attention – and they demand everyone does as well. I’ve seen “Know-It-Alls” stare down a noisy audience member with the expertise of a teacher, librarian, and preacher all rolled into one.

The “I’m Over It”: Okay, maybe like a mother, I’m not supposed to have favorites. But I do, and this group is it. I LOVE the “I’m Over Its”!! Their surly faces, slumped postures, constantly rolling eyes. “Bring it, lady,” their expressions tell me. And I love to oblige. See, I’m like that old song that says, “I’m a rebel, and I’m just no good.” If you tell me I can’t do something, I will work with every ounce of my 5’2” frame to prove you wrong. Choose to dare, double dare, or triple dare me, and watch out!

Every time I stand before a group of “I’m Over Its”, I feel my inner obstinate three year old stomp her feet, and dig her heels in. I become like the character, Effie, in “Dreamgirls”, who sings, “I’m staying! I’m staying! And you’re gonna love me!!!!!” These “I’m Over Its” make me dig deep, and bring out my A+++++ game (forgive all the sports analogies, but sometimes that’s the only way things can be said!) They make me keep working on my repertoire so that I have material that is intense, juicy, and special enough to dazzle them. I’m always pretty focused on my audience, but with the “I’m Over Its”, I am forced to really crawl under their skin, to find what moves, provokes, or tickles them. They humble me, because they always seem to appear after I’ve had several crowds of “Mimics”, just adoring my every move. And there is no greater payoff then when an “I’m Over It” sits up a little straighter, smiles a shy smile or, raises a hand to ask a question. “I’m Over Its” are tough, no doubt about it, but they are TOTALLY worth it.

The “Performer”: This is a group I COMPLETELY understand because, well, I’m one of them. You see, I love the arts. I adore them!! For my birthday this year, I saw a dance concert, and a musical show on the same day. Seeing creativity of any kind fuels mine – and that’s the problem. Because as I sit there watching dancers, singers, clowns, storytellers, mimes, and even sword swallowers there’s always about 80% of me (sometimes more) that wants to hop up on that stage, and join whoever it is that is currently performing. Now, I have learned to control my impulse to shove the ballerina out of the way, and take her place in “Swan Lake”, but a six year old “Performer” hasn’t mastered that quite yet. And so, unlike the “Mimic” who will silently sit in their seat, and copy my moves, the “Performer” uses every opportunity to insert himself into my performance. If I make a sound effect, the “Performer” will do it louder – over, and over again. If I do a character walk or pratfall, the “Performer” will concoct something that looks like a move from Cirque De Soleil, and perform that maneuver as many times as they can, sometimes crying out, “Watch me! Watch me!” – as if we all weren’t already!

While I will admit a “Performer” (or on a rare occasion – multiple “Performers” that feed off one another) can make my job a smidge difficult, they have also taught me one of life’s great lessons – how to let go! The nature of storytelling is all about the NOW. Telling this particular tale, to this particular group, and taking in the atmosphere and circumstances of this particular venue. When a “Performer” is in the house, I must let go of my plans, and see how it all plays out. Sometimes, the “Performer” quiets down to a slightly more vocal “Mimic”, and sometimes I land up with a partner for the day. Oh well, it’s always good to share. And maybe I’m mentoring a future storyteller!

The “Talker”: “Hi! My name is Rosalie. I’m seven years old, and for my birthday I got a Wii, and had a party. Do you like my dress? I have another one just like it in orange…” Well hello there, “Talker”!

While the “Performer” and the “Know it All” may interrupt the performance any chance they get, they are, for the most part, thoroughly engaged in the tale. The “Talker” on the other hand – not so much! The “Talker” does not mean any disrespect, and in fact, it is only because they like you (and your tales) that they feel the NEED to tell you EVERY detail of their lives. But given any opportunity the “Talker” will ignore the story, the other people in the audience, and very often their own parents, to inform you about their puppy, or turtle, or favorite flavor of ice cream.

Me: (During the telling of one of my favorite stories, “How Frog Lost His Tail”) Frog stopped laughing, looked up and saw…(I pause for dramatic effect, and to allow the kids to chime in, if they want to)

Little Boy: The watering bowl is gone?

Little Girl: The Sky God?

The “Talker”: The Monkey – I saw a monkey once at the zoo, and it was picking something off the other monkeys head, and then eating it, and I said, “EEW!” I wouldn’t want somebody picking something off of my head, and I wouldn’t pick…

And on and on and on!! It’s hard to get upset with a “Talker”, because they are always so darn cute, and the looks on their faces are the very definition of “earnestness”. I try to keep their absolute NEED to speak in mind, while I’m performing for inspiration. And, I hope, as long as I NEED to tell stories, I will. And when I don’t – I won’t!

The “Nose Picker”: What can you say about the children who are so oblivious to what we adults call “socially appreciate behavior”, that when their little noses itch, they plunge those fingers in there, and scratch away? I suppose you could say, ‘STOP! That’s not what polite ladies and gentlemen do!” But while, I totally agree that nose picking is something that’s best done in the privacy of one’s own home – you won’t ever see me telling my listening public not to do it during my performances.

Because, somehow, when I look out at that little “Nose Picker”, and all the other “types” of children I’ve written about here, I am reminded of a time in my life when I didn’t have so many rules! When, if I felt deeply moved or touched by a performance, it would spur me into action, like a “Mimic” or a “Performer”. Or if I wasn’t sure about something, I’d acknowledge it like the “I’m Over It”, instead of just slapping on my “Everything’s Okay” face. A time when I wasn’t too guarded, too afraid that my opinion would meet with opposition to express it, like a “Know It All” or a “Talker”. A magical time in life, when I was so absorbed in every moment, that I wouldn’t notice if I was picking my nose in public. That special time in life known as childhood. That’s the show I see from where I stand. And, oh, what a show it is!!