An idea

I studied racism and prejudice at university, I sign petitions, donate money, go to multicultural fesitvals, enjoy diversity and have even donated time to the cause of eliminating prejudice, but it’s not enough. I want to do more. At this point I am only seeking feedback on an idea so feel free to comment.

The idea: Diversity Through Storytelling Network

This network would be designed to promote diversity through storytelling. It would consist of a website dedicated to stories (and maybe poetry) focused on racism, sexism, homophobia, political and religious prejudice, discrimination against people with a disability and other forms of bias. Participants would be invited each week to write a story – any genre from fiction or nonfiction – on a particular theme. Winners would be published on the website, one from fiction and one from nonfiction. The website would also exhibit photographs and even artwork to promote diversity.

If anyone knows of a website like this please let me know. I’d love some feedback on this idea. Is it viable? Would you participate in something like this?

Me you us them

This week I have been really bothered by the article I read (”Muwi muwi-nyhin, binung goonji: boastful talk and broken ears” by Melissa Lucashenko, in Writing Queensland, Vol 186, Jul 2009) about writing about cultures that are not your own. I was born in Sydney, Australia, which is very multicultural. When I was three my mother took in a boarder, Christian, who, I’m told, very quickly became my best friend. He loved my red hair and I just loved him. I never knew that he was very dark skinned or Hindu because it wasn’t relevant and I had no idea there was a difference. My memory of him was only of a soft and loving individual who took me in his arms and made me his mate. I then spent my school years up until grade 11 in New Zealand living in a neighbourhood that was predominately Maori and Polynesian. I had no idea there was anything “wrong” with this until I met someone from a predominately white suburb. And then I felt sorry for her rather than myself. My first real best friend was Theresa, a Maori girl who was in my class. My neighbours were Ben and Jarman both Maori and Fiona, from a Fijian family. My first “boyfriend” – as much as a seven year old can have a boyfriend – Demitrius was German and Jason was the first boy I kissed, he was Samoan. None of that mattered to me, even when my own father told me that if I ever bring a “sambo” home he’d disown me. I laughed in his face at his ignorance, but I cried later that night in the privacy of my own room because I couldn’t believe I was related to this man. I have many stories about cross-cultural experiences and I want to be able to tell them without offending someone because I’m white, because my perspective and understanding is supposedly white.

Can I mention that my favourite cousin and very good friend, Anna is of Chinese decent, or will that throw a spanner in the works, or will you tell me that this is not the same thing as being Chinese? I agree, but mine is the only perspective I can provide. Can I say that one of the most amazing faces I’ve ever seen is that of Tenzin Choegyal, who happens to be a Tibetan musician. Can I say that I love traditional music and stories from all over the world and that my reading has taken me from Arnhem Land to the Kalahari desert, Afghanistan, Greenland, the mountains of China and that I plan to continue on to Siberia, and beyond, or will you tell me I’m tresspassing?

I cannot claim to understand your culture, I can’t even understand my own, but I do have an understanding of humanity, for I am human first. I have eyes and I have my own thoughts. I support the UN’s human rights treaties and the elimination of all racial discrimination. My voice, my story is significant, regardless of my colour or creed. Will you listen to me? Will you hear my stories? Will you let me be a storyteller for humanity?

I want to ask you, would my stories mean more if I wasn’t white?

A weaver of dreams

I am a teller of stories, a weaver of dreams. I can dance, sing, and in the right weather I can stand on my head. I know seven words of Latin, I have a little magic, and a trick or two. I know the proper way to meet a Dragon, I can fight dirty but not fair, I once swallowed thirty oysters in a minute. I am not domestic, I am a luxury, and in that sense, necessary.

