How the 1918 Pandemic Made Me a Teacher of Storytelling!

The 1918 influenza pandemic (sometimes misnamed “the Spanish Flu”) was especially deadly. Its fatality toll was greater than all the military deaths in World War I and World War II combined!

This form of influenza came to Chicago in the fall of 1918, when my dad was seven years old.

One day that winter, my Dad was stricken with the flu. His fever was so high that he could not get out of bed or even respond to his mother’s soft words.

Minnie

My dad’s mother, Minnie, was a Jewish immigrant from Russia. This whole day, she stayed with my dad, letting her oldest children take care of their other younger siblings.

Late in the day my dad’s pa (father), Sam, came home from work.

Like many immigrant “old world fathers,” Sam left the children to his wife. He was interested in his work and his cigars—and in his “cronies,” other immigrant men he liked to smoke and drink with. He rarely spoke to any of his six children, except now and then to demand something of them.

Child Number Five: Payshe

My Dad, a few years before the flu pandemic…

As the fifth child of six, my dad (nicknamed “Payshe”) came pretty far down in his pa’s priorities. But the day my dad got so sick, Minnie wasn’t willing to accept Sam’s attitude.

Minnie said to Sam, “Your son Payshe is so sick, he might die. You have to go to him. He’ll do anything to please you. Help him know you want him to live!”

Somewhat disgruntled, perhaps, Sam came into the bedroom where my dad and his two brothers slept. Sam saw that my dad’s bed had been moved near the window. Minnie explained, “He’s so hot from the fever. He likes the cold air from the window.”

Sam stood next to the bed and said to my dad, “I hear you're real sick.”

My dad, nearly delirious, could scarcely respond. After a glance at Minnie, Sam went on to say, “Well, I've got something for you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shiny copper penny, saying, “I am going to give you this.”

In 1918, for a son of immigrants, a penny was a fortune! My dad had never owned a penny of his own. Somewhere in his delirium, my dad began to focus on his pa.

A Pretty Penny

Sam smiled, then pressed the penny against the window pane next to the bed. The single-pane glass was frosted with the cold. With his index finger, Sam pressed the penny tightly against the frost on the window. In a short time, the warmth from Sam’s finger warmed the copper penny until the bit of ice under it melted just a little.

When Sam took his finger away, the ice froze again and the penny stayed attached to the window.

“Payshe,” his pa said, “every night that you're sick, I'm going to give you another penny!” As weak as he was, my dad smiled.​

Days later, when there were eight pennies on the window, my dad’s fever broke. For the first time in all these days, Minnie smiled broadly at her husband.​

Further Down the River of Life

This childhood experience of my father’s is my connection to the flu pandemic that he survived. But this episode also connects me to key parts of my life.

You see, the eight pennies were a gesture that was never repeated. Until my dad was grown, he never got that much attention from his Pa again. Yet those eight days made my dad miss that connection with his father—even more than when he’d never yet felt close to Sam.

In time, my dad made a promise to himself:

“When I grow up and become a dad myself,” he thought, “I will not be like my pa. I will know my children. I will be pleased with them. I will never have to be called to their deathbed to show them, at last, that I care about them. My children will know in their bones that I cherish them.”

Growing Up with the Opposite

My dad worked two jobs, so he wasn't home very much. But when he came home late at night he was always glad to see me. He always thought I was the smartest thing he’d ever seen.

He told me stories he loved. He also listened stories out of me; he was the most delighted listener I've ever known.

Saturday Mornings

My dad wasn’t always there on Saturday mornings, but whenever he didn't work his weekend job, he would get up before anybody else—and, somehow, I knew to get up when he did.

At six or seven o’clock Saturday morning, just the two of us would sit at the dining room table while the rest of the family slept. He'd say, “Do you want to do a poem today?”

If I said yes, he’d have me go to the bookshelf. I’d pick one of our four books of poetry, maybe 101 Famous Poems, and bring it to the table. I’d choose a poem for us to read aloud to each other. Then, inspired by the poem we had read, we would each write our own poem.

Or, equally often, I’d say, “I have a question this morning, Dad.”

And he’d say, “Ok, what would you like to know?”

One time I said, “What's a fraction?” Even though I was supposedly “too young to learn fractions,” he explained fractions to me in a way that I understood.

Another time I said, “How do cars work?”

He said, “I don't know how to fix a car. But I know the principle of internal combustion engines. Let me draw it for you.”

Then he drew a cylinder, showed how gas came into it, how the spark plug ignited the gas, and how the cylinder was pushed out with great force—and how all this was repeated, one cylinder after another. That was the principle of the internal combustion engine!

