They may be in the back corner of a closet because our kids have outgrown them or on a high shelf because they are still popular playthings but drive us up the wall by the end of the day. Then there are the toys with tiny buttons and little switches designed for small fingers to push. Toys that light up, beep, dance in place, or roll along the floor.

If they are finished serving time in your family, consider giving these latter toys–the ones with the buttons, switches, noises, and movements— a chance with another child. Join a workshop to adapt them for children who otherwise would not be able to play with them.

Addressing a toy challenge

In its second year, Tevin’s Adaptive Toy Drive gives a second life to toys—or, in the case of brand-new toys, an adapted life—for kids who cannot push small buttons or flip switches due to motor-functioning challenges or sensory issues. Those challenges can make it difficult or impossible for children with conditions like spina bifida, Down syndrome, spinal cord injuries, or dexterity and mobility impairments to trigger the lights, noises, and motors of toys using the mechanisms built in by manufacturers. 

Cierra Milton and Terrell Glenn will host the adaptive toy workshop in December and say they are on a mission to give people the skills they need to adapt toys on their own for kids with different abilities. This year, Tevin’s Adaptive Toy Drive takes place on Saturday, December 14, at Byrd Barr Place. Families are welcome to sign up and participate. Glenn says there are always things kids can help with, like unscrewing battery packs and snipping wires.

Join Tevin’s Adaptive Toy Drive

Want to make a difference in a child’s life? Help adapt electronic toys for children with dexterity, motor functioning, and sensory challenges. Bring new and gently used electronic toys to adapt. Don’t have a toy? No worries, join anyway. Kids are welcome. Where: Byrd Barr Place When: December 14 from 10 a.m. to noon Register: Go to  Eventbrite.com and search for Tevin’s Adaptive Toy Drive 

A couple on a mission 

Developing the adaptive toy workshop has been a long-time goal for Glenn, a hardware engineer at Microsoft, and Milton, an occupational therapist at Harborview Medical Center. Glenn’s younger brother Tevin, the drive’s namesake, has cerebral palsy. Glenn says he grew up watching his father disassemble toys and rewire them to levers and buttons large enough for Tevin to manipulate. 

“I would take (Tevin’s) hand and help him push the buttons,” Glenn recalls. “The same toys that I used to play with, now he could too.”

During the event, participants will learn how to dismantle and rewire electronic toys. Glenn and Milton will provide instruction, encouragement, and all the tools necessary – through the generous support of the NE Seattle Tool Library. 

“We’ll meet you where you’re at,” says Milton, “and you’ll learn a new skill… you just never know when it might be useful in your community.” 

Increasing awareness 

The toys adapted during the drive will be donated to children with disabilities through groups like Boyer Children’s Clinic, Haring Center for Inclusive Education, and the Down Syndrome Center of Puget Sound. 

The couple also hopes that participants will leave with an increased awareness and appreciation for the experiences and difficulties of people with disabilities.

“We’re trying to make this a low-barrier environment,” says Milton. 

“Just come with enthusiasm,” adds Glenn. 

Increasing access and skill

Adapting toys is not only about equal accessibility, says Milton. Actions like pushing a button and hearing a stuffed toy laugh or speak teach all children about cause and effect, which is the basis for many other skills. Therapists like Milton work to help their patients develop these skills.

Glenn and Milton point out that not all parents have the confidence to wield a soldering gun to adapt a toy. Moreover, companies that market adaptive toys and switches often charge $50-$80 for what Glenn’s dad did for $5 in a short time.

The couple hopes to see at least 25 participants at this year’s adaptive toy drive. They hope to adapt and donate dozens of toys. Eventually, Glenn and Milton plan to launch a non-profit organization and hold drives and workshops throughout the year.

Every child, they stress, should have toys they can enjoy, and interact and play with, adapted to their needs.

Read more:

Guide to Free Holiday Family Fun around Seattle

The post Help pass on the joy of toys on Dec. 14 appeared first on Seattle's Child.

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Click to to hear writer Cheryl Murfin share her story before a life audience at a Moth StorySLAM

READ

The best she ever had

As told in a Mother StorySLAM in Seattle

When my daughter Madeleine was born back in the day before Amazon delivered nipple shields, nursing bras, and groceries to your doorstep, the sage women who surrounded me — my midwife, my mother, my grandmother, my aunt, my good friend Susan — all admonished me to stay in bed and take it easy for at least two weeks. 

I did not listen. 

What happens when you don’t listen to sage advice

Somehow, I got it in my head around day five postpartum that I needed to go to the grocery store several miles from my house. I needed to 1) get nursing bras to accommodate my exploding chest and 2) buy groceries, even though my mother had filled the pantry, the refrigerator, and the freezer. 

