General Interest Articles from our 2001 Grapevine Newsletter
From Our President • My First Time • The Safe Audience • The Use of Personal Story in Healthcare
FROM OUR PRESIDENT
Mike Mann
I would like to introduce myself to those of you who were unable to be at this year's conference in Madison. My name is Mike Mann and I am your new president of Northlands. I live in Minneapolis, Minnesota and am a happily married (23 yrs.) father of four (two of each) and grandfather of one. I tell stories full time. I was a baker and bakery manager for 24 years, although my last five years were spent being the human resource manager, as the bakery had grown from 20 employees to 155. I fell into storytelling when my family put the TV in the closet for a few years and we learned to do more important things. Initially, storytelling seemed like a lonely art until a friend introduced me to Northlands. What a caring and generous community this is! It is my hope to help this Northlands community continue to reach out to more and more storytellers. In return, I would like to hear from you, for this is a membership organization. How can we best accomplish our mission? Your board of directors recently was asked to focus on our mission statement and condense it to five words or less. Here it is: Nurturing storytelling, linking storytellers. Everything we have done, everything we do in this next year, and everything we do for the future should have this in mind. As our logo shows, all hands linked together changing the world one story at a time.
MY FIRST TIME
Gregory Leifel
Perhaps word of my so-called "plight" on Saturday night at Northlands has gotten around. However, the graciousness of encouragement and praise dutifully pursued it from the start, driven by positive storytellers eager to be triumphant over the evils of technical difficulties. We are a tenacious bunch, aren't we?
And as I reflect back on that evening when the microphone began sounding like what can only be described as "a river runs through it", followed by random, profound bits of silence monks could become enlightened in, I thought it might be interesting to share it from my point of view. (Yes, that's the sound of a story or two coming on.)
I do this hopefully in a way that is illustrative of the lessons I'm personally taking from the experience, for there were many.
There were several things that relaxed me, a first time teller, right before the concert, and they are reflective of what I have come to call Emulation Points for myself.
The first Emulation Point came from Gene Gryniewicz, the concert host. As he told me when my turn on stage would come, he also took the time to tell me why he had chosen my story. Now we all know Saturday concerts are normally filled with wonderful funny uplifting poignant stories, as was evidenced by the line-up. Gene, in his receptive perception, sensed I was a little apprehensive about my story which, though heroic, is also very tragic (two young boys get killed and a third is sort of missing). Gene set me at ease, because it was readily apparent that he had thought as deeply as I about how this story would fit into a Saturday concert. The consummate host for sure.
The fear I had at home right before I mailed the audition tape was that the risk of such a tragic, and only subtly heroic story, would be stretching the limits of the audience's expectations for a Saturday night concert. But ultimately, I sensed storytellers want the difficult stories too. I remembered Judith Black at Jonesborough on Saturday night, doing a story on breast cancer. After Judith's performance, I heard one or two grumbles about her choice of that story (people with limited thinking, I reasoned), but deep down I knew story is supposed to reflect life, and death, and tragedy, and triumph, etc. I trusted my main character was heroic enough and sent in the audition tape.
Gene also told me he'd tell the audience that what was to come would be a little different. I knew he had really heard Pete's (the main character) story and he was giving it the best possible environment to be heard by others. My mind relaxed and I learned if I ever host a show, that the tellers have normal performance anxieties and as a host I want to emulate Gene, who gently reminded me that it was the story that got him excited. Tragic or not, he conveyed to me, Pete's story needed to be told.
Emulation Point # 2: I debated even mentioning the following because it's one of those precious moments that seldom come along and that one often likes to treasure privately, but the Emulation Point contained in it needs to be told, because it's a great story.
The first person to help me find out anything about storytelling was Leanne Johnson. I didn't even know it existed before I read an article in the Chicago Tribune about Storytelling two years ago. I logged online to the first storytelling site I could find (not Storytell), and posted that I was new and wanted to learn. Leanne Johnson emailed me back and told me to come to the library in the next town where she worked and she would give me an introduction. I went right over. How prophetic that two years later when I got to tell in front of a storyteller audience for the first time, that Leanne was also telling.
Now here it is, the afternoon of the Northlands Saturday night concert and I'm nervous, of course. I run across Leanne outside sitting in the sun and we spend some quiet time talking. I inscribe for her the book of mine she purchased from the resource room. She seems real calm to me, but she had previously told me her story contains dance steps, too. I'm nervous for her, but she tells me she wants people to hear Daisy Mae's story. The way she says this I know the story will come out great. I make a mental note to think this way about Pete's story for myself.
Right before the concert, we both are sort of pacing the hall, getting into that storyteller trance, sitting for a while - but not sitting, too. She tells me she needs to seek a quiet spot which is exactly what I feel, so I know Leanne's mentoring of me is subtle and gentle. I go outside and stand in front of that beautiful fountain at the college and go over my story in my mind one more time.