Spoken by John Hurt in The Storyteller (1988, Jim Henson production)

I’m not ashamed to admit that I watched everything Jim Henson created right into my teens. Ok, I admit it, I still adore Henson’s work. I own a copy of the first season of the Muppets, I loved Sesame Street, and two of my favourite movie’s are Labyrinth and Muppet Treasure Island (though Henson had long since passed when the latter was made). Miss Piggy presides over my writing space and I plan on finding a Kermit to sit with her. I have a Cookie Monster bookmark and called my dog Rizo after Rizo the rat and occasionally my husband and I refer to our big dog as Beaker on account of his whinginess. I sing to the tune of the Swedish chef when I cook and I even know the names of the two old fellas in the balcony: Waldorf and Statler. A friend once referred to me as her Snuffleupagus. Another called me Scooter – so widely known was my passion for Henson. I desperately want a Gonzo doll, but I’m sorry I just can’t love Elmo (he wasn’t JH’s idea). My stepfather and I still sing songs from Sesame Street and my sister and I regularly dance like muppets, stiff arms with lots of upper body movement, but stationary feet. Even my sister owns a Fraggle doll (Red) from Fraggle Rock. I’m a fan. Jim Henson was one of the best storytellers from any age. He had an instinct for what worked and what didn’t and his products appealed to more than just children. As a kid I learned about diversity largely through Jim Henson’s storytelling. His message was simple: shape, size and colour aren’t as important; love is. It worked for me. Who would you add to a list of best storytellers of all time?

Writing prompt: storytellers

One of my favourite teachers as a child was Graeme Early. Graeme was a primary school teacher, but also a musician. I’d just turned six years old when I met him. I was a frightened little redhead in a new school, with no self-esteem and a terrible fear of adults. But I gravitated towards Graeme as soon as I met him and he to me. He had a sense of who the broken ones were and seemed to have an immediate affinity with us. He didn’t want to fix us, he just wanted us to have different experiences other than the ones we were having. He wanted us to know that not all adults were monsters.

Graeme was one of those rare souls you meet who teaches you without you realising you’re being taught. Much later, both my brother and sister had the pleasure of knowing him outside of school through the youth groups they attended. He helped them both through some rough times and he taught them in ways school cannot. Graeme Early was a storyteller more than he was a teacher. Every afternoon, when the reading, math and science was done, when we’d put everything away, he would gather his students around him and get out his guitar. Twenty pairs of eyes would stare up at him, wide with wonder and anticipation. We forgot about everything in that final hour of the day – the itchy carpet, the expectations of teachers and parents, even what faced us when we went home. During that hour we’d sing and learn new songs while Graeme kept us together with his guitar. We learned Beatles songs, Dylan, John Denver, Cat Stevens, but we also sang about bees and drunken sailors. We sang in Maori, French and sometimes gibberish. We learned the art of storytelling through music. Most importantly, Graeme helped each of us learn who we were, usually inadvertantly. To me he said outright you’re a storyteller, that is your gift. That was the first time I knew who I was.

Do you remember storytellers from your early years? What influence did they have on you? How did you learn you were a storyteller?

Bigfoot hoaxers as storytellers

Last night I watched a documentary on Bigfoot. The scientist in me says that Bigfoot (and his cousins the Yowie, Yeti, Sasquatch etc) is folklore and there is no substance to claims of its existence. The little girl in me still believes in magic and secretly hopes he’s out there, stalking the woods of North America. After I’d indulged the little girl for a while, the scientist took over again and I started thinking about what motivates Bigfoot hoaxers. For all their effort – making casts, stomping around remote woodlands etc – there’s no financial reward, no promise of fame, no prizes or awards. Why do it? Is it the thrill of mass deception? A desire to keep the Bigfoot legend alive? At about this point I had a lightbulb moment: Bigfoot hoaxers are storytellers. Storytellers come in all shapes and sizes: they’re muscians, artists, writers, architects, photographers, comedians, film makers and so on. Storytelling doesn’t have to be oral. For example, Aboriginal people tell stories of The Dreaming and the creation of individual animals through physical movement, and early cave painters told stories with ochre and charcoal.  Loosely defined storytelling is communication of events or incidents, true or otherwise, by a performer to an audience. It is interactive, uses a shared language and usually requires the audience to accept what is being told as a possibility if not a truth. By this definition a Bigfoot hoaxer is a storyteller. By laying footprints across a creek bed, they’re asking scientists and the general public to believe that Bigfoot walked here. I don’t think these people are deceitful or mad, or even hungry for fame, I think they’re storytellers, asking the world to believe in possibilities, trying to instill a little mystery back into a world gone mad on rationalisation. Even if I don’t understand their motivation, I am grateful to these storytellers. They feed that little girl in me who wants to believe in angels and fairies and hairy bipeds.