Stories are powerful. Social psychologist and morality specialist
Jonathan Haidt argues that "the human mind is a story processor, not a
logic processor." Our brains are created to make meaning from stories.
That, in itself, is powerful indeed.
Our stories--our narratives-- connect us. In fact, it's something that we, as humans, all
have in common. "Everyone loves a good story; every culture bathes its
children in stories" (Haidt, J. The Righteous Mind).
Stories show us where we have come from, who we are, and help us know
where we are going.
When we share stories, we are reminded of each other's humanity.
We can know and understand each other in a greater way. Through sharing our
narratives, pre-conceived notions and group boundaries can be pushed. This can
be, I believe, a small-scale catalyst for larger-scale change. I am firm believer in the
power of seemingly small, relational changes. Isn't that how Jesus lived?
My idealistic and highly empathetic self thrives off beautiful
thoughts like this. I love the idea of forever getting to know people and their
stories and forever changing and growing because of it. But this isn't
everyone's personality and how they see the world. I am grateful to my
professor that she helped me complexify my understanding of storytelling
through her question to my senior seminar: "Why is it hard to let stories
penetrate us and our self-reflection?" (See more of her wisdom and
thoughts here.)
If stories are so beautiful and powerful, then why aren't they the
answer more often that not?
This week my class watched a documentary where
Palestinians shared their stories to Israelis. The history is long and
multi-faceted, but to simplify it for the purpose of understanding the video: the Israelis were
literally living where the Palestinians once had their home. So, the
Palestinians who were interviewed shared about their old life and their new
life, they shared their grievances and sorrows and were vulnerable. As I
watched I had such a sense of hope: "there will be incredible paradigm
shifts for at least a few people in that Palestine-Israel area," I thought. But this
wasn't the case. The Israelis responded mostly in defence and apathy. Why?
Sharing is vulnerable. It means opening ourselves up, not knowing how
the other will respond. When we open our life, we open ourselves to the
possibility of deeper relationships, the possibility of betrayal, and to all
things in between. Psychologist and researcher story-teller Brené Brown says to
only share our stories--specifically our "shame stories"--with
"someone who has earned the right to hear it, someone whom we can count on
to respond with compassion." Does this tie over to other kinds of stories,
too? Maybe. Maybe not. But it does help us remember that our stories can be
vulnerable places.
Receiving stories is vulnerable, too. As a listener we may hear
things that make our heart soar, things that we don't want to hear, and
everything in between. Often I see the power of stories losing their full capacity on
this end of things. The listener may not be such a listener at all. They may be
highly apathetic and happily ignorant. Often hearing a story demands change of
the listener and that can be too uncomfortable to accept.
There are more pieces and context to consider. The timing that the
story is shared and the physical environment can both influence how the story
impacts each other. Power dynamics and relational history must be taken into
consideration as well.
I would also argue that there is a "pollution of
stories" in our day and time. Twitter offers short snippets of people's
stories. Anonymity allows for perspectives on events to be shared without
filter. Many news sources twist and turn others' stories more now than ever.
Even our religions tell many stories. How and what can we trust? Unless we're
intentional to set aside biases from previously learned narratives, how can we
fully receive stories?
Sharing stories and inviting others into narratives is complex. All the more, I
truly believe it can be powerful. Yet, if the nuances and care necessary for storytelling are not considered, the work of reconciliation and relationship
building that come through stories will often be hampered.
In light of this, how can we learn to fully receive stories and create within us the
space to hold other narratives?
