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Last April, I spent my first spring break away from my family. For a whole week, I spent my days with 13 other UF college students in South Carolina. We were on a FAB (Florida Alternative Break) mission: Native American Immersion. Our hosts, Joe and her husband, were part of the Waccamaw tribe. The tribe was currently swamped in a political issue, which prevented our group from visiting their reservation. Joe was a stout, older woman with long whitish hair, tainted by the minerals in her hard water. What Joe loved more than patiently designing elegant beaded necklaces and dream catchers for powwows is telling stories from her culture. For those interested, powwows are celebrations where Native Americans from different tribes gathered to celebrate unity of the nation.
I recall one dark night when the moon was full and the air cold. Everyone was sitting outside around a fairly large fire, surrounded by blocks of stone, and most of us where finished with our hamburgers, coleslaw, and baked beans. I crouched down before the fire, holding the end of a twisted hanger as the other side held my marshmallow, and contemplated over the changing color of my sweet treat. This was my first time making a s’more. Joe, her chair by mine, sat there smiling and asked if we all wanted to hear a scary story. First of all, I despise horror tales, but not wanting to ruin it for the group, I sat back down. Joe asked us to completely trust in her words and not distract ourselves by eating, drinking, or talking. Hearing this, I edged further back in my chair and felt my heart fluttering to the spell that our hostess was about to cast.
The air hung silent for a moment before she began the story. Her words were soft and as the tale slithered along the murderous and blood-stained path, I heard the subtle swelling of her voice, until she yelled out a horrific scream that caused most of us to jump and shriek with terror. One of us actually fell out of the chair. What came after? We laughed. The magic had worked. She had casted it well. Joe had lifted us out of our normal world and surrounded our minds with the gruesome details that the eye within me could not help, but see. That is the thing about storytelling. How much the story is worth really depends on the bond strength between the storyteller and the listener/reader.
I recall one dark night when the moon was full and the air cold. Everyone was sitting outside around a fairly large fire, surrounded by blocks of stone, and most of us where finished with our hamburgers, coleslaw, and baked beans. I crouched down before the fire, holding the end of a twisted hanger as the other side held my marshmallow, and contemplated over the changing color of my sweet treat. This was my first time making a s’more. Joe, her chair by mine, sat there smiling and asked if we all wanted to hear a scary story. First of all, I despise horror tales, but not wanting to ruin it for the group, I sat back down. Joe asked us to completely trust in her words and not distract ourselves by eating, drinking, or talking. Hearing this, I edged further back in my chair and felt my heart fluttering to the spell that our hostess was about to cast.
The air hung silent for a moment before she began the story. Her words were soft and as the tale slithered along the murderous and blood-stained path, I heard the subtle swelling of her voice, until she yelled out a horrific scream that caused most of us to jump and shriek with terror. One of us actually fell out of the chair. What came after? We laughed. The magic had worked. She had casted it well. Joe had lifted us out of our normal world and surrounded our minds with the gruesome details that the eye within me could not help, but see. That is the thing about storytelling. How much the story is worth really depends on the bond strength between the storyteller and the listener/reader.
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