Communication Mind

Lighting fires or putting fires out? A strong story makes a difference!

This statement was my opening statement in the 1,5 years long professional education that I managed around 2007 and 2008.. This met the students before they were my students, and this was what I told them the first time I met them in person. Storytelling means so many things, and can be of use in so many situations. I will do my best to tell you my views on the matter in this, and many more blog posts to come. 

But let me start out with telling you a story. 

It was in May, 1992. The cherry trees were blossoming and the sky was that kind of surprisingly clear blue that it can be in May when the sun is shining. Me and my two friends Cecilia and Daniel arrived in good time at the high school in the southern part of Sweden. We were tired from a night of shift-sleeping since we had forgotten the alarm bell and were staying at an empty hostel. But we had important work to do. Our show “Smith, You and I” addressed xenophobia and racism, in a time when it was urgent to address as the problem was growing.

We dragged our scenography from the van, built up the stage and set up the lighting equipment. The loud speakers of the sound-system were large as refrigerators and weighed equally. We went backstage, re-dressed, and waited. The auditorium filled up with highschool students. In the slots in the curtains we could see them take their seats. The whole front row filled with boys with shaved heads. They shouted the Hitler salute, and raised their arms in salutes. I was the one to open the show. I wasn’t nervous. I was scared shitless. 

The first part of the show was terrible. As soon as the word “Hitler” was mentioned in a line – or words as “nazis”, or “racism” – the frontrow-guys cheered. More Hitler salutes. More raised right arms. When the word “refugee” or “jew” was mentioned, they booed loudly. 

The mid part of the show contained a drastic tempo-increase. A woman enters the stage. She walks around in her home, cleaning – when there’s a loud banging at her door. The woman is terrified. She tries to fill a bag with necessities, looking for a way out. The banging at the door gets louder. Shouting is heard from the stairs. She runs around, in her own place. Still alone. She panics. The last thing she grands is a portrait of a young man – her son. And then the scene quiets down. Light is changing. Loud sound backdrop changes to silence. And in this, The Song of a German Mother, by Bertholt Brecht, follows. After the song, the light is changing again, and the woman on stage is suddenly a refugee in a different country. 

Somewhere around here, we experienced strongly how the response from the audience started to change. It got quieter. Not a single Sieg Heil. No more shouts or whistles. The end of the show was a significant tempo-decrease. We had consciously chosen a sublime and calm ending with lyrics read to quiet piano-tunes. As far as you can get from a catchy Grand Finale. We wanted reflection. It was baring the throat; an ending like that is so very easily destroyed. But the audience was quiet. After the last tune had sounded out we waited. For the booeing, for the things thrown at us, for the sneering laughters. But it was quiet. Finally, one of the frontrow guys rose and started to applaud. His friends followed suit. And soon, the whole audience was applauding. I was perplexed. 

After the show, all students were welcome to have a chat with us – after all, we were on tour to discuss xenophobia and racism. Only one gang stayed behind with us. The frontrow-guys. We were prepared for a lot of things, but not what was about to occur. 

The first guy to speak was the one who had stood up first. He said: 

“Well, listen, the last one. That… poem, or whatever. Well, I mean, that one I felt. Like.. here.” (he pounded at his chest). But I’m not sure if I got it. Could you explain?”

We talked for a long time. What was said and dealt with there is a thing between me, my friends and the guys. But afterwards, these guys stayed to help us pack our things up and load them back into our tour-van. 

The show “Smith, You and I” was a show that took shape after a period where I freelanced as a lecturer in xenophobia and racism. During that period I made a central reflection. It didn’t matter how many facts we presented – there was always a group that we couldn’t reach. The kind of group that in a classroom sits in the back, chews gum and talks loudly among themselves. Almost always guys. In exceptions, they sat in the front row. If the group was particularly strong. They had built a wall of emotions around themselves, and that wall could not be breached by facts alone. To get them to listen to facts, you had to breach that wall. And that’s when I made my decision. I was going to portray facts, and put them into a human context. We were going to make a show.