Perhaps one of the most interesting people we met during our last visit to Tanzania was Gideon’s Dad, Gidori. The video below captures our conversation which begins with him pondering the color of God’s skin and ends with his hopes for his son, his country and his continent.
What do you see? Likely a child hungry, impoverished, orphaned, weak, dirty, sad, diseased, in need.
Before I went to Africa the first time, I had an image in my mind of the people, and especially the children, I would meet. I’d seen them on the news and late-night infomercials for my entire life. Growing up in Catholic school, I remember their images from the milk cartons in which we collected change for them during Lenten appeals. I’d seen their huts, their sickness, their war-torn villages. I’d stood with Hands Across America, and my little brother even sang We are the World in our school talent show. I knew, and had a deeply felt sympathy for, African children. Empathy was impossible, though, because their situation was simply too foreign for me to truly grasp.
But somehow, in all that I’d seen over a lifetime of learning, and multiple degrees, I’d never, ever seen Gideon. Not on the news, not in a book, not on a commercial. Never. Not once. Believe me, I’d have remembered, because he would have so profoundly stood apart from the stereotypes and categories I’d formulated in which he should fit as a child of Africa.
Gideon is a 10-year-old boy, a fourth grader at Shepherds Junior. First and foremost, he’s a child. He’s got an infectious giggle and an imagination that is ignited by my incessant questioning. When I asked him to draw a picture of what makes him happy, he drew himself playing in the rain, and on Thanksgiving, when I asked what he was thankful for, he cheerfully exclaimed that he was grateful “because Christmas is coming and I’m going to eat!” He’s just a kid, not at all unlike those you’d find on any playground in your own neighborhood.
He’s got an innate curiosity. Recently, one evening after dark shortly before the new school was opened, Gideon snuck off to investigate the new classrooms, while his worried parents wondered where he’d wandered. He came home, excited and out of breath, with the good news. “Daddy, the school is so wonderful!…The classrooms are big enough, there is enough light and air because the windows are big.” Gideon’s father, a welder who donated his own time to fashion those windows in his own workshop, quickly forgot his worry and celebrated with his son.
His dad also told me he has to watch carefully to make sure Gideon does his math homework at night, like I watched my niece do her long division before dinner last night. Gideon’s a little boy, like some you may know, who dreams of becoming a rocket ship pilot when he grows up, though he’s never even stepped foot on an airplane. His Dad wants him to be an engineer. He recently played one of the lead roles in the school’s play about the woman’s role in Tanzanian society. He’s a budding photographer and loves elephants.
If you asked me to describe Gideon, his poverty wouldn’t rank anywhere in the top 10 adjectives I’d use. Admittedly, he lives in one of the most impoverished countries on Earth. Admittedly, on more than one occasion I witnessed him lovingly wrap leftover fruit, chicken or potatoes to bring home to his family for whom these items are likely expensive luxuries. He is, by our standards, undeniably poor. But he is not defined by his poverty.
All too often, our portrayals of African children focus on their lack, and implicitly convey that their poverty is somehow their core attribute, their essence. Not only is our portrait radically incomplete, it is, perhaps worst of all, self-perpetuating. After all, as Gideon’s father so eloquently told me, “if you tell a man he is weak, he will be weak; if you tell a man he is poor, he will be poor.” Like many children of Africa, Gideon is not the fragile child of our uninformed stereotypes. It’s not that simple.
He’s just a kid. A bright, strong, playful, funny, hopeful, sometimes mischievous, 10-year-old boy.
While his poverty has absorbed our attention, it’s actually his potential that’s far more interesting, and in which we’re investing at Epic Change.
We’re not supporting Shepherds Junior because it is a school that serves poor children. We’re partnering with this school because it’s a place that empowers all its students, regardless of their economic status, with the education they need to become leaders in their country, and to overcome their poverty. We’re supporting it because it provides these children with role models, in Mama Lucy, the teachers and the parents’ committee, of strong local leaders who are intent on improving their own lives and their own community. We’ve chosen Shepherds Junior not because it has so little, but because they do so much with the little they have.
We are investing in Shepherds Junior not out of pity, but out of incredible respect, awe at their potential and a shared hope for the future of children like Gideon and the beautiful country they call home.
I’m a twitter addict. Just two days with my new personal account and I’m a total fiend for the twitterverse where free-wheeling idea brokers convene to brainstorm, share epiphanies and connect. If you’re not on yet, what are you waiting for? You can follow me at @StaceyMonk, Sanjay at @SanjayPatel and get Epic updates at @EpicChange. Even better, after joining us, search for other people with your interests on TweetScan or Summize, and leap into the twitter idea pool, like a child at the park fearlessly playing with other fun, interesting kids you meet. Tweet, email or call me on my cell (415.630.0631) and I’d be glad to show you the ropes.
