A question came up during the recent YES StoryLab led by Priscilla Howe about things storytellers have tried in their online storytelling shows that haven't worked.
I thought of one. I wouldn't say it was a total disaster. Things just didn't go quite as expected.
First of all, we had already talked in this StoryLab, as many of us do these days, about seeing or not seeing the audience online. Do we use a platform that allows us to see everyone? Do we want to see people? Do we set up the screen to gallery view or speaker view? Do we let some or all of the audience members unmute?
What didn't come up during this StoryLab was having audience members actually in the room with you while you perform online. I have tried this.
As I admitted in one of my recent Facebook Live shows (as a relevant part of the story I was telling), although I do not get very nervous about speaking in front of people, I do get quite nervous about playing musical instruments and/or singing in front of people.
I had to get over the singing thing, kind of, when I worked in the public library doing regular preschool story times. I'll admit that I always sang in my speaking voice, not my singing voice, as this was as much as I could bring myself to do. But it was enough. And I quickly learned from the children that they really didn't care about whether I was a good singer. We had a great time singing together.
This knowledge has buoyed me and has allowed me to continue telling one of my most favorite stories, Pete Seeger's The Foolish Frog, in performances for children, even though I no longer have a job that requires me to sing. During most of the singing parts, the audience sings with me, and we all have fun.
I decided to tell The Foolish Frog during a Facebook Live performance. I also decided to attempt telling the story with guitar accompaniment, which I hadn't done for an audience before. And to try to actually use my singing voice.
I was concerned that because I wouldn't be able to see or hear my audience-- because I would't have that obvious reinforcement that we're having fun even if we're not all the most best musicians, I might find this challenge I had set for myself too challenging.
So I recruited my children to be my live audience. I could at least see and hear them participating in the story.
Great idea. But it didn't happen like that. They got shy about being on camera and participated very little. You can see for yourself.
Although my plans went agley I wasn't as nervous as I thought I would be and did okay singing by myself.
I think there are some things I could do better if I wanted to try having my kids as a live audience again. Most notably, my camera set up didn't really allow me to look at them and the camera at the same time, and the camera was hard for them to ignore. If I could set it up so they could forget the camera and feel like I was telling just to them I think they would participate more.
But, do I need my kids to be a live audience? Well, I don't think I do. I prefer having a live audience. But I tell my Facebook Live audience that I can feel their good energy when they participate at home, even though I can't see or hear them. And I honestly think I can. I find it easier to keep my energy high for Facebook Live performances than I do for performances I just record for a camera.
I feel you singing with me and we are all having fun!
Wednesday, July 8, 2020
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Fourth Wall
"Does the actor who plays Matilda's dad really not like people who read?"
Virginia and I went to see the musical Matilda recently. Near the end of intermission, Matilda's dad and brother came on stage, while the house lights were still up. They sang a song about how smart people who watch the "telly" are and then Matilda's dad talked directly to the audience. He asked people who like to read to raise their hands. He asked for the name of one of the women in the front row and then made fun of her for being a bookworm.
I thought this was a nice way to gather the audience back to their seats for the second half of the musical. But I hadn't realized the impact this part of the show had on Virginia. She was confused about whether the man was in character or not.
During the rest of the show the "fourth wall" was up. The actors did not interact with the audience. And with the stage lights up and house lights down, they couldn't even see the audience. What happened at the end of intermission was totally different. The actors could see us and invited interaction. The fourth wall was down.
I find it especially fascinating that to Virginia, the fourth wall helped signal that what was going on on stage was acting. A lack of fourth wall, to her, signaled authenticity. She thought it might not be acting, but the actor being himself and expressing true opinions.
This is relevant to my research. In studying reality storytelling, I am very interested in how people both perform and deliver authenticity. Storytelling in general does tend to be more interactive than staged plays and musicals (although, not always). And in reality storytelling being "real" seems to be especially important. It makes sense that the fourth wall has a relationship with, at least, the appearance of authenticity.
I appreciated seeing the fourth wall from the perspective of someone for whom live theater is a more new experience.
Virginia and I went to see the musical Matilda recently. Near the end of intermission, Matilda's dad and brother came on stage, while the house lights were still up. They sang a song about how smart people who watch the "telly" are and then Matilda's dad talked directly to the audience. He asked people who like to read to raise their hands. He asked for the name of one of the women in the front row and then made fun of her for being a bookworm.
I thought this was a nice way to gather the audience back to their seats for the second half of the musical. But I hadn't realized the impact this part of the show had on Virginia. She was confused about whether the man was in character or not.
During the rest of the show the "fourth wall" was up. The actors did not interact with the audience. And with the stage lights up and house lights down, they couldn't even see the audience. What happened at the end of intermission was totally different. The actors could see us and invited interaction. The fourth wall was down.
I find it especially fascinating that to Virginia, the fourth wall helped signal that what was going on on stage was acting. A lack of fourth wall, to her, signaled authenticity. She thought it might not be acting, but the actor being himself and expressing true opinions.
This is relevant to my research. In studying reality storytelling, I am very interested in how people both perform and deliver authenticity. Storytelling in general does tend to be more interactive than staged plays and musicals (although, not always). And in reality storytelling being "real" seems to be especially important. It makes sense that the fourth wall has a relationship with, at least, the appearance of authenticity.
I appreciated seeing the fourth wall from the perspective of someone for whom live theater is a more new experience.
Monday, May 8, 2017
Repeating History
They say those who do not learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
I struggled with history in grade school. The entire curricular area of "Social Studies" was my worst subject. Possibly this came from the memorization of states, countries, and capitals that inevitably accompanied geography lessons. I do remember thinking that history was boring, but I can't tell you now what specific part of history I found so uninteresting.
I mostly just knew I wasn't good at Social Studies. In high school, while striving to get into the highest level Math, Science, and Language Arts classes I could, I held back on Social Studies. My Junior year I declined to take Advanced Placement (college level) American History and happily signed up for Gifted American History instead. My teacher (who taught both classes) gleefully told us on the first day that since we were gifted, she expected we could do the AP curriculum without the benefit of the extra ten points. (Ten points were added onto your final grade in AP classes, effectively bumping you up a letter grade.) I almost died when she said that. I was trying to get into a class that was easier, not harder. One of the things that probably saved me, was an assignment to read a historical fiction novel that related to what we were studying that year and then schedule a private discussion with the teacher about the book. I read The Grapes of Wrath which is my favorite book to this day. (Possible foreshadowing of my ability to access history through story.)
My senior year there was no Gifted option for the two semester-long Social Studies courses we had to take, Government and Economics. I took them both as AP courses and spent the year in the back of the class writing dirty poetry with my friends, making very little effort to learn anything. I got a good enough score on the Econ exam to get college credit. Near the beginning of our Economics text book it said that if you had a parrot who could say "supply and demand" you had an economist. I guess I was the parrot.
I scored too low on the Government exam to get college credit. I answered all of the Government essay questions with (not dirty) poems.
I continued to struggle with Social Studies in college. As a Latin/English double major I had to take an American History class and Political Science. If I had taken AP American History in high school and gotten a decent score on the exam I could have gotten out of it in college. And if I had scored better on the AP Government exam I would have gotten out of PoliSci. Unfortunately my credit for Econ didn't exempt me out of anything.
I withdrew from a huge lecture hall American History class I was failing during my Freshman year. I later took PoliSci taught by a graduate student who had a smaller class, realized that format worked much better for me, and held out for American History taught by a grad student before I signed up for it again.
And then I was done with Social Studies forever!!!!
Except not really. As an English and Latin major I frequently learned about the historical context of the things I was reading. This was okay with me because it was "interesting" history, related to things I liked.
But now that I am a storyteller, history won't seem to leave me alone. When John and I moved to England, I researched and created a story about Boudica, since we were moving to the region she was from. I was rereading authors I had translated in Latin classes, so the project was well within my historical comfort zone.
Most of the volunteer work I did in England, though, was with the 2nd Air Division Memorial Library. I knew that the library was a living memorial for Americans who were stationed in Norwich during World War II, but when requesting to volunteer with them, I had focused more on the fact that they had a collection of American books. I did some programs on American culture for them - reading pictures books, telling stories. But they also wanted programs related to World War II. I taught myself quickly from their books. Soon I was telling school children about my experiences as an American in Norwich, how my experiences related to the experiences of the Americans who were stationed in Norwich during WWII, and then all about the airplanes.
After we moved back to the Atlanta area I got involved in a couple of shows that had me researching Georgia history. I portrayed Mayhayley Lancaster, a legendary south Georgia seer, at Frolona Fest, a roots music festival put on by Frolona Farm. I also researched the Battle of Atlanta to add some real Civil War history to an old ghost story I told for BATL.