I waited until everyone left the house, bundled up the baby, and drove to the store. Or floated. It is unclear to me even today.

With the baby in her car seat in the shopping basket, I wandered aimlessly down the aisles, randomly pulling useful things off the shelves: evaporated milk, marshmallows, and, for some reason I can’t imagine, pickling spice. I must have forgotten about the bras. 

As I checked out, I felt a sense of pride, a confident new mom taking care of business. I smiled widely as two elderly ladies behind us cooed at my beautiful daughter — and pooh-poohed when one tenderly asked, “Shouldn’t you be in bed, honey?”

I remember thinking as I took everything out of the shopping cart and put bags in the trunk, “I can do this.” I wasn’t sure before my daughter’s birth that I was cut out to be a mother. But here I was, doing it.

A fateful discovery

I jumped in the car and started to race home, hoping to get there before anyone else and thus prevent a self-care lecture. But about 10 minutes into the drive, I realized something wasn’t right. Looking into the backseat, it took another half-minute to fully comprehend that neither the baby nor her car seat were in the car.

Is there a word to describe this discovery? Panic is a pittance by comparison, and hysteria feels too light. Crazed might come close. I hit the gas and flipped a U-turn so fast and hard it left tracks and smoke. I could barely see the road between my tears and terror. 

The “I’m not so sure about you” the author’s daughter gave her at birth. Photo courtesy Cheryl Murfin

Speeding ticket worthy

In two minutes, I covered the 10 minutes back to the store parking lot and nearly pulled the door off its hinges trying to get out of the car. Across the parking lot I saw a crowd circled up and I barreled through it to find my sweet baby looking up at me from her car seat on the ground. Or just looking up—she was so new her eyes weren’t yet really focusing.

I repeat: On the ground.

I threw myself over the car seat like the hero I was not. That’s when I heard: 

“Is this your baby?”

The police officer’s voice was kind but firm. She was tall and big with a grandmother’s face and an unholstered gun.

It was hard to answer, given that I was hyperventilating. But, eventually, I think I howled “Yessssssssssssss!”

She broke up the crowd with a few short words, sending the cashiers back inside and the rubberneckers back to their cars and their destinations. Then she knelt beside me and asked with a compassion I don’t think I’ve heard matched since:

“Your first baby, right?”

She took my name, address, phone number, driver’s license. She asked me Madeleine’s name, her birthday, her father’s name. Her face was serious, calculating, I was sure, the number of laws I’d just broken.

Then came a stern: “Come with me.”

I picked up the carseat and she helped me up by the arm. 

I got ready to be handcuffed and shoved in the back of her cruiser, which was pulled up to keep other cars away from my newborn. 

Instead, she led me to my own car, which was still running across the parking lot like a get-away vehicle.

“You are going to drive home,” she directed. “I’m going to drive behind you.”

It was the longest, slowest drive of my life as visions of Child Protective Services coming to take my baby away overwhelmed me and the cop kept close on my tail. I was devastated by the thought that she would call my not-yet husband, and he would run back to Russia — with my baby. By the time we reached the house, I was bordering on hysteria again, unable to stop the tears.

A grandmother knows

The officer looked at me sternly, and I realize now with a slip of mirth. 

“Show me this baby’s room,” she said. She was, I’m sure,  checking to see if this was, in fact, my baby and/or to discover other evidence of my lack of parenting fitness.

“Just wanted to make sure you got to the right house,” she finally let out what I thought was a laugh. 

“Listen,” she put away her writing pad. “I’m not going to write you a ticket or call CPS …” Then, further reading my mind, “or call your husband.

“In return, you are going to get back in that bed and stay there until you’ve gotten enough sleep to safely care for your beautiful baby. I don’t care who you have to call how many times. If you need help, call me. I’ll find you some.”

“We’ve all been there,” she smiled then.

I gushed out my gratitude.

“Oh my GOD, thank you, thank you. I am going call your chief and tell them how incredible you are …”

“I do NOT think that is a wise idea,” she cut me off. 

Clearly, I had not fully understood the gift she was giving me. She was not going to report my child’s abandonment at all.

A request to pay it forward

“But here’s what you will do,” she smiled and put her hand gently on my shoulder. “Someday, you will see a struggling new mom who believes she’s won The Worst Mother in the World Award. And you will tell her, ‘No, you are not that mother,’ because I categorically won that award in 1995!” She laughed a big hearty laugh.

“And I hope you will laugh too when you tell her,” she added.

I will never forget that officer’s name, her compassion, or her understanding. And I have never forgotten her parting words to me as I stood holding my precious girl.

“No matter what mistakes you make as a parent, remember, you are the BEST mother this baby has ever had.”

