Press Play to hear this interview that was recorded as a conference call on April 8th, 2008 at 8PM ET when I spoke with La’Ron Williams on supporting peace and social justice through storytelling interviewed on the Art of Storytelling with Children podcast.

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Press Play to hear this interview that was recorded as a conference on 12/11/2007 with storyteller the Margaret Read MacDonald and Brother Wolf discuss Telling Across Language Barriers.

This guest was interviewed on Tuesday, December 11th, 2007 at 8 PM. If you are sorry you missed it join the email alert system to never miss another guest again..

Margaret Read MacDonald writes…
In 1994 one day the phone on my desk at the Bothell Library rang. A professor from Drew University was on the line. “Dr. Wajuppa Tossa would like you to call her in Thailand right away,” he said. “She wants you to come over there as a Fulbright Scholar.” I hung up and sat stunned. A Fulbright Scholar. To Thailand? Could I do that? I had a fulltime job as a children’s librarian. But maybe… I dialed the Thailand number right away to find out more. A very drowsy Dr. Wajuppa roused herself from her 3 am sleep to answer. First problem with communicating across language barriers? Get your time zones right!

It was in fact possible for me to go off to Thailand. The Fulbright program did accept me and the King County Library System gave me a sabbatical. So I arrived at the Continue Reading »

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Press Play to hear this interview that was recorded as a conference call on 11/06/2007 with storyteller Mark Wagler talks about reshaping classrooms with narrative pedagogy.
Mark Wagler writes…

In the early 70’s, when I first felt the call of oral stories, I imagined being a traveling storyteller, a minstrel performing for new audiences in new places. After telling stories, teaching storytelling, and directing story collecting projects in more than 700 schools and at hundreds of museums, universities, festivals, libraries, historical societies, conferences, and other learning environments, I got tired of living on the road. I realized that many of my stories focused on a deep sense of community, and hungered to stay at home. In teacher workshops, I talked about deep applications of storytelling in all aspects of the Continue Reading »

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Press Play to hear this interview that was recorded as a conference call on 9/25/2007, Onawumi Jean Moss appeared on the Art of Storytelling with Children to talk about how to create a Storytelling festival with multicultural goals.”

Onawumi Jean Moss is an deep storyteller to draw from with her rich history on college campus and with her commitment to storytelling. She brings a solid grounding to the often airy art form of storytelling. I hope you enjoy listening to our interview as much as I enjoyed recording it.

Eric wolf

——–about the Guest…
Onawumi Jean Moss of Amherst, Massachusetts is a storyteller, narrator, keynote speaker and author. Onawumi is a 2005 recipient of the Zora Neale Hurston Storytelling Award (November 2005), the highest award given by the National Association of Black Storytellers (NABS). She holds lifetime memberships in the National Storytellers Network (NSN) and the National Association of Black Storytellers (NABS). She is also a member of the League for the Advancement of New England Storytelling (LANES).

The performances of this talking book and rhythm master encourage pride of heritage, appreciation of cultural differences and recognition of kinship. This Tennessee native’s first stories were learned from her Continue Reading »

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Once I was walking along a road and I had a long way to go. Billboards, advertising various fast food restaurants, new car dealerships and a brand of shampoo of which I had never heard, lined both sides of the road. I was thirsty and had no umbrella. The clouds began to gather and soon enough a light drizzle fell out of the sky. My shoes begun to make soft squishing noises as I walked. While I was walking, three riding carts came by.

A beautiful stallion with a gold harness pulled a finely painted, wooden cart. A proud older man, sitting in the driver’s seat, did not look at me. He dressed lavishly in a silk vest and jacket. I watched him go by without stopping.

A long haired llama pulled a cart, sleek and low. It was a racing cart. A bearded man, wearing a top hat and silk pajamas, drove the cart. He stopped for a moment and offered me a pair of diving fins. I said, politely, no thank-you and continued on.