Most recently I have been invited to perform at the National History Fair. I will be telling stories from mythology and ancient history as well as discussing some of the historical context surrounding the stories.
The middle schoolers who will be at the National History Fair are so very different from who I was in middle school - namely someone totally disinterested in history.
Students have reworded the quotation I opened with: Those who fail history class are doomed to repeat it. I never officially failed a history class, but I did a pretty good job of not learning in a few. Now history repeatedly works its way into my storytelling life. I do not see myself as doomed, though. I see myself as fortunate to have a second chance to learn it right.
I struggled with history in grade school. The entire curricular area of "Social Studies" was my worst subject. Possibly this came from the memorization of states, countries, and capitals that inevitably accompanied geography lessons. I do remember thinking that history was boring, but I can't tell you now what specific part of history I found so uninteresting.
I mostly just knew I wasn't good at Social Studies. In high school, while striving to get into the highest level Math, Science, and Language Arts classes I could, I held back on Social Studies. My Junior year I declined to take Advanced Placement (college level) American History and happily signed up for Gifted American History instead. My teacher (who taught both classes) gleefully told us on the first day that since we were gifted, she expected we could do the AP curriculum without the benefit of the extra ten points. (Ten points were added onto your final grade in AP classes, effectively bumping you up a letter grade.) I almost died when she said that. I was trying to get into a class that was easier, not harder. One of the things that probably saved me, was an assignment to read a historical fiction novel that related to what we were studying that year and then schedule a private discussion with the teacher about the book. I read The Grapes of Wrath which is my favorite book to this day. (Possible foreshadowing of my ability to access history through story.)
My senior year there was no Gifted option for the two semester-long Social Studies courses we had to take, Government and Economics. I took them both as AP courses and spent the year in the back of the class writing dirty poetry with my friends, making very little effort to learn anything. I got a good enough score on the Econ exam to get college credit. Near the beginning of our Economics text book it said that if you had a parrot who could say "supply and demand" you had an economist. I guess I was the parrot.
I scored too low on the Government exam to get college credit. I answered all of the Government essay questions with (not dirty) poems.
I continued to struggle with Social Studies in college. As a Latin/English double major I had to take an American History class and Political Science. If I had taken AP American History in high school and gotten a decent score on the exam I could have gotten out of it in college. And if I had scored better on the AP Government exam I would have gotten out of PoliSci. Unfortunately my credit for Econ didn't exempt me out of anything.
I withdrew from a huge lecture hall American History class I was failing during my Freshman year. I later took PoliSci taught by a graduate student who had a smaller class, realized that format worked much better for me, and held out for American History taught by a grad student before I signed up for it again.
And then I was done with Social Studies forever!!!!
Except not really. As an English and Latin major I frequently learned about the historical context of the things I was reading. This was okay with me because it was "interesting" history, related to things I liked.
But now that I am a storyteller, history won't seem to leave me alone. When John and I moved to England, I researched and created a story about Boudica, since we were moving to the region she was from. I was rereading authors I had translated in Latin classes, so the project was well within my historical comfort zone.
Most of the volunteer work I did in England, though, was with the 2nd Air Division Memorial Library. I knew that the library was a living memorial for Americans who were stationed in Norwich during World War II, but when requesting to volunteer with them, I had focused more on the fact that they had a collection of American books. I did some programs on American culture for them - reading pictures books, telling stories. But they also wanted programs related to World War II. I taught myself quickly from their books. Soon I was telling school children about my experiences as an American in Norwich, how my experiences related to the experiences of the Americans who were stationed in Norwich during WWII, and then all about the airplanes.
After we moved back to the Atlanta area I got involved in a couple of shows that had me researching Georgia history. I portrayed Mayhayley Lancaster, a legendary south Georgia seer, at Frolona Fest, a roots music festival put on by Frolona Farm. I also researched the Battle of Atlanta to add some real Civil War history to an old ghost story I told for BATL.
Most recently I have been invited to perform at the National History Fair. I will be telling stories from mythology and ancient history as well as discussing some of the historical context surrounding the stories.
Telling stories of Trojan women at UGA's Athenaze in 2007
The middle schoolers who will be at the National History Fair are so very different from who I was in middle school - namely someone totally disinterested in history.
Students have reworded the quotation I opened with: Those who fail history class are doomed to repeat it. I never officially failed a history class, but I did a pretty good job of not learning in a few. Now history repeatedly works its way into my storytelling life. I do not see myself as doomed, though. I see myself as fortunate to have a second chance to learn it right.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Tuning to Each Other
I was in marching band in high school. We spent a lot of time tuning. We tuned in the band room. We tuned on the field at practice. We tuned at the start of the football game and then again before we took the field to perform our show. Often, we had no true pitch to tune to. We all played the same note, and tuned to each other. And once, my band instructor said that even if every single person was out of tune, you could still hear the perfect pitch hanging there in mid-air. And tune to it.
How can perfection come from a universal imperfection? One out of tune person can't tune to himself. It would be hard to get it right with two, or three, or a handful. But with the whole band, with a big crowd of people all, a little bit flawed, but all listening to each other, all trying to get it right, all adjusting, the perfect pitch emerges.
Whenever I hear a lot of wrong notes out there in the world, I like to think that if we just choose to make music together, even if we are all a little off key, eventually, together, we will get it right.
How can perfection come from a universal imperfection? One out of tune person can't tune to himself. It would be hard to get it right with two, or three, or a handful. But with the whole band, with a big crowd of people all, a little bit flawed, but all listening to each other, all trying to get it right, all adjusting, the perfect pitch emerges.
Whenever I hear a lot of wrong notes out there in the world, I like to think that if we just choose to make music together, even if we are all a little off key, eventually, together, we will get it right.
By UserB - Own work, GFDL 1.2, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=1529663
Friday, December 4, 2015
Anger in Personal Stories
I've been thinking of Alice's Restaurant lately, partly because of Thanksgiving. For a while now I've also been thinking about storytelling as a form of activism, kind of like folk music can be. Reading books about folk singers, pondering the messages I have to share and the ones the world needs to hear. And I've been thinking of how broken the world seems right now and wondering how I could possibly make a difference. It seems like your best chance of making a difference is by doing what you do. So I keep doing it.
I tell a lot of personal stories. The main challenge of personal stories is that if you haven't processed the story yourself, if you haven't come out the other side of it, you can't perform it. You can tell people about it, but it won't be a performance.
Stories about things that hurt are difficult. The good thing about performing them, though, is that making them into a performance helps you heal. It forces you to process the pain and see yourself as someone full of agency who has survived and can move on.
Alice's Restaurant has helped me with stories that make me angry. You can't perform a story purely from a place of anger. It sounds like a rant. You have to process. You have to come out the other side. You have to sing and find the humor. This way of dealing with stories that make me angry has helped me to create two of the stories I'm proudest of.
One is the story I call "John's LLM," about getting a certificate of good conduct before moving to England. I have to say that now I am not nearly as angry about everything I went through to get that certificate. With time, it has actually become funny. But I started creating the story as the situation was unfolding. It was clear at the time that it was completely absurd and I didn't want to lose any of the details. But I was angry. I was frustrated by the lack of information about how to undertake this process and about the incompetence and ignorance of multiple state employees I interacted with to get it done. It sounded like a rant when I first wrote it down. Until I remembered Alice's Restaurant. With a little humor and a song (the song is mostly for me because I've never performed it for anyone) it became a story.
The other is a work in progress: "The Ballad of the Birth Certificate." I am still angry that we were kicked out of the courthouse and threatened with physical violence while trying get Virginia's birth certificate, but I think it is an important story. It is important enough that I will find some way to be brave enough to perform it with all the musical components some day. (Performing music for people makes me much more nervous than speaking in front of people.) I don't think it's a good story without the music though. I don't think it's a good story without the fantastic and farcical suggestion that Virginia went on this adventure by herself. These things make it more than just an angry rant.
I think it is clear that the anger is still present in both stories. I'm not saying anger has to be edited out. It has to be processed, like pain. You have to come out the other side. For me, this is how I do it.
There are a lot of things that make me feel angry these days. And sad and afraid and, sometimes, like giving up on the whole human race and starting that Martian colony after all. But I think I'll stay here and sing and tell it all like it's a joke.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Living in Reality
In Orality and Literacy Walter Ong says:
Orality ties cultures together. The written word causes more introspective thinking, increasing individuality. Ong claims that although this is dividing it is uniting as well. Perhaps an extension of his argument that oral language awakens the self and then allows us to interact with others?
Marshal McLuhan, drawing on the work on Henri Bergson, sees even orality as a little more divisive.