In a strange twist of fate, my work for the next many years focused on brand-spanking new parents as I help them prepare for birth and the postpartum period. More than 29 years later, I do, indeed, cherish those late-night phone calls from stressed new parents.

Remembering that police officer with a halo around her hat, I tell them my story and what they most need to know. They are the best parents their baby ever had.

Read more from our storytelling project:

Lifting Up the Sky

Glukeek Legend

Learning txʷəlšucid and telling the stories

Living, breathing, working for my culture

Family stories handed down

The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

A family of Moths: Recreating The Moth StorySLAM at home

The Best Mother She Ever Had

‘Out of my heart a story will come: Storytelling in schools’

The Lion and the Mouse

Why do we tell stories around the fire?

The post The best mother she ever had appeared first on Seattle's Child.

Those three words have launched thousands of stories on The Moth, the juggernaut storytelling show that began on national public radio nearly 30 years ago. 

Since then, The Moth has collected over 50,000 oral stories from ordinary people (kids and adults alike) across the planet. Not to mention, it’s inspired many a Friday night notes-free oral storytelling memory for families like mine.

From the silly to the serious, our family has “mothed” our experiences across the dining room table for years. We glued ourselves to The Moth Radio Hour on most Sundays when my kids were tweens and teens. The stories were often riveting and often led to interesting post-show discussions.

A new species of Moth

So, what is a Moth story? The concept is simple: Stand up in front of your audience and tell a 5-minute story. The rules are simple too—even a young child can be a moth:

• The story has to be true
• No notes! The trick is to practice telling your story aloud.
• The story must have happened to the storyteller (i.e. it’s not about someone else).
• It has to relate to the chosen theme.
• It should last no more than six minutes. Five minutes is the goal, but there’s a one-minute buffer.

To understand how The Moth story sessions go, head to KUOW radio on Sundays from 1-2 p.m. when the station airs The Moth Radio Hour. 

READ AND LISTEN: The Best Mother She Ever Had

“Mothing” at home

The Moth provides an excellent framework for an entertaining afternoon or evening of storytelling with kids. Here’s how to do it:

• Invite friends (both kids and adults) to the event.
• Make snacks and ask friends to bring more.
• Set up chairs in the living room (or wherever you host your Moth) and create a “stage.” Make it simple: a fireplace makes a good stage, and so does any part of a room where listeners can clearly see and hear the storyteller. 
• Create a “mic.” A carrot works. As does a wooden spoon.
• Pick a theme. Here are a few from the actual show: camp, busted, adventure, gratitude, celebration, school, beginnings.
• Assign someone as the timer. The clock starts when the story begins. A warning is given at 4 minutes. A DONE bell is given at 6 minutes. 
• Anyone who wants to tell a story puts their name in a hat. Pull names to choose which storyteller starts and who goes next.
• Start the show! Most shows are limited to 10 storytellers and take a break after the first five.

Your homemade Moth can include just the storytelling or you can make it a real Moth Story SLAM-style challenge. To do so, pick three judges. (Make sure at least two are kids!) They get to vote on each story using a scale of 1-10. Was the story on time? Was it on the theme? Was it told well? The story with the most points is the winner.

The Moth and kids

The Moth Radio Hour often runs stories with mature content, although most are fine for kids middle school age and up. As I said, listening has led to some doozy conversations.

However, the makers of The Moth recently launched the Grown podcast. As its creators describe it, Grown is about “the nebulous, the liminal, the just plain weird time between those awkward teenage years and adulthood.” 

Grown is a great listen for families with tweens and teens and a real eye-opener for parents who will learn quite a bit about what it’s like to be a tween or teen today. 

The Moth has also curated a list of stories told by kids for use in classrooms. The themes include Hot Wheels, Pool Party, The Prom, and My Grandfather’s Shoes. 

How to tell a good story

What makes a good story? Here are a few tips from the experts at The Moth:

• Know your story “by heart” but not by rote memorization. Get into it with your voice, hand gestures, and sounds.
• Start with the action.
• Have stakes: “Why is what happens in the story important to you or your child storyteller?” 
• Have a great first line that grabs attention. Or, as Moth educators put it: 
  • NO: “So I was thinking about climbing this mountain. But then I watched a little TV and made a snack and took a nap and then my mom told me to wash the dishes . . ..” 
  • YES: “The mountain loomed over us. We only had our trail mix and snow boots, and we had to get someplace to start a fire before sundown or freeze to death for sure.”
• No fake accents. Imitating accents from a culture not your own rarely works and often offends. 

See The Moth in Seattle

The Moth holds monthly StorySLAMs in various venues around Seattle. Moth StorySLAMS have no minimum age, but some venues do, so check before you go. 

I recommend live events for mature kids aged 12 and up. Be warned some may be explicit and contain profanity. Themes in November and December include: Yes! Chef, Outgrown, Silver Linings, and Reunion. To find events, go to themoth.org/events and put Seattle in the finder.

