classroom I am told of this child or that who has never before sat so still, listening; and

RESHAPING STORYTELLING IN THE SPACE ‘BETWEEN’ STORYTELLER AND ADOLESCENTS

3.2 The reshaping of my practice in the encounter with adolescents

3.2.4 D) The storyteller as guide

An aspiration towards open-ended, surprising dialogue between me and my adolescent

listeners may suggest a goal of democratic equality between us, but as Stern (2015) suggests in an educational context, dialogic interaction between diverse young people and the adults working with them is grounded in a relationship more complex than equality. While a visiting storyteller has none of the institutionally sanctioned authority of a teacher, at least for the duration of the story she is in a guiding role, in some sense responsible for everyone present. Benjamin (1973:86), while always emphasising the agency of the listener, does not shy away from words like ‘wisdom’ and ‘usefulness’ in relation to stories; storytellers provide counsel based on their experience. Further, the whole persona of the storyteller may communicate a sense of responsibility for the listener, as has most richly been explored by Arthur Frank in relation to illness narratives.

3.2.4.1 The suffering storyteller

Frank’s The Wounded Storyteller (1995) has helped shape a narrativist understanding of how illness and recovery are constructed, suggesting that by bearing witness to their own path through illness, sufferers may help others after them chart their route. This witnessing stance, says Frank, makes the storyteller’s own body ‘communicative’, and is thus an ethical position of care and responsibility for others, the choice to ‘be a body for other bodies’ (37). A

communicative body is dyadic, embodying a recognition that ‘the other has to do with me, as I

with it’ (35). Storytelling allows this communication to be healing or helpful to both parties:

Storytelling is one medium through which the dyadic body both offers its own pain and receives the reassurance that others recognise what afflicts it. Thus storytelling is a privileged medium of the dyadic body. (36)

Thus, for example, countless blogs and online fora which curate sufferers’ and survivors’ personal stories offer themselves as a valuable resource to other sufferers (although it is

important to note that the counsel of wounded storytellers is as fallible as any; there also exist many pro-anorexia blogs, for example). Adolescent and young adult bloggers are prevalent in these communities − see for example www.upsidedownchronicles.com. In its introduction to the ‘best eating disorder blogs of 2015’, Healthline writes:

These 14 blogs are a wonderful place to begin your journey toward recovery if you have an eating disorder, or if you’re caring for a loved one who does. Each blog is unique in its own way. You’re likely to find at least one that speaks to you. (2015) Frank suggests that illness may present a particular opening to enter this kind of mutualistic relationship with others. However, the ethical choice he identifies applies to all storytellers, amplifying both Levinas’ ideal of ‘responsible communication’ and Benjamin’s of conveying experience. A storyteller may seek to put all of herself, including the suffering she has endured in her life, at the service of her listeners for the duration of the story, making herself

vulnerable and co-dependent with them. This may not entail telling true personal stories, but drawing on this experiential knowledge in the construction of imaginative worlds, and thus acting as a ‘vulnerable guide to experience’, through difficult emotional territory she has traversed before.

Indeed, where the past experience of the storyteller differs widely from the present and likely future experiences of the listeners, resulting in a rupture in the mechanisms of counsel (Benjamin 1973), fantastical stories may have something to offer that personal stories do not. Thus, as the adolescent experience has changed very rapidly in the two decades since my own teenage years (see Chapter 6), my own memories may fail to resonate with my listeners. In contrast, the timeless and archetypal worlds of folktale and myth, with their vocabulary of ‘wood and stone, blood and iron and earth, fire and bread’ (Tolkien 1966:10), may be an open enough meeting ground for me to offer meaningful counsel.

The salient point here is that surely I must express my own values and beliefs, won through experience, in my storytelling. To do otherwise would be to be a blank slate, not a partner in dialogue. Yet, in this acceptance of the guiding role lies a challenge to the idea of storytelling as dialogue: in both my choice of stories and my manner of telling them, I have a curriculum. I have felt the need at least to clarify this agenda to myself. By studying the themes I gravitate towards and the stories I reject, I was able set this out in a prose poem, ‘A Storyteller’s Agenda’.

It then becomes necessary to articulate the relationship between being a vulnerable guide to experience, and a storyteller in dialogue with young people.