The highly interiorized stages of consciousness in which the individual is not so immersed unconsciously in communal structures are stages which, it appears, consciousness would never reach without writing. The interaction between the orality that all human beings are born into and the technology of writing, which no one is born into, touches the depths of the psyche. Ontogenetically and phylogenetically, it is the oral word that first illuminates consciousness with articulate language, that first divides subject and predicate and then relates them to one another, and that ties human beings to one another in society. Writing introduces division and alienation, but a higher unity as well. It intensifies the sense of self and fosters more conscious interaction between persons. Writing is consciousness-raising.
Orality ties cultures together. The written word causes more introspective thinking, increasing individuality. Ong claims that although this is dividing it is uniting as well. Perhaps an extension of his argument that oral language awakens the self and then allows us to interact with others?
Marshal McLuhan, drawing on the work on Henri Bergson, sees even orality as a little more divisive.
Henri Bergson, the French philosopher, lived and wrote in a tradition of thought in which it was and is considered that language is a human technology that has impaired and diminished the values of the collective unconscious. It is the extension of man in speech that enables the intellect to detach itself from the vastly wider reality. Without language, Bergson suggests, human intelligence would have remained totally involved in the objects of its attention. Language does for intelligence what the wheel does for the feet and the body. It enables them to move from thing to thing with greater ease and speed and ever less involvement. Language extends and amplifies man but it also divides his faculties. His collective consciousness or intuitive awareness is diminished by this technical extension of consciousness that is speech. (Understanding Media)
This collective unconscious sounds almost idyllic. How cruel of language to have separated us from it.
I've recently discovered the Radiolab podcasts. When I was listening to "Lucy" I got a glimpse of what McLuhan is talking about. At one point a man talks about a Bonobos making amends with him after biting him. The animal cried into his mouth. This image is so powerful. Clearly their interaction went far beyond words. Near the end of the show one of the women who works with the Bonobos says she thinks they do have a deeper connection, one that we have lost.
I've been chasing this idea that the spoken word is closer to meaning. Both Ong and McLuhan might agree with that. Both see communication technologies as slowly separating us from each other although they make different value judgements about those separations. But maybe real meaning can't be reached through language at all.
I've been thinking about how communication technologies distract us from the reality around us. And not just when we are using them. Our minds have been conditioned by constant exposure to communication media. We are introspective - often living in an interior world. We create elaborate daily and yearly schedules, the maintaining of which occupies a significant portion of our time. Think about that. We ignore the current reality to make sure that we'll be in the right spot at the right time at some point in the near or distant future. We don't know our way around our physical spaces thanks to sat nav (I'm sooooo guilty of this). And this is all not to mention the very obvious escapes from reality through books, television, and the Internet.
What would it be like to live an unmediated existence? An existence in which there is nothing to take the mind away from reality?
I am a hopeless cyborg, my identity almost inextricably intertwined with technology. The loss I would experience with the collapse of google docs alone would be akin to a lobotomy. But even so, I have been trying to be aware of reality. Not reality as shown to me by my media. Not the reality inside my mind. The actual reality all around me. This is challenging, since, as a graduate student, I spend hours a day on the computer, reading and writing. Sometimes that is my reality. And I stop and tell myself: This is reality. Me, in my workspace, in front of a computer. (The computer is part of reality, not a window into it.) And then there is the reality of walking outside. A human being, breathing the air, admiring the trees, and not thinking of anything else.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
A Cautionary Tale
I heard loud (happy) noises coming from the kids' room the other day. When I went to investigate I saw blankets and pillows all over the floor. Horatio was standing on a little pink safe (piggy bank) that doubles as a door stop and it was about to fall over.
"That doesn't look like a good place to stand, Horatio." I told him.
He took one foot off, "I just stand on it little bit. Little bit, okay Momma?"
"No, not a little bit. No standing on the safe."
Then Virginia explained the game. "The blankets are poison. We can't step on the poison."
And I had this storyteller-parent moment where I knew that I had the perfect story for this situation.
"Come over here, guys. Let me tell you a story..."
Then I looked at my kids. "Do you understand?"
"Yes!" they said.
I left the room feeling pretty satisfied. A few minutes later they were both on the bed. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"We're playing alligators!"
"That doesn't look like a good place to stand, Horatio." I told him.
He took one foot off, "I just stand on it little bit. Little bit, okay Momma?"
"No, not a little bit. No standing on the safe."
Then Virginia explained the game. "The blankets are poison. We can't step on the poison."
And I had this storyteller-parent moment where I knew that I had the perfect story for this situation.
"Come over here, guys. Let me tell you a story..."
One time when I was a kid, maybe a little older than Virginia, my sister, Aunt 'Manda and I were playing "alligators." That is a game where there are alligators on the floor so you can't touch it. We were in my bedroom, moving from the bed, to some pillows, to my desk, to the back of the desk chair, and then we would reach back and climb to the bed again.
Somehow we both ended up on the desk chair at the same time. We weren't in the seat of the chair. In order to reach the bed we had to put our feet on the rolling feet of the chair and hold on to the back. One person at a time on the chair had been fine, but with both of us on the back of the chair and both of us leaning to reach the bed, the chair fell over on us.
BOOM! At first we were both stunned just to be under the heavy desk chair. But then I realized that my hand was hurt. My right hand was holding onto the outside of the chair and it had been pinned between the chair and the wall. The molding at the bottom of the wall had scraped off all the skin from inside one of my fingers, which was also swollen and bruised.
Now I had a dilemma. I was hurt and I wanted my parents to comfort me. But I also had been doing something I wasn't supposed to do. To admit my injury was to admit wrongdoing.
Well, I tried to get away with it anyway. I went and told my dad, "My desk chair fell on me...somehow. And now my finger is hurt."
My dad said, "I know what you were doing and I bet it hurt."
I didn't exactly get in trouble, but I didn't get sympathy either. No kisses, no bandaid from Dad.
I sadly got my own bandaid and found something else to play.
Then I looked at my kids. "Do you understand?"
"Yes!" they said.
I left the room feeling pretty satisfied. A few minutes later they were both on the bed. "What are you doing?" I asked.
"We're playing alligators!"
 |
| Is this the reason I played "alligators" instead of "hot lava" or "poison"? |
Friday, January 9, 2015
A Child's Reality
I haven't even attended all my classes yet, but already my mind is a flurry of activity from the start of the new semester.
Yesterday I had both the first session of my Theory Development class and the Children's Lit class I'm TA-ing with my advisor (he's doing most of the teaching).
For Theory Development some of our readings talked about the nature of reality. Is there an objective reality that exists independent of observation, or is reality constructed by observers?
Then in Children's Lit we had a discussion about what makes a book children's literature, and one of the ideas thrown around was that it represents a child's reality. None of the things listed could have applied to all children's literature, so this wasn't an absolute either. But Dr. Seuss was brought up as a counter-example. Are those a child's reality? Outrageous situations and nonsense words?
Challenge accepted.
In Knucklehead, Jon Scieszka's autobiography, Mr. Scieszka has a chapter on children's books. As a child, he thought that Dr. Seuss books were much more like his life than Dick and Jane books. Dick and Jane were weirdos who talked funny and laughed at inappropriate times.
This isn't just Scieszka being silly. He's on to something.
Children, especially young children, see new, miraculous, previously-thought impossible things every day. My two and a half year old son, Horatio, saw me shuffle cards for the first time a couple weeks ago. The look on his face... I might as well have been a talking cat, standing on a ball, balancing toys, books, and fish on various appendages. Dr. Seuss's strange scenarios respect the fact that children encounter regularly things we take for granted as normal, but to them seem extraordinary.
There are also plenty of good reasons for the nonsense words, but one of them could be that they also represent a child's reality. Think of all the words kids hear all the time that they don't yet know. To them large chunks of what adults say must sound like nonsense. But we keep on using all those words anyway, whether children understand them or not. Eventually they learn them from context. And they know what Dr. Seuss's words mean, too.
Dr. Seuss books better represent children's reality than "realistic" books do. They also tell kids that this astounding world they live in is fun. It is meant to be played with. If only adults could live in that reality as well.
Yesterday I had both the first session of my Theory Development class and the Children's Lit class I'm TA-ing with my advisor (he's doing most of the teaching).
For Theory Development some of our readings talked about the nature of reality. Is there an objective reality that exists independent of observation, or is reality constructed by observers?
Then in Children's Lit we had a discussion about what makes a book children's literature, and one of the ideas thrown around was that it represents a child's reality. None of the things listed could have applied to all children's literature, so this wasn't an absolute either. But Dr. Seuss was brought up as a counter-example. Are those a child's reality? Outrageous situations and nonsense words?
Challenge accepted.
