Skip to main content

Table Talk



"Oh my gosh, I've like never heard this in my life"

"I'd be attempted to just leave...."

"Who buys a journal with perforated pages!?" 

"My towel smelled awful..."

These are the pieces of stories floating around me at 4:30 on a Saturday afternoon in Zera's, and they're refreshing. I think deep down I've always preferred stories shared by word-of-mouth because there's an organic liveliness and agency that blooms as each story is told and received. However, as I glance up from my laptop I'm noticing that more people are telling stories electronically--including me. This tech-craze bothers me because I'm left wondering if the stories being told on surrounding phones and laptops are more engaging, humorous, serious, or off-hand than the spoken ones.

I see the growing necessity for technology, but not for understanding narrative. We've been digesting narratology and several narrative theories but that's not what's being explored here. I'm pretty sure the group of guys playing Smash Bros. Brawl aren't thinking about Mieke Bal's levels of narration as Samus sends a soaring Princess Peach off the screen. And I'm absolutely positive the ladies on the opposite side of the coffee shop aren't sharing my fear of consciously and constantly analyzing my roles as narrator, narratee, and implied author as they sip their coffees. 

I think my concern is not with finding a location to tell more stories; instead, my worry is that we're not telling the story/narrative of how to appreciate stories that we tell and stories that are being told to us. The good part is that stories and people are everywhere. The bad part is that we're not fully tapped into our story-telling roles. Why is that? Communication is natural for all of us; even if we can't talk, we find ways to interact with each other to pass the time and to survive. Regardless of place, stories will thrive and wither away; wouldn't it be wiser to work towards establishing more opportunities to engage with narrative theory in places where narrative theory organically and visibly thrives?

I guess that's what we're doing, or trying to do, anyway. Make narrative theory, that "light-bulb moment" we've had in class where we can identify the multiple functions of time in a story like Back to the Future, tangible for the people who aren't able to be in college NarT courses. It's the "how" stories are told, and taught, that is troubling me the most, and the lack of that knowledge that exists outside the four corners of a university classroom. As current NarT students, we can transfer the knowledge and skills we're building to others. We can refine it in our own way and share this knowledge, this need to keep telling/making/sharing stories, on our terms.

The only recommendation I can make to attempt to solve this problem of teaching/learning narrative is to keep sharing stories, regardless of time and place. If you think more stories should be shared at the dinner table, make, buy, or grab some dinner and talk it out with someone. If blogging/social media is your jam, keep posting/sharing/spreading ideas. Regardless of your preferred method of storytelling/narrating, you have to keep going. Listen. Talk. Share. Be vigilant with your words. Stay persistent. Ask questions. And whatever you do, don't stop making, telling, and listening to stories.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"You don't look like your dad!" Tales of Legal Adoption

"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'm adopted and I have trust issues. Here's why:

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...

No Calling, No Problem

I have no calling in a world where we all wonder what we're meant to do, who we're supposed to be. My mom called me the other day to tell me one of my childhood friends would be moving to my hometown soon because her husband had accepted a job with the Baptist church next door to her Methodist church. I don’t know why she thinks I give a shit about small town gossip or any news that concerns the church seeing as how she’s very aware of how I feel about organized religion. Nevertheless, she has nothing else to tell me because her world is much smaller than mine. “He used to be an airplane pilot,” she says. “Then why is he going to be a youth minister? How will they survive? Where will the money come from?” I ask, appalled. I know from my instagram that his wife is a stay-at-home mom of three. “It doesn’t matter, they’ll figure it out,” she brushes it off. “He has a calling to work for the Lord.” A calling. A goddamn calling. Half of my life, I waited for some fucking ca...