Read more from our storytelling project:

Lifting Up the Sky

Glukeek Legend

Learning txʷəlšucid and telling the stories

Living, breathing, working for my culture

Family stories handed down

The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

A family of Moths: Recreating The Moth StorySLAM at home

The Best Mother She Ever Had

‘Out of my heart a story will come: Storytelling in schools’

The Lion and the Mouse

Why do we tell stories around the fire?

The post A family of Moths appeared first on Seattle's Child.

“Quiet your voices, be still every tongue,

And fix on me deeply your eyes.

For out of my heart a story will come,  

Ancient, lovely, and wise.”

With no book or script to guide her, she recounted the birth of Prince Siddartha. Her students sat rapt as she told of his birth in a garden in India, then how, as a child, he rescued an injured swan.

A foundation

In the Waldorf tradition, storytelling is foundational for almost everything from math and science to classroom management. 

In middle and upper grades, a chemistry lesson might begin via a biography of the French chemist Antoine Lavoisier to provide context, and quadratic equations might be taught alongside an introduction to Muhammad ibn Musa al-Khwarizmi, the Persian polymath considered the father of modern algebra.

Waldorf educators intentionally select folktales, fairy tales, legends, and biographies from all over the world. 

READ AND LISTEN: The Lion and the Mouse

“It acknowledges the wisdom of other places and peoples when we can draw globally on those who have influenced us,” says Cox. 

While Waldorf schools do incorporate illustrations, objects, and text in storytelling, at first, most stories are shared orally – or, in Waldorf terms, they “tell stories by heart.” 

“We want that human-to-human engagement,” says Seattle Waldorf’s Grade School Director Dru Smith-Crain. Without pictures or videos to guide them, students use their imaginations by creating images in their minds. 

“This promotes flexibility of thinking, it helps to build memory, and it fosters in us a stronger sense of curiosity and wonder about things,” says Smith-Crain.

What research says

From a research perspective, Dr. Trina Spencer, a University of Kansas professor, has shown that for elementary students, skills in oral academic language are directly related to literacy, aka reading and writing. Students’ listening comprehension significantly predicts their reading comprehension, and skills in speaking in turn foster writing performance. 

At Eastside Christian School, Sundee Frazier teaches middle school English and creative writing and finds a link between her faith tradition and teaching.

“Jesus taught using mostly stories: it’s effective pedagogy!” says Sundee. “Stories stick with us much longer than facts or statistics because they’re imbued with emotion.”

Traditionally, her 7th graders write personal narratives as one of their major projects. This year, however, Frazier says, “I’m going to ask them to step it up a notch. They’ll take that written piece and then we’re going to transform it into an oral piece that they’ll present to their classmates.” 

Why the change? An opportunity for connection, student-to-student.

“I think so many of the world’s problems could be solved if we had more connection to one another as human beings who have similar struggles, similar fears, similar challenges,” says Frazier. 

She hopes that when students hear each others’ stories, they’ll realize how much they share. 

“We love to tell stories, we love to hear stories,” says Frazier, who is also a novelist. “That’s how our values are shaped; that’s how we transmit cultural values, standards, and norms.”

Transmitting culture

Since 2015, storytelling to transmit cultural values has been allowed in public schools in Washington State. That’s the year Senate Bill 5433 codified teaching Native American history, culture, and government in public schools.

In Auburn School District’s student body, more than 70 tribes are represented. Because of Auburn’s location on historical Muckleshoot land, stories and teaching from that tribe are highly valued as part of the district’s curriculum. 

Although in-person storytelling is celebrated at larger school- or district-wide events, Robin Pratt, the district’s Native American Education Coordinator, encourages teachers and students to access storytelling resources digitally. The Muckleshoot tribe has worked with multimedia specialists to produce a wide array of videos, including stories about canoe journeys and salmon. 

Learning to serve a lifetime

Pratt embraces the videos as authentic examples of Muckleshoot storytelling. 

“They’re telling their story and these are the authorized pieces that you can use,” says Pratt. “They created it. And that’s how they want it represented.”

Back in Cox’s classroom, Waldorf students revisited the birth of Siddartha again and again over several days. While doing so helps grow academic skills like narrative cognition, story sequence, and writing, Cox says she also employs the legend for loftier goals. 

The story might open a discussion on being kind and loving, for example, or support a debate on ethics and morality when considering Siddartha’s response to witnessing others suffer. 

“We’ll learn how to be human,” she says. “How to be a member of a community. How to take up the challenges in the world that face us.”

