Real Free Speech.

Cooperating instead of competing. Telling instead of lecturing. Listening instead of eavesdropping. Compassion not judgment. Acceptance not censorship. Celebrating identities not shaming. Risking exposure, not hiding. Paying attention instead of zoning out.

That is what makes community storytelling unique and transformational. But what makes it radical?

For one thing, the pure democracy of it all. The essential structure provides all storytellers an equal opportunity to take to the stage and tell about real things that happened to them, things they saw and did, things that they want to share with a roomful of strangers. It’s a place where everyday folks, with different life experiences, joys and sorrows, have a voice. Providing a venue and audience for this sort of activity could be seen as downright subversive. Nothing is canned, predictable or especially polite. It can be raw. mean or sugary sweet depending on who is brave enough to commit to a rehearsal, have their name and bio go out over social media, and show up for the event.

The structure inspires honesty and confessional tales. Intimacy emerges from the bare bones of a stage, a mic, a teller and listeners. One night at an Odyssey Storytelling show a woman, whose mother sat in the audience, confessed to sneaking out of her second story bedroom window, undetected, when she was a teenager. Twenty years later, Mom laughed at the story along with everyone else.

Stories about shame, triumph, and prejudice; love, revenge, and greed; all presented on a neutral stage, inviting deep respect and listening. I’ve never seen nor heard anyone being confrontational, although sometimes people are shocked or confused. If you weren’t expecting to hear about the sex life of a transman, it might take a moment or two to adjust your expectations and relax into serious appreciation.

Exposure = understanding = acceptance = true connection

Radically changing minds and hearts is just one of many advantages of community storytelling. Shaking people out of their insular lives and dropping them into another reality is radical. Community Storytelling is a place where diversity is celebrated and lessons are learned in the best possible le way—from people who are different from us. By listening fiercely and intensely, we allow ourselves to be amused or scared or made joyful; we open up to new possibilities. As the Tucson Meet Yourself 40th Anniversary Commemorative Magazine so aptly put it, “The messiness of cultures bumping into each other is the messiness of democracy—the elusive aspiration of equality, justice, and respect.”

Infusing storytellers with self-confidence and the knowledge that their stories matter is radical. Exposing tellers to nonjudgmental witnesses who validate their experience by offering kindness in exchange for honesty/trust subverts the paradigm of separateness and competition. For two hours, the length of a show, a community is created. And there is spillover—friendships are forged, connections happen, overlapping social networks will amaze and make us say, “But, of course.”

Let's take it outside.

The indigenous resistance to the westering anglos as they punched their way over the Appalachian Crest for the seizure and enclosing of the continent was led by a young Shawnee warrior, Tecumseh. Invited into the governor's mansion to negotiate, Tecumseh refused: "Houses are built for you to hold council in: Indians hold theirs in the open air." He also refused to take a chair when offered one, saying that he would repose on the bosom of the earth. There is a resonance here with the spirit of Occupy, and its mode of inhabiting space.

Popular protest takes to the streets because that is the space that remains. To be sure, most of the major events in history have happened outside, in the sense that the decisions taken inside—in the chancelleries, the boardrooms, the smoke-filled backrooms, etc.—are ultimately conditioned by things that happen, or do not happen, in the open air. Tecumseh's retort to Governor Harrison points up the significance of spatial and political form, and of the different architectonics of societies rooted in common—as opposed to private—property.

The spaces of modernity are shaped and dominated by private and state interests; under modernity public space is a subordinate category, residual even, and confined to what is left once land has been commodified and parceled into private lots. What remains is the open air. Literally. The air itself treated by economists as and "externality" (in the language of the business schools), which are commons of a peculiar capitalist kind. The air becomes a sink for the waste produced during the manufacture of commodities. This amounts to the theft of a common, though it is sometimes hard to see since it doesn't happen all at once, nor everywhere. Like many other things, pollution is very uneven, and has a class geography.

(...)

As more and more of modern life moves away into a representation, as the image-world comes to dominate civil society, and as the spectacular state gets drawn further into the day-to-day management of consumer obedience, internal policing, and the prevention of riposte to its lies, so the problem of image politics and of the very possibility of making spaces for strategic discussion takes on critical importance. (...) Given the de-realization of human collectivity under conditions of spectacle, these brief interruptions—the occupations of the squares and critical mass rides—produce real manifestations of community, albeit fleeting. Yet in each case it's a move beyond the horizon of representational politics, and takes life off the screen for a moment.

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