More on Storytelling

~I wrote this piece for a scholarship essay. Enjoy!~

I’m very selfish with my stories. I’m always willing and eager to share the latest escapade of my crazy, adventurous best friends or the hilarity that was the conversation at the dinner table last night. But when it comes to the moments that truly touched me, made me smile or prompted tears, I rarely share them. The Tale of How He Said “I Love You,” for example, is one that will never leave my lips. The Real Reason I Was Crying That Night is another that is destined to be unspoken for all time. But why do I find it so hard to even contemplate telling these stories? It’s because of the very reason I do tell stories. People, me included, tell stories to share. And I guess I’m just not willing to share those experiences with people like I am the majority of my stories. I usually love telling stories: getting the reaction, being able to share a burden, receiving the advice. It’s positively therapeutic. It’s more than necessary, it’s a life staple.

To get through life, we have to tell stories. We tell stories to make sure they’re heard. Yes, heard by someone else, but also, heard by us. We tell stories to other people because it’s an act of sharing. We’re sharing an experience, a laugh, a problem or a warning. Unlike a physical gift, easily thrown away and instantly forgettable, stories stick in the mind. It’s a gift to share the tale that we have. Whether a trivial account of dress shopping at Macy’s or a heart-wrenching description of an adoption gone wrong, this story was shared for a reason: to give the listener a taste of the laughter or a share of the burden. The teller is imparting a part of themselves to the listener, truly the greatest gift we can give to someone else. But even more than that, it’s important that we hear our stories to give ourselves a gift: faith.

We’re living to make our own stories. We tell stories to remember the real and make magic the mundane. We fail to realize the magic that lies within every one of our lives and so we tell stories to supplement. Maybe our dreams have yet to come true and we need to hear the dreams of another, told from our tongues to regain our hope. Maybe we’re longing for someone who understands. The words “once upon a time” are a doorway. They lead us not into our lives, worn, comfortable and littered with the dreams we’ve long since stopped pursuing, but into the lives of others, who live in a kingdom far, far away where dragons are the scariest reality, fairy godmothers wait to come to our aid in our moment of greatest need, and animals are the best friends.

It’s not escaping, though. Not completely. It’s just slipping into that far, far away for a minute, breathing in a breath of the air on which magic floats by, and returning to the here and now. It’s a gift of refreshment, telling stories. We hear that some little part of us still believes in that magic, and the knowledge that deep inside of us still lies that little girl who will live happily ever after  allows us to carry on, forging through the chapters of our own stories. Stories inspire us to keep going, through the dragon fights, magical enchantments, and sword fights of our own world: losing a loved one, getting fired, or simply just being in a slump. If that princess can keep going through being locked in a tower and guarded by an evil witch, why can’t I get up tomorrow and finally quit the job I’ve hated for years? Those stories foster in us a burning desire for our own happily ever after. Even if we have to sit on the sidelines for years and watch daring knights and beautiful princesses parade past, why can’t we stand up and join in the pageantry? Is it naïve of us in such uncertain times to believe with all of our beings that happily ever after is within our reach? The gift in those stories lies in how much it makes us believe in ourselves, in this magic and in the world. That’s why we have to share and tell our stories.

The reason we tell stories is to do what we’ve been learning to do from day one: share. Share with others, share with ourselves. Share the giggles, share the sobs, share the blush, share the problem. And in return for sharing that moment, that piece of ourselves, we can receive a perfect reaction: a burst of laughter, a tear, a hug, a piece of advice. When I tell the story of “I Accidentally Spilled a Gallon of Iced Tea on My Sister’s Lap,” I tell it to share the laughter and embarrassment. When I tell the story of “How Much I Miss My Grandma,” I tell it to share how much I love her and to get some comfort in return. When I tell the story of “Beauty and the Beast,” I tell it to remind myself that magic does lie in the ordinary. When I tell the story of “Aladdin,” I tell it to hear that I believe in magic carpets and genies and happily ever afters. Because when it comes down to it, telling a story is the best present we can give someone. And when they listen and react, it’s the perfect gift they can give us. We tell stories to share, because, just as we learned ages ago, sharing is truly caring.