An older woman in a cloak with a face full of wrinkles and smiles drove the third cart. Her covered cart was pulled by an old donkey and was enveloped with all manner of stuff. Piles of pots and pans hung on the outside of the cart. Most of the pots were filled with various living plants and dried medicines. The inside of the cart was filled with books. She stopped her cart and looked at me like I was a wet puppy.

Then she reached back into her cart pulled out an umbrella. I thanked her and inquired if she was going the same direction. Turned out she was, and I got a lift for the afternoon. First note that this story is not about fast food or billboards. This is a story about stories and why some stories have legs and others die a peaceful quiet death. The first cart was driven by greed and self-importance and did not really interest me. The second cart was driven for its own sake. Both these carts were interesting and entertaining, but not really useful to my experience in the world at that moment.

The wrinkled old women asked me if I wanted to be included and offered me something I could use as proof of her sincerity. I, being the wet and suffering traveler, was thrilled at the chance of aid and real camaraderie. Such is the role of storytellers in the ancient and modern worlds. A thing that I need and value in my journey and an offer of aid to follow, these are the gifts of storytelling that we, as storytellers,
must bring to each telling. She sat next to me on the bench in the shelter of the umbrella I now held for both of us. We sat for a time in silence on the cart and I watched the world go by.

Two thousand years ago there were no degrees, no telephones, no computers or faxes. People communicated by word of mouth or not at all. Storytelling was the primary form of popular entertainment and politics. Wars were fought - not just in the physical realm – but also in the minds and cultures of the participants through the conflicting mythologies and religious dogmas. The mythologies explained to people how their world was ordered and created. All of these conflicts were expressed, won or lost by storytellers. The losers’ mythologies disappeared beneath an ocean of culture and time.

This process continues today. Today, this process is used in modern advertising to get individuals to purchase things or ideas. Asindividuals, we seek to find the mythological world view that will define us as we travel into the 21st century. We seek stories that will make acceptable what we find difficult, explain complex realities, or help us forget our sorrows and troubles.

As I sat with this wrinkled old woman on a cart full of mysteries, I was amazed to see that all of the billboards and stores that we had been passing were playing out this old story of mythological struggle. Each billboard or store front represented a different story. Here is the way to freedom! Never feel dirty again! Get the easy life! And Heaven awaits at Ed’s Outlet stores! They all seem to shout at once. I saw people entering these stores seeking to complete the stories they had begun by seeing the advertisements. Some were satisfied and some disappointed. All of the customers shared a common belief that they were not in a story, but their cravings and feelings in their lives were random and accidental.

In this way, we are like our ancestors 10,000 years ago. We yearn for a world that is simple and easily explained without modern ideologies that are too oblique or complex. We yearn to return to a simpler time where nature was eden, cleaner, purer and abundant. We yearn to find our way by identifying ourselves in stories as the people we want to be as opposed to the people we are. We deny that we, who are so clearly influenced, are influenced at all by stories or mythologies.

Storytelling and stories define, expand or limit our world as we see fit. They have for thousands of years.

My wrinkled benefactor, who had sheltered me from this world of conflict and strife, began a conversation with me about life and the weather. Slowly we moved into deeper territory and I found myself listening as often as I spoke. I heard how this smiling lady had moved through the world decades before I was born. Slowly the world dropped out of focus and this newly found flower sprang into life.

Human minds are language based. Stories are a way of remembering and passing down information from one generation to the next - information that is self contained, useful and entertaining. For thousands of years, human beings have been naturally selected to pass on their genes that are good at social interaction, working with groups and listening to stories.

In traditional culture, storytelling was a stable way of passing down information between generations. Poisonous berries, snakes, spiders and a pharmaceutical collection of knowledge are based upon traditional culture using storytelling. Any person who failed to take in the good advice offered by the traditional storyteller keeper usually suffered a shorter life span.

So I found myself learning lessons of yonder years. Loves lost and gained. Families torn and friends destroyed by an unkind word. Journeys taken formercy, or just curiosity. All too quickly, I found myself back at my door.

