Your Stories Are Safe

My grandmother wrote somewhere between 11 and 14 books. It depended on the day and context of the story as to how many and successful they were.

I used to love going over to her house and getting lost in the stories she would tell. If she were to believed, she once was a spy for the Korean government (She was a traveling simultaneous translator, and spoke nine languages), and was friends with the wife of one of the richest men in the world (that was actually true. He was once on the cover of Time magazine for brokering an arms deal between Israel and China.)

Near the end of her life, I walked into her hospital room. My mom and sister were in the room sitting on chairs. Both of them were exhausted and clearly just needed to leave. “Go ahead,” I told them. “Go spend some time together.”

By that point, my grandmother had several strokes and was in full blown dementia. “She won’t recognize you,” my mom warned. “It ok,” I whispered. “I know her.”

As her time came to a close, my grandmother just spouted stories, they came fast and furious as if she needed to get them all out before she died. Many were stories I had heard before, some were remixes of old stories. But the new ones were just as vivid as the ones she told me when I was a kid.

I took her hand, and said, “Babu. Your stories are safe with me.”

My grandmother taught me that storytelling is endemic to us as humans. It’s how we relate, how we remember, how we teach, how we celebrate our humanity. Yet, we don’t share our stories with others because we fear their reaction.

The truth is that all of our stories matter and are filled with connection. Your viewpoints are necessary; your sharing improves people around you.

Share them. Tell them over donuts, or write a blog post. Or call your mom.

Don’t lock them inside and refuse their desire to see the sun.