Who are you?
Have you heard a good story recently? Have you told anyone your story? Do you even have a story? Have you ever taken the time to review your life and think how you would tell your story to another person?
Some years ago I worked in a number of Pacific-Asian coutnries among predominantly rural and tribal peoples. In every case I was an outsider to their culture and to their language. Many were curious to know who I was. What did I do? What about my family? Did I have a wife and children? What about my parents and grandparents? They wanted to know who I was. This would allow them to know how to relate to me. And I soon learned that I needed to know their stories to know how to relate to them. So we began to swap stories.
One thing I learned was to think about how to select events in my life they could relate to. I was a city boy who had visited my grandparents farm many times in younger years. It was the farm where my mother lived as a girl. I soon found that farm stories stood me in good stead with people who farmed. My dad and I enjoyed fishing in south Louisiana but I had to be careful about some of our fishing stories. For one thing, when the fish we caught were too small, we threw them back. That would be very difficult for people to understand who ate everything they caught! But they liked the idea that I knew how to fish and liked to eat fish. I didn't tell them that I preferred fish with fewer bones. One of my gracious hosts informed me that the more bones in a fish, the sweeter the meat.
Some of my stories happened unintentionally. Once when I was visiting in a coffee and tea plantation of South India my host in one of the homes invited me to join the family for coffee. In that place where they grew coffee (and I might add good coffee) the custom was to pour about half and inch in a cup, then add a generous amount of milk and sugar. When my host only poured a small amount of coffee in my cup and was about to add milk, I stopped her and asked for more coffee. She added a small amount and stopped again. More I insisted. Again only a tiny bit. I finally coaxed her up to about half a cup and she would not go any higher. Again she attempted to add milk and I declined. then she wanted to add sugar and again I declined. She was clearly puzzled by my strange attitude. After a moment she asked me, "You aren't going to drink pure decoction, are you?" "Yes," I replied. "Watch me." And to the amazement of the family and neighbors I drank the pure black coffee. It was rich and hearty and very good. "There," I said, "that is how we drink coffee in my home place in America." Then I decided to have a bit of fun with the family. So I added, "In my place we don't give milk to babies. Instead we give them black coffee--pure decoction as you call it!" My host's eyes were wide with amazement. Then with a grin I added, "Actually, I'm just kidding about babies. But I have been drinking black coffee for a long time. You see, I learned to drink coffee while living with my father's mother. Every morning she would burn two pieces of toast, then scrape some of the burnt part off, add butter and jelly, and then eat while drinking a cup of black coffee. I thought that is what adults did, and I leanred to like coffee that way." Our conversation finally moved on to other topics and I ended my visit.
Some months later I was again visiting another plantation in that area and the family gathered on the veranda for coffee. The woman of the house was about to pour my decoction when she paused and said, "Say, aren't you that chap that drinks pure decoction?" "That's me," I replied. "Watch me and you will see me do it again. By the way, you grow excellent coffee in this place. You should try it sometime." So my fame or story spread.
I enjoyed their stories about weddings and some of their rituals and celebrations. I'm sorry that I did not have more time to visit more families and learn more of their stories.
Now, back to where I began, how you taken some time to reflect on your stories? Who are you? What have you done? Who are the poeple you know and have worked with? Could it be that your story or at least some parts of it will help or encourage another person? I would never want to use any part of my story to lord it over another person or to put them down in any way.
One of the wonderful outcomes of this story swapping is that over time many people owned one of my stories and in exchange had given me one of their stories. The joke was always on me when I visited in those places again, they remembered my stories and sometimes would retell them to me. Then they asked if I remembered their story. Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn't. So I had to learn to make some quick notes and then brush up on the peoples' stories before visiting them again.
The last thing my mother did before she died at 95 was to lay in bed and all night long retell the stories of her childhood, the long-dead relatives, how she met and married by father. When she had finished all her stories, she died.
Some years ago I worked in a number of Pacific-Asian coutnries among predominantly rural and tribal peoples. In every case I was an outsider to their culture and to their language. Many were curious to know who I was. What did I do? What about my family? Did I have a wife and children? What about my parents and grandparents? They wanted to know who I was. This would allow them to know how to relate to me. And I soon learned that I needed to know their stories to know how to relate to them. So we began to swap stories.
One thing I learned was to think about how to select events in my life they could relate to. I was a city boy who had visited my grandparents farm many times in younger years. It was the farm where my mother lived as a girl. I soon found that farm stories stood me in good stead with people who farmed. My dad and I enjoyed fishing in south Louisiana but I had to be careful about some of our fishing stories. For one thing, when the fish we caught were too small, we threw them back. That would be very difficult for people to understand who ate everything they caught! But they liked the idea that I knew how to fish and liked to eat fish. I didn't tell them that I preferred fish with fewer bones. One of my gracious hosts informed me that the more bones in a fish, the sweeter the meat.
Some of my stories happened unintentionally. Once when I was visiting in a coffee and tea plantation of South India my host in one of the homes invited me to join the family for coffee. In that place where they grew coffee (and I might add good coffee) the custom was to pour about half and inch in a cup, then add a generous amount of milk and sugar. When my host only poured a small amount of coffee in my cup and was about to add milk, I stopped her and asked for more coffee. She added a small amount and stopped again. More I insisted. Again only a tiny bit. I finally coaxed her up to about half a cup and she would not go any higher. Again she attempted to add milk and I declined. then she wanted to add sugar and again I declined. She was clearly puzzled by my strange attitude. After a moment she asked me, "You aren't going to drink pure decoction, are you?" "Yes," I replied. "Watch me." And to the amazement of the family and neighbors I drank the pure black coffee. It was rich and hearty and very good. "There," I said, "that is how we drink coffee in my home place in America." Then I decided to have a bit of fun with the family. So I added, "In my place we don't give milk to babies. Instead we give them black coffee--pure decoction as you call it!" My host's eyes were wide with amazement. Then with a grin I added, "Actually, I'm just kidding about babies. But I have been drinking black coffee for a long time. You see, I learned to drink coffee while living with my father's mother. Every morning she would burn two pieces of toast, then scrape some of the burnt part off, add butter and jelly, and then eat while drinking a cup of black coffee. I thought that is what adults did, and I leanred to like coffee that way." Our conversation finally moved on to other topics and I ended my visit.
Some months later I was again visiting another plantation in that area and the family gathered on the veranda for coffee. The woman of the house was about to pour my decoction when she paused and said, "Say, aren't you that chap that drinks pure decoction?" "That's me," I replied. "Watch me and you will see me do it again. By the way, you grow excellent coffee in this place. You should try it sometime." So my fame or story spread.
I enjoyed their stories about weddings and some of their rituals and celebrations. I'm sorry that I did not have more time to visit more families and learn more of their stories.
Now, back to where I began, how you taken some time to reflect on your stories? Who are you? What have you done? Who are the poeple you know and have worked with? Could it be that your story or at least some parts of it will help or encourage another person? I would never want to use any part of my story to lord it over another person or to put them down in any way.
One of the wonderful outcomes of this story swapping is that over time many people owned one of my stories and in exchange had given me one of their stories. The joke was always on me when I visited in those places again, they remembered my stories and sometimes would retell them to me. Then they asked if I remembered their story. Sometimes I did and sometimes I didn't. So I had to learn to make some quick notes and then brush up on the peoples' stories before visiting them again.
The last thing my mother did before she died at 95 was to lay in bed and all night long retell the stories of her childhood, the long-dead relatives, how she met and married by father. When she had finished all her stories, she died.
Labels: Our stories
posted by storyguy at 8:48 PM
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