I’ve Got a Story for You, Ags

One of my classes this semester is focused on narrative (Yes, narrative. Stories.). Like any good, infuriatingly intellectual graduate seminar, there seem to be a few questions that will guide our semester of work. First: What makes a story a story? Second: What  good are stories anyway? As I said, these questions are infuriating by their very nature because there are a million answers, and there are none. Anyone with access to our  readings can play genius and pick out a definition of a story. “Author A says that a story  is defined by…” Boom, done, course over. Except, it isn’t. Because the really, really good  professors, don’t let classes go that way.

Every single professor in my department is, unfortunately, really, really good. Other unanswerable guiding questions include: How do we define race and eradicate racism?  How do we define communication? What is rhetoric? What good does rhetoric do? How do you “do” social science? Is there feminist technology? What is and is not a technology?

Now, if you are not currently in these courses with me, I would wager you have an  answer to each and every one of these questions. And, because of the very nature of right/wrong and good/bad binaries, none of your answers will be worth any more (or less) than mine, even after I finish these courses. So, why do I take them, if I could just share my ten-cent opinion with you now as you share yours with me? This question is as elusive as the rest, but I do know that after a semester of chasing my tail, I may not be  able to answer any of these questions, but I could tell you which scholars agree with your answers. Could tell you who disagrees and why. Could synthesize a response to your  response using their responses. (Are you following me, Reader? YOU-- yes, you are the  “you,” here.)

In short, I could answer each of these questions (or argue them, depending on your  persuasion) by using snippets of other definitions to create something new. For any of my dear old education major friends out there reading, yes, we are talking about some serious constructivism here. And, for my one interdisciplinary friend, yes, the sum of all of these readings, just like disciplines, is not just going to result in an amalgamation of opinions; if I do it right (emphasis on if), then it creates something entirely new. That  way, the next sucker up behind me can use my words to do the same thing. This keeps all of us--outcasts, workaholics, busybodies, weirdos, perfectionists, and everyone else  who is for some reason drawn to the cesspool of craziness known as academia-- it keeps all of us employed.

You may be saying, “Wow, Delaney. Cynical much?” Of course, I wouldn’t hear you over  the sound of the never-ending Phoebe Bridgers songs playing in my head, but if I could hear you, I would say, “Why, yes. And why aren’t you?” The line between being socially cynical and academically critical (something to be celebrated) is incredibly thin, and if  there is anything I excel at, it is finding a line, a border, a crack, and planting myself  firmly on it, with one foot in each world.

My borderline cynicism, borderline critical nature mounted this past week in my narrative class that I mentioned earlier. This class is great, don’t get me wrong, and I love my peers and my professor, yet for the past few weeks I could not get into it. Deciding to air my frustrations while simultaneously completing an assignment (my  favorite ever two-for-one deal), I shared with my professor that I was having a hard time getting into the practices of storytelling and really engaging with the material. Frankly, I said, I just am struggling to see why it is important.

Oh, was that the wrong thing to say. Folks, let me tell you that the absolute best part of  taking graduate classes is those really, really good professors I talked about earlier.  Because, when I become apathetic and haughty, when I get too big of a head on my shoulders, when I say comments like this which stem from insecurity manifesting as disillusionment, they tear into me for it.

Before I get back to the story, I think I should just list a few of my favorite academic roasts thus far.

Mild: “Why are you stressed, this is what you’re good at, right?”

Medium: *responding to my question about purposefully confusing writing styles* “Delaney, when you are good enough to purposefully write that way, you will no longer be asking that question.”

Hot: “Isn’t it ironic that you hate stories; isn’t that exactly what you do in your blogs?”

Ok, so, writing them out they look innocuous, and they are, and ultimately they are all said with love, and only serve to make me better. In fact, I would wager that even my use of the phrase, “tear into me,” to introduce  their words they would all disagree with. None of them are attempting to tear into me at all. As my advisor once told me, academia is about making one another better through a combination of criticism and grace. My  inability to see these comments for what they are, constructive feedback, reflects more on my own conflictual nature than on my professors.

Although I’m far from the level of self-recognition required to answer why I take their words this way and why I have a tendency to get so defensive (another one of my charming qualities I may want to mention to my future committee), I can tell you with certainty that, in the moment, they can hit, regardless of my professors’ good intentions.

Back to the regularly scheduled programming, or, as my professor so humbly pointed out, my story. Her comment is listed as the highest on this list simply because when I  read it, it made my head snap back. Again, it is not mean and she is not wrong-- but it  was incredibly, jarringly honest-- and it needed to be said. What I write here ARE stories.

The one thing my lovely professor got wrong is this; it is not at all ironic that I am devaluing stories when all that I ever seem to do is write them, it actually makes perfect sense.

I like to write these blogs and people tell me that I am good at it. So, as someone with remarkably low self-esteem and a fairly significant case of imposter syndrome, to admit that storytelling is important, that it helps people, that it is valuable, would mean admitting that what I do late at night in my room with only a candle for light, that this frivolous hobby, means more than that. It would mean admitting that I can help people. I can incite change. I am good at something that matters. It would mean that my talent  and work ethic are paying off. It would mean admitting that I DO put work into these, editing, writing, taking time out of my day to make sure my words flow the way I want them to.

What I didn’t mention before is that my kind professor did not end her feedback there. No, after providing me with the “roast” shown above, she then did something even worse; she complimented me, solidifying the conclusion I draw above— these stories  mean something to people. Her exact words were her gift to me, but to give you the gist she suggested that she can in fact see the way my words resonate in those (increasingly less) rare instances I choose to share them.

So, then, if I admit all of this, if I believe her words, feel the warmth, the joy, the passion, and dare I say, the meaning that comes from this practice of storytelling, it would mean pulling myself out of that ongoing existential crisis that I (not-so-secretly) need to always be having to function (My charming quality number 1001, in case you are counting.). It would require me to own my power-- and the responsibilities therein.

So, maybe when I am her age, that won’t feel so terrifying. But I have a hunch that says it will. It is scary to be good at something for the same reason it is to care about  something; because what you have can ultimately be taken away from you. Words, narratives, stories are powerful; owning my own voice as powerful would mean honoring all am I, all I have been, and all I will be. It requires me to love myself. And, if  that is not hard enough, it requires me to hold myself accountable at the same time. These are the very basic tenets of adulthood, but, what can I say, I am a late bloomer.

P.S for the Reader

When all is said and done, this post is ultimately dedicated to You, Reader, whomever You may be. Know that with all certainty these words would be meaningless drivel if not  for You. In fact, in the few conversations I’ve had since beginning this piece, the feedback I received helped me craft somewhat of an intentional double-voicedness, thickening my prose and adding a new dimension to my naïvely self-proclaimed role as  the “omniscient” narrator. Putting words on a page can be a beautiful thing, but it can also be malevolent and misleading. I will do my best to be honest with You, always, knowing that the power of storytelling is not monologic, but dialogic. And I hope You  continue to join me, as we journey through graduate school and life together, growing  old, yet, much like a child, never losing our love of a good story.