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Okay.... so originally... I was going to fail my college class miserably. I mean, I was cooked. There was no way in hell I'd pass this class even if I did well on the final and get extra credit.
Anyways.
When my report card came, I was surprised to see that I got a B in the class o.o
I was like.... WTF???
I think this report saved my life though. That, or it was a terrible mistake DX
Everyone is like a book, completely filled with different experiences and moments that makes them human. Sacred texts that depict the soul of each individual person, always different but yet the same. I realized this after taking The Art of Storytelling class. My story is who I am, my own chapter in the book of life. When I’m gone, the only thing that is going to be left is my story. The ancient Egyptians believed that being forgotten was the worst thing that could happen to you after you died. I agree with them completely, when someone dies that’s it; the only thing you have is your story. How I’ve learned this, I would have to share with you a piece of my life.
I’ll start with the beginning of this school year. The year is 2007 and I had just received my schedule. It was Tuesday and the first class of the day would be Humanities 292, The Art of Storytelling. The January air whipped itself on my face as I wondered the campus looking for the classroom. My first day of class and I’m going to be late, I thought to myself while I walked by the Life Science building. Luckily, I ran into my good friend Alicia, who had a map of the campus and in no time, I was on my way. I went inside the classroom and I froze. I couldn’t believe how many people this class had. I shyly wedged myself in a seat, hiding my face with my hair, hoping no one would speak to me I waited for the instructor to give directions.
She was a pleasant woman, by the name of Shelle Hawn, she wore bright colors, and her glasses seemed to have matched her current outfit. Well you know how first days go; you go over the rules, the introductions are made, and you go through the entire syllabus until your eyes are ready to spurt blood. By the time we were done going over everything, it was already time for the class to be dismissed. I looked forward to some of the things that the teacher had planned for this semester. I picked up my bag and darted out the door.
Folktales are the backbone of the human oral tradition and are found in all cultures. (Getting Started pg 1) I read as the beige packet was being passed around to the class. A point so true and said so simply made me think deeper on the world I live in. The only thing that makes everyone different is culture. The way we see the world, our point of view can change who we are. It’s almost impossible to go around the world and not find a culture that has their own stories to tell. My point is stories shape society in more ways than one. They’re more than just fantasies passed down through time but a collection of history belonging to a certain race. Knowing ones past is key to heading for the future. Stories survive if they are told again.
The teacher tells us about our first telling, and I’m pulled out of my thoughts. “Be ready to tell a folktale.” She tells us and we all sit quietly with looks of eagerness and fear. Class is dismissed and I set off to the library to find something that could help me for my assignment. The smell of old paper and ink emanates from the shelves as I head to the folktale section of the library. Like a child, I gaze upon the books that are neatly standing next to one another. The books seem to stare at me, itching for me to lay my fingers on their spine and take me on an adventure. I chose a yellow book; nothing fancy it was called “Korean Folktales.” It looked promising.
I spent the weekend reading it; laughing, crying and ready to share the perfect story. It was short and easy to remember, forming my own words and not just memorizing it. I had to add some of my own emotion to the story that way the effect it has on the audience would be a lot stronger. “I also know the story will be useless to me and my audience if it is not rooted in and expressed with heartfelt emotion.” (How to Tell a Folktale pg 6) with this close in mind, though I was scared of the new faces, I spat my words out, triumphed in the end, and learned something new about my classmates.
The majority of my class was female, with only about five boys. This didn’t make a difference on how great storytellers they were. Whenever one of them would get up there to tell a story, I was always blown away. Always delivered with a passion that made me want to cower in my own sanctum. Deep down it also made me think, I want to do so much better.
Myths, the stories that seem to be a favorite of just about everyone I met. According to my source, the reason we are so obsessed with these kinds of stories, is because they tell us of how life began, how everything was created, how animals and people came to live together. “Related stories are called origin stories, or pourquoi stores.” (How to Tell a Myth, Legend, and Hero Tale pg 2) I read the purple packet, and soon found the class in a discussion about how in every culture, they have their own story of creation. Everything is different, yet still is the same. My mind wondered off to the first packet and I noticed how the subject of the class began to surface. Stories… they kind of link us together.
The time came again to tell another story, this time it had to be a myth. I then went to the library and came across a book about goddesses from all over the world. I checked it out and began to walk home. When I reached my house, it was to my dismay that I had lost my key and couldn’t get inside the house. So I sat on my porch and was relieved that I had a new book with me. Naturally, I started to read and one story in particular caught my attention. Lilith, Adam’s first wife, hers was the story that I would tell next. I made video using clips from Kaori Yuki’s Angel Sanctuary. I was comfortable adding a bit of my own interests while staying true to the story. I felt like my words had stronger meaning. Class was actually starting to feel a lot more comfortable.
“You must choose your story’s voice.” (How to tell Fat-Based Stories pg 3) In order to be good at telling stories, you must have already come to terms with not everyone is born good at doing this. You have to work at it and master it with practice. The voice of the story has to be crafted carefully in order to get good results, to be a master craftsman you have to be taught the skill. In our case, resurrecting the dead has to be done with the up most care. You have to treat it like, you are letting their spirits inhabit your body, and they speak through you. Being accurate, and keeping a strong voice will be key to your survival.
I can’t believe how fast the semester seems to be going; it seems like only a few days ago since I first entered here. Telling a fact-based is such a challenge. So many events, so many people, and the struggle to trying to find something that would make your story stick out from the rest. Then it hit me while I was lying in my room, “You could do it on Jack the Ripper!” I was back to the drawing board and I started to submerge into character. I kept my details and stayed as true as possible, but at the same time, I didn’t give my audience a report instead, I taught them of this historical figure without corrupting the art of telling stories. I really enjoyed giving them gory details.
A personal story, a story that actually makes you search deep inside yourself, forcing you to bring out memories that haunt or bring pleasure in your life. “When people engage in the telling of personal histories, a spirit of Communitas pervades the entire attending group, regardless of the various backgrounds each individual member of the group possesses.” (Telling Stories from Our Lives ultimate-storytelling-guide.com, paragraph 11) Everything taught to you is finally being put to the test. Your inner sanctum must be breached and let your emotion set free. You only know what you’ve been taught, and the events that happened in your life can teach you and everyone that hears your words about he world you live in.
The class has come to an end and I had to tell the class a story that contributes a huge part of myself. I told the story of being at my grandfather’s deathbed. A hug turning point in my life. I’ve never lost anyone I was that close to and witnessing it first hand was so shocking. As I shared with the class, if it wasn’t for that terrible moment, then I couldn’t be able to laugh at the good times I had with my grandfather. I wasn’t ready to be so intimate with my peers but that’s what personal storytelling is about. Being able to affect someone’s life with your own experience.
If this class has taught me anything, it would be that story telling is basically life in oral form. If life could sing, I say it would have to be through storytelling. Sure, I learned the technical stuff but anyone could do that. It takes someone truly special to be able to tell stories; whether it be about a princess and her dog, a goddess and her true love, or even about the time you and your neighbor had a contest on who could keep the best lawn. Stories are our life and as long as people have air to breathe out words from the past, then my God, the world will still have a future
 Sirenas · Wed Jul 18, 2007 @ 09:34pm · 2 Comments |
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