In Knucklehead, Jon Scieszka's autobiography, Mr. Scieszka has a chapter on children's books. As a child, he thought that Dr. Seuss books were much more like his life than Dick and Jane books. Dick and Jane were weirdos who talked funny and laughed at inappropriate times.
This isn't just Scieszka being silly. He's on to something.
Children, especially young children, see new, miraculous, previously-thought impossible things every day. My two and a half year old son, Horatio, saw me shuffle cards for the first time a couple weeks ago. The look on his face... I might as well have been a talking cat, standing on a ball, balancing toys, books, and fish on various appendages. Dr. Seuss's strange scenarios respect the fact that children encounter regularly things we take for granted as normal, but to them seem extraordinary.
There are also plenty of good reasons for the nonsense words, but one of them could be that they also represent a child's reality. Think of all the words kids hear all the time that they don't yet know. To them large chunks of what adults say must sound like nonsense. But we keep on using all those words anyway, whether children understand them or not. Eventually they learn them from context. And they know what Dr. Seuss's words mean, too.
Dr. Seuss books better represent children's reality than "realistic" books do. They also tell kids that this astounding world they live in is fun. It is meant to be played with. If only adults could live in that reality as well.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Quick Thoughts Between Final Assignments
I'm reading a lot about jokes right now. Many jokes, and especially the ones I'm researching, center on unsavory topics. Racist, sexist, sexual, offensive jokes.
I wonder if jokes, like The Aristocrats and dead baby jokes, that seem to aim to be as horrible as possible, are an attempt to appear bullet proof. "No. Not that. Not even that will bother me." If I laugh at it, it can't hurt me.
When people can't take a joke, they are accused of having no sense of humor, ridiculed even. The joke teller hasn't hurt them. They are allowing themselves to be hurt by not laughing. But, just yesterday I read that although it is human to have a sense of humor, it is also human to be offended (Paul Lewis in A Decade of Dark Humor).
Life is hard. It is probably good that we can laugh most things off. But we aren't bulletproof. A few barbs sting. (I've been finding my own amidst the many I've been reading.) I say, let them. It is human to be vulnerable.
I wonder if jokes, like The Aristocrats and dead baby jokes, that seem to aim to be as horrible as possible, are an attempt to appear bullet proof. "No. Not that. Not even that will bother me." If I laugh at it, it can't hurt me.
When people can't take a joke, they are accused of having no sense of humor, ridiculed even. The joke teller hasn't hurt them. They are allowing themselves to be hurt by not laughing. But, just yesterday I read that although it is human to have a sense of humor, it is also human to be offended (Paul Lewis in A Decade of Dark Humor).
Life is hard. It is probably good that we can laugh most things off. But we aren't bulletproof. A few barbs sting. (I've been finding my own amidst the many I've been reading.) I say, let them. It is human to be vulnerable.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Two Things at Once
In my research I've come across the book Artistry in Native American Myths by Karl Kroeber. In his discussion on Coyote he says something interesting.
He talks about the "duck-rabbit" and he says, "we can see the drawing as either a duck or a rabbit, but we cannot see both at the same time. Aurally, however, we can and do imagine Trickster - Coyote - simultaneously as human and as animal." (226-227)
I find this visual phenomenon even more evident with illusions that I must partially cover to see in another way, or illusions I have to turn upside down. Here are some good ones. It is when it is really hard to see the image one way that I can feel how I have to force myself to stop seeing it the other way.
Kroeber does not go on to make a definite claim that we can hear/imagine something as two things at the same time. He believes it is the case with Coyote, but he also says it hasn't really been studied.
First of all, I agree. I think we hear and imagine things multiple ways all the time. Puns. Lies (you are speaking something you "know" in two ways). There are other stories that rely on understanding something both ways, like "The Emperor's New Clothes." We know he is naked, once we have heard the story once, but we still imagine what the king is told to imagine. We can visualize him as both naked and finely dressed.
Beyond this, I wonder if our increasingly visual culture is encouraging us to categorize things more. I set out to break early oral narrative into historical, religious, cultural stories, etc. But then I couldn't. There is so much overlap in the old stories that these types of categories are meaningless. To us today these are all very different things and we access information that informs us in these areas in very different ways.
In my pursuit of sound and sense I wonder what is "true." Is our visual culture blinding us to multiplicities of meaning all around us? I think, maybe so. But there is a good chance I am biased.
He talks about the "duck-rabbit" and he says, "we can see the drawing as either a duck or a rabbit, but we cannot see both at the same time. Aurally, however, we can and do imagine Trickster - Coyote - simultaneously as human and as animal." (226-227)
I find this visual phenomenon even more evident with illusions that I must partially cover to see in another way, or illusions I have to turn upside down. Here are some good ones. It is when it is really hard to see the image one way that I can feel how I have to force myself to stop seeing it the other way.
Kroeber does not go on to make a definite claim that we can hear/imagine something as two things at the same time. He believes it is the case with Coyote, but he also says it hasn't really been studied.
First of all, I agree. I think we hear and imagine things multiple ways all the time. Puns. Lies (you are speaking something you "know" in two ways). There are other stories that rely on understanding something both ways, like "The Emperor's New Clothes." We know he is naked, once we have heard the story once, but we still imagine what the king is told to imagine. We can visualize him as both naked and finely dressed.
Beyond this, I wonder if our increasingly visual culture is encouraging us to categorize things more. I set out to break early oral narrative into historical, religious, cultural stories, etc. But then I couldn't. There is so much overlap in the old stories that these types of categories are meaningless. To us today these are all very different things and we access information that informs us in these areas in very different ways.
In my pursuit of sound and sense I wonder what is "true." Is our visual culture blinding us to multiplicities of meaning all around us? I think, maybe so. But there is a good chance I am biased.
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Technology Making us Better at Technology
I had a little scifi moment while reading a 2013 Scientific American article this morning. It was about the Flynn Effect, humanity getting smarter over time. The author suggested that there is a kind of feedback loop, in which smart people build better technology, which in turn makes people smarter, which leads to even better technology...
My first thought was, "Who is serving whom?" Maybe technology is evolving instead of people. The machine is training us to serve its needs.
(On a side note, I also said to myself, "This Flynn Effect sounds familiar." And immediately located a mini chapter on it in The Shallows, which presents an explanation I find more plausible.)
This got me thinking that the medium alters the message not only for the receiver, but also for the creator. If you write an email on your phone you likely use shorter or incomplete sentences than if you write it on your computer. But, if you write on your phone a lot, you might start composing messages that way all the time, even when you switch to another device.
Or an example that has become embarrassingly applicable to me: My phone autocorrects me so well (usually) that I routinely misspell words just through sloppy typing. It is no problem on my phone, but is inconvenient on the computer, where I have to go back and fix errors manually. Even so, the computer catches most misspelled words. It takes a few extra moments to hunt down the red squiggles, but I don't even have to think about what went wrong and how to prevent it in the future.
And more troubling, because my phone fixes my typing, I have zero motivation to improve how I type on the phone.
The actual way that I write is different because of the technology that I use. And in joining myself with that technology I make myself dependent on it. I make myself an excellent target market for more like it. But if I'm not careful, I may start sharing the technology's message instead of my own.
My first thought was, "Who is serving whom?" Maybe technology is evolving instead of people. The machine is training us to serve its needs.
(On a side note, I also said to myself, "This Flynn Effect sounds familiar." And immediately located a mini chapter on it in The Shallows, which presents an explanation I find more plausible.)
This got me thinking that the medium alters the message not only for the receiver, but also for the creator. If you write an email on your phone you likely use shorter or incomplete sentences than if you write it on your computer. But, if you write on your phone a lot, you might start composing messages that way all the time, even when you switch to another device.
Or an example that has become embarrassingly applicable to me: My phone autocorrects me so well (usually) that I routinely misspell words just through sloppy typing. It is no problem on my phone, but is inconvenient on the computer, where I have to go back and fix errors manually. Even so, the computer catches most misspelled words. It takes a few extra moments to hunt down the red squiggles, but I don't even have to think about what went wrong and how to prevent it in the future.
And more troubling, because my phone fixes my typing, I have zero motivation to improve how I type on the phone.
The actual way that I write is different because of the technology that I use. And in joining myself with that technology I make myself dependent on it. I make myself an excellent target market for more like it. But if I'm not careful, I may start sharing the technology's message instead of my own.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Why and How
At the National Storytelling Conference in July, one of the keynote speakers talked about how religion and science used to be bound together and now the two lines are split apart. He talked about this in a troubled way, as if it would bring about the end of this world.
Another speaker gave the example of telling a story about how the stars came to be, and then having a young boy from the audience explain to her what the stars "really" are.
Our folktales, religious tales, all our stories, are important. But why? Not because they are "true" in the scientific sense, but for some other reason.
