Storytelling

Nobel Prize-winning author William Faulkner once said that a writer would sacrifice “honor, pride, decency…to get the book written” and that if he “has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the "Ode on a Grecian Urn" is worth any number of old ladies.”

I began my career as a storyteller not by robbing my mother, but by robbing Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. I started down the slippery slope of literary piracy in first grade during Show and Tell. And Faulkner was correct; that moment was worth any old poet.

I loved Show and Tell. I listened week after week to my classmates tell how the dog ate mom’s new shoes or brag about a new baby sister or brother, and I couldn’t wait for my chance. But by November, I still hadn’t had a Show and Tell moment. Nothing exciting was happening in my family. My mom wasn’t having a baby, my cousins didn’t come from Texas to visit, and we hadn’t bought a new car or acquired a new pet. I was desperate. I needed a story to tell and I needed one badly.

In school, we were learning about the First Thanksgiving with the pilgrims and the Indians. I was fascinated with Indians, so one night my father read me the story of Hiawatha’s childhood from Longfellow’s “Song of Hiawatha,” which begins: “By the shores of Gitche Gumme, By the Shining Big Sea water, Stood the wigwam of Nokomis, Daughter of the Moon.”

I was captivated by the music of the language and the story of Nokomis teaching Hiawatha about the forest, the animals, and their wonderful natural/supernatural world. I would have killed to be a Daughter of the Moon, to flit among the woods with Hiawatha and “Way-wah-taysee,” the firefly, to listen to the pine trees whispering “minne-wawa,” and the water gurgling “mudway-aushka!”

My head swam with images from the poem. I was ready to burst, so at the next Show and Tell morning, I raised my hand eagerly. I finally had a story to tell.

Somehow as I began to talk—it must have been magic—Hiawatha’s childhood merged with mine and his story became my story. I told the class that my late grandfather had been an Indian chief, that I was an Indian Princess, and that my real name was Little Fawn. I said during the summer my family went to the woods to live in my grandparent’s wigwam, hunt rabbits, bathe in the river, and cook our meals over a fire. I said my grandmother, who lived with us, could talk with the animals and birds and knew all the animals’ secrets. I turned Longfellow’s poem into a Show and Tell moment that was all mine. I was a huge success.

In fact, I was so convincing that the teacher called my mother that afternoon to invite my grandmother to talk to the class about Indian customs. When I arrived home from school, my mother and my grandmother met me at the door, grinning broadly, sporting large feathers in their hair, and lipstick warpaint smeared on their cheeks.

I have been known in my family as Little Fawn ever since. I’ve also been telling stories ever since, because that, after all, is what we Daughters of the Moon were born to do.

Copywright Susan Matthewson 2009