Read more from our storytelling project:

Lifting Up the Sky

Glukeek Legend

Learning txʷəlšucid and telling the stories

Living, breathing, working for my culture

Family stories handed down

The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

A family of Moths: Recreating The Moth StorySLAM at home

The Best Mother She Ever Had

‘Out of my heart a story will come: Storytelling in schools’

The Lion and the Mouse

Why do we tell stories around the fire?

The post ‘Out of my heart, a story will come’ appeared first on Seattle's Child.

“We want to be known as this organization that’s doing advocacy work on behalf of the families that we serve—and with the families that we serve,” says FOCS Senior Community and Advocacy Manager Abbie Altamirano. 

The organization’s main pillars of advocacy are educational equity, health equity, and reproductive justice, but “anti-racism is at the heart of what kind of advocacy work we want to do,” Altamirano adds.

An encampment in need of friends of color

Most recently, FOCS responded to the dire needs of approximately 200 asylum seekers living in squalid conditions at an encampment in Kent. The group recognized the inequities and injustices in the plight of immigrant families at the encampment—including families from Angola, Congo, and Venezuela with more than 25 children between them. Their kids ranged in age from 4 months to 15 years. As fall approached, the  Seattle Times reported that county and state funding for temporary housing for new immigrant families arriving in King County was stretched thin.

“It’s such a complex and heart-wrenching situation for all those families and especially for the children,” says FOCS Executive Director Christine Tang. “No one sets out on a journey like this, braving the elements and criminal dangers, away from family, if their lives and well-being didn’t depend on it.”

As part of its support effort, FOCS and its member families gathered and delivered hundreds of dollars worth of donated essentials to the encampment families earlier this year. FOCS staff also spoke with parents in the encampment to assess their greatest needs and joined them at a recent Kent City Council meeting to urge local leaders to secure housing for families.  

Brainstorming longer-term support

Following their initial action, FOCS leaders organized a brainstorming session with its members—parent group facilitators, teachers, and others—to develop a broader program to support camp families, including inviting partners from Union Cultural Center to teach capoeira, a Brazilian martial art combining dance, acrobatics, music, and philosophy in game form, to kids at the encampment. FOCS staff also collaborated with community organizations and individuals to help enroll 25 children at six schools. 

Then, without warning, the encampment was emptied by authorities in late September and most families and pregnant people were moved to longer-term housing. FOCS leaders say they aim to stay informed and continue supporting the families. 

Their struggles hit home

The plight of the immigrants hits home for the FOCS staff, many of whom are immigrants or children of immigrants. FOCS program director Jesse Guecha was born in Colombia to a mother struggling to find work while raising two young children. Guecha was left at an orphanage and later adopted through a Seattle-based agency.

“As somebody who ended up here in the U.S., away from my culture, away from my language, away from my family—even though I was given a roof over my head and food—I wasn’t given the cultural and language supports that I needed,” says Guecha. “So it really touches me to see these kids here. Some have their family with them but don’t have their extended family, their village, language, and culture.”

Advocacy and empowerment for local families

FOCS staff members bring the same passion for justice and equity to the organization’s ongoing programs. At the same time, staff never assume they know what is best for FOCS families.

FOCS leaders do, however, recognize the power that parents have in advocacy. Parent groups follow an anti-racism curriculum, and participants learn to address systemic racism in the community and schools. Specific parent groups (for example, Black and Indigenous parent groups) invite members to home in on issues relevant to their unique cultures. And, as the 2025 session of the Washington legislative session comes into view, FOCS is getting ready to push state lawmakers for secure family housing and alternatives to youth incarceration. 

For that work, and for all its programs, FOCS relies on conversations among families, staff, and parent group facilitators.

“We started as a grassroots organization, and interpersonal connections are still one of the important things about FOCS,” says Tang.  

Read more:

Families of Color Seattle: Where parents of color don’t have to hold back

What personal care product and cosmetics are safe?

WA Board of Education wants to overhaul graduation requirements

The post Families of Color Seattle: Advocacy in action appeared first on Seattle's Child.

That exchange of breath between listener and storyteller, said Roger Fernandes, an artist, storyteller, and educator of the Lower Elwha S’Klallum tribe, is called the Sacred Breath. 

“Essentially, the sacred breath is what you breathe out when you’re speaking, and the audience breathes it in and gives it life. Stories are living things.”

Fernandes didn’t start out as a storyteller. He grew up hundreds of miles away from the Lower Elwha S’Kallum reservation. He wanted to be an artist. 

However, the Indian Education Act of 1974 went into effect shortly after he graduated college, so he applied and took a job at Highline Schools. There, amidst his young students, the power of storytelling took hold. 

“If you look at Native children in public schools, they tend to struggle,” Fernandes explains. But it’s not for lack of potential—studies showed Native children entering Kindergarten were bright, sociable, eager to learn.”

