Growing up the last of five children was quite an experience. My siblings were much older than me. My first recollections of childhood were being home and waiting for my brothers to come home from school. My oldest sister was married and had a home of her own. My other sister was out working all day, so I only saw her briefly between her social activities. I entertained myself with books. My oldest sister was a 1st grade teacher and would bring me boxes of books that were no longer used. This is how my storytelling adventure began.
My favorite set of books was a collection of folktales. The books had hardback covers and were mustard yellow. I just loved those books. While my mother was busy in the kitchen or doing housework, I went to my box of books and sat in a corner. I loved being transported to another time, another land and meeting friends who lived in another place. I would spend hours reading and creating pictures in my mind of what my friends on the pages looked and sounded like. I gave my mind permission to be the producer of the movies in my head.
Once I read stories, I would run and tell my mother about what I had read. I was so excited to share the images that jumped off the pages of my book and into my mind. She would be busy cooking in the kitchen and respond to me “Si, Mija”,
Yes, my dear. I don’t know if she really listened to my tellings but what I do know is that I had so much joy in sharing what I had just read. I tried sharing my stories with my brothers when they came home from school, but that really didn’t work since they were more interested in being with their friends. My oldest brothers were in high school and middle school so listening to stories wasn’t one of their priorities.
Luckily my oldest sister was a teacher. When she would come over and visit I would tell her I read stories from the books she gave me. I would ask her, “Can I tell you a story?” she responded yes. I would then tell her the story I had most recently read and she would respond by asking me questions. I had so much fun because I was introducing my story friends to someone. I was helping my friends come alive.
While taking the Fact-Based Stories class, I realized that I have been surrounded by all kinds of stories, not only the ones I read from books. As a young child, I learned stories from my ancestors. My grandfather shared with me how he came to the United States and stayed in Arizona while his cousins tried to convince him to travel with them to California because there was gold waiting to be mined. My father shared stories of his experiences during WWII. He never talked about combat, but he always shared stories about the friends he made. My mother shared stories of what it was like to live through the depression. My oldest brother shared funny stories of his childhood friends. The list goes on and on with the many ancestral storytellers that I have heard throughout my lifetime.
The memory of the specific individuals I have mentioned remains alive because I recall the stories they shared with me. When I long for their presence, I experience a certain type of healing. I can get transported to what it felt like being with them and listening to their stories. At this point in my life, I not only give permission to my mind to be the director of stories that I have read, I give permission to my mind to direct documentaries that I have heard. Telling stories keeps the memories of tellers and their stories alive. Whenever someone tells you a story, listen. If they are sharing a part of their experience with you it is because you are special to them. They are not just sharing words, they are sharing part of their soul.
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