In the information age, we are swimming in a sea of information that threatens to overwhelm and drown us. Everyday we seek to manage this information and to structure the information overload so that we can successfully navigate the storm. In this chaotic environment, most individuals have no quiet place to rest their minds except during sleep.\Storytelling and stories become a familiar safe harbor where we can retreat to an ordered, self-contained world of imagination and useful
information.

We are hard wired to listen and grasp stories. The same genes that lean towards successful social cooperation also lead us to successful storytelling interactions. Good stories are useful, humbling and entertaining as are good storytellers. Storytelling is the most successful, long running, honest and satisfying form of sharing knowledge, written or verbal, available to humans.

Slowly I dismounted from the cart. I was happy to have arrived, but sad somehow to part company. My host waved goodbye and continued on her way without me., each of us better for the journey. Perhaps that is the best result of a good story, that life becomes sweeter and deeper by the telling.

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The man stood at the edge of the dark. The night’s creatures were silent, the cave depths mute. Unmoving in thought he stood, silent in prayer. His golden armor catching the moon light, a beacon to the night. A sword was held before him. Naked and new it’s blade was sharp unmarked untested by use. The sword pommel was un remarkable, but its blade was breathtaking. The blade sang with the elegant grace of the images carved there, dragons carved in silver that danced and leaped upon that blade.

Now he held his sword to ward off the smell of dragon. Out of the stillness in the cave came a single distinct sound of claw on stone. His eyes searched the cave depths for light or magic. The cave denied his gaze of anything but blackness. His sword shimmered in the moonlight. Falling down it’s long length the man’s eyes watched the silver images move, the dragons of the sword swirled in the moonlight and the man remembered…

He remembered the Griffin. The eyes of darkness, the head of an eagle with the body of a lion that the Griffin never moved. The giant wings that would flare when the Griffin was angry. Each day for as many days as there had been, the Griffin had counseled the man, watched him and trained him.

“Man, Position 17.” The griffin snapped his beak. His eagle eyes were bright with pleasure. The Man curved the practice sword around to hold it low to block a leg attack. His feet shifted in the white sand.

“16, Position 21… Now six.” The Griffin would fire off. His black eagle eyes watched every movement. There was a time when the griffin would have chastised the man for the slightest mistake, but that time, there were no mistakes. The Griffin’s tail rolled gently in pleasure.

Then the Griffin said “He is almost ready.”

The man remembered the Sphinx. Her human face was set untroubled forever on her face. Her lions body never moved. Her tail lazily graced the floor. Her face, arms and breasts were covered with darkly painted runes. She would roll her bone dice with a velvet paw, her long hair unmoving. She would softly speak.

“He doesn’t stand a chance.” Her white eyes; sightless, unseeing, and unblinking, would not look upon the man she doomed. “The fates are against him.”

The Griffin’s beak would set. His wings rose in anger. Eyes dark and furious he would scream. The Man would stop cold when the Griffin did this, frozen in movement the sword poised for a down stroke.

“HE IS THE ONE!” The Griffin’s anger failed him rapidly disappearing into the stone walls and sandy floor. “He must be… I feel it. He is the one.” Then the Griffin’s head would turn to the wall where twelve swords hung. Each sword was a perfect combination of beauty and function. “He will not fail.”
The Sphinx would say nothing, but rolled the dice again. The Man had grown to fear the times when the Sphinx spoke. Whenever she did the Griffin just drove him harder.

“Position twelve, Man. Position three, the Dragon is leaping for your throat, Man.” The Man was doused in sweat. His tired limbs easily followed the sword through each movement in a dance. While the man practiced the Griffin would speak to the Sphinx, “See the way he moves. How can he not win. He is faster then the others.”

The Sphinx would say nothing, her tail lazily brushing the sand. Then she would roll the dice. Her face empty, lifeless. The cavern was filled with only the sound of the man practicing. his sword swirling through the air, his feet slapping down upon the white sand and his breathing.

