The Power of Story

I’ve always loved a good story.

My idea of a good time as a kid (and let’s be honest, even now!) was curling up with a good book. Back then, it was either R.L. Stine, Judy Blume, or anything from the Babysitter’s Club anthology. My 1st grade teacher famously told my mom to start saving her money to buy me books because she predicted that I’d be a voracious reader (and she was right!). I was always a Book It champion (thanks, Pizza Hut!) and one of the few kids who was actually really into summer reading.

While I don’t want to get into the nature vs. nurture of it all, I do think this innate love of a solid story is a little bit of both. Sure, I love books, and stories, and writing, and reading, and there’s probably some natural wiring involved there. But I have also been lucky enough to be surrounded by fellow story lovers who nurtured that affinity in me along the way.

My mom was always reading when I was growing up. She took us weekly to story-time at the library and made a big deal about letting us pick out any book we wanted for the week. Because we weren’t balling on a major budget, vacations weren’t really a thing we did. Instead, we’d spend weeks in the summer with grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins across the state of Tennessee. On the eight-hour drive to and from, I’d read aloud to anyone in the car who would listen (apologies to those I held hostage at my whim back then). But one thing my mom did budget for? Theater! Any great show, cool musical, or just fun story that came through Knoxville, she made an effort to take us to see. Why? Because I think she wanted us to share her love of the stories they told.

I was also fortunate enough to have the actual best English teachers on the planet who nurtured a love of story, an empathy for people, and a curiosity about the human condition that unfolded in the books they unpacked in class. Mrs. Scruggs, Mrs. Perry, Mrs. Harrison, Dr. Clark, Dr. Messer, Dr. Shaw, Dr, McDonald, Professor Bryant—these are the people who fanned the flame of story in me. In all honesty, they’re likely the reason I’m in the profession I have today. They helped me understand the power of story and, more than that, the way those stories can help us understand each other.

Recently, my English teacher from freshmen year posted something in regards to the banning of books and stories that’s hitting school systems across our country. She said:

“As an English teacher, I was happy to provide alternate reading choices for students whose parents did not feel the text was appropriate for their child. However, no one has the right to dictate what all students or no students should read…These books deal with sensitive subjects in a way that is thought provoking, often heart-rending, but not exaggerated or inflammatory. The reader is left to think about the outcome of the plot and the choices characters made to lead to that outcome…”

I’m not a parent, and even if I was, I would never presume to tell you what’s best for your kid. But what I can say is that the thought that a student like me would’ve missed out on stories that changed my perspective, broadened my world, taught me critical thinking, and introduced me to people and experiences I’ll never have makes me sad. Banning books that don’t agree with or represent exactly what we believe, line by line, feels dangerous to me. It feels like the thing that may shut us off from each other and deepen a divide between those who think like us and those who don’t.

This spring, I took a trip to New York with my sweet mom to see her all-time favorite musical, Camelot. While there, I convinced her to see another musical called Parade. I picked it because it starred Ben Platt (duh!), but once it started, it was the story that really pulled me in. It’s the true story of Leo Frank, a Jewish man accused of murder in Georgia in the early 1900s. It tells the story of his conviction, the profiling and bigotry he faced because of his religion and heritage, and the divide between him and the people of the South at the time. It’s a deeply moving, impactful story that, I kid you not, left me weeping through the majority while my mom just nodded beside me watching me straight up lose it in public.

Just a week before we saw that show, the theater was met with protestors demanding the musical be shut down. Who were those protestors? Oh, just your run of the mill Neo-Nazi group shouting antisemitic slurs and raising hell because they didn’t think it was appropriate to tell the story of a Jewish man and the hate crime committed against him.

Sitting there watching this musical, I was thinking about what would’ve happened if they’d given in to those protestors and shut it down. If they had, in effect, let it be banned. It would’ve meant that I wouldn’t know about a story that happened in my own backyard here in Georgia. I would’ve missed the chance to learn about what it was like to be a young Jewish couple in the South at the time. I would’ve never heard about the little girl who tragically died in all of this. Yes, her name would’ve been erased, too. 

I’m so thankful the power of story is alive and well at the theater. I’m thankful to have had the chance to have a conversation with my mom about it on the walk home, diving into the different thoughts and perspectives about the story we just saw play out. I’m thankful to be able to go home and pick up books that teach me new things about new people, new experiences, and new viewpoints that I might not encounter elsewhere. And I’m thankful for critical thinking taught to me by the adults in my life who guided me through complicated stories and human experiences in the stories I love.

Yes, this is the power of story.

And it’s one I hope we don’t let fear take away from us along the way.