Another essay from Salmon of Doubt that really stuck out to me, was a somewhat impromptu speech Adams gave to a room full of scientists. Adams was an outspoken atheist, but he talked about the importance of religion.
He started out with feng shui. He admitted that it sounds silly to arrange a room so that a dragon can comfortably walk through it, but the room arrangement usually works. It is usually pleasant, has good flow. Things that often can not be said of rooms and buildings that have been carefully designed by professionals. (His assertion. I do not claim knowledge in architecture or interior design.)
Then he talks about an isolated village that planted and harvested rice based on their religious calendar. The outside world came in and told them how to do it "better." This worked. For one season. After that the crop declined until they went back to their religious calendar.
There are things that people know how to do without knowing why that how works. Science is good at why. We want to know why. But we don't know the why for everything. And not knowing the why shouldn't make us lose faith in the how that our stories preserve for us.
Science, up to a point, tells us why things are the way they are. Why the stars are in the sky. Why apples fall to the ground. But religion and stories tell us how to live in this world.
In my search for connections between what is said, how it is said, and what it means, I think it is interesting that stories and science convey different kinds of truths. Stories are often about things that are "not true" according to science, but on another level they are more true.
My parents are both scientists. I have a close relationship with science. I wanted to be an astronaut for a long time, and I somewhat resented Whitman's poem "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer." Knowing that we, too, are stardust is poetic! I can exist in both the worlds of story and science. Perhaps if I tug on both strings I can help wind them back together. But I'll need your help.
Another speaker gave the example of telling a story about how the stars came to be, and then having a young boy from the audience explain to her what the stars "really" are.
Our folktales, religious tales, all our stories, are important. But why? Not because they are "true" in the scientific sense, but for some other reason.
Another essay from Salmon of Doubt that really stuck out to me, was a somewhat impromptu speech Adams gave to a room full of scientists. Adams was an outspoken atheist, but he talked about the importance of religion.
He started out with feng shui. He admitted that it sounds silly to arrange a room so that a dragon can comfortably walk through it, but the room arrangement usually works. It is usually pleasant, has good flow. Things that often can not be said of rooms and buildings that have been carefully designed by professionals. (His assertion. I do not claim knowledge in architecture or interior design.)
Then he talks about an isolated village that planted and harvested rice based on their religious calendar. The outside world came in and told them how to do it "better." This worked. For one season. After that the crop declined until they went back to their religious calendar.
There are things that people know how to do without knowing why that how works. Science is good at why. We want to know why. But we don't know the why for everything. And not knowing the why shouldn't make us lose faith in the how that our stories preserve for us.
Science, up to a point, tells us why things are the way they are. Why the stars are in the sky. Why apples fall to the ground. But religion and stories tell us how to live in this world.
In my search for connections between what is said, how it is said, and what it means, I think it is interesting that stories and science convey different kinds of truths. Stories are often about things that are "not true" according to science, but on another level they are more true.
My parents are both scientists. I have a close relationship with science. I wanted to be an astronaut for a long time, and I somewhat resented Whitman's poem "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer." Knowing that we, too, are stardust is poetic! I can exist in both the worlds of story and science. Perhaps if I tug on both strings I can help wind them back together. But I'll need your help.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
What's in a Name?
A name is something given to you by someone else.
I've known people who tried to change what they were called. (Sorry friends, in my head I still call you by the old name!) And I have even kind of done that. I used to go by "Sarah." Now I go by "Sarah Beth." But did I really change my name?
No. My friends in college started calling me "Sarah Beth" before I decided to officially own it. First one friend did it to kind of irritate me, because I was still doing my whole "I'm not Southern" thing and I thought that having a double name sounded Southern. Then a few other friends picked it up. Then John's family called me "Sarah Beth" because his sister is also named "Sarah." By the time I got to grad school it seemed like a no-brainer to just introduce myself as "Sarah Beth."
It used to feel overly personal for people to call me "Sarah Beth." Only family had called me that previously, and only occasionally. Now it feels too personal when people call me "Sarah." The only people who call me that knew me before I was "Sarah Beth."
Even though I get a little jolt by being called the "wrong" name, the truth is, I don't really care. People want you to choose, so I choose, but to quote my mother, "You can call my anything as long as you don't call me late for supper."
Of course I've changed my last name, too. I do miss my old name. It had character. It matched at least part of my ethnic heritage. It was unique. When you searched me on the Internet, I was the only one. But I've gotten used to my new name and I really can't imagine being anyone else.
I find it funny that both my children are quick to tell you what they want to be called, even though my husband and I, of course, gave them their names.
Virginia called herself "Zia Zia" before she could pronounce her name. But after a while, we started to wonder if she was trying to come up with a nick name for herself. I asked her, "Do you want to be called Zia Zia?"
She frowned at me and said, "No I'm Vir-gin-ia." She never mispronounced it again.
Horatio also defends his title. If I call him "honey" or "peanut" he says, "No! I not nut! Ray-sho!"
Of course he has no problem making up names for other people. He calls Virginia "Mine" and sometimes calls me, "Momma Me Me."
Every word is a name, giving us a way to talk about that thing. Many cultures believe names to be sacred. If a person knows your true name they can have power over you. What does it mean that the names we are known by so rarely come from ourselves?
I've known people who tried to change what they were called. (Sorry friends, in my head I still call you by the old name!) And I have even kind of done that. I used to go by "Sarah." Now I go by "Sarah Beth." But did I really change my name?
No. My friends in college started calling me "Sarah Beth" before I decided to officially own it. First one friend did it to kind of irritate me, because I was still doing my whole "I'm not Southern" thing and I thought that having a double name sounded Southern. Then a few other friends picked it up. Then John's family called me "Sarah Beth" because his sister is also named "Sarah." By the time I got to grad school it seemed like a no-brainer to just introduce myself as "Sarah Beth."
It used to feel overly personal for people to call me "Sarah Beth." Only family had called me that previously, and only occasionally. Now it feels too personal when people call me "Sarah." The only people who call me that knew me before I was "Sarah Beth."
Even though I get a little jolt by being called the "wrong" name, the truth is, I don't really care. People want you to choose, so I choose, but to quote my mother, "You can call my anything as long as you don't call me late for supper."
Of course I've changed my last name, too. I do miss my old name. It had character. It matched at least part of my ethnic heritage. It was unique. When you searched me on the Internet, I was the only one. But I've gotten used to my new name and I really can't imagine being anyone else.
I find it funny that both my children are quick to tell you what they want to be called, even though my husband and I, of course, gave them their names.
Virginia called herself "Zia Zia" before she could pronounce her name. But after a while, we started to wonder if she was trying to come up with a nick name for herself. I asked her, "Do you want to be called Zia Zia?"
She frowned at me and said, "No I'm Vir-gin-ia." She never mispronounced it again.
Horatio also defends his title. If I call him "honey" or "peanut" he says, "No! I not nut! Ray-sho!"
Of course he has no problem making up names for other people. He calls Virginia "Mine" and sometimes calls me, "Momma Me Me."
Every word is a name, giving us a way to talk about that thing. Many cultures believe names to be sacred. If a person knows your true name they can have power over you. What does it mean that the names we are known by so rarely come from ourselves?
Thursday, May 15, 2014
The Universe in Your Cup
I've started reading A Salmon of Doubt (trying to read stuff from my bookshelves at home), and I haven't even gotten to the stories yet. I'm still in one of the many introductions, learning all kinds of delicious things about Douglas Adams. As much as I love and admire him, I'm going to have to disagree with one of the things he's said.
He didn't have a great deal of success until Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. But that was wildly popular and there was demand for more books. Supposedly he complained that when you write your first book you are drawing on, say, 25 years of life experience. But then, you publish another book about a year later, and only have one more year of experience to draw on. Soon you are "running on empty."
As a relatively young storyteller, I have fallen into the trap of thinking that I don't have enough experiences on which to build my stories. But, time after time that has proven to be simply untrue. And it's not just because I'm getting older. I'm finding stories I already have much faster than I am living new ones.
I think the reason for this is the microcosm. Each moment is filled with infinite experiences and stories. I can mine the same exact experience and find something new to tell about it.
For example, I am currently compiling stories from my study abroad trip to Rome. Several years ago, when I started to get a little more "real" about my storytelling, and was specifically hoping to merge my mythology interests with personal stories, I tried to work on a piece about Rome.
The only thing I could come up with was the Milky Way story, which I love and have performed with great success.
In the last couple of years, thanks to prompts from Carapace and Stories on the Square, I have also told stories about my failure to learn Italian and how that impacted my stay in Rome, and an unfortunate incident in Pompeii involving lots of wine.