The man remembered the way the Griffin would watch him, each eye full of concentration. Once when the man was resting the Griffin caught him looking hungrily at the swords on the wall. “Those are not yours. I will have one made when you are ready.”

It was not long after this that they went to have his sword made by the dwarf.

The Man stood on the edge of the Cave and remembered this. He remembered the way dwarf smiled at him. The dwarf’s wrinkled face was broken and lined by the years. The dwarf’s voice was a sharp knife that cut through him. “Look at this fine one you have brought me. I suppose you will be wanting another sword?”

The Griffin did not smile. He handed a bag to the dwarf.

The dwarf laughed. “Gold is good for the soul.” He held up a piece and smelled it; his eyes gleaming with gold lust.

The man remembered the way the Dwarf hunched over the metal and sent hollowed ringing through out the cavern. The glow of the forge gave the dwarf an insane gleam in his eyes. The man waited impatiently, waiting for the sword to be done. The Dwarf was a master. Slowly he turned a piece of twisted metal into a thing of beauty.

“What will you be wanting me to draw upon the blade.” The dwarf asked showing the Man the still red glowing edge. The forge threw off waves of heat.

“Dragons.” The Man replied hungrily.

The dwarf laughed, but his eyes were sad and his voice high and sharp. “They always do, they always do.”

The Man remembered all this as he stared into the dark. He felt the dragon’s presence. A normal man would have run away in terror, but he did not think; he did not feel. The Man had not been taught these things, he only knew how to kill dragons. He stepped forward drawn into the darkness of the cave. Edging in an inch at a time, the man’s feet found the way.

Then he began to see the outlines of the cave walls. The texture of rock walls, the dripping water and the bones that lined the floor he saw clearly. The Dragon was coming.

The Dragon brought the light. Its red fur and scales sent off a red hue that lit the cavern and made the walls dance as if from a flame. The Dragon was that flame and he burned brightly. The Dragon also brought noise - a low hissing growl that filled the cavern with menace and hate.

“SSSSSSSS - Who Dares Enter HERE!” The dragon’s call was unanswered. The cavern filled with the dragon’s hissing growls and sniffing. “Man… SSSSSSSS” Then the Dragon’s eyes began to search for the intruder.

The Man stood still prepared to meet the Dragon’s movement. He prepared to dodge the dragon’s dangerous burning gaze. He was not prepared for the beauty of the beast. The graceful wings, the bright red feathers, the red fur, the long tail that was paused in mid motion.

The Dragon was technically not a dragon. It was a Wyvern; a creature with red fur, scales, the body of a dragon, the wings of an eagle and the heart of a demon. Smaller and more deadly then a dragon. The Man did not care what you would call it - he was going to kill it.

“Dragon, I am your end.” The Man’s voice was clear and sweet.

“Foooolll SSSSS” the Wyvern spat. Even as it spoke its wings were moving. The Wyvern leapt up over the Man’s reach sliding along the cavern’s ceiling.

The Man turned swiftly bringing the sword up and around to neatly clip a wing of feathers as the beat down. The Wyvern screamed in rage and leapt directly at him. The Man danced to the side cutting the dragon’s fur along the right side. He would have struck again, but the Dragon’s tail hit him; throwing him aside like a toy.

His golden armor saved him from being burst asunder. He staggered to his feet, shaken; he felt his broken ribs and the blood that trickled down his chin. The Wyvern had paused to examine its side, allowing him to recover. Then, its eyes glaring red, it was upon him again.

This time the Man was ready for the tail, and he neatly stepped aside of its swing, again leaving his sword’s mark on the Wyvern. The Wyvern was back quicker this time, the tail sneaking in on the right. Man carefully slipped under it. In the process he shortened the tail by a good foot.

The Wyvern roared in anger and leapt directly at the Man. The Man brought up his sword. He was too late and felt a pain in his chest. The sword cluttered out along the cave floor and the dragon screamed. His jaw filled with fresh blood.

The Sphinx rolled the dice. Bones of long dead men rolled in the sand. “He has lost,” she said. The Griffin said nothing. They waited for the Dragon.