One semester, Fernandes accompanied a Native storyteller around the school, classroom to classroom. He heard the same stories 10, 20 times, and thought about all the research that showed children learn through story, fantasy, and play.

“All at once, my path became clear. That’s what I’m going to do,” he recalls. “I’m going to tell Native stories to Native children. I am going to tell them the stories of their ancestors.” And that’s what he did for the next forty years.

Cynthia LaPlant, a member of the Puyallup Tribe, teaches Lushootseed language at the Grandview Early Learning Center. Photo by Joshua Huston

Finding meaning

Oral storytelling is fundamental to many Native American cultures. 

The Salishan languages in the Pacific Northwest were spoken languages, so oral storytelling served as a connective tissue, binding cultural values, history, tradition, and philosophy into an art that is both entertaining and educational. 

Most traditional oral stories are open for interpretation. According to Mary Jane Topash, a member of the Tulalip Tribe and assistant director for cultural initiatives at Seattle’s Burke Museum, each story offers many takeaways, and listeners’ interpretations change over time, as they grow up.

“I got to listen to traditional stories as a child, but as I got older, I realized some of the stories I had heard over and over again started to mean something different,” Topash says. “It’s the same story [you’ve] heard dozens of times, but the understanding changes.” 

Many traditional stories are origin stories meant to elucidate how the world came into existence. Instead of avoiding heavy philosophical questions, Fernandes embraces them—and so do his young listeners. 

“Some of these stories talk about existential stuff—about the meaning of the universe and the meaning of life. But little kids love that kind of conversation, and they’re anxious to have it,” he says. The tradition of oral storytelling offers children perspective on the world in which they live.

Many Coast Salish tribes even share certain stories, although each culture has its own version.  

Cynthia LaPlant, a member of the Puyallup Tribe, teaches at the Grandview Early Learning Center, where she first started learning the Coast Salish language Lushootseed as a student almost twenty years ago.

The story of Lady Louse, for example, is told in Tulalip, Puyallup, and other Coast Salish tribes. LaPlant says the story “is different for each tribe, but the essence is the same because the storytelling tradition means each story is unique.” 

Stories evolve as time goes on, she says. “Nothing is set in stone, and you’re not supposed to correct people. It’s one of my favorite things about the language.”  

Indigenous storytelling in the age of TikTok

The intersection of oral storytelling and modern technology is both exhilarating and discouraging. 

Thanks to the Internet, young adults like LaPlant can share and discover stories from all over the country. In fact, LaPlant discovered storytelling nights on Facebook Live before attending in-person storytelling events. 

Technology also enables parents and caregivers to introduce storytelling to small children through digital media. Jill LaPointe, of the Upper Skagit/Nooksack, is the senior director of the Indigenous Peoples Institute at Seattle University and director at Lushootseed Research, a nonprofit dedicated to preserving and sustaining the Lushootseed language and culture.

One evening LaPointe and her husband were listening to an audio recording of her favorite storyteller, Johnny Moses. Her grandson, just five years old, came into the room, sat down, and listened—mesmerized—to the entire story.

“It totally amazed us,” says LaPointe. But still, she worried something was missing through virtual storytelling.

Historically, the winter months were a sacred time when Indigenous families and communities would spend hours telling stories and building relationships, explains LaPointe. 

LISTEN AND READ

Native American story: Lifting Up the Sky

“The storytellers that I was brought up with would often pause and wait for the audience to say ‘habu,’ which kind of means ‘I’m engaged,’” she says. “It was a relationship.” 

Topash agrees.

“Hearing a story in the longhouse, surrounded by family and community—you can’t get that on paper or on a screen,” she said. 

“These days, technology is so powerful that people watch entire ‘live’ performances on tiny screens—and they may not even know what they are missing.” 

Words trapped on a page

Over the past several decades, Coast Salish tribes have translated their language into the written word—devising an alphabet, transcribing stories, and developing teaching materials for the next generation.

“Having it recorded, written, and saved, of course, is a huge goal, and important,” says Topash. “But you lose some of the magic, some of the animation. If the characters walk, the storytellers walk; if the animal jumps, the storyteller jumps.” 

“It’s one thing to type in ALL CAPS,” she says,“ but if the story called for the character to yell, the storyteller would actually yell.”

Reading is usually a solitary endeavor, says Fernandes. “It’s an internal process.” 

Written stories also rarely change—occasionally, nonfiction books are updated for the era, but for the most part, once published, a fictional story remains the same forever.

“I love to read,” says Fernandes. “But that story is trapped in the pages of the book. It never gets the chance to transform.” 

“Storytelling comes from the memory of the teller.”

Understanding Native stories

For years, Native Americans have fought to reclaim their cultures and traditions from people who sought to exploit them. In her role at the Burke Museum, Topash tries to bring awareness to these complicated and sometimes fraught situations.

