(Part 4 of Chapter 2 from What Did I Tell You?)
Nowadays, screens ranging in size from fitting in a pocket to covering a wall have invaded every aspect of our existence from houses and vehicles to offices, schools, and places of worship. Homes have entire rooms devoted to digital media with some type of screen in every other room. Access to information and entertainment is instantaneous and continuous. Consequently, we likely know more about the backstories of television and movie personalities, sports figures, and influencers than our own family history. The plots of favorite series and movies are more familiar than our own storyline. Daily activities and routines are organized around these screens keeping us distracted from our lives.
Conversely, the kitchen was the center of our home, as was the case in most of the homes I visited throughout my childhood and youth. The table served as the prominent feature. Pervading my memory is the recurring scene of a group of grown ups, my parents among them, gathered around the table’s perimeter sipping coffee, talking, laughing, and above all, telling stories. Whether they were relatives, friends, or some combination of the two, did not matter. It was their stories that captivated me.
I recall being urged to go play with the other children. Off I would go, obediently albeit reluctantly, only to return after an acceptable period of time as inconspicuously as possible. Those real life stories were more intriguing than make believe or games. Listening to those stories connected me to the storytellers. Not only did they give me a sense of kinship in an extended family system, they promoted a feeling of belonging to the greater community. Sometimes the rhythm of their voices lulled me to sleep. Next morning I would awake with a dreamy recollection of being tenderly carried and tucked into bed, an enviable sensation.
Through storytelling I discovered not only a sense of my place in the family, but the world beyond our front door as well. What’s more, stories were the medium through which I was introduced to myself. For those early years before memory endured, the adults in my life, primarily my parents, provided the particulars as to how I came to be me. With repetition and time, the stories transitioned from being about me to becoming a part of me.
There was the story of how as a baby I made my otherwise grumpy, paternal Grampa smile by sitting on his chest delightedly pulling items from his shirt pocket while his silent belly laughs bounced me up and down. My mother often recounted the time she was rocking me to sleep while singing “You Are My Sunshine.” Glancing down to check if my eyes were closed, she found them wide open, filled with tears. Although that song was stricken from her lullaby repertoire, she continued to call me her sunshine. In juxtaposition, my first word was argue, a detail my older sister enjoys reminding me of whenever we disagree.
As a young child, I was described as having a way with animals. When learning to walk, my maternal grandparents’ farm dog, Old Mickey, would gently take my hand in his mouth to guide me around the yard. My knack for taming unfriendly cats was known to our neighbors who would ask me to coax errant felines out from under front porches, barns, and sheds. Once I enticed the chipmunk that lived under our back step to let me hold it, until my mother screamed, “Put that thing down!” She was convinced I would contract rabies or fleas, which to her way of thinking was equally horrifying.
Evidently, my affinity with animals did not extend to roosters. Once again, I was the victim of an unprovoked attack. When my mother saw our free-range rooster flap up and land on my chest, its claws gripping my shirt, beak within inches of my face, she came running to shoo it away. Determined to teach it a lesson, she picked up a stone as she chased it around the yard. With the aim of David, she hurled the stone hitting the rooster squarely in the neck. After that, it never crowed right again.
Many of the stories that shaped my impression of myself were illustrated by photographs, slides, and home movies. Those that were not captured by camera nevertheless created vivid images in my mind that became real as memory. The most cherished is the story of how I came to be named.
Upon learning that my parents were expecting their second child, my paternal grandmother had a dream. In the dream, she saw a baby girl. Then the vision of a hand appeared, holding a quill pen writing the name Charesse in calligraphy across a piece of parchment. She telephoned my parents the next day in tears to recount her dream. As it happens, my mother delivered a baby girl. My grandmother was informed post haste that Carolyn Charesse had been born.
When Shakespeare posed the rhetorical question, “What’s in a name,” he was undoubtedly aware of their significance. First and foremost, a name is vital to the development of a sense of self. In addition, names wield great power to confirm lineage, identify social position, assert expectations, and establish connections. In my case, the name I was given forged a unique bond between Grammy Carolyn and myself. While there were countless instances that exemplified our special attachment, the most notable occurred the day of my older son’s birth.
I had gone into labor before dawn and was sent to the hospital early in the morning. When I returned home the next day, there was a message on the answering machine. Grammy had called around the time I was in the delivery room to tell me she’d had a feeling my baby was coming and to send her love. He was named for my father, her son.
Each of us has our own unique story. Our parents are the original authors. They supply the prologue, if you will, setting the tone for the narrative, providing background information and context, as well as introducing significant characters. Since most of us do not develop reliable autobiographical and long-term memory prior to the age of four, our parents act as the gatekeepers to our memory. We rely on what they tell us about those early years as the basis for what we come to know and believe about ourselves.