Add to that some ideas I've been pondering about the Forum, and a few more things that popped into my head while thinking on the newest Carapace theme, Bad Behavior, and that overall Rome trip story is practically telling itself.
See I thought I had this one experience. But really I had so very many experiences during one six week time period. Looking at that same time through different lenses, digging deeper into specific topics, continually gives me more and more material.
The same thing happens with my naughty stories, my band stories, my parenting stories...
I don't think my creative efforts will ever exhaust my supply of life experience. Each and every moment is too rich to become used up.
I am so glad that storytelling has helped me to see that.
He didn't have a great deal of success until Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. But that was wildly popular and there was demand for more books. Supposedly he complained that when you write your first book you are drawing on, say, 25 years of life experience. But then, you publish another book about a year later, and only have one more year of experience to draw on. Soon you are "running on empty."
As a relatively young storyteller, I have fallen into the trap of thinking that I don't have enough experiences on which to build my stories. But, time after time that has proven to be simply untrue. And it's not just because I'm getting older. I'm finding stories I already have much faster than I am living new ones.
I think the reason for this is the microcosm. Each moment is filled with infinite experiences and stories. I can mine the same exact experience and find something new to tell about it.
For example, I am currently compiling stories from my study abroad trip to Rome. Several years ago, when I started to get a little more "real" about my storytelling, and was specifically hoping to merge my mythology interests with personal stories, I tried to work on a piece about Rome.
The only thing I could come up with was the Milky Way story, which I love and have performed with great success.
In the last couple of years, thanks to prompts from Carapace and Stories on the Square, I have also told stories about my failure to learn Italian and how that impacted my stay in Rome, and an unfortunate incident in Pompeii involving lots of wine.
Add to that some ideas I've been pondering about the Forum, and a few more things that popped into my head while thinking on the newest Carapace theme, Bad Behavior, and that overall Rome trip story is practically telling itself.
See I thought I had this one experience. But really I had so very many experiences during one six week time period. Looking at that same time through different lenses, digging deeper into specific topics, continually gives me more and more material.
The same thing happens with my naughty stories, my band stories, my parenting stories...
I don't think my creative efforts will ever exhaust my supply of life experience. Each and every moment is too rich to become used up.
I am so glad that storytelling has helped me to see that.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
Women's Stories
Standing in line for the bathroom at a tapas bar on dueling pianos night I found myself in a conversation about telling children the facts of life. I don't remember how it got started (there may have been some drinks...) but one woman was talking about her daughter, who had an older brother, asking when her penis would grow in.
As I was left with just the woman behind me in line, I confessed that my four-year-old daughter knows more about being a woman than most of the fifth grade students I teach (who are getting "the talk" at school about now). She asked me if I was from the northeast.
I said, "No, but my parents are."
"Northeastern kids are very savvy." She said.
Initially, I was left wondering if the fact that I am so candid with my daughter is a holdover of my New York roots or is, as I have thought, because I am a crazy liberal librarian and believe that more information is the answer to every problem.
It isn't just that, though. Storytelling has been teaching me some interesting things about women. We have got to be honest with each other. And we must share our feminine wisdom between generations.
I have become infamous in the Atlanta storytelling scene for my "naughty" stories. It all started with Carapace's "Taboo" show, in which, with much trepidation, I shared a story about buying a menstrual cup. (Yes, I wrote about this before. This post is a little different.)
I was embraced by the very warm Carapace community and gained the courage to not only share this story with other audiences, but to propose an entire fringe performance based on "naughty" stories.
With a little luck, I was chosen for the National Storytelling Conference fringe, where some of this really started to sink in.
As storytellers go, I am young. I walk in both the traditional storytelling world and the "reality" storytelling world. At Carapace there are many more people my age, but plenty who are older as well. In the traditional storytelling world, I'm an outlier.
My old anxiety about talking openly about menstrual cups and vaginal depth came back as I looked out at my fringe audience. I advertised that it was naughty stories, so they knew what to expect, right? RIGHT?
Not only was my show well received, but many of those who chose to tell me they enjoyed it were older women. I think now that women know, in our hearts, we have to share these stories, at least with each other. Being a woman is hard. Not every woman has a story about ill-fitting menstrual cups, but they have stories about other menstruating misadventures and when we share these stories, no one has to feel alone.
I continue to work to promote "naughty" stories because I have started to realize that they aren't just entertaining. They are important. And if we don't tell our stories, we run the risk of letting someone else tell them for us.
I will take a moment here to say that I do realize calling them "naughty" stories may not be the most productive thing. It is kind of perpetuating the idea that these are not things we are supposed to talk about. But also, those are exactly the stories I mean: the ones we think we are not supposed to talk about.
Back to women, and folklore, and stories. In many cultures, women of multiple generations used to work together for several hours at a stretch with no men around. Adult conversation often turned to true stories and folk tales and jokes, about being a woman. The girls would hear. There were no surprises about growing up or growing old. The female wisdom was available to all ages. No woman thought she was going though some very normal female thing alone.
I'm not saying we need to go back to the "good old days" of women doing only distaff duties. It's just that we have to make more of an effort to talk to each other. If that's on stage at a bar, I'll see you there. I'm listening.
As I was left with just the woman behind me in line, I confessed that my four-year-old daughter knows more about being a woman than most of the fifth grade students I teach (who are getting "the talk" at school about now). She asked me if I was from the northeast.
I said, "No, but my parents are."
"Northeastern kids are very savvy." She said.
Initially, I was left wondering if the fact that I am so candid with my daughter is a holdover of my New York roots or is, as I have thought, because I am a crazy liberal librarian and believe that more information is the answer to every problem.
It isn't just that, though. Storytelling has been teaching me some interesting things about women. We have got to be honest with each other. And we must share our feminine wisdom between generations.
I have become infamous in the Atlanta storytelling scene for my "naughty" stories. It all started with Carapace's "Taboo" show, in which, with much trepidation, I shared a story about buying a menstrual cup. (Yes, I wrote about this before. This post is a little different.)
I was embraced by the very warm Carapace community and gained the courage to not only share this story with other audiences, but to propose an entire fringe performance based on "naughty" stories.
With a little luck, I was chosen for the National Storytelling Conference fringe, where some of this really started to sink in.
As storytellers go, I am young. I walk in both the traditional storytelling world and the "reality" storytelling world. At Carapace there are many more people my age, but plenty who are older as well. In the traditional storytelling world, I'm an outlier.
My old anxiety about talking openly about menstrual cups and vaginal depth came back as I looked out at my fringe audience. I advertised that it was naughty stories, so they knew what to expect, right? RIGHT?
Not only was my show well received, but many of those who chose to tell me they enjoyed it were older women. I think now that women know, in our hearts, we have to share these stories, at least with each other. Being a woman is hard. Not every woman has a story about ill-fitting menstrual cups, but they have stories about other menstruating misadventures and when we share these stories, no one has to feel alone.
I continue to work to promote "naughty" stories because I have started to realize that they aren't just entertaining. They are important. And if we don't tell our stories, we run the risk of letting someone else tell them for us.
I will take a moment here to say that I do realize calling them "naughty" stories may not be the most productive thing. It is kind of perpetuating the idea that these are not things we are supposed to talk about. But also, those are exactly the stories I mean: the ones we think we are not supposed to talk about.
Back to women, and folklore, and stories. In many cultures, women of multiple generations used to work together for several hours at a stretch with no men around. Adult conversation often turned to true stories and folk tales and jokes, about being a woman. The girls would hear. There were no surprises about growing up or growing old. The female wisdom was available to all ages. No woman thought she was going though some very normal female thing alone.
I'm not saying we need to go back to the "good old days" of women doing only distaff duties. It's just that we have to make more of an effort to talk to each other. If that's on stage at a bar, I'll see you there. I'm listening.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Spider Speculations
I've just finished reading Spider Speculations: A Physics and Biophysics of Storytelling by Jo Carson, loaned to me by a friend. I found myself whole heartedly accepting some of Jo's claims and viewing others with skepticism. But, regardless of my feelings on each topic all of it has been seeping into my subconscious and effecting me more than I had initially realized.
The theory I put forth in this blog, that the spoken word is closer to meaning, also has many connections to Jo's work.
First of all, she created plays for communities based on stories collected from members of those communities. Why even do this unless those stories need to be spoken aloud?
In her book, she talks about reframing, how the way you tell a story can change the way you think, and feel, about something that has happened. In one of her examples she tells the story of a woman who cares for her elderly stepmother who abused her when she was a child. The way Jo tells the story, it is not the woman who is stuck with her horrible stepmother, but the stepmother who is stuck entirely reliant on the woman she abused. How uncomfortable for her.