I go inside and Gene does his comforting of me, as described above. Karen Chace and Hope Baugh come over to wish me luck. I make a note of where they are sitting, so if things onstage don't go as well as I think they will, I know where to look for visual support.
Now I'm sitting in a seat and Jennifer Munro, who I've never met, sits next to me. I love this woman's telling, and she turns out to be very friendly. She asks me what kind of stories I tell. She tells me she's nervous, too. Of course I'm nervous about telling, but I'm also nervous about sitting next to Jennifer Munro, as she's one of the biggies. Her stories are often long and complex and her delivery mesmerizes me. I'm beginning to get real frightened, overwhelmed with the fact that Jennifer Munro is such an experienced teller and this is my first time, and then Jennifer kind of elbows me. She points to the program and to my little bio. She tells me I left out the best part about myself, about how it says I have a published novel. Her genuine interest in the subject relaxes me again as we talk. What a great lady.
Don Falkos then introduces himself to me. Another huge name in the business and I'm getting nervous again. The show begins and I try to immerse myself in Don's story, easily done because he is so talented. Leanne Johnson is standing behind me preparing to go onstage next.
When Don finishes, Gene begins his introduction of Leanne, and I'm up after Leanne. I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn and it's Leanne. She's about to go onstage and do a complex story with complicated dance steps and she takes the time to whisper into my ear, "I'm your warm up act, kid."
I'm floored that Leanne's thinking about calming me as she's about to go onstage. I know everything will be alright at that point. Leanne said the perfect thing, though I don't buy it for one second (there are no warm up acts in this business). Leanne's story is done so well, I forget about everything but Daisy Mae's story.
Later that night, I make a vow to myself to emulate Leanne Johnson's gracious mentoring someday, and a vow to emulate her kindness right away. I begin to think that it isn't necessarily always about the story, because it's sometimes about the people that are attracted to storytelling. They live the lessons of story in real life, like Leanne did for me. And like Leanne's mentoring, kindness and thoughtfulness is what gives us a chance to interact and comfort one another. And that's a wonderful story in itself.
So, due to accidental technical difficulties, there was no way I was gonna let those minor microphone glitches interfere with Pete getting his story out. The metaphorical coincidences of Pete's story and what was happening on stage were just too similar. I knew if I remained calm, like my character Pete did stuck up in that tree, unable to open his mouth, that I'd get my chance to escape from the technical problems. A good thing will come of this, I kept thinking. The important thing was that the story had to be told. Just as Pete risked his life to get the story down before he was caught.
From the stage, I knew something was beginning to go wrong with the microphone. I couldn't tell how much was dropping out exactly. When I paused slightly to let the sound man figure it out, I could tell the audience was still looking up into that tree where a frightened Pete still was a-clingin'. It was so easy to bring myself back to the story because the audience held the story for me in their eyes. I checked my safety valve, Karen and Hope, Leanne, and then began from where we left off.
When the microphone began its thing again, I just felt the room was so intimate that I could have whispered and you would have heard me. Talk about your great audiences! So the microphone just dropped gently to my side (felt like it did this on its own), and I finished it by addressing my voice to those in the back row. But I so wanted to look into everyone's eyes because I could overwhelmingly feel everyone empathizing with Pete's courage. You all made it easy for me to tell, with and without the microphone.
The next of the tellers, John Walsh, Carol McCormick, Jennifer Munro, and Tina Rohde and Mike Mann were so wonderful.
After that, everything was a blur. My brain was so high, I felt like I could barely speak. I remember people saying wonderful things about Pete. About me not melting down on stage. Damn that microphone and all! I wanted to respond in kind, and sorry if I didn't ask you your name if you talked to me, but my brain wouldn't function properly. I was completely jazzed. I knew technical difficulties couldn't touch Pete's story. It was a triumph of Pete's courage over what he couldn't control. The microphone problems seemed minor in comparison to what he went through. Combine that with the strong desire to hear the story which came from the audience, it was easy for me to finish the story without the microphone.
Gene and Leanne, and the other tellers were right. It is the stories that must be told, and one can't let anything get in the way.
And now I've told a little about my first time telling experience, and hopefully I've given back a little something for what the audience gave to me that night, their attention, their love of hearing a good story, and their warmth and kindness in carrying me through the technical difficulties. Thank you one and all.
THE SAFE AUDIENCE
Don Falkos
I am a storyteller. I do my best work in front of an audience. I really enjoy the work. But wait a minute. What are my responsibilities here? Well, I need to tell a good story and I need to tell it well. I need to connect with my audience so that they can enjoy the story to the fullest. And I need to make sure that my audience is safe.
What do I mean by that?
If I am telling a difficult story - a story of the death of a loved one, of rape or incest, of a hideous act of violence, or a scary story - I must allow my audience to feel emotion without being put into a compromising or embarrassing position. They paid their money. They have the right to experience a variety of emotions. But they need to know that I am in control so that they can let themselves go. They need to know that they are safe in my hands.
