Había una vez . . . that’s how stories almost always begin. Once upon a time: cuando un abuelo cultivaba nabos en su jardin. Pero un nabo creció tanto que no pudo arrancarlo. I have been telling story all my life but never thought of it as a calling, as a profession until the late 1990’s. I found myself working in front of audiences that included Latinos who spoke little English or none at all. Often they were studying, learning English, but learning a new language, any language in the conversational mode is really difficult. My own brand of survival Spanish has been sufficient for me to make myself understood but coming at you at the speed of story, the words run together like one big word, a thousand letters long. With story, if the listener looses a couple of key words they are hopelessly lost. Unlike reading, you can’t slow down or go back to reread the lost words. When you get a sentence or two behind, there is no catching up.
With that caveat in mind, I translated three short, simple, children’s stories into Spanish. I practiced, memorized difficult or complicated phrases and was able to surprise my unsuspecting audience. They had come to listen to story in the language they were studying and they got language they understood. My fist, best story was about an old grandfather who grew turnips in his garden. One grew so big that he couldn’t pull it up. He called for help and someone came to help, then someone else came until there was a string of helpers lined up, single file behind the old man, pulling on the one in front of them. Each helper got smaller and smaller, from grandmother to mother to granddaughter to dog to cat to mouse to last of all, ‘una hormiga’ an ant. Together, they pull up the turnip and all fell back in a heap on top of each other. It is a good story with ideas to follow up on, lots of opportunities for group interaction, helping the teller remember their order in line. From start to finish this story can be crafted to fit an 8-15 minute time slot.
From the barrio in Grand Rapids, MI, to migrant farm children in Immokalee, FL, from affluent academy students in Santiago Chile to adults learning English as a second language in Ushuaia, Argentina, everything began with, “Había una vez”. I’m thinking I would need a couple of hours to review verb conjugation, to refresh vocabulary and rehearse the transitions. But I could tell the story and Latinos of all ages, they would love it. In Nome, Alaska I found Spanish speaking kids. I told this story in my best Español, in short clips. The Latino kids took turns translating it back into English for the others. It was a great game. I think storytelling is an incurable affliction. Once you sip from that cup you are hooked forever.
With the pandemic upon us there are few opportunities for even a casual conversation, much less storytelling. I take advantage of every occasion, even if it is just here in my journal or my blog. Story is where I do my best, where I have something to share. The overarching story today is Coronavirus. I am not a vindictive person and I believe the argument for punishment as a first resort is narrow and spiteful. But need be said, leadership from the White House and federal government has been painfully absent. Our power brokers have abandoned us in favor of self-aggrandizement and partisan politics. Reelection campaigns and subordination to the big dog has allowed Covid-19 to run unchecked. They know it, I think they are ashamed privately. With a headcount the number of courageous leaders could be tallied on your fingers. I don’t have a good story to close with, nothing to raise hope, no nostalgic reflection. I’ll try to do better next time. Había una vez, yo estaba bien. Nosotros no morimos, pero esto tampoco es feliz para siempre.
No comments:
Post a Comment