Though she embraces the significance of digitizing Coast Salish stories and traditions, she worries: “Sometimes all this access makes me nervous. I don’t know if people understand how important these stories are.” 

Non-Native listeners must remember that even if they are entertaining, Indigenous stories are sacred. 

Vi Hilbert was a leader in the movement to reclaim Lushootseed language and traditions. She was also LaPointe’s grandmother and Fernandes’ teacher. She taught Fernandes that the word for storytelling in Lushootseed is “syəhubtxʷ,” which means “the teachings.” 

“Storytelling is not entertainment, even if it is entertaining, and it’s not fanciful. It is how you teach children and each other,” he said.

Native American storyteller Roger Fernandes, an artist and educator of the Lower Elwha S’Klallum tribe. Photo by Joshua Huston

Appreciating, not appropriating 

Consider as well that many Native elders were forced into boarding schools and punished for speaking their language. Even though LaPlant’s family was proud and supportive of her learning Lushootseed, hearing the language her great-grandfather was forced to abandon can be painful.

Topash offers some insight into how to appreciate and not appropriate Indigenous oral storytelling. First and foremost, give credit and credence to the tribe from which the story originated. Throughout his work, for example, Fernandes names his teachers and honors their gift of storytelling.

Well-meaning educators should consider how to properly include the storytelling tradition in curriculums. Topash often hears teachers ask their students to “write their own origin story like the story they just heard.”

She says this trivializes the significance of Native stories. 

“These stories are ancestral,” Topash says. “They come from something: an event, an understanding, an interpretation. So don’t appropriate the process for a lesson plan. Honor the tradition and the tribe, don’t try to make it your own.” 

Instead, ask students to research their own origin stories—where did their ancestors come from? What event or experience in their past might be worthy of a story? This way, students can honor the art of storytelling without appropriating it.

As long as birds are flying

Native American storytelling is a tradition that offers listeners the chance to see their world differently. It can enthrall the squirmiest of children and edify the most erudite adults. 

“In 40 years, I’ve never had a classroom that was rude or disengaged,” says Fernandes. In fact, he says, “every now and then I get a bit of wisdom from a little kid, a comment that is just so profound, it changes the way I understand the story.”

Storytelling can be a way to speak to children in their language. Fernandes gives the example of a child who comes home from school and says to his mother: “My teacher says the Earth is spinning in space, how can that be true?”

Perhaps this mother tries to explain the force of gravity. But to a 5-year-old, those are just words. What that child is asking, Fernandes says, is, “Am I going to go flying off the earth?”

That’s when a story comes in. Because, says Fernandes, all that little boy wants to know is that he’s safe.

“So tell them when the birds fly, their wings push down the air, which keeps us here, so as long as birds are flying we’ll never fly off the earth,” Fernanes says.

When they get a little older you can tell them about gravity.

In their own words

What is it like learning the ancestral language that was taken from your elders, and to hear and learn the stories of your people in that language? Mary Jane Topash (Tulalip) and Cynthia LaPlant (Puyallup) learned their tribal language as young children and are committed to helping their tribes reclaim their languages, cultures and tell their ancestral stories.

Read Topash’s recollections in the essay “Living, breathing, working for my culture.”

Read LaPlant’s recollections in the essay Learning txʷəlšucid and the stories of my ancestors

Read more from our storytelling project:

Lifting Up the Sky

Glukeek Legend

Learning txʷəlšucid and telling the stories

Living, breathing, working for my culture

Family stories handed down

The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

A family of Moths: Recreating The Moth StorySLAM at home

The Best Mother She Ever Had

‘Out of my heart a story will come: Storytelling in schools’

The Lion and the Mouse

Why do we tell stories around the fire?

The post The Sacred Breath: The art of Native American storytelling appeared first on Seattle's Child.

CLICK to listen to “Glukeek Legend” as told by Quinault storyteller Harvest Moon. Recorded in the Quillayute Ballroom at Lake Quinault Lodge by Ilyssa Kyu, co-author Campfire Stories:Volume II Tales from America’s National Parks and Trails  Photo courtesy imharvestmoon.com

READ

Glukeek Legend

As told by Harvest Moon and printed in the book “Campfire Stories: Tales of America’s National Parks and Trails – Volume II”

Long ago the women and the children had spent most of the day picking the sweet, tiny blackberries. As the sun was falling to the west, the women started gathering their baskets of berries and heading back to the village when they heard this rustling in the brush. As this rustling in the brush came closer, the women motioned with just their eyes to the children, who could run quickly enough and fast enough to run back to the long house. Now, for the children who were too young, they quickly picked them up, held them underneath their arms, took their heads, and held them close to the mother’s heart. 

