The Gift of Longer Stories

Photo by Sweet Ice Cream Photography on Unsplash

I still remember the first time that I performed at a nursing home because I was terrified. Never in my life had I been asked to dance so close to my audience. I was going to accidentally arabesque someone in the face and be asked to leave. I was going to miss a step, and these older and wiser people were going to know about it.

Sure enough, my worrying sent me sprawling into an artificial Christmas tree in the corner. To my surprise, though, the audience didn’t seem to notice.

They were totally entranced. As if we were members of the ABT and dancing on some massive stage with smoke and spotlights, my friends and I were captivating the elderly men and women before us.

Our classic “Mary, Did You Know?” ended, and we ran back into the dining room, where we gave up our white tutus for the other dancers to use. No one asked me how I’d managed to whack the Christmas tree. Instead, the owner of my studio started passing out packs of tissues and individually-wrapped candy canes and encouraged us to mingle with the nursing home’s residents when the performance was over.

A new wave of dread settled over me as I thought about speaking to the 20-or-so elders in the next room. Forget rattling the Christmas tree. Now, they were going to know that I was 13 years old and had the social capacity of the average mouse.

So, for the next ten minutes, you could’ve found me cowering behind my extroverted friends, listening as they airily wished the residents a merry Christmas and a happy new year. I marveled at the ease with which the elders answered questions like “What was your favorite dance?” Like they cared. Some of them talked about their own dance experience. I listened, thrilled, but didn’t speak, not even to ask one of the many questions in my head. What style of dance did you do? Did you enjoy performing? Do you have a favorite book? What is it? You’re a WWII survivor. What did you see? How did you feel?

We performed at another nursing home the following Christmas. I didn’t ask my questions then either.

The year after that, my dad made a point that I’ll never forget. His grandmother, my great-grandmother, was 100 years old when she passed away in 2015, and my dad called her every weekend for years and years before. Even when he had nothing to say, he called her because she always had something to say. She had a century’s worth of stories to tell.

So, I performed my Christmas dance with a new attitude that year. I didn’t need to say anything profound to the elderly men and women at the nursing home. I just needed to give them permission to tell me a story.

That’s easier said than done in a group of 30 other dancers, and it wasn’t until yesterday that I truly achieved my goal of having a conversation with an elderly stranger. Nothing forced. Nothing cheesy. Just a back-and-forth, every-day conversation.

We actually performed at two nursing homes yesterday evening. At the second, my friends and I were treated to bags and bags of popcorn and what must’ve been gallons of some kind of fruit drink. We were treated like queens by the people whom we were supposed to be blessing with Christmas joy and the gift of dance. Among the people in our audience were a Pearl Harbor survivor, a WWII pilot and an ex-CIA agent.

After the performance, I spoke with a woman named Anne. Naturally, I asked her if she’d read Anne of Green Gables. “Of course!” she said. “I was a teenager once!” She then told me that reading is her “thing.” That she had so many books that she had to give some to the library to make room for more. When I asked her if she has a favorite, she said, “Oh, no. There are no favorite books. Read one book and then, read another book. Read as many as you can.”

Here’s what I know: stories are a gift. But longer stories–the true ones–are extra special. Because they won’t be here forever. None of us will. So don’t be afraid to ask questions and listen intently to their answers. Your elders aren’t looking for your wisdom– they were all teenagers once! But they have a wealth of wisdom to share with you now.

People are still people, no matter what their age or story. And, to nobody’s surprise, we are still how we treat each other and nothing more.