Tell Me A Story

One of the things I think all humans share is the desire to be told a story. Whether it was in caves around a campfire or now in a darkened movie theatre, we are all entranced by a good story, something that holds us in suspense for what happens next, or creates unforgettable characters that seem as real as we are. Sometimes, when history is forgotten, only the stories remain: the creation myths, the legends of gods and heroes, the tall tales from Hercules to Superman. (For the experts on this just read Joseph Campbell or Carl Jung or Victor Frankl or Bruno Bettelheim.) Whether we like a good mystery novel or a cheesy soap opera, there is a satisfaction in following a well-constructed plot, predictable or not. Maybe, because there is so much unknown in our own lives, so much seeming randomness, and so many long stretches of just....living... we often want to snip the boring bits out and actually tighten up the plots of our lives, maybe eliminate some characters, and spice up some others, make ourselves a bit more dashing and likeable, not so flawed and awkward and bumbling. But despite the fact that we are not all Nancy Drew or Harry Potter or Indiana Jones, we do all have a story to tell. I have had students and friends say to me "Oh you've led such an interesting life. Mine is so boring." What they really mean is that to them I've lived in interesting places. In other words, I've lived not-in-Lubbock. But location does not have much to do with what happens in your life (unless you're fighting in Afghanistan. Then location is everything). When I was a child in Central Africa guess what exciting things I did? I went to school, I played with friends, I lived in a brick three bedroom house, and I never saw a lion. (OK, I saw monkeys and lizards and really big ants....). If I had met someone then from Texas I would have thought how exotic and romantic that was, would have imagined them living on a ranch, riding horses, and lassoing cows. Just like they would imagine me living in a grass hut and watching giraffes and zebras wander past our window. When my cousins from England came to Lubbock to visit us in 1994, one of the highlights of their trip was having my husband drive them out in the country in his Ford Ranger pick-up so they could lie in the back and look at the stars. (Also their trip to Fort Sumner to see Billy the Kid's grave). That was now a story they could tell, a part of their bigger life story. And sometimes I don't know I've had a good story until I tell it to others. Although, it's hard to beat our friend, David, who always seems to have things happen to him. Just ask him to tell you about the guy who bit him in Barcelona.