I took the stage at the Marble Bar in Detroit, doing my best to stay out of the limelight. After all, I was not the center of attention. Ten other people deserved the applause, cheers, and adulation of the crowd.
I was called forth, not because I had done anything that evening, but for the very fact I had volunteered to tell a story in front more than 100 strangers. I was one of two people who were unlucky – maybe we were lucky – that we did not have to expose our vulnerability and share something deeply personal.
I glanced around the stage, looking for my non-storytelling soulmate. As I was searching, the host turned to me and pointed.
“We’ll now hear from our two volunteers who didn’t get selected,” he said, beckoning me to the mic. “Give us your first line.”
“My first line?!” I thought, feeling my stomach tighten and heart start to race. I had spent the evening playing with “my first line” for the story I never got to tell. Now, shortly after breathing a sigh of relief when the final storyteller took the stage, I was expected to deliver an opening line that would hook the audience. Talk about pressure.
I strode semi-confidently to the mic and, like past experiences in the spotlight, I didn’t see a damn person in the crowd. Oh, they were there. Silent. Waiting. Wondering. The lights blinded me as I took a breath and spoke.
…
Earlier in the evening, I arrived at the Marble Bar to observe what is called a StorySLAM, an open mic event that is like what you might experience in a comedy club. In this instance, instead of jokes and one liners, the brave souls who took the stage had five minutes to tell a story. Not just any story, but one that fit a particular the theme. And it had to be true.
StorySLAMs are one of the many creative outlets offered by The Moth, a New York-based non-profit that has been breathing new life into the art of storytelling for more than two decades. Think about sitting on a porch late at night, the moths and other bugs darting around the glowing lanterns strung from post to post. Uncle Garfield or Cousin Mary are rocking gently in their chairs, sharing stories that transport you to a different era. It’s late and you’re tired, but you cannot pull yourself away from their tales. That’s what a StorySLAM is like.
I was in the audience on Thursday for two reasons. First, my employer, General Motors, has a partnership with The Moth and was a sponsor of this StorySLAM. Having heard and read Moth stories from famous and not-so-famous storytellers, I was eager to experience a live event, hoping it would give me the needed spark to tap more authentic stories from and for the people I work with at GM. Second, I hoped the immersion in a StorySLAM would ignite something that had been lacking in my creative writing: Passion.
Walking into the Marble Bar, I ordered a beer and scouted out a location near the stage. People milled around, making introductions, and chatting with each other. Some, I could tell, were veterans of the StorySLAM stage. There was an air of confidence among them as they laughed and shared stories with friends and newcomers. I met a nice couple and struck up a conversation that spanned various topics. It was enjoyable and filled the time before the event. I paid scant attention to what was happening on stage until one of the StorySLAM hosts announced they only had eight of the 10 slots filled. If they get more than 10, the names are pulled from a hat. I muttered something about putting my name in and sat back in my chair. My new friends said, “You should give it a try.”
“What the heck,” I said as I jumped out of my chair and headed to the stage to sign a consent form.
The next two hours were spent, alternately enjoying the breadth, depth, and diversity of the stories on stage, and fighting back the fear my story would not measure up to what I was witnessing with each storyteller.
…
Storytelling has been part of my life since I was a wee little lad. My parents were voracious readers. My father was a graphic artist and poet. My mother was a nurse, but she, too, loved poetry and would recite poems in a sing song cadence that was soothing and engaging.
Growing up, my bookshelves were filled with tales from the Hardy Boys to Edgar Allen Poe. As I got older, I added Kafka, Lovecraft, Bradbury, Huxley and Zamyatin to my reading list. My father and I could spend hours talking about these stories that ranged from the macabre to the fanciful. It fueled my passion for writing and storytelling and led me to pursue a career as a journalist, the ultimate storyteller.
For more than 13 years, I told stories that spanned the scope of humanity. From deadly tornadoes to community celebrations, I met and documented the lives of countless people, both ordinary and famous. Each story offered me a chance at greater reflection on my life.
Then, in 1990, I quit journalism for public relations. My storytelling skills were put to good use, helping my new employer frame messages for both internal and external audiences. I really love my job, but I recently came to a conclusion that I need to reconnect with what initially drove me to become a storyteller. I need to embrace my vulnerability and, as a result, help others embrace their own insecurities and fears and transform them into compelling stories.
…
As I faced the mic, I realized it was too low. I slouched. The storytellers were told not to touch the mic as the host typically adjusted it for them. I leaned toward the mic and found my voice. What did I have to lose?
…
For an open mic event, The Moth has a lot of rules. The Do’s and Don’ts lists make a lot of sense and help the uninitiated storytellers to stay focused and on task with their stories. Everyone has five minutes. Each story should be true. And no, don’t treat this like a stand-up routine at the Improv.
Aside from my nervousness about possibly being called to the stage to share my story, I was engrossed by each tale that was told on stage. Each person found a deeply personal connection with the theme of Nature. For the audience, the journeys ranged from personal discovery to facing life or death situations.
As I listened, I played with various approaches to my story. I’ll admit that I had the germ of an idea before attending the event, but now the stakes were very high. I might be called up to share a complete story.
What was truly compelling about each of the storytellers was the commitment to their story. They may have had fear in their eyes, but as one storyteller told me afterward, “it was just jump in and tell your story.” This storyteller fretted about running over the allotted five minutes, but I reassured him it was still an engaging and entertaining tale. He nodded and sipped his beer, ruminating about what he would do at the next StorySLAM.
I was in awe. These people were from all walks of life. Nurses, teachers, immigrants, professionals, and vagabonds. They weren’t professional communicators. They represented a cross section of society that often feels like their stories are not worth sharing. CNN, FOX, the New York Times, and other media shun this type of storytelling. For them, it’s about the ratings and circulation and the hope that their so-called consumers of news can spend gobs of money on goods and services advertised on morning shows and in the daily paper.
The Moth, however, eschews the mass media approach to storytelling and has created something special where the famous and not-so-famous can stand on a stage and share how their experiences and failures made them more human and humane. The Moth stage strips away the pretense of commercialism and delivers a raw glimpse into real life, as experienced and told by real people.
And for a few seconds, I was about get a chance to peel back the curtain on my story.
…
As I took a breath, “my first line” clicked into place. To me it encapsulated what Nature means to me, from my youth growing up in Chicago to two weeks ago as we prepared our house for my youngest son’s graduation open house.
“This is a parable of the cheetah and the bee,” I spoke into the mic. “Or, how I avoided being eaten by a cheetah but was later stung by a bee.”
I waited a moment and thought I heard applause or maybe it was the thump, thump, thump of my heart. I nodded, turned, and briskly walked away from the mic, shrinking into the shadows at the side of the stage.
…
So, there it was. Instead of 15 minutes of fame (a quote misattributed to Andy Warhol) I had 15 seconds of “attention”.
Whether the audience was hooked by my first line or simply bemused didn’t matter. For someone who has no trouble staring down a TV reporter covering a meaty story or training large groups of people on how to be better communicators, I conquered a fear I had suppressed for years.
I was willing to stand on a stage, in front of strangers and be my authentic self.
To learn more about The Moth, check out their website: https://themoth.org/
Make sure to check out the event calendar for upcoming StorySLAMS in Detroit, Ann Arbor and other locations.
Comments