I have felt the power of reframing in my own life. I lay-led a service at Northwest UUC about telling your story. I talked about my own faith journey and about when I began to question Christianity. I talked about how I could have ended the story with feeling pushed away from Christianity by my friends. But instead I end the story with something one of my friend's fathers said to me about our lunchtime discussions. I was sure he thought I was a bad influence on his son, but he said, "No, I think you are good for him." I decided that if I was good for him, he was good for me. He and all my friends had done me a favor by making me think. (That's a better ending, and encourages a better attitude.)
That's reframing. It is powerful. And the reframe gains power every time you tell the story. Your brain starts associating that feeling with the events instead of what you might have felt at the time.
The other main thing I want to talk about is agency. Jo gave agency to the abused woman, mentioned above, by making it her choice to take care of the stepmother, not something she had to do.
I finally had a breakthrough with another personal reframe job (and a really difficult story to tell) by giving myself back some agency in a similar way. Instead of focusing on things that had been done to me in the story, I acknowledged that I made certain choices. Not always good choices. But because they were my choices, I could also choose something different for myself, which I eventually did.
Jo gives several other examples of agency, but what really struck me, from a sound and sense standpoint, was how pretending to have agency can make you actually have more agency. In one of her plays a more timid woman acted the part of a woman who had been very "brash." The actress began acting more like her character both on and off stage. In this case, acting, saying something, doing something can make it so. The sound becomes the sense.
For myself, as an introvert who could use a little more agency, this makes me consider doing more portrayals. Maybe of particularly agency-filled women. It occurs to me that the two women I already portray, Boudica and Mayhayley, do have a lot of agency. So far, I've chosen well.
And the final, kind of eery influence this book has had on me: I was filling out the google form for the Listen to Your Mother interview while tired and maybe slightly tipsy. When asked to tell a little more about myself I started with: "I think at my worst, I am difficult to work with, but at my best I can be an agent for positive change."
Then I stopped and looked at that sentence and thought, "Oh no! I'm a trickster!" Now I'm pondering the place in this world of a reluctant trickster. Or maybe I should drop the "reluctant" and keep trying for more agency.
The theory I put forth in this blog, that the spoken word is closer to meaning, also has many connections to Jo's work.
First of all, she created plays for communities based on stories collected from members of those communities. Why even do this unless those stories need to be spoken aloud?
In her book, she talks about reframing, how the way you tell a story can change the way you think, and feel, about something that has happened. In one of her examples she tells the story of a woman who cares for her elderly stepmother who abused her when she was a child. The way Jo tells the story, it is not the woman who is stuck with her horrible stepmother, but the stepmother who is stuck entirely reliant on the woman she abused. How uncomfortable for her.
I have felt the power of reframing in my own life. I lay-led a service at Northwest UUC about telling your story. I talked about my own faith journey and about when I began to question Christianity. I talked about how I could have ended the story with feeling pushed away from Christianity by my friends. But instead I end the story with something one of my friend's fathers said to me about our lunchtime discussions. I was sure he thought I was a bad influence on his son, but he said, "No, I think you are good for him." I decided that if I was good for him, he was good for me. He and all my friends had done me a favor by making me think. (That's a better ending, and encourages a better attitude.)
That's reframing. It is powerful. And the reframe gains power every time you tell the story. Your brain starts associating that feeling with the events instead of what you might have felt at the time.
The other main thing I want to talk about is agency. Jo gave agency to the abused woman, mentioned above, by making it her choice to take care of the stepmother, not something she had to do.
I finally had a breakthrough with another personal reframe job (and a really difficult story to tell) by giving myself back some agency in a similar way. Instead of focusing on things that had been done to me in the story, I acknowledged that I made certain choices. Not always good choices. But because they were my choices, I could also choose something different for myself, which I eventually did.
Jo gives several other examples of agency, but what really struck me, from a sound and sense standpoint, was how pretending to have agency can make you actually have more agency. In one of her plays a more timid woman acted the part of a woman who had been very "brash." The actress began acting more like her character both on and off stage. In this case, acting, saying something, doing something can make it so. The sound becomes the sense.
For myself, as an introvert who could use a little more agency, this makes me consider doing more portrayals. Maybe of particularly agency-filled women. It occurs to me that the two women I already portray, Boudica and Mayhayley, do have a lot of agency. So far, I've chosen well.
And the final, kind of eery influence this book has had on me: I was filling out the google form for the Listen to Your Mother interview while tired and maybe slightly tipsy. When asked to tell a little more about myself I started with: "I think at my worst, I am difficult to work with, but at my best I can be an agent for positive change."
Then I stopped and looked at that sentence and thought, "Oh no! I'm a trickster!" Now I'm pondering the place in this world of a reluctant trickster. Or maybe I should drop the "reluctant" and keep trying for more agency.
Thursday, January 23, 2014
Agony and the Internet
One of the biggest things that struck me on rereading The Shallows in preparation for leading a faculty summer reading discussion at the beginning of this school year was the similarities that Carr points out between the digital word and the spoken word.
He talks a lot about the kind of mind that reading fosters: A mind that can be quiet and focus on a single task for an extended period of time.
And he contrasts that with the kind of mind that the Internet fosters: One that harvests large quantities of information quickly without going too deep.
But in these comparisons, he brings up some ways in which the digital word is taking us back to what came before writing. Primarily, this is social information sharing.
In the oral tradition, sharing information is, by necessity, a social event. One person speaks to one or more people, imparting what they know. The person sharing the information is treated as an authority and can be questioned. Information sharing is interactive. In Orality and Literacy, Ong talks about the agonistic nature of oral cultures. People do battle with words. Think of debate. Think of jokes and riddles.
Writing, and reading, Carr points out, are both solitary events. The piece of writing becomes the authority as the original author can not, usually, be questioned. And the writing continues to say the same thing, no matter what you ask it. There isn't the same back and forth, the same argumentation.
And then there is the Internet. Web 2.0, the social web, to be exact. Yes, we have blogs, facebook, and youtube, allowing anyone and everyone to share content with the multitudes. But more importantly, we have comments. Anyone and everyone can argue with the author, not just the work.
Now think about flame wars. Think about how reading the comment section on almost anything on the Internet can make you lose faith in humanity. People say it is just that people feel more free to be mean online because of distance and anonymity. But I think the driving force behind these arguments may run deep. Like, oral roots deep.
This is the agony. It is the way of social information sharing. I suspect it is a little cruder now than in the old days. But if we understand it maybe we can channel that argumentative energy towards something more productive? I would like to think so.
He talks a lot about the kind of mind that reading fosters: A mind that can be quiet and focus on a single task for an extended period of time.
And he contrasts that with the kind of mind that the Internet fosters: One that harvests large quantities of information quickly without going too deep.
But in these comparisons, he brings up some ways in which the digital word is taking us back to what came before writing. Primarily, this is social information sharing.
In the oral tradition, sharing information is, by necessity, a social event. One person speaks to one or more people, imparting what they know. The person sharing the information is treated as an authority and can be questioned. Information sharing is interactive. In Orality and Literacy, Ong talks about the agonistic nature of oral cultures. People do battle with words. Think of debate. Think of jokes and riddles.
Writing, and reading, Carr points out, are both solitary events. The piece of writing becomes the authority as the original author can not, usually, be questioned. And the writing continues to say the same thing, no matter what you ask it. There isn't the same back and forth, the same argumentation.
And then there is the Internet. Web 2.0, the social web, to be exact. Yes, we have blogs, facebook, and youtube, allowing anyone and everyone to share content with the multitudes. But more importantly, we have comments. Anyone and everyone can argue with the author, not just the work.
Now think about flame wars. Think about how reading the comment section on almost anything on the Internet can make you lose faith in humanity. People say it is just that people feel more free to be mean online because of distance and anonymity. But I think the driving force behind these arguments may run deep. Like, oral roots deep.
This is the agony. It is the way of social information sharing. I suspect it is a little cruder now than in the old days. But if we understand it maybe we can channel that argumentative energy towards something more productive? I would like to think so.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Empty Characters
This past weekend I attended the American Association of School Librarians conference and one of the many sessions I attended was a panel discussion on boys reading and fantasy, consisting of the following authors:
Jonathan Auxier
Jon Scieszka
Adam Gidwitz
Neal Schusterman
William Alexander
Tony Abbott
So it was bound to be good, right?
This idea came up in the discussion about rich characters and empty characters. But "empty" wasn't a bad thing. An empty character is one that, yeah, might be hard to describe other than "heroic" or something like that. But, because the character is "empty" the reader can see him (or her) self as that character. Examples mentioned were Harry Potter and Luke Skywalker. Their friends are all rich characters, but these leading men don't have quite as much that defines them, and that's a good thing. The speaker even mentioned Tintin, who is drawn with minimal detail, even though the rest of the illustrations are detail rich. The reader can put himself in Tintin's shoes.