Anyway, I started there because I’m grateful to ubiquitous blogger Chris Brogan for snapping me out of my Twitter trance with his tweet that simply said “Facilitating conversations and seeking opinions fosters engagement. Don’t you think?” I certainly do, and the question reminded me that I still needed to synthesize all the input I’ve received on the topic of engaging storytelling. So here goes . . .
After I finish up my taxes, I’ll be working to launch our monthly series of stories about a a few of the children in Tanzania, and I want to be careful to do so with respect, tenderness and authenticity. So, as I mentioned here a few weeks ago, I’ve been assembling a list of guiding principles for sharing their stories in ways that are worthy of their characters and content. I asked Linkedin users to expand the list, and was amazed to find compelling answers from journalists, screenwriters and nonprofit leaders, which you can read in their entirety on LinkedIn. I’ve summarized my thinking and their invaluable advice into the list of storytellers’ “rules of engagement” below:
Get out of the way. Avoid mediation and, as writer and editor Joan Trossman Bien suggested, “Just let them talk and reveal themselves.”
Write about your audience. Great stories are about their readers, and great storytellers don’t allow us to be idle bystanders. We see ourselves somewhere in the story. They make us think about ourselves perhaps even more than the characters. As creative director David Wilson wrote, “Invite the reader to imagine themselves.”
Make people think for themselves. Many stories are told to elicit a very particular reaction like sadness, fear, guilt or happiness. They proscribe to the audience exactly what to feel like a Sally Struthers video carefully concocted to manufacture pity. Reality, though, is rarely summarized in a single predictable emotion; it is more nuanced. The best stories require our independent consideration and inspire a myriad of subtle responses that are influenced not only by the story but by our unique personal experiences.
Imperative + Optimism = Action. Financial planner Richard Krasney and others suggested a useful 3-step approach that includes explaining the need, inspiring hope, and requesting impactful action. To establish an imperative, Keyvan Gilbert from Union Gospel Mission suggests “don’t be afraid to emphasize the problems that exist,” but he emphasized, “make sure the stories can also be seen as motivating and hopeful.” I couldn’t agree more. Personally, I think far too many non-profits use messages of fear, pity and guilt rather than hope and inspiration.
Don’t miss the humor. “Humor allows us to face the worst possible scenario without aversion, and experience a true, deeply felt emotional response in a positive and memorable way,” wrote David Wilson.
Narrow the frame. Magazine writer and editor Elaine Appleton Grant passed along this advice she received from “Tom French, an award-winning narrative journalist for The St. Petersburg Times. He says: “Narrow the frame.” The longer the story, the MORE focused on a single character it should be. As others have written here, people have a hard time relating to the 30,000-foot view, but we all love characters.” I agree, amalgamation & summarization feel contrived. People can identify with an individual, but not with an entire population. As Paul Slovic, a psychology professor at the University of Oregon pointed out in a 2007 article in The Chronicle of Philanthropy, “We cannot wrap our minds around two people as well as around one.” Research from Wharton Professor Deborah Small also suggests that “statistics can actually blunt [our] emotional response,” which can “suppress giving” and decrease our likelihood of taking action.
Be concise. In the best stories, every word is essential. I’ll leave it at that. (Yes, I do catch the irony of including this rule in a blog post this long.)
Invite participation. As Chris Brogan tweeted, “facilitating conversations & seeking opinions fosters engagement.” I need your participation, questions, feedback, suggestions to make sure that the stories we’re sharing are compelling to you, our audience. I look forward to providing opportunities, like our Flickr and YouTube groups for kids, for everyone to get involved – not only in hearing the story, but in sharing it, which brings me to my final rule . . .
Let others speak for you. Leyla, a commenter at the Nonprofit Marketing Guide, made perhaps my favorite suggestion: “another great way to tell great stories is to let your supporters tell them for you.”
This is my fondest hope. I hope you’ll share the stories of children like Glory, so my next blog post will be the first in a regular series of stories about a few of the children at Shepherds Junior. I promise, they’re some of the most interesting people you’ll ever meet, and, by sharing videos and art, I’ll try to let them share as much of their own stories as possible, without me getting in the way.
Stay tuned. And let me know when I’m breaking my own rules, or if you have others. After all, this list of 9 just begs for a #10. Perhaps it should be “Don’t finish: Write stories that beg for your audience to write their own ending.”
P.S. For those of you who may be looking, here are a few other great links for storytellers:
Andy Goodman, nonprofit storyteller extraordinaire
Gideon is a 10-year-old boy, a fourth grader at Shepherds Junior. First and foremost, he’s a child. He’s got an infectious giggle and an imagination that is ignited by my incessant questioning. When I asked him to draw a picture of what makes him happy, he drew himself playing in the rain, and on Thanksgiving, when I asked what he was thankful for, he cheerfully exclaimed that he was grateful “because Christmas is coming and I’m going to eat!” He’s just a kid, not at all unlike those you’d find on any playground in your own neighborhood.