Telling Stories

Artprize is a city wide celebration of artistic creativity that is open to anyone. This year, I volunteered to run an exhibit called Story Studio. It’s goal was to encourage visitors to tell their stories and believe that they matter. The walls were covered with bright red letters reading, “Everyone has a story. Your story matters” and “You have a story. We want to hear it.”

Another wall was plastered with printed envelopes: “Your Story Matters”. Each bore a name: Carmen in fine calligraphy; Dra in childish cursive; bubble letters spelled Elise. Two hundred names. Two hundred stories.

I’ve always believed everyone’s story is important, and one of my greatest passions is empowering individuals to tell the story of their lives. If I don’t think my story is worth telling, then neither will you. Stories are the foundation to relationships, to finding common ground. It takes courage and vulnerability to trust strangers with your life, but it’s the only way to find each other.

Over the two weeks I volunteered, I watched people pass through, assuming that they didn’t have anything important to say. Some looked at me and stated matter-of-factly, “My story doesn’t matter.” But one two minute story opens the door to community. Hundreds of people walked through the Story Studio’s space, but the ones who shared became friends and memories as they allowed me to share in their pain and joy.

We’re taught that you have to be famous, or have an earth shattering story for it to be worth telling. But billions of people pass one another every day, afraid they don’t matter, afraid they don’t matter. What if one of us had the courage to share? That one story could open a portal we can walk through together, welcoming each other into a collective journey.

I listened to a couple tell their story of meeting in kindergarten while playing with red blocks and how they have been married for forty years. I held back tears as a fifty year old related how she had learned to show up for life when her life fell apart over the last year. A fourteen year old told me of the struggle of growing up with divorced parents.

“Would you like me to record my story?” this was her third time in the studio. “It’s cheesy,” she read me her words, beautifully broken, horribly raw. Tears trickled down my face. We hugged, “Alright, let’s do this.” I smiled through my sniffles, and she recorded her story. "What should I call it?" she asked me. "How about 'Coming Home'?" She smiled and typed in the words, "I'll trust you."

Others edged cautiously into the space, “It’s a good concept,” they said. Again, a man declares to the sea of envelopes, “My story doesn’t matter.” It’s as if only other people have stories. But if we all thought that way, how lonely the world would be.

Stories are rock cairns erected in memory. They allow us to pass back through time, promising we will never forget. They are an invitation into life together.

The video linked below is the recording of "Coming Home" that I mentioned above. The video footage is of the gutted building the Story Studio was housed in during ArtPrize. The other stories-"Cheryl Shows Up" and "Kindergarten Sweethearts"-can be found at https://www.creativeyouthcenter.org/ and scroll down to the "Story Archive" link which will bring you to YouTube.