What are the stories that shape you?
What role does storytelling play in your life?

Jacob
CLF member, incarcerated in AK

This has been a harder question for me to approach. Many times we hit the point we want to ignore or hide the truth about the stories that have shaped us, either because of embarrassment, fear, or some other now silly-seeming emotion. As I sit here, though, I realize that if those stories had not shaped me, I may never have made it so far in life before incarceration or even possibly death.

To start, a bit about my familial/social setting. My mom’s side of the family is from Iowa, and my dad’s side of the family is very Hillbilly, Good Ole Country boy types from the Northern Hills of Arkansas. All of that meant a very big learning curve for a child.

The stories of Hedge Witches, Shamans, and Healers are accepted truths from my dad’s side of the family. On my mom’s side, there were hardcore Catholic rituals, teachings, trainings, and underpinnings. The two do not readily mesh, but I always enjoyed walking in both paths of my family, learning from both sides.

Then, you add in the fact that I am homosexual, and could never hide my effeminity. My father and his fifth wife loved to give me lectures on the stories of Sodom and Gomorrah, fixating on the homosexuals while ignoring the full stories. They never appreciated me pointing out the key fact that is was the culmination of the sum of all of the inequalities that led to their destruction. Often this would lead to arguments and anger on both sides.

Disney Princess stories such as Mulan, Cinderella, and Beauty and the Beast made me think, “If they can find love then maybe someday I can as well.” Or can I?

The stories of various novels, like the Ramona series, gave me an escape from the pains of daily life, while motivating my curiosity and creativity.

The stories that family and friends told of their experiences and things they had seen helped shape my ambitions and drive to leave our small town. Grandpa, my dad’s dad, would tell of the antics of his peers and family. Often these would make me not want to be trapped in those same patterns. My Grandma, my mom’s mom, would point me to stories of succeeding, being yourself and fighting for something. These encouraged my drive to help others as well as be an outspoken advocate.

All of these stories have pushed me on, opened my eyes to things I may have missed, as well as motivated me to leave the hills and to see what I could learn and do.

Overall, storytelling has greatly shaped my life. Now I write fiction and non-fiction stories in an attempt to help others in similar situations push through and succeed. We have to share our stories, our truths, and our experiences to help others know that it’s possible to push through it all. 

Comfortable

Barney Silk
CLF member, incarcerated in TX

They say I must have grown up with a ‘chip on my shoulder,’ but I’d like to see you come and push my boulder. Or walk a minute in this mile I call my life, and see how well you manage strife. I grew up watching other kids get things they never had to earn, that was a tough lesson I had to learn.

Because you see, I grew up in poverty and never knew what it was like to be rich, having to cut steps in the dirt to get to the mailbox from the ditch. Or wondering how me and my Grandma would make it another day, when black eyed peas and cornbread proved to be the only way.

So please don’t sit in judgment of me from the comfort and confines of your nice big home, because ain’t no one ever just throw me a bone. And don’t try to say, “you know what it’s like,” because I’m no fool, see you don’t know anything about the beatings and sexual abuse when I came home from school. Or about the times I was almost killed, lying torn and bloody in an old farm field.

And I’m not just some writer whose dream it is for his name to be called out from a crowd by a Raven fan, I’m comfortable enough just being a man. Because you see I’m a Silk and I know what it’s like, to not have all the tools yet still get it right.

Gary
CLF member, incarcerated in SC

Growing up in the South of the 1960s, my pre-school days were spent in the tender care of my maternal grandmother. These were seemingly innocent times long before video games, cell phones, or computers. The turbulence of the time, the Civil Rights Movement and War in Vietnam, were far removed from the fresh-baked bread smell of Grandma’s Kitchen.

My days were filled with tomato sandwiches, iced tea with lemon, and snow cream in the winter. But each day came with “naptime.” And naptime always came with one of Grandma’s “Lake Swamp Stories.”

Grandma was from a “little speck of a place,” as she termed it, called Lake Swamp in the South Carolina lowcountry. About 30 or so miles outside of Florence, Lake Swamp was little more than a local school, a tiny grocery store, and a barbershop.

Her daily tales were like a fantasy world to my childhood ears. No TV? No refrigerator? No indoor bathroom? I was fascinated.

The 1920s in rural South Carolina may initially seem a quiet, pastoral scene. Yet, Grandma’s stories of barn dances, alligators crawling out of creeks, thundering circuit-riding preachers, and huge Sunday dinners seemed like an amazing place in time.

But beyond being mere childhood pre-nap stories, Grandma’s tales gave me a unique sense of identity. She, unknowingly, lit the fire for my own love of writing and fed that flame with the basis for many of my short stories.

The 1960s were truly not “Leave It To Beaver” innocence for many, if not most, especially in the South. But my Grandma carved a safe space for my childhood and, importantly, gave me a love of writing.