Real Learning

I learned from my Dad that real learning wasn't learning the facts: “This is a carburetor. This is a distributor.” Instead, it was learning what a carburetor does and how it connects with the distributor and with what the distributor does—and how those things work together as processes. Yes, I learned that there's plenty to know about the details. But what I learned about learning is, the sooner you understand the principles, the faster all the rest goes.

And Then There Was School

In school, I was shocked to learn that we mostly got taught the details and rarely got the principles. If I had a question about a principle, though, I'd just ask my dad that Saturday and he'd explain it to me.

I remember being puzzled to see my classmates flounder with a subject that seemed so clear to me—until I finally realized they just didn't have a dad like mine. 

So, when I grew up, I soon discovered that I love to teach. I also discovered that, for me, teaching is based on:

• Expecting people to succeed;

• Mirroring back to them their successes;

• Helping them clarify their own goals; and

• Helping them understand the principles of what they were doing.

Eventually, I also discovered that, during the delighted hours I had spent listening to my Dad’s stories and having him listen to mine, I had somehow become a storyteller myself.

All this has led me to become a teacher of storytelling!

What I Want for You

First, you don't have to settle for being taught just the facts; instead, you can insist on learning the principles and on finding delight in fitting the facts into those principles.

Second, my dad’s example can give us all hope: we can each turn whatever we may have lacked into a gift for those who come after us.

In short, you can create delight and connection in your life. And, even in a terrible pandemic, you can encourage others to do the same!

Do You Know the First Thing About Storytelling?

By "Do you know the first thing about storytelling," I mean, "What's the primary—the most important—thing to know?"

You see, many people come to storytelling with an idea, often unconscious, of what storytelling consists of. When that idea is incorrect or unhelpful, it leads them to tell stories ineffectually.

And the Word Is...

A common idea is that stories are made of words. We've been taught that implicitly in school. We treat the words on a page as though they are the story we're reading.

But holding a paper with words written on it is no more holding the story...than holding a cake recipe is holding a slice of angel food, fresh out of the oven.

And when you focus on the words, your telling tends to get drier and less vivid. The flavor is in what you imagine, not in the recipe and the paper it is written on!

In the Beginning Was the Image?

So it would be a great step forward to think of stories as made primarily of images rather than of words.

In fact, as soon as you understand and act on that idea, your stories will get better! They will have the spark of life that only fresh imagining can bring.

But that's not the full story, either. To be sure, imagining is part of your job. Standing alone and imagining, though, is not the same as telling.

If You Tell a Story Alone in the Forest...

It's easy to forget that storytelling has to do with communication. But there have to be at least two people there!

In other words, for both teller and listener, "a story telling" is an event to be experienced, not an object or even an image to be admired.

If you think of storytelling as about communicating images, though, your telling will improve even more. You will be more sensitive to the presence of your listeners, and that will help you succeed.

What Do You Mean by 'Communicating'?

But that isn't all of it. You see, many of us think of communication as something that is done by the teller to the listener. That's a mechanical idea of communication: "I speak, and my message is conveyed to you."

When people listen to you telling a successful story, though, they have to actively construct images and meaning. They are not passive recipients. They are active makers.

It's Not About You

To me, then, the essence of storytelling is "a communicative event in which you stimulate your listeners to imagine."

When you tell with that understanding, you will avoid many common problems that come from thinking that storytelling is about you, the teller—instead of about your listeners and their active listening.

Don't get me wrong. The teller is important. The teller stimulates. The teller is the gardener who plants the seed.

But the seed needs earth to grow in. Truly perceived, the earth is always more important than the gardener.

Solving the Right Problem

When you understand the listener's imagining to be the essence of storytelling, then, you will be solving the right problem. You will be seeking to entice your listeners to imagine.

For example, you will likely notice when they are imagining. You will give them the time to imagine, because you will take the time to notice when their eyes and bodies suggest they are still busy imagining what you just said.

In this and a thousand other small and large ways, your storytelling will blossom according to its full potential.

Start with the most useful concept of storytelling; that's the quickest way to success!

What are your winter stories?

As I write this, we have just passed the longest night of the year (in the Northern hemisphere). This is the time of darkness and cold.

In the summer and spring, of course, we see life budding out around us. We like stories then that speak of action and growth.

What about the dark days of the year? In the dominant U.S. culture, we act as though nothing happens in winter. Of course, a perennial world – including crocuses, daffodils, lilies and much else – is growing and thriving beneath the surface.

To treat this time of quiet stillness as nothingness is to overlook half the cycle of life.

What Do We Need?