They must not be thinking, "Oh my, is he going to make it through the story without breaking down?" They are not supposed to be thinking about my emotional state while I'm telling the story of the death of my dog. They are supposed to be experiencing my emotions as I felt them when I was facing the death of my dog. Or more accurately they are supposed to be taken back to their own emotional state during a similar time of loss in their own lives.
Perhaps THE most critical means of creating a safe environment for the audience is to let them know, within the story, that I have accepted the trauma of what they are about to hear. If they know that I have already come to terms with my loss, they will be freed to feel their own loss again. If I am still struggling with my emotions over my loss, I have no right to tell that story in front of an audience. In fact, I do my audience a disservice by putting them in a position where they have to be concerned about my well being when they are supposed to be enjoying themselves (or learning something, or healing, or whatever the goal of the story is).
By all means create those "difficult" stories. They are important, helpful, and can even be dare I say it enjoyable. But do not tell them to an audience until you are psychologically and emotionally ready to do so. However, you can only get ready to tell them by telling them. That's where guild meetings can be most helpful. One of the primary functions of the guild is to provide a safe place to share a story that is not yet ready. Regular coaching with another storyteller you respect and trust is also an invaluable tool.
THE USE OF PERSONAL STORY IN HEALTH CARE: A PARTICIPANT'S VIEW
Dr. Andre B. Heuer & Charlotte Phillips
Workshop day is bitterly cold, a fact immediately forgotten upon entering the McCauley Room at St. John's Hospital. The chairs are arranged in circles and many familiar faces greet me. They represent Springfield's growing love affair with story.
Andre illustrates. He tells us a story from his childhood. We crawl through the basement and up the stairs with him to the circle of storytellers in the kitchen. We feel the grit on the floor and smell the strong beer as we inch closer to that international microcosm. We feel the warmth of Mother's hand on Andre's head and the love with which he is drawn into the circle.
A web of colors connects us as we toss a yarn ball from teller to teller around the circle. I lean forward to hear the story of a circle mate, a story that illustrates core being. Even now, two weeks later, my mind travels the circle and I can remember Steve's cave story, Wanda as a new bride, Paula's monkey attack. The stories convey daring and courage and transformation without those adjectives. Each one resonates inside me. We go around again, creating a single story from bits of our own lives. We must really listen to each other.
We accept Andre's invitation to label important stories in our own lives. Some come to mind easily and are quickly written down. One is difficult. I debate whether to write it down because I am not ready to tell it if asked. I write it down. It was a turning point for me. I'm never asked. I get to choose what I tell. Thank you Andre.
We build one of our stories, three sentences at a time until there are twelve in all. We work in pairs. We tell our stories to each other and then repeat back what we have heard. Magic! When John tells my story back to me I receive a gift much greater than the one I gave. He has made connections and heard truths in my story that I had not uncovered. I think of Jesus with the woman at the well.
A therapist in our midst raises a question. Andre purposively responds with an exaggeration. When we try to manipulate another's perception, we are doing evil. It is a violent act. I am struck to my core. I think of my attempts to woo my estranged brother back into our family circle, of all the times I've tried to share my own reconciliation with family achieved through gathering the stories of my parents. I see how manipulative I've been and how I have blocked my ability to hear HIS story. He has cut off all communication with me. I pray for another chance to listen. I go to sleep with these thoughts.
The sun is shining on Day #2. We've changed locations and are in a more intimate setting. This morning we will explore sensory paths to memory.
A whiff of peanut butter and Mary Rose remembers the omnipresence of that staple in her youth with great nostalgia. She loves peanut butter. Ellen associates peanut butter with her family's poverty and shivers at the offending odor. Beautiful Stephanie closes her eyes and breathes in. Perfume. She tells a story of her mother's obsession with appearance. After many years Stephanie still struggles to reorder her priorities and give meaning to her life.
Andre pulls objects from a bag and the stories fly. A plastic banana split and instantly I see the one my father and I shared on the trunk of his car last summer. A lighter conjures happy images of rock concerts and sad ones of dead parents smoking.
We form circles in the open spaces in the room. Each of us finds a gesture to represent a story. Silently, we pose alone and then in pairs. The circle interprets. I am sewing my wedding dress, the first object I gave myself ample time to complete, a big step toward maturity. We are surprised at how often we see dominance/ subservience in the tableaux. What does that mean?
Finally, we work in silence, sharing crayons, markers and paper. We've been instructed not to communicate in any way. One group experiences a major misunderstanding of intent. I sympathize because I, too, had contemplated the same action. With permission Andre grabs and shoves participants around the room to illustrate the violence our assumptions can do. One "victim" makes an impromptu sign, "REPENT." The whole workshop collapses in laughter.
Through the two days there is comedy and tragedy, and laughter and crying. I come to realize that we are now connected through our stories. It does not end there. One week later I see Steve in a crowd on the street. His face leaps out to me and our eyes meet. I remember his stories. We smile.