Philanthropy is a natural habitat for storytelling, Dan Yashinky writes. An organization’s companion stories can communicate, chronicle, and celebrate the compassion and thoughtfulness inherent in this work.
I’d like to explore the idea that the world of philanthropy is a natural habitat for storytelling.
Each organization engaged in philanthropy carries its own lore: stories about its origins, early leaders, evolution, and its place and purpose in the world. Some of these stories wind up as the official account of the group, useful for reports and AGM mission reviews. Others are part of an organization’s oral tradition, and these are the stories I’m interested in here. Just as individuals remember and are guided by our “companion stories” – a term Canadian sociologist Art Frank uses to describe stories that serve as our guides and beacons – so organizations carry a resource of word-of-mouth stories that whisper their wisdom at times of trouble, triumph, and transformation. Your leaders are also your story-keepers, using the language of stories to share timely guidance with colleagues, volunteers, and members of the community of interest you serve. In the practice of philanthropy, an organization’s companion stories can communicate, chronicle, and celebrate the compassion and thoughtfulness inherent in this work.
Stories are like seeds that rest dormant until something shifts in our lives, a trouble or a triumph; then the story seeds germinate, bringing new and much-needed understanding to whatever we are facing. Think of the little sayings you may have grown up with, the things Grandma or Grandpa used to say, the phrases that become part of the poetry of everyday life. At an individual and family level, these miniature wisdoms wind up as part of our DNA, working like way-markers and beacons as we navigate our life journeys.
In my childhood home, my Romanian-Jewish mother, a Holocaust survivor, used to say, “Daca i bal, bal se fie!” – If you’re going to have a ball, have a ball! Despite the travails of her early life, she held on to this proverb as a reminder to enjoy life fully. And not a day goes by that I don’t remember what my father said in moments of surprise and revelation: “Get out of the car!” Like so many private sayings, this one only makes sense in my family, part of our own personal folklore. My father ran a used car lot in Detroit, Michigan, while I was growing up. He employed an African-American man named Jerry Morgan, and it was Jerry’s fate to be pulled over frequently by the police (“po-lice,” as we say in Detroit) for no other reason than Driving While Black. They’d yell, “Get out of the car!” at Mr. Morgan. He rather subversively turned it into his life motto, useful for every occasion. It went from Jerry Morgan to my father and then to me and my sons. Long after he’d sold his car lot and studied French at Wayne State University and become a professor of French linguistics, my dad stayed true to his Detroit roots. Now, long after he has passed, when life throws something unexpected our way we still say, “Get out of the car!”
Your leaders are also your story-keepers, using the language of stories to share timely guidance with colleagues, volunteers, and members of the community of interest you serve.
Then there is the world of traditional stories – creation myths, legends, folktales, wisdom stories. Angela Sidney was an Indigenous Elder from the Yukon. I first met her when we invited her to tell stories at the 1984 Toronto International Storytelling Festival, and we became close friends as I visited her in the Yukon over many years. Sidney, who received the Order of Canada for her work as a tradition-keeper, knew stories about every river and mountain in the Yukon, as well as the matrilineal ancestries of her people. She once told her close friend Julie Cruikshank, an anthropologist and linguist studying the oral traditions of the Yukon First Nations, “I have no money to leave my grandchildren. My stories are my wealth.”
I think of Angela’s statement whenever I work in the poor neighbourhoods of Toronto, or at places like The Stop Community Food Centre, where I served as a storyteller-in-residence for many years. It reminds me that the people I meet carry cultural wealth, whatever their financial status may be. It is an important and humbling truth for those working in philanthropy. Near the end of her life, she told Cruikshank “I’ve tried to live my life right, just like a story.” The traditional stories she carried wove meaning in and through everyday life, connecting Angela Sidney with ancestral wisdom and preparing her for the vicissitudes of modern life. Her wise words have become part of my own wealth of companion stories.
Is there a special method or technique to suggest, something that will help you know how to choose timely, moving, and memorable stories that will inspire your co-workers and the people you serve? That question reminds me of a story.
There was once a rabbi who always had the right story for any moment, good or bad, that arose in life. His student, marvelling at the rabbi’s great skill, asked him the secret. How did he learn the skill of knowing what story to tell, and when, and to whom? The rabbi, not surprisingly, answered, “Let me tell you a story.”
There was once a young man who wanted to become a great sharpshooter. He studied for years and mastered every skill of marksmanship. When he had finished his studies, he rode home to show his parents his great ability. As he was riding along, he passed through a little village. On the side of the road was an old barn, and on the side of the barn somebody had painted 100 targets. To the young man’s amazement, in the middle of each target someone had shot a perfect bull’s-eye. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Who in this little village could be the world’s greatest sharpshooter? He called out, “Who has done this great feat? Where is the world’s greatest sharpshooter who can shoot a hundred perfect bull’s-eyes?” A girl walked across the road. “I did it,” she said. He was amazed by the girl’s claim. “I’ve studied for years, I’ve learned every skill of sharpshooting, but even I could never do such a thing. Please tell me your secret.” “Let me explain,” she said. “You see, I don’t draw the target first. First I shoot, then I draw the target.”
And the rabbi said, “It’s the same with me. There is no special skill or tip or technique. I spend my life gathering stories. When I meet someone, I make room for them to tell me their story. I listen, I read, I imagine, I remember. I fill my head with stories. And if you go through life with a headful of good stories, it’s never hard to find a moment to draw the story around.”
So whether there’s a special trick to the rabbi’s gift or simply the age-old practices of patient and open-hearted listening, careful remembering, and a passion for stories, I leave it to you to decide.
In part two, we will explore a few stories from the world’s oral traditions, stories that speak about courage, hope, generosity, community, and a passion for transformation – the values that form the matrix of philanthropy. They have become my companion stories, and perhaps they may become yours as well.
