Heliotropism
The Power Of StoryTelling
In Kindergarten I was painfully shy. I never understood the kids running around in class, talking loudly. Raising my hand to answer a question was physically PAINFUL. The only time I felt comfortable during that age was after the sun had set, cuddling in bed with Maggie my sister, reading books to her. I would read her favorite Christopher Pike novels under the covers, flashlight on.
Every night this was our ritual. Every night I felt her body fall into slumber and I would start whispering about my day. Telling tales of love and betrayal between two fictional best friends and two seven-year-old boys. Oh the drama! Not even Christopher Pike the Great could weave a story with as many details as my little brain could improvise.
Months into my tale, I brought a real-life character into my fictional world – my best friend Tiffany. Tiffany had betrayed me that day, kissing Seth behind my back! I thought Maggie was sleeping. I never imagined she'd be awake, listening to stories I crafted for my entertainment only.
If you know Maggie, you can guess what happened next. Early the next morning, after drop-off, my classmates and I were sitting in the hall patiently waiting for the bell to ring.
I hardly noticed all the first graders turn their heads down the hall. It wasn’t until Maggie was standing right in front of me, peering over my only friend Tiffany that I realized what I'd done. In a way only a 2nd grader with a very limited understanding of cuss words can do – she cussed out Tiffany.. I was mortified. My friend was stunned – boyfriends? Seth and Josie NEVER spoke and there was no Chris in class. Maggie saw the confusion in Tiffany's face, my skin go from pale to purple, and she knew. Josie had lied for almost an entire year. Prideful as ever, she didn’t apologize, but looked at the line of 7-year-olds and warned them all against messing with her baby sister. She stormed back down the hallway growing taller in her retreat. I can still feel the brick wall scratching my back as I tried to force my little body to melt into it.
Tiffany never spoke to me again. I spent the rest of Kindergarten into the first grade with my head buried in books. Too terrified to look up to hear everyone talking about the crazy girl who told stories about her friends and FAKE BOYS. I read in the mornings before class. I read through classroom parties. I read so much that my first grade teacher called home worried about my lack of social skills.
Often, when interviewing for a new job, meeting new friends, or reading at a poetry event, people ask if I am a writer. I almost always say no. I am a storyteller. For me, the two haven’t always meant the same. I wasn’t writing when I was telling Maggie about “The Tale Of Two Boys & The Very Horrible Best Friend.”
I was telling her a story, one that engaged us both until the very end. I have always loved making up ideas, talking about my life in creative ways. In some ways I think I was born to do it.
Had I known then the power of speaking tales into the world maybe I wouldn’t have told that particular story. Maybe I would have made up one about a young girl everyone said was terribly horribly awful at Math yet became the world’s leading Astro Physicist. How different my life might look...
What if we could reshape a story, start over again at the tender age of mid to late thirties. I think I'll try that here and rename “The Tale of Two Boys and One Horribly Awful Best Friend” to – "The Tale of One Child Born of Seed Grown to Sunflower…Still Searching For The Sun”