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Note to readers: Christina's journal entries are added periodically as the seasons of the year roll around. To read previous journal entries, choose from the menu on the right.
April 2007:
Journal Entry: Talking With Strangers
Dear Storycatchers,
Now that I am grown up, I find myself breaking many of the rules of childhood.
I snack before dinner (we call it hors d'oeuvres) and sometimes, yes,
it does ruin my appetite. I decide how to spend my time and when to do my homework
and how late to read at night. The most important rule I am breaking is the
one about talking to strangers. I talk with and listen to strangers every chance
I get. As a Storycatcher loose in the world I find this form of public play
is one of my greatest adventures and treats.
Remember--stories build bridges,
opinions build walls--and not only
opinion, but also hurrying by each other with barely a glance, or making snap
judgments based on half a sentence of overheard cell phone conversation, or
the way someone looks while trying to select groceries and manage three kids
under age six in a wire cart, or the amount of midriff showing on a junior
high girl whose mother ought to know better. Only by moving beyond first impressions
and snap judgments and discovering a bit of each other's stories do we
find the possibility of connection to the strangers around us.
I do a lot of this playing in airports: partly because I travel frequently,
and also it's one of the safest public places in America to practice
Storycatching--I mean we've all been through the screeners…we're
unarmed, bored, and potentially friendly. In chapter 10 of Storycatcher,
one of my airport experiences is a culminating story in the book (see pages
231-233).
Maybe you want to join this great play of connection... here's what
I am learning.
 Start with wonderment--a little curiosity goes a long way.
For example, I say to the highly pierced and tattooed young man, "What
does your girlfriend think of all those markings?" It's not what
he expects, looking up at a face old enough to be his mother's. The look
in my eyes is crucial—authentic
interest.
Choose your setting--conversational play in public is less threatening
than one on one. Whenever we are moving around each other we create a social
container. We can be bolder when others are nearby, when we know if we yelp
for help, someone will respond. And we tend to be on social behavior—to
conform to understood norms of interaction.
Assume human goodness--we
are so encouraged these days to perceive each other as dangerous, yet 99% of
those around us are at least as good as we are.
Story is a primary way to find this out, even if it doesn't seem apparent.
To reach out and notice, to ask how someone if they need help, to make conversation
in moments of usual isolation, we discover each other again. And that's
the point: it's the point of the book, and the point of interacting in
daily life.
Many days, I think we will make or break our world by the anecdotes we share
with each other--whether or not we are passing along stories of connection
and inspiration that seed our beliefs in ourselves and each other. Some of
the moments that have transpired between a stranger and myself--maybe
30 seconds of time, maybe a few minutes, I am still telling about because they
so impacted my life.
I am leaving for a month's trip to Germany, Zimbabwe, and South Africa,
April 13-May 14. My partner, Ann Linnea, and I are presenting four seminars
in three countries/cultures. We are teaching PeerSpirit circle (see www.peerspirit.com
and click on the bright orange Calling the Circle book cover, upper left, to
read a two page synopsis of this methodology) and we are exploring how to build
bridges of connection through story. In these seminars I anticipate magic;
it's the time en route, weaving among strangers with our high school
German and their accented English, when we will gather our biggest surprises.
Recently circulating on the Internet is a poem of just such magic, written
by Palestinian-American poet Naomi Shihab Nye, a stunning humanitarian voice
and Storycatcher. I have tried to find a copyright for this poem, but it may
be words she released to be shared in cyberspace. Please look her up and read
her books--and enjoy this poem. I'll tell you more stories when
I return from wandering.
Blessings!
Christina
Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal
by Naomi Shihab Nye
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to
the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate.
I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? We told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew -- however poorly used -
she stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been cancelled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
following day. I said no, no, we're fine, you'll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let's call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
would ride next to her -- Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies -- little powdered
sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts -- out of her bag --
and was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
the lovely woman from Laredo -- we were all covered with the same
powdered sugar. And smiling. There is no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers --
non-alcoholic -- and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American -- ran around serving us all apple juice
and lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend -- by now we were holding hands --
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate -- once the crying of confusion stopped
-- has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
Remember the invitation to share some of your stories is always available on the www.storycatcher.net web site, and books signed to your friends available at the office: www.peerspirit.com.
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