“What’s the meaning of that story?” is always a multi-layered answer to a seemingly innocent question. For me, the answer could change, depending on the state of mind I’m in at the given time. For anyone, it depends on your life experiences and, of course, your outlook. All this is vital, pithy stuff if you are an oral storyteller, for how you feel about the story, how you personally connect with its message, totally changes the energy, and therefore your body language, tone, choice of vocabulary and, ultimately, whatever is received by your listener.
I’ve been doing a fun storytelling/movement/song exercise /experience with folks of all ages for about fifteen years now. In short, my older siblings got to do something that I wasn’t since they were older kids. I was frustrated, ‘cause I believed I was old enough to go. Despite being left behind, when my sister got back she taught me a song they learned. Then I share it with the audience, and we jump up and down and act silly and have fun. And for me, the emotions really stopped with them leaving me. The story was just the prelude to the song, which, it turns out, dates back to before the Civil War. For years I’ve done this; years.
A few months ago I told it again. A listener said, ‘Awwwww!” I was all, “What?!” She pointed out: “Your sister thought of you! Even though they had to leave you, she brought you something back.” That positive and heartwarming conclusion, obvious in retrospect, had never occurred to me, the pre-adolescent (heck, the pre-schooler!) who experienced it. Now, I tell the story quite differently. I have to: the story has a different meaning.
So, we must also ask: why am I—or you—even telling this story? My personal story, cited above, has plenty of reasons: demonstrate childhood attitudes, legitimize the use of a particular song, reflect family dynamics, have a good time. I’ve got that.
But what about a found, folk-tale type story? Why should I tell this story? Is the way it comes out from my telling gonna bring new life and meaning to the encapsulated-in-print story—or am I just gonna be a re-hash? Understanding how my motivations tie in to the story—and its meanings—is the source of its new life. Who I am—and how the story I tell is part of me–is the hidden message.
There are messages like that in people who tell stories in print, too. I realized that fact about the writings of the late, great Octavia E. Butler, the first famous Black woman in the genre of Speculative Fiction/Science-Fiction. Butler both Hugo and Nebula awards for her work—the top honors for Science-Fiction writing. In 1995, she became the first science fiction writer to receive the MacArthur Foundation Genius Grant. Her work is dynamic, thought-provoking, comfortable and scary, all at the same time.
I first learned of Octavia Butler through reading “Kindred”, the story of a young Black woman in the patriotic, US Bicentennial year of 1976, happily starting a new life with her White husband, when she suddenly finds herself back in time on the old plantation, where her kind was only as good as work they produced. And she can only return from the 1800s to the 20th century when she is in certified mortal danger; otherwise she stays. Anything more would be a spoiler; sorry!
Who wrote this frightening vision? Pasadena-born Octavia E. Butler, child of a shoeshine man and a maid. She was brown, homely, tall (six feet by the time she was fifteen), bookish and not very social. She was dyslexic, shy, lonely—but smart. When she saw the movie, “Devil Girl From Mars” at age twelve, she said, “Heck; I can write something better than that!”, so she began.
The official biographies describer how her Patternist Series and Xenogenesis Trilogy/Lillith’s Brood books explore gender, sexuality, power and enslavement. I’ll agree with that. But, for me–and this really came home for me after reading her short story “Bloodchild” — most—if not all—of her work revolves around, and reflects one basic question: “how much of yourself can you give up in a relationship, and still be yourself?” In her writings Butler dealt that card with people interacting with willing and unwilling ancestors from the past; with invading aliens; with vampires; and with each other. She placed sentient beings—with souls and a conscience–poring over the same question: how much is too much? If you choose to give it all up and survive—are “you” there anymore?
The Patternist Series of novels springs from the relationships of two people (?) who are, in essence, immortal. One spends his time searching for “special” people to breed with, so that he may create, over time, a “family” of descendants with super-powers. The other tries to create a “village” of people safe from his predations. That’s where Butler starts. What happens to the offspring of these folks generations later, hundreds of years later? Are their plans successful? How do those two, who are diametrically opposed in ambition–interact with each other over the centuries?
The Xenogenisis Trilogy/Lillith’s Brood series brings aliens into the picture–aliens with three sexes: male, female and ooloi, who serve to collect and mix genetic material from the other two. Since the ooloi can’t change (mutate) their DNA, they must get new genetic material to introduce, that the species may grow, and evolve. Enter, at this point, the highly mutative humans. Need I say more?
As a human with Irish, Malagasy, Choctaw, Powhatan, English, Fulani and more in my gene pool/family tree, Butler’s writings resonate with me.
Liz Warren says, “Every story you tell has some connection to you and your experience.” So, deep down inside, each story I pick up and empower to tell reveals what I am, have been, or hope to be. That’s how a once-often-told story comes to life through us. You see, each time a story is told, or a thought or prayer is made, a specific frequency of energy is created. That energetic “thought balloon” floats away and joins the energetic “thought balloon” of everyone else thinking the same thing and, pretty soon, that’s gonna be a big balloon.
So, when you bring a story back to life by telling it, you create a new energetic “balloon”, one that can join with the tellings from decades, or hundreds of years ago. And who we are and what we think of the story determines what kind of energy that is. The stories we spout come to life by feeding off our karma, our experience and emotion in order to survive and touch today’s living world. Oh, yes. When I told my story from a left-behind-child’s place, it was one thing. When I told it from the perspective of someone who was given a gift, it’s another. Different energy, huh? Kinda scary? Yep, but that’s what comes with the job of being human—and being a teller.
So, what’s the meaning of that? What “thought balloon” of yours did the story float over to? What of your past thought did it feel most akin to? It all depends on what experience they latch onto. It all depends on who you are today.
Leave a Reply