Learning to Tell Stories

One of my favorite college classes was Children's Literature, probably because I learned so much there.  It was that teacher that advised us to begin reading poetry to our children even before they were born, because, she said,  it would stretch their minds and help them think in different patterns, turning them into mathematicians some day. 

We spent a a great deal of time studying children's poetry, and one poem still pops into my head every now and then.  It was by written by Beatrice Schenk de Regniers.

Keep a Poem in Your Pocket 
Keep a poem in your pocket 
and a picture in your head 
and you'll never feel lonely at night when you're in bed.

The little poem will sing to you 
the little picture bring to you 
a dozen dreams to dance to you 
at night when you're in bed. 

So--

Keep a picture in your pocket 
and a poem in your head 
and you'll never be lonely at night when you're in bed. 

As I said, I believe the reason I enjoyed Children's Lit. was because I learned so much.  Towards the end of the semester we studied story telling.  Now, I had spent at least the last eight or nine years telling stories to my brothers and sisters, the kids I babysat, my Primary children, and anyone else who would listen to me.  I loved telling stories.  But I had never really studied the art of getting up in front of an audience, presenting a prepared presentation.  (Good alliteration, huh?) 

When I was little and had to give two-and-a-half minute talks in church mom helped me learn to talk slowly.  She told me it was human nature to speak fast when we are nervous, so I should talk slower than usual to make up for that tendency.  She also taught me how to enunciate my words carefully so people could understand what I said.  She would never allow me to take my talk with me.  I had to memorize it,  then practice giving it in my own words in front of a mirror until I was able to say the whole talk smoothly.  She also taught me to take a deep breath when I got to the microphone before I began to speak.  She said that gave the audience a chance to get ready to listen, and it would help me to be less nervous.

Thanks to mom, I knew the basics of standing in front of an audience and giving a talk, but I learned there was a lot more than just poise and confidence that goes into becoming a good story teller.  You can be poised and confident and still put everyone to sleep if you don't also add in a little dramatic flair.  Telling stories is actually a lot like acting, I suppose.  You have to get into character, and actually see in your mind the story you are telling.  Thinking about it, I realized that every time I told a story I was actually seeing the details inside my head, getting excited right along with the plot, feeling scared or sad or depressed as I described how the people in the story felt, and almost crying with relief or happiness or whatever when their problems were solved and they lived happily ever after.  Telling a good story sometimes wore me out, but I loved it.  It was like watching a good movie or reading a favorite book over and over again.

Our final assignment in Children's Literature was to tell a story to an elementary school class.  That sounded like a fun final examination, especially since it was Christmas time and I loved telling Christmas stories.  So I went back to the elementary school where I had been a teacher's aid during high school and asked one of the fourth grade teachers if I could come into her room and tell a story.  She said of course.  (I have since learned that most teachers are happy to have anyone come and do a presentation for their class.  It gives them a few minutes to sit down and recuperate before they have to get back up and go to work again.)

The story we chose was supposed to take between 20 and 30 minutes to tell, which narrowed my choices down considerably. While there were any number of delightful Christmas stories, choosing one that long was a different matter.  I finally settled on the longest Christmas story I knew, The Other Wise Man, by Henry Van Dyke.  I shudder to think what would happen if I tried to tell that story in a public school room today, but that was a simpler, nicer time when schools still put on Christmas pageants and all kinds of customs were tolerated in public schools.

I read and re-read my copy of The Other Wise Man, then spent days telling it to myself in my own words.  I discovered that many parts of the story were worded so beautifully they were imbedded in my subconscious, so although I did not set out to memorize it, much of my re-telling was word for word the way Henry Van Dyke wrote his story. 

The big day came when I was scheduled to give my presentation.  I was nervous as I drove over to the elementary school.  Although I knew the teacher from working for her the previous year, I didn't know any of the students.  I walked into the classroom with a knot of fear tightening up my throat, wondering if I would really be able to do this or if I would stumble and fumble around and tell the story so poorly the kids would loose interest, or worse, laugh.

The teacher introduced me, explained I was there to tell them a Christmas story, and then turned the time over to me.  I walked up to the front of the class, looked out at the sea of expectant faces, took a deep breath, and began.

"The night sky was inky black as Artaban and his fellow magi sat on his roof, gazing up at the stars....."  and I was lost.  Lost in the ancient mid-eastern world of wise men, camels, fabulous jewels, disappointment, decisions, and a quest that took Artaban on a 33 year journey.  I only saw the children's faces with a small part of my mind, accepting their smiles and looks of anticipation, but not really internalizing them.  The biggest part of my brain and my imagination were far away in that other world, seeing the quest Artaban was on,  feeling his pain and anguish as he approached the end of his life thinking he had failed. As I finished my story saying;  "A quiet radiance fell across the tired face of Artaban, as he took his last, final breath.  His quest was ended, his gifts accepted, the other wise man had found the king," my own eyes were full of tears, as were the eyes of every person in the room.  I turned to the teacher to say goodbye, and was surprised by the clapping that erupted from she and her students.  I think I had actually forgotten I was telling the story to anyone else. 

And so ended my first real story telling experience, and I was hooked.  Never again did I want to run and hide when someone asked me to get up in front of an audience to tell a story.  Not that I stopped being afraid.  To this day I still get a knot in my throat, my stomach does flip flops, and my hands get clammy.  But the pure joy of reliving a story in my own mind, and sharing that with other people, is more than enough to get me through those first moments of fright; and then I'm off in another world, and I forget to be afraid.