3.2.4.2 Guiding while in dialogue

The ethical stance here is complex and, once more, dialogic, held in magnetic balance between two poles, with varying degrees of success. On the one hand, I am entering into open-ended dialogue with my adolescent listeners, making myself available to co-create a story with them both in my telling and in subsequent workshop activities. On the other, I am passing on my experience and values, standing as a solid responsible adult, providing counsel. Within the latter role lie both the positive responsibility to offer the listeners something of use and value, and the negative responsibility to lead them into no harm. Herein lies one of the most

challenging tensions for me, and perhaps any storyteller working with vulnerable and sometimes distressed young people. There is a danger in underplaying the guiding role, becoming too receptive to dialogue. This is particularly the case given the distance discussed above between their world and mental architecture and my own; I have written in fieldnotes on several occasions that, ‘There are elephants in the room which I cannot even see.’ Allowing a story to be re-written in the space between myself and my listeners, without premeditation, can lead into dark and dangerous places, as I discovered at Maple House when I told one of my favourite stories, The Twelve Wild Swans:

This is a story I know in many forms…A young girl’s brothers are transformed into swans, and only she can save them by sewing them suits of nettles, keeping silence for seven long years while she does so. Even when she is taken as a bride by a prince, and then narrowly escapes death for witchcraft by her mother-in-law the queen, she remains silent and dedicated to her work to the last. To me, the story centres on the endurance and steadfastness of a young woman, who is interested not in pleasing men but in accomplishing what she feels to be her mission in life. Knowing the group fairly well, I felt this was useful territory for them to explore. Perhaps, on another day, had the young people been in a different frame of mind, it would have been. And yet on this particular morning, as I was telling the story, I was horrified to feel it take shape as a tale of original sin, isolation, and hopelessness. The girl seemed like a victim

powerless to resist the iron will of her society – just as some of the young people in the room undoubtedly felt about their own lives. The context had retold the myth, in a place of darkness from which I could not readily pull it out, and I had allowed it to happen. (Heinemeyer 2015:2-3)

Nicholson (2005) describes a similar experience, in which a lighthearted storymaking workshop developed in a UK setting gave rise to explorations of traumatic conflict and loss in a Sri Lankan group. My learning from the above occasion (and others) was that, precisely where a story

appears to be ‘useful territory’ for a particular group, I need to remain a skilled and yet still responsive guide to it. I must fully explore in advance, and remain aware of in performance, all the possible twists and turns it might take, and the layers of meaning it might attract. This is not to say that I should steer away from dark areas, should they require exploration, or even ensure a happy ending. However, my positive responsibility is to keep hold of the wisdom I have gained from this story, rather than let it be wrested from my hands. As Tallon suggests, Levinas’ philosophy of ‘being for the other’ is needed as a corrective to the danger inherent in Buber’s idealising of the encounter in the ‘between’, namely that we avoid a dominant role ‘to such a passive extreme as to be incapable of the ethical responsibility commanded in the face of the other’ (Tallon 2004:64).

Even more importantly, in respect of the negative responsibility to do no harm, I need to be ready to guide the listeners to a place of hope or safety – in Haggarty’s words, to return them home from where the story takes them. This requires some perception and understanding of the resonances it may have for them. One demand of the encounter in the ‘between’ is to perceive where one’s own experience has the potential to show listeners one way of charting an emotional trajectory through difficulty, and follow their interest through it. This recalls Bruner’s celebration of a teacher who passed on not just information, but her relationship with this information: ‘She was […] negotiating the world of wonder and possibility […] She was a human event, not a transmission device’ (1986:126).

A striking example came for me after telling a story which featured rainforest destruction to one of the intervention classes at City School. In our collective retelling of the story, the pupils experimented with more optimistic endings, but by developing these came to a realisation of the strong likelihood of the indigenous people’s defeat. This visibly deflated them. They were overcome with the scale and hopelessness of the problem. No easy reassurance was possible. I responded with another story, Joe Kane’s account (1996) of the Huaorani people7, which had been important to me in my own adolescence; it had helped me express my grief at ecological destruction, but also to understand that, even where victory is impossible, persistence and solidarity can start to build a movement which can shift society’s ideas. We discussed the work of Survival International, supporting indigenous peoples worldwide to defend at least parts of their homeland. The ‘suffering’ I was offering was my own encounter with

disillusionment; the counsel was the suggestion that there are always choices as to how to respond to it. I felt a recuperation of some collective sense of possibility in the room, and a sense of a thickening of our knowledge of each other.

7 The Huoarani people of Ecuador eventually sold out and lost their land after a lengthy battle with an oil company and its army of anthropologists, marketing people and lawyers.

In document Developing a dialogic practice of storytelling with adolescents: encounter in the space of story (Page 82-86)