Of course this made me think of the stereotypical, archetypal characters that come out of the oral tradition. They usually have only one or two defining characteristics and are not very complex. The wrath of Achilles, anyone? Walter Ong describes how writing has allowed us to come up with more complex, more psychological characters. And yet, we still love our empty heroes.
Is it because we are nostalgic for the epics of the past? Is it because the ancient bards were on to something? Is it because we need to be connected to, to be a part of, our stories?
Another question came up about building upon folktales, myths, legends, etc. and one of the authors told the following joke:
The point was that all stories are built on what came before. No one is using their own dirt.
I think this was easier to see during the oral transmission of stories, because there was less focus on the author of a story. Think of how we don't know the author of most folktales, and there are so many different versions. They aren't written. They are collected.
Each telling of a story was slightly different. Stories were constantly both old and new. Connected to an earlier time, but being what they needed to be in this time.
The empty character is an invitation. The storyteller, the writer, knows he has used someone else's dirt. Now he is inviting the listener, the reader, to use his. Come on, he says, be my character.
Jonathan Auxier
Jon Scieszka
Adam Gidwitz
Neal Schusterman
William Alexander
Tony Abbott
So it was bound to be good, right?
This idea came up in the discussion about rich characters and empty characters. But "empty" wasn't a bad thing. An empty character is one that, yeah, might be hard to describe other than "heroic" or something like that. But, because the character is "empty" the reader can see him (or her) self as that character. Examples mentioned were Harry Potter and Luke Skywalker. Their friends are all rich characters, but these leading men don't have quite as much that defines them, and that's a good thing. The speaker even mentioned Tintin, who is drawn with minimal detail, even though the rest of the illustrations are detail rich. The reader can put himself in Tintin's shoes.
Of course this made me think of the stereotypical, archetypal characters that come out of the oral tradition. They usually have only one or two defining characteristics and are not very complex. The wrath of Achilles, anyone? Walter Ong describes how writing has allowed us to come up with more complex, more psychological characters. And yet, we still love our empty heroes.
Is it because we are nostalgic for the epics of the past? Is it because the ancient bards were on to something? Is it because we need to be connected to, to be a part of, our stories?
Another question came up about building upon folktales, myths, legends, etc. and one of the authors told the following joke:
A magician became so great a magician that he told everyone not to call him a magician anymore, but to call him a god.
The God of the land heard about this and they decided upon a duel of the gods.
The God of the land grabbed a handful of dirt, spit in it, molded it, blew on it, and away flew a bird.
The man who was once a magician grabbed a handful of dirt, and just as he went to spit in it, God said, "Hey! Use your own dirt."
The point was that all stories are built on what came before. No one is using their own dirt.
I think this was easier to see during the oral transmission of stories, because there was less focus on the author of a story. Think of how we don't know the author of most folktales, and there are so many different versions. They aren't written. They are collected.
Each telling of a story was slightly different. Stories were constantly both old and new. Connected to an earlier time, but being what they needed to be in this time.
The empty character is an invitation. The storyteller, the writer, knows he has used someone else's dirt. Now he is inviting the listener, the reader, to use his. Come on, he says, be my character.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
Scriptura Continua
It's hard for us to imagine today, but no spaces separated the words in early writing. In the books inked by scribes, words ran together without any break across every line on every page, in what's now referred to as scriptura continua. The lack of word separation reflected language's origins in speech. When we talk, we don't insert pauses between each word - long stretches of syllables flow unbroken from our lips. It would never have crossed the minds of the first writers to put blank spaces between words. They were simply transcribing speech, writing what their ears told them to write. - The Shallows by Nicholas Carr, pg. 61
Carr goes on to explain that early readers experienced a "cognitive burden" trying to pick out the words from the continuous line of letters. Spaces were introduced to make reading easier. Hyperlinks and other distractions on the Internet are again creating a cognitive burden, according to Carr, by forcing us to make decisions while we are reading (do I click on the link?) rather than focus on what the words are telling us.
One of my arguments for writing being further from meaning than the spoken word is that writing is a graphical representation of sounds. It refers back to the spoken word, not to meaning. D-O-G tells you how to pronounce the word "dog," it doesn't tell you what a dog is.
The spaces between words, however, are not there because people pause between each word when speaking, but to help readers understand the text more quickly. They ease the cognitive burden. It is so hard to understand the written word, so laborious, that we have to add things that aren't there so that we can comprehend a text at a speed that approaches our comprehension abilities with the spoken word. And, it is not just spaces we have added. We have punctuation, we have altered word order, we have italics and bold and big and small. All in an attempt to make writing as readily understandable as speaking.
Then there is this business of the Internet. Are we moving further from meaning as we further technologize the word? Um...yeah.
We worked to ease the cognitive burden of reading so that we could spend more time thinking about meaning and less time thinking about deciphering. But the Internet is increasingly distracting - increasingly burdensome. We get so caught up looking for information, we fail to pay much attention to what we find. (This is the main thrust of Carr's book. Forgive me for making these bold claims without elaborating on them. He's done that for me.)
The digital word isn't trying to be like the spoken word. It isn't trying to be easily understood. It is like a living thing, trying only to propagate itself. The digital word is all about more and more and more digital words. But if we are too distracted to pay attention to what these words say and certainly too distracted to remember for more than a few moments - then they don't say anything.
Maybe this is all a little dramatic. Clearly, I like the Internet. Hello out there blog readers, I hope you are enjoying all my tasty digital words! Just try not to forget me when you click on the next link...
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Making a Difference
I have had the same kind of thing happen twice now after telling stories even though the stories were very different. One is a story about menstrual cups (audio here) the other is a story about ghosts, note-passing, and kindness from an unexpected source.
The menstrual cup story, which I call "Give Her a Large," was one I was nervous to tell for a long time. I knew it was hilarious, but worried over how to find the right audience. Then, when the Carapace theme was TABOO I thought, "I guess they're asking for it." Now "Give Her a Large" is, I think, my most (in)famous story. I've performed it live twice more already and have plans for two more performances at least.
Not a single person has come up to me to say, "I can't believe you said those things. You're gross!" (Maybe some people were thinking it. I have no way of knowing.) However, I have had a number of people want to talk to me about menstrual cups. This is one of those topics people don't talk about (taboo!) but once you are brave enough to talk about it, people want to talk to you.
Well, then I was the lay leader at church on Sunday, giving a sermon entitled "Open to the Impossible." As part of this sermon I told the story of how I didn't get in trouble for passing a note about ghosts in fourth grade. (I call the story "Unexplained.") The point of the story is how meaningful it was to me that my teacher didn't dismiss my belief in ghosts like pretty much every other adult did. Being "open to the impossible" can make you more open to other people.
The experience I had after the service was very like my experience after the first time I told "Give Her a Large." Lots of people wanted to talk to me about ghosts, aliens, and the paranormal! And being open to the impossible I, of course, entertained all of these conversations. Once again, I had popped the seal on a taboo topic and gave others a chance to say things they don't always feel free to say.
I would like to think that by telling stories I am not "just" having fun; I'm not "just" entertaining people; I'm making a difference. And this is the difference I am making: I'm saying things out loud so that others can, too.
The menstrual cup story, which I call "Give Her a Large," was one I was nervous to tell for a long time. I knew it was hilarious, but worried over how to find the right audience. Then, when the Carapace theme was TABOO I thought, "I guess they're asking for it." Now "Give Her a Large" is, I think, my most (in)famous story. I've performed it live twice more already and have plans for two more performances at least.
Not a single person has come up to me to say, "I can't believe you said those things. You're gross!" (Maybe some people were thinking it. I have no way of knowing.) However, I have had a number of people want to talk to me about menstrual cups. This is one of those topics people don't talk about (taboo!) but once you are brave enough to talk about it, people want to talk to you.
Well, then I was the lay leader at church on Sunday, giving a sermon entitled "Open to the Impossible." As part of this sermon I told the story of how I didn't get in trouble for passing a note about ghosts in fourth grade. (I call the story "Unexplained.") The point of the story is how meaningful it was to me that my teacher didn't dismiss my belief in ghosts like pretty much every other adult did. Being "open to the impossible" can make you more open to other people.
The experience I had after the service was very like my experience after the first time I told "Give Her a Large." Lots of people wanted to talk to me about ghosts, aliens, and the paranormal! And being open to the impossible I, of course, entertained all of these conversations. Once again, I had popped the seal on a taboo topic and gave others a chance to say things they don't always feel free to say.
I would like to think that by telling stories I am not "just" having fun; I'm not "just" entertaining people; I'm making a difference. And this is the difference I am making: I'm saying things out loud so that others can, too.
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