Parents are in the incomparable position to create the impression of ourselves we come to adopt through the stories they tell us. In essence, they introduce us to ourselves. Our story begins with our parents’ anticipation of our birth, the pregnancy, labor, and delivery experience. Factors affecting their recollection of these events include their relationship with each other, their socioeconomic circumstances, their preparedness for parenting, the presence or absence of a support system, and their reception of us in those hours and days following delivery. Our contribution to the story is based on our genetic sex, physical appearance, health, temperament, and birth order.
The essence of our origin story changes as we progress from newborn to infant to toddler to young child. The themes shift focus from our arrival to our achievement of developmental milestones, our resemblance to others in appearance and personality, our likes and dislikes, our interactions with others. With each passing month, we become more active contributors to the storyline rather than passive recipients.
Ideally the prologue our parents compose is full of accounts revealing their genuine appreciation for our individual abilities and distinct qualities. Preferably the image reflected in their stories is of someone who is accepted, capable, likeable, wanted, cherished and loved unconditionally. When we hear ourselves described in this manner, spoken with sincere affection and pride, we are properly prepared to face the future, claiming authorship for the continuation of our story.
When our parents portray us as a favorable character in a desirable storyline, it bolsters our sense of self worth. Assurance of their esteem and love serves as a shield or armor, an added layer of protection as we go out into the world. While it cannot prevent us from experiencing disappointment, hardship, and pain, it can sustain us, fortifying us with the courage to stay true to ourselves as we face life’s challenges.
On the other hand, stories that cast us in an unfavorable light can fill us with self doubt. Hearing the people who are most important to us speak of us in a critical tone, relating tales that embarrass, disparage, and degrade us, can result in a fragile self image. Being described as a fussy, demanding infant because we cried, or a troublesome toddler because we were curious and messy, or an incompetent young child because we made mistakes can leave us feeling shameful, guilty, and unworthy. When parents invest developmentally appropriate behavior with negative intentions, as though deliberately aimed at making their lives more difficult, it can be devastating to our emerging sense of self.
In the absence of stories that reflect our parents’ good opinion of us we are left feeling the need to seek their attention and esteem. Deriving the impression from the prologue our parents pass on to us, that we have been a bother, a source of disappointment, the cause of hardship, can be a heavy burden to bear. Portrayed as an objectionable character in an undesirable storyline, we emerge into the outside world feeling exposed and vulnerable, desperate to prove to our parents, as well as everyone around us, including ourselves, that we are indeed worthy of approval and love.
Whatever the nature of the prologue our parents compose, be it accepting or rejecting, complimentary or derogatory, loving or hateful, their appraisal foreshadows events that may shape our future. Needless to say, their early accounts of us matter. They play a crucial role in determining what we believe we can and cannot do, who we can and cannot become.
Fortunately, although our parents are the original authors of our story, they are not the sole ones. Eventually, we must accept authorship. As the primary authors of our story, we have the power to choose whether or not to live according to the origin story written for us.
Carl Jung maintained, “I am not what happens to me. I am who I choose to become.” The extent to which we allow our early stories to define us, to dominate our sense of self, is ultimately up to us. We can glean from the past what we find useful in the present as we proceed toward the future. Over time, with greater understanding and perspective, our story may be modified. Given that we are our stories, we get to create the character we become in updated editions and the final version. Only we can change the narrative.
Hailing from a background steeped in the rich tradition of storytelling, it’s no wonder I was drawn to the field of family therapy. Here was a vocation wherein the notion that every person’s life could be a novel seemed plausible. The significance of origin stories, their hold on individuals’ beliefs about themselves and how those beliefs translate into action, was readily
acknowledged. Observing clients grasp the power they had allowed their stories to wield, either broadening or constraining the options perceived available to them, was illuminating. Empowering them to claim authorship and assisting in the process of revising their stories to produce a more effective, satisfying version, inspired me to become a more attentive and intentional author of my own story. Accepting that we have the capacity to write our own happy ending is both a frightening and liberating prospect.
Just as the stories our parents gave us matter, the stories we give our children matter. If what we tell them is what they believe and what they become, let us speak to and about them as capable, kind, intelligent, loving individuals who are loved beyond measure. Endowing our children with stories that celebrate their existence is one of the first steps toward accomplishing the charge to parents: Help children make the most of the best of themselves.
Whereas our parents, as the original authors of our stories, provided the prologue, our children will likely supply the epilogue. Someday we will be the stories our children tell. Keep in mind, they will likely be as charitable in their storytelling about us as we were in our storytelling about them.