The Dragon came slowly his legs bleeding, his wigs clipped, but he came proud. They sat silent as ever watching the Wyvern. Green blood dripped from his wounds and the Dragons blood sizzled on the floor. Red blood dripped from his chin and claws turning the white sand dark and muddy.

“SSSSSS Close, but not good enough SSSSS” The Wyvern laughed at them threw the sword in the sand. His grin was covered with blood.

They said nothing till the Wyvern had left. Feathers, fur and blood remained behind with the sword. The Sphinx’s perfect face soured at the dirty sand, then she smiled and softly said, “I told he wasn’t good enough.”

The Griffin’s beak was set, his eyes black and depthless. He picked up the sword he held it lightly in his claws. Balancing it, feeling it, eyeing it for grace he did not move for a time. Then he spoke.

“We will try again, the next one will do it.”

The Griffin placed the sword upon the wall to hang there with its brothers. The thirteenth sword with dragons dancing on the blade and blood drying on its edge. The Griffin stared unmoving at the swords, his back to the Sphinx. On his feathered cheek a single drop of water edged down between eagle feathers till it was lost among them all.

The Sphinx’s velvet paw rolled the bones of dead men across the sandy floor.

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(A story for kids ages six to ten.)

Once upon a time there lived an elephant named Frankie. Frankie lived in a zoo; not one of those modern zoos that you may have been to, but an old zoo with tired buildings and cracked sidewalks. You would think that this would make Frankie a very unhappy elephant, but no, he was very happy indeed. The lions were not happy, the penguins were not happy, the parrots and the monkeys were not happy, but Frankie didn’t care. He was happy.

Outside of Frankie’s window, just off to the side of his trench there was a little machine for giving out peanuts. Every day the children would come from all over town, and they would bring their lunch money and their candy money to buy peanuts for their elephant. Frankie was very happy. He would reach through the bars of his cage with his long trunk, and he would carefully pluck each peanut from the little hands that offered them. Then he would take the delicious peanuts, he would put them in his mouth, and chew each one… oh so carefully. Then he would smile, look out at all the smiling faces, and he was so very happy. Frankie loved peanuts.

One day a man in a suit came to the zoo to make sure that everything was safe and that the zoo was taking care of the animals. This man saw all the sad animals, the cracking concrete, the worn down buildings and the peanut machines. He shook his head, “We will have to close down this sad little zoo in a few years. We could sell all the animals except for the elephant. He’s too old to sell. We will have to put him to sleep and give his body to the glue factory.“ Then the man said, “Ed, stop filling up those peanut machines;. it’s too dangerous. The elephant might hurt someone. No more peanuts for Frankie.”

Ed was very sad. He had been taking care of Frankie for a long time. He knew how much Frankie loved peanuts, he knew that the man was serious about closing down the zoo and that would be the end of Frankie. He took away the peanut machines so that Frankie wouldn’t see them anymore, and he hoped that Frankie would forget all about the peanuts. The children stopped coming to see Frankie. Now Frankie was unhappy.
He stood in his cage, looked at the blue sky, and got very depressed.

One day Frankie decided not to get up. He said “This is the end. I’m not getting up ever again.” What a sad little elephant he was. Ed came in to clean Frankie’s cage. “What’s wrong Frankie are you OK?” he said, “I have a treat for you.” Ed reached into his pocket, and he took out a little bag of peanuts. But Frankie didn’t move, he was that down. Ed looked at him, then he dropped the peanuts and ran out the door to get help.

Frankie was lying there not feeling so good about himself, but he kept smelling peanuts. He looked around and there was the bag that Ed had dropped. Frankie thought he would have just one, and maybe another and then, all of a sudden, the bag was empty. Frankie was feeling a little bit better. He looked over and noticed that the door to his elephant house was standing wide open. Frankie thought, “maybe I can get my own peanuts. I’ll just take a quick look around town.”

