Spanish folklorist Jose Manuel de Prada-Samper and I have been in conversation about stories and storytelling for many years. Recently, while working with descendants of Bushmen who had been considered no longer present in the Karoo of South Africa,1 Jose sent me a version of a story told by a woman named Katriena Swartz in 2011. Jose's work revealed the continuous existence of the |xam Bushmen of that area. version of the story he sent, called The Lion and the Boy, moved me deeply.I had been working with a community health clinic in Newark, New Jersey, under the auspices of Rutgers University. I was the outreach aspect of a violence prevention and health program. I created projects using storytelling for youth in the inner city. One afternoon, I retold The Lion and the Boy to twenty-three young people. It was a way of instigating focus, dialogue, and imaginative thinking in the group. girls sat on one side of a classroom with barred windows, arms akimbo. boys sat legs outstretched, leaning back, across the room. Other than a few black-and-white cartoon pictures, depicting generic emotions on round genderless faces, a red flower lay on a desk-found by a boy on his way to the class. It was the only living color in the room.The story of The Lion and the Boy felt related to their lives. I hoped that the dilemma in the tale would draw them into curiosity, concern, and association. I could not assume that those listening knew anything about Bushmen, their history, or way of thinking. So I gave a few details about the cultural origin of the tale. Speaking into the room the names of the Bushmen, of their Upper Karoo homeland, and of Africa itself evoked a sense of the past, of wonder, and of other worlds. As I began the story I had the sensation of words lifted from a page coming alive between us. As the group of young people listened, they also came to life. They leaned forward and relaxed their folded arms and legs as the story washed through them.My telling was in service of allowing each participant to respond to the story imaginatively, emotionally and physically, and to mirror violence-prevention techniques for the visiting staff. I reflected that engendering the audience's intense engagement retold the backstory's fundamental function: When we listen, we become that story. It is a moment-by-moment re-creation in minds and imaginations drawn out of self-preoccupation into the fullness of communal listening.The engaged storyteller, telling a cultural story as a shared experience, has respect for the text and its sources. But her primary responsibility is to those who listen. Jose, as a folklorist, has a primary responsibility to the one who has told the story as part of his or her ancestral heritage. His priority is to record, document, and preserve the unique performance and experience of the teller for the benefit of a culture and for research. What is important to both of us is a deep regard for the power of story, in the past and in the present. We are both invested in recognizing how stories transform in different situations, times of history, and places of telling.The tale began.Apoorfamily, who workedfor a wealthyfarmer, had one son. Thefarmer sometimes gave food to the family when it was needed.My audience, mainly children of immigrants, displaced persons, and minority families, had parents working for others, often doing menial jobs. They were dependent on meager salaries for survival. Many were undocumented. More than half of the youth grew up in homes where no English was spoken. setup of the story was familiar.Jose described the history of the tale as told by Katriena Swartz to her South African audience:The historical situation that informs the story (which most likely took form when the |xam hunter-gatherers were being forced to abandon their traditional lifestyle and become servants-or rather serfs-in the farms) would suggest that the farmer, rather than being kind and altruistic, was fostering a relationship of dependence with his laborers. …
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