ENG 6283: Narrative Theory

Running for public office means more than being a good candidate or being passionate about one or more issues. These days, it means telling your story—and not just telling it, but telling it the most effective way. Political pundits call it "controlling the narrative." Partly, they mean managing what aspects of your story get "out" to the public, and how, and when. Partly, they mean sticking to your "message" (and creating one in the first place). Where do these strategies begin? With telling your personal story, understanding your audience, and thinking about how your story circulates out there in the public sphere. I propose a series of workshops to help underrepresented citizens run for office (i.e. women, minorities, LGBTQ, differently abled, and so forth). The first step in this community-oriented campaign? Reach out to community and civic groups they already participate in, such as local parent groups, community centers, women's organizations,

If I were to create a series of workshops on storytelling for the public I would plan eight workshops to be held twice a week for four weeks that would cover elements of creative nonfiction. I would house these workshops in a local coffee shop that had space for author’s to share their work, sort of like an open mic event. Each week the workshop would meet twice. The first meeting of the week would cover content and the second meeting would result in the application of the content discussed. Attendees of the workshop would apply their new knowledge and skills to their own creative nonfiction writing and present their short stories via an open mic performance that would result in a writing workshop focused on positive critiques. I believe creative nonfiction is a really important genre, and it’s something everyone (seriously everyone) can write. I enjoy reading creative nonfiction like Leslie Jamison’s The Empathy Exams. I also grew up reading my grandmother’s creative nonfiction. She

I grew up knowing that I was adopted. I’m a fair-skinned freckled brunette who never grew past 4’10” so I fit in photographs just fine with my brunette mother and blonde father who adopted me at birth. When I was little, they told me stories about how God had sent me to their arms, how they had chosen me, how special I was because I was adopted. The story of Moses was especially prominent, as was Tarzan. I grew up in middle America where everybody still goes to church on Sundays and Wednesdays like clockwork and trusts Disney to raise their children during TV time. My mother was (and still is with my daughter now) a firm believer in keeping children innocent as long as possible. She adores small children and works with them exclusively at the church where she directs the children’s choir and runs the after-school program. My father always had a nonchalant attitude towards these things. He wouldn’t go out of his way to introduce us to things that might be a tad inappropriate, but he

When I was a freshman in college, I lived in a very old dorm building on campus. Everyone said it was haunted, but the rooms that were said to be haunted were the attic on the fourth floor and the basement rooms. Since I was inhabiting a room on the third floor, I felt secure and didn't worry too much about any spooky occurences.  That was the wrong move.  That first semester, I had a roommate named Hannah. We got along really well and enjoyed each other's company, but her parents lived in town and she visited them a lot, so there were many nights where I was alone in our room. It was a well-populated dorm though, with a very active social scene always happening in the lobby of the building, so I never felt lonely. Not too long after I'd settled into life in the dorms, strange things started happening to me in my room. I'd always believed in ghosts, but I'd never personally experienced anything significant, so I was caught very much off guard when I started

**Trigger Warning-Discussion of Domestic Violence and Sexual Assault** We were both 17 when we met. He was beautiful. I was the pretty girl with no sense of self-worth. I was still a virgin. I felt lucky to be wanted by him. He was like the hero in all the romance novels I had been reading. There were no indications, at first, that anything might be wrong, because usually, there aren't. We had been together a month when I decided that I was ready to "go all the way" with him. And then the pain happened, and it hurt so bad I begged him to stop. I was crying and hitting him but he was very strong. When it was finally over and I tearfully asked him why he didn't listen, he said that he had "a job to complete". Now, after a pronouncement like that, I should have said goodbye. I should have left. I should have tried to file charges. But this was 1993. Opinions about consent were a different thing and I had initiated the act. How could I withdraw my consent

Trigger warning: discussion of depression and suicidal thoughts When I was 18, I did what a lot of people do and moved away to go to college. I had grown up in one town my whole life, but I wasn’t nervous about moving 400 miles away. I wanted to study what I love, I was self-sufficient enough for dorm living, and I was looking forward to making a new group of friends. That last part didn’t work out as planned. I lost track of everyone I met at freshman camp. I didn’t click with anyone in my close-knit department. To this day, the last time I spoke to my freshman roommate was October of freshman year, and we lived together until May. I didn’t even have much in the way of old friends, since there was only one guy I barely knew who came from my high school. The only friend I made was the girl who randomly sat next to me in the cafeteria, and she had a different major and dorm. Freshman year was pretty lonely. Luckily, I had my internet friends. I had joined my first online roleplay

My mom, brother, and I one Christmas at her work. I don't ever remember my mom not being gay. My mom came out to me when I was in third grade in the living room of our townhouse in Wake Forest, North Carolina. I don’t remember what she said. I only remember tracing the wooden whorls of the hope chest we used as a coffee table and wanting to go play. I didn’t understand what the word “gay” meant, and I didn’t really care. My mom’s partner was just Deb. She was just another adult in my life, another parent. It was never strange or different to me. I never felt weird about it. It was just my norm, and, as an adult, I still see it as my norm. My narrative as a child of a gay woman should not really be any different than that of a child of a straight woman. Yet, it is. It is not because of my mom or myself, but because of others in my life and in the overall greater world. I never saw anything wrong with my life, but other’s did. And because they did, they strove to change