Frankie tried to be very quite about sneaking out of the zoo. But all of the animals saw him, and they wanted to go too. The lion roared. The parrot called. The penguins splashed and the monkey yelled. Frankie ran out of the zoo fast. The man at the toll both said “Stop Frankie. Go back.” But there was no stopping Frankie. The elephant ran into town. He smelled something really good. Hmmm, what was that smell? He ran around corners, and down streets until he came to a bakery. He didn’t like bread, even if it smelled so good.

Frankie decided he needed a place to hide out so that the police couldn’t find him. He was lucky, and he found a beautiful fountain with many stone elephants. This was a great place for an elephant to hide on a hot summer day. While he was hiding in the fountain a police car stopped in front of the fountain. Frankie thought for sure he was caught; but the two officers were only having lunch at the fountain. “Where did my peanuts go?” said one of the officers, “I had them right here.” Do you know where the peanuts went? Then I don’t need to tell you. Frankie loved peanuts.

Frankie smelled another delicious smell. He followed his nose for a long time and discovered a doughnut shop. He found the doughnuts easy to carry on his trunk, but he still wanted to find some peanuts. Then Frankie smelled another scent. The smell was s so rich and full of flavor. He thought, “This must be where there are peanuts hmm… but there were no peanuts, and that shop was full of people drinking coffee. Frankie was getting discouraged. He had looked everywhere all over town, but he could not find any more peanuts . I might have told him to look in the grocery store, but he never asked me.

It was getting dark and Frankie smelled peanuts! He was so sure that he ran down a street, and over a hill. There, they are in front him was a peanut factory! Frankie ran into the factory. He looked through all the different rooms until he found a room filled with piles of peanuts. Frankie had never seen so many peanuts and his whole life. The pile of peanuts in that room was five times bigger than him! There were dump trucks and bulldozers to move the peanuts around. He ate peanuts till he was full. Then he burrowed into the pile of peanuts and leaving only his eyes sticking out.

The next day when the workers at the factory workers came back. They were surprised at how many peanuts were missing. “Where did all the peanuts go?” they asked. I don’t need to tell you. Frankie loved peanuts. The next night, after the night watchmen had been in to check on the peanuts. Frankie went exploring. He explored all around the factory until he found a little building which said, “Top-Secret” and “Keep Out”.

Elephants are very curious creatures , and Frankie couldn’t help himself . What was in that building? Was it a special type of peanut? A secret recipe?

Frankie peered in the door. He didn’t mean to break-in. He just kind of leaned on the lock a little. Then he stuck his head in the door. Then he had to get down on his knees, and crawl in the room. There were lots of peanuts in this building, each in its own special pile. Some were marked, “peanuts with honey,“ and others were marked, ‘peanuts with mustard.’ Frankie’s favorite type of peanut was with chocolate.

Frankie ate all the peanuts covered with chocolate. Chocolate is not good for elephants. He did not feel so good, and he fell asleep standing up. When Frankie woke up it was morning, and he had been caught. There were cameras taking his pictures, and women with microphones. He was surrounded by people; policeman firemen and doctors, but best of all Ed was there too.

Ed said, “Frankie you are famous. People all around the world have heard about you, the famous disappearing elephant.” Then cameras and reporters came closer to Ed and Frankie. “Why did Frankie come here?” they wanted to know. You know the answer to that question; Frankie loved peanuts.

That night Frankie got to go home to the zoo. The next morning the president of the peanut factory came to see him and Ed. He said that Frankie had made the peanut company famous. That nobody cared if Frankie had eaten all those peanuts because now everybody all around the country wanted to eat Frankie’s chocolate covered peanuts. The president of the company said that before he had been planning to close down the factory. Now he had to hire more workers, and he wanted to thank Frankie in his own way. The company had decided to give Frankie a lifetime supply of… peanuts.

That tired old zoo has been closed down, and made into a park. All the animals were sent away to find happy places to live. Except in one little house there lives a very happy elephant, and every day, when the children come after-school he throws them peanuts! Frankie loved to share peanuts.

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