'Tell Me How it Happened'

The story you tell is the truth you create.- Dante Alighieri

If you’ve made it this far, I venture to say I know two things about you. The first one is that you are probably one of my two followers, for which I thank you wholeheartedly. The second one is that you might have just a smidge of interest in why I am doing this—not the what or the how. So I will tell you a little story.

I was the last of seven siblings. Martha, Manuel, Jesus, Esteban, Edna and Alberto (all names fictional) were born a couple of years apart from one another. Fifteen-years separated me from the eldest, Martha; and seven from Alberto, the one before me. They all grew up sharing many things in common. During breakfast they passed on around the table the Cheerios cereal box to read whatever it was written on the back; they went to the same schools; they shared acquaintances and friends; on afternoons they listened to the same vinyls (I discovered Queen but had to pay a hefty price: The Commodores); on evenings they watched TV together (Mash, Gilligan's, Charlie's). And sometimes on weekends they fought like Cain and Abel, like Joan Crawford and Bette Davies.

We start making sense of the world at the age of 5 or 6, when we are sent out to kindergarten. But I didn’t attend kindergarten. Around that time my siblings were anywhere between 13 and 20 years old. My brothers and sisters talked about things I didn’t understand (“how do I ask her out?”) or didn’t care about (“play that funky music wild boy”).

?A Treasure of Youth

I’d spent a lot of time alone in those early formative years. Any time my siblings devoted to me, we spent not playing outside the house, or inside watching TV. We spent that precious time telling stories. Keep on reading, I’ll explain.?

Which leads me to the role of my parents. My dad was a judge, an imposing figure surrounded by an air of solemnity, and a man of encyclopaedic knowledge. My mom was a very resolute woman who, now I know, had to rise up to the challenge of raising a softball team. And she was a wonderful cook. (I was destined to become the steward of some of her best recipes. Go figure.)

Our home was filled with my dad’s books. #Books where literally everywhere around the house. While I was alone, I was never truly lonely. I’d open up any book and browse it. I had a soft spot for a collection of 20 hardback volumes called El Nuevo Tesoro de la Juventud (Spanish for The New Treasure of Youth). Each volume had 16 sections, richly illustrated. My favourites sections were Interesting Stories (Narraciones Interesantes), Celebrated Books (Libros Celebres), and Heroic Deeds (Hechos Heroicos).

I would pick up a volume, choose a #story, and ask one of my siblings to read it to me. Sometimes they would choose the story. Years later they told me about a little ritual we had: they would not start until I said, Cuéntame cómo fue (Tell me how it happened).

That’s Not How it Happened!

Before I knew it, and unbeknownst to the family, I had learned to read by listening to stories and browsing books. I was not yet 6 years old. My memory has always been notoriously unreliable, but I do remember that one of my favourite stories was Rikki-Tikki-Tavi by Rudyard Kipling. I knew it so well that whenever Esteban, Jesus or Edna changed anything, I would burst in anger and shout, That’s not how it happened!

What I didn’t know, obviously, is why my siblings were introducing small variations to the story. They were amused by my reaction, that’s for sure. But even if they didn’t know it, they were experiencing one of the most notable facets of storytelling: the story changes the storyteller.

Think about it. Every time we tell a story and repeat it, we discover new nuanced details, we listen to different voices, we articulate the subtext in a different way, we experience the emotion of the audience—and our mind, heart and body react accordingly.?

That Dreaded Word

#Storytelling fascinates me because of its power to unravel one’s imagination and sense of wonder. It proposes more questions than it gives answers to an audience that craves for something new and meaningful, not merely transactional. As is often the case with marketing and corporate communications, story does not underestimate the intelligence of the audience but stirs their curiosity and empathy.

There is another reason why I find storytelling so absorbing. It’s the power to transform the #storyteller. Story makes you aware of your surroundings. It enhances your conscientiousness. It grows your ability to understand what other people feel.

For all their interest in storytelling, corporations big and small often overlook this simple and powerful fact. If companies want to get serious about storytelling, they must train their storytellers to let themselves be transformed by story. It’s not that complicated. But it is frightful to many, because it evokes that dreaded word that so many in the corporate world talk about, yet so few truly embrace: #Vulnerability.

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If you think I can help you and your team become better storytellers, contact me. I’d love to hear your story.