Careful the tale you tell
That is the spell
Children will listen
- Steven Sondheim, Into the Woods
There is a dangerous tale being told in our home. It has devastating power, an edge that cuts, a broad side that crushes. It has no ending; in fact, thus far it only has an opening line, but that single sentence carries a sense of forboding, of angst, of tension.
It sounds like truth, and therein lies part of its power. Another part comes from who it is that tells the story - a person who has the ability to shape another's world.
The story is told by Griffin, and it goes like this: "Reese doesn't like work." Reese shows no outward reaction to the story, but I see the words being etched onto him more deeply with each retelling.
I said to Griffin: "Here is a story that is true: Yesterday, Reese entered the studio and found an enormous mess left by two little boys. These little boys had dumped two puzzle boxes and all of the Bananagrams tiles and had mixed them up into a stew. Reese saw the mess, and knew that the game pieces might get lost, and also knew that nobody could enjoy the studio while it was covered in the mess. He picked up all of the pieces on his own. This was hard work, and I felt grateful to him."
"And here is a story that my brothers like to tell: they have an older sister who is very bossy."
"When my brothers tell that story, I feel sad. I think it is not true. I wish that they would not tell that story. I don't like them very much when they tell that story, and I feel frustrated that they don't really know who I am. I feel like they don't like me. That story sometimes stops us from being friends."
"Your story about Reese is not true. It might feel true to you because you prefer different kinds of work to the kinds that Reese prefers. When you tell that story, you tell Reese what you believe about him. You are Reese's brother. You can choose what stories you tell about him. How he feels about you and how you feel about him will be shaped by the stories you tell."
What stories from our childhoods do we still tell ourselves? I am haunted by the story of Aunt Aggie's nose, which might perch upon my face at any time. I have been trying to get rid of the classification story that includes a dichotomous key, separating "artistic" or "creative" children from "academic" or "smart" ones. There are stories about who I am and who other people are, and what I should not be, or what relatives I should not become like. There are stories about "other people" and why they are better or worse than I am, and what aspects of them allow me to make these judgments. There are parables about cows and free milk, back-dated performance reviews, allegories containing gluttonous witches and long-suffering martyrs and unlikely dragons.
There are also pretty anecdotes, adventure tales, nursery rhymes, wildflower guides, all added to my inner library of stories by people whose opinions mattered to me.
What stories are told in our homes? Are they classics worth preserving, or is it time for them to be weeded out of our collections? Can we be careful co-curators with our children of their own personal libraries?