In the winter we need time to come into ourselves, to go down below the surface, to nourish the roots of our being. We need to tend to it, strengthen it, and establish our deep connections to it—so that, when the spring comes, we will be ready for the blooming-forth phase of the cycle.

Yes, we can comfort and console ourselves with stories during the long nights and the short days. But beyond that, let’s be thoughtful: what stories do we each need, to nourish our roots? To ground us in the cold but timeless parts of being human?

As you experience the longest nights of the year, try to notice: what stories are you hungry for?

Where Will You Find Those Stories?

We’re unlikely to find our root stories in the popular-culture mills that provide most TV and movie stories.

Instead, we’ll have to turn to books, to recordings, but most of all to each other and to our communities of storytellers. And even there, we may need persistence to uncover what we seek.

My wish to you during this winter season is that you find the stories that nurture your roots. Perhaps the stories you need are dark, or perhaps they are filled with light. Perhaps they are painful or perhaps hopeful.

By letting these stories do their work in you, you will be honoring that part of your life that our society tends to skip over.

What about you?

What’s your sense of your “winter stories”? Does that idea even make sense to you? Add a comment, below.

Dancing with your Listeners?

As storytellers—beginning, advanced, or world-class, we tend to focus on ourselves: our experiences of the story, our voice, our breathing, how fast we're speaking, where we're standing, etc.. These are all important and worthy of our attention.

At the same time, we offer some of our attention to the story: what happens, how it looks, sounds and smells, how it feels, and what it means to us.

Yet the effect of the story—the results of your work—depends most of all on how your listeners respond to you. 

It's that last question that sometimes gets lost: How do you engage your listeners as partners? How do you respond to your listeners' responses in a way that invites them to keep responding to you? 

Beginning to Weave the Spell

When you tell a story, you begin by imagining your story. Then you use oral language to stimulate your listeners to imagine the story in their own ways.

Your listeners, in turn, respond to you by constructing images in their own minds. But they also respond with oral language of their own: facial expressions, posture, laughter, even how they breathe.

The communication isn't just one-way (you communicate to them) or two-way (they communicate back to you). As you respond to their responses to you, the communication streams endlessly back onto itself—as though you were dance partners engaged in a continual process of movement and response.

Tightening the Weave?

For example, you might begin, "There was once a girl so small that she could have hidden in an empty pea pod."

Perhaps your listeners lean forward. Some of them smile a bit.

Then you respond to their responses. You smile back. Or perhaps you repeat, "Yes, a pea pod."

Now maybe some of your listeners laugh a little. Or more of them smile.

Buoyed by their positive response, you continue with a bit more confidence—which, in turn, weaves the spell even more tightly.

Adjusting As You Go

Of course, your listeners aren't always responding the way you want. When that happens, you respond by adjusting your telling to produce a different response.

For example, if your group of 5-year-olds begins to snicker at the word "pea" (taking it for its homophone "pee"), you might say, "Yes, she could hide inside a green bean!" If they laugh at her tiny size (instead of at the saying of a forbidden word), then you've gotten the response you want—and you'll likely replace "pea pod" with "green bean" for the rest of the story.

The Loop Called Rapport

When your response to their positive response succeeds in creating a new listener response, you have begun an endless feedback loop. As long as you and your listeners continue to respond to each others' responses, you build a state of synchronization.

Years ago, I saw the tandem storytelling duo of Gerry Hart and Leanne Grace, of Pennsylvania. They told stories as a team, and they told well. But what distinguished them most was the almost magical rapport they displayed with each other as they told. Sitting down and facing forward, if one crossed her legs, the other did, too—at nearly the same instant. If one put the palms of her hands on the sides of her chair seat, so did the other. Without looking at each other, they were always in synch, both mentally and physically.

In storytelling, as in other forms of live communication, when synch builds between you and your audience, the feeling of rapport builds, too. In other words, when you and your listeners create an infinite feedback loop of response to each other, you build a feeling of rapport.

Magnified Influence!

When you gain such a state of rapport with your listeners, your influence is magnified. A nearly invisible raising of one corner of your mouth can create a ripple of laughter, for instance. But if you break the rapport, you lose the "multiplier" effect of synch—and you will need to expend more energy again (perhaps by speaking louder or gesturing more broadly) to have as much effect.

Intense rapport with an audience is a highly rewarding experience. It requires you to maintain a sometimes precarious balance between attention on your listeners and attention on your story. A moment of distraction (such as when someone new enters the room or when your mind wanders) can be enough to break the spell. 

Learn to pay close, delighted attention to your listeners and to respond to what you notice. In short, learn to swim in the currents of the resulting endless feedback loop.