"You don't look like your dad. You must be the spitting image of your mother!" or "Your brothers look just like your dad! I bet you take after your momma." I heard these statements a lot growing up. And it's true. I don't look like my dad. And for a while, I didn't really look like my mom. I do now, but that isn't the point. You see, my dad adopted me when I was around six or seven years old. He had been a part of my life, for, well, all of it. When my mother and biological father (sometimes I refer to him as my sperm donor, because I think it's funny, but his name is Chris), got divorced, my dad, Kenny, married my mom resulting in a blended family of me, who was biologically my mom's, and my two brothers, who were biologically his. Suddenly I went from being the only child to being the middle child in a family dynamic that takes a lot of explaining to do. They say divorce and the things I supposedly went through in my early childhood

I came from a sperm bank, well I came from a vagina, but first I came from a sperm bank. That’s not generally my opener, but we need to make it clear. My moms discovered their sexuality long before I came along in 1992. When I was three, they separated. Gay marriage had not been legalized up to this point, so there was no divorce process involved. However, my mama, Sharon, she gave birth to me, and she wanted full custody of me. My other mom, Sylvia, worked tirelessly to pay for my existence and Sharon’s pregnancy care; she loved me, and I was her child no matter what. They went to court, and Sylvia became one of the first lesbian parents in the state of Texas to receive shared custody of a child that was not biologically hers. In some cases, this still doesn’t always happen, particularly in cases with gay and lesbian parents, regardless of how involved the parent is in their child’s life. “Who do you want to live with?” Flash forward seven years or so, and I’m being given more

It is, to my mind, an undeniable fact that all areas of academic study benefit from the effective use of narrative. Literature, history, and the arts are natural candidates, yet even the maths and sciences can be enriched by including the human voices of those involved, telling us the story of what they discovered, how they did it, and what it means for humanity. What strikes me, though, is that the voices of those on the ground outside of the ivory tower of academe are still rarely heard, and even more rarely acknowledged and valued. In history, I want to hear more of the voices of those who did not "win," the so-called conquered peoples, the indigenous peoples, those crushed under the heel of imperialism. Some corrective measures have been taken to include these voices in the last few decades, but I know there is mountains more to be discovered. In the field of medical science, I want to hear the voices of those who unwillingly gave up their lives for our knowledge of

On April 3, 1998, I turned seven years old. My mom and dad rented out the local skating rink and I got to invite all my friends from school and all my friends from church to come dance to the Macarena on skates and eat cake. It was the first birthday party I’d ever had beyond my grandparents coming over to the house for my chosen birthday meal (I swear I picked grilled cheeses at least a couple of years) and cake. Birthdays were never a big deal for me. I mean, cake and presents are cool, but there was always this weird phenomenon of bad luck that seemed to follow me no matter the year. Age seven was when the bad luck multiplied exponentially. Before that year, the bad luck emerged as little things. I’d miss out on making the cake with my mom, something I always looked forward to. Or I’d spill my drink on my favorite shirt. Or my grandma would nag me about something despite it being my birthday. Things I missed or let slide. At least, I let them slide until I realized at

As a high school English teacher, I am surrounded by stories. We analyze, interpret, break down, annotate, struggle through some of the most famous pieces of canonical literature daily. And yet, I wish more stories were told in my classroom. By my students. Sometimes I think we forget that students have lives outside of our walls. Our content is the most important to us, so we think it should be most important to them. But my English class is just a tiny fraction of who they are as people. It is both a blessing and a curse that I work where I do. I have an amazing group of kids that amaze me every single day with how they see the world. They have, for the most part, families that support their student’s education and provide opportunities for their students to grow and thrive. However, this support often leads to pressure to be perfect. My school is one of the most academically competitive schools in the area and while that means I have kids who are driven to succeed, they often feel l

Like most people who end up in English academia, I was a nerd in high school. Unlike most people who end up in English academia, I really enjoyed math. The numbers did what you wanted them to do and if they didn't, there was usually a specific thing that could be fixed to make them work. (Incidentally, I did not overly enjoy my English classes, probably because I didn't like being told to finish books I wasn't enjoying or analyze aspects of these books that didn't interest me.) As part of my quest to AP test out of as many core college classes as I could, I took both Calculus BC and Physics II my senior year of high school. These two classes were actually very similar, something my physics teacher, Mrs. M, noted early in the school year. She told us outright that some of the material and formulas she discussed would also be covered in Mrs. C's calculus class. The difference was that Mrs. C would teach us the proper way to do everything, with all the background kno

Not last year but the year before, I worked at a costume store in Denton called Rose Costumes . If you read this and try to transmit it to someone else make sure you call it “Rose Costumes” and not Rose’s Costumes or Judy, the former owner, will probably kill you. I mean, no, she wouldn’t kill you, but she would frown upon you. Anyways, the store has a new owner and she is the most amazing woman I have ever worked for. I don’t even know how to put my fascination with this woman into words. She runs this store as if it is her child, but she has an actual child whom she single-handedly raises, and he is one of the coolest kids. I’m getting off track, but anyways this store has been a Denton staple for decades. I think it might be surprising to consider how much I learned during my very brief time there. I was a temp during Halloween Season, and even though I was ready for it to be over long before my temporary season ended, I think that is why I wish more stories were told from Ros