Stories

For me, part of being just like grandma is that you tell stories. They can be your own, but they certainly don't have to be. Telling and retelling (and retelling, and retelling) stories is such a big part of my family. I gave my students an assignment at the beginning of this school year to tell me about a story passed down orally in their family (we were studying Native American Literature) and almost none of them could tell me any story passed around by their families. Tenth graders being stubborn? Maybe. People culturally bankrupted by lack of knowledge of where they come from and who they are? Um, yes!

I intend to make it a part of my mission for this blog to regularly share stories -- family stories, personal stories, and stories of others will be included. I do this to preserve my memories and those of others. Every Friday on the blog will be storytelling Friday. I'll start today with one of my favorite stories my parents used to tell about me when I was little.

I was approximately three years old and my mother was preparing and grooming me so that I would be prepared to attend church services for the first time since my baptism. We were Catholic and the services were somber affairs. There were no children crying, and if there ever was a child who cried, heaven help him or her when he or she got home.

In those days, my mom read me the riot act BEFORE we left the house. "Erika, look at me. We are going to church today. I don't want any of this, or any of that. (this and that being unwanted behaviors, use your imagination). Most of all, you must understand, THERE IS NO TALKING IN CHURCH. Do you understand?"

So finally she decides that I am ready and that my little brain has reached the developmental stage at which I understand what she is saying and will remain quiet throughout a church service. Like any smart mom, she sat in the back and brought some snacks just in case. Unfortunately, she hadn't planned for what came next. The church service began and music was heard throughout the small congregation. The preist came out, did his ritual thing, and began to speak.

Before my mother knew what had hit her, I was standing up in my perfect purple little girl dress and my black patent leather Mary-Janes and shouting in my best you-listen-to-me-you-little-twerp-voice: "MY MOMMY SAID NO TALKING IN CHURCH!"

As you might gather by the fact that I am still living today, the preist did not hear me. However, the old ladies in the back had themselves quite a giggle about it.

What can I say? I've always been a rule follower.