Quinault storyteller Harvest Moon, Photo from Turtle Island Storytellers

When the small children heard the fast beating of the mother’s heart, they knew they had to be very quiet. The women cupped their hands and brought them behind their ears in order to hear as well as a deer. As the rustling of the brush came closer, they knew it wasn’t deer because deer has a jumping sound through the brush. They knew it wasn’t bear. Oh, bear love those little blackberries as much as we did! But as long as bear had no cub, bear would run away. 

But as the rustling of the brush came closer, all of a sudden, there was this horrible, horrible stench. Out of the brush came this huge monster. His legs were as big as tree trunks. His skin was covered with hair, and his eyes had a hypnotic red glow to them. This monster started chasing the women all through the berry patch. And, as he was chasing them, he took his huge big feet, and he started kicking over every basket of berries, wasting them on the ground. 

Now, the women managed to escape, and they made it back to their longhouse. The men decided maybe we should go check that berry patch. When they got to the berry patch, they looked for footprints. None to be found. They looked for maybe hair that might have come off, but there was none to be found. 

That night, when everyone was sound asleep, all of a sudden, the guard dogs stood up on all fours, and they just froze. Now, in the past, those guard dogs would have ran out and chased whatever it was that was coming. But in this case, they didn’t make a noise. The hair on the back of the dogs came straight up. And for the first and only time the dogs made a sound that went like this… woooOooOOooO0000000000000. 

Now some of the people escaped from the secret tunnels we have in our longhouses. Others just froze. That monster came and started throwing pieces of driftwood on the roof, screaming and hollering through the entire night. Just before the sun came up, he disappeared. 

Now, not having any sleep whatsoever, the salmon fishermen went down to the river and they started to pull up their traps. And as each of them pulled up their traps, lo and behold, there had not been one salmon caught. It was then the salmon fishermen looked up the river, and standing where no man would be able to stand in the Skookums, or the white rapids of the river, stood this monster. 

He picked up his smelly, stinky feet and started laughing at the salmon fishermen. It was then they realized that as long as this monster was to stand in the river with his dirty, stinky feet… that the salmon people, you know, who live at the bottom of the ocean, will never travel up the river again. 

Women aren’t going out to gather food, they’re not getting any sleep, and now no salmon. Now, this was happening throughout the entire Pacific Northwest. For the first and only time, all the chiefs gathered together for a meeting. One of the chiefs raised his talking stick and explained: “Let us find the strongest warrior. We’ll make a special spear that would be so sharp that it would penetrate that tough leather skin of the monster and we’ll be rid of him forever.” 

As soon as he spoke those words, the Whale Hunter raised his arm and announced, “I should be the one that kills this monster. I kill whales that are ten times as big as this monster!” 

Then Elk Hunter, he raised his arm and announced he should be the one that kills the monster because he knows the woods better than the Whale Hunter. Well, they argued back and forth until four young men brought forth this huge rock. The rock was as big as your arms could hold around. 

They dropped this big rock in the middle of the floor of the longhouse. Then a young girl of six seasons came forward with a shell. In this shell was full of bear grease. She took a handful of the bear grease and she started smearing it all over the boulder. For whoever could carry this rock the furthest would be the one that would kill the monster. 

Well, it’s been said that the warrior who carried that rock the furthest had carried it six and a half miles up the side of a mountain and back without dropping it. After the special spear had been made, as the warrior was leaving, he stopped and asked a very old elder, he said, “By what name shall I call this monster to his death?” And the old elder spoke and said, “His name is Glukeek.” So as he was leaving, you could hear “Gluuuuuukeek! Glukeeeeeeek! Gluuuuuuukeeeeeek!” 

Weeks passed. The warrior never returned. 

The parents who lost their son had a meal in his honor, and it was after the meal that an old, old elder came forward and said, “Let us dig a hole… dig a deep hole, put some branches on top of the hole and place your prettiest maiden on that very edge of the hole.” At that minute, everyone standing side by side started to dig this hole. It took two full moons to dig a hole deep enough that would keep this monster in the bottom of the pit. They just placed the prettiest maiden on the very edge of the hole when they heard the rustling in the brush. Glukeek came out of the brush, ran straight toward the maiden, made it halfway over the hole before he finally fell through. 

When he hit the bottom of that pit he started screaming and hollering so loud it created avalanches in the Olympics. The people didn’t know if they should cover their ears or cover their nose. Days passed. He soon collapsed in the bottom of the pit. 

It was then that my ancestors had enough nerve to peer into the pit. And as they gazed into the pit, they thought, “What are we going to do with him now? I don’t want to feed him, not after what he’s been doing to my tribe!” One of the young men raised his arm and said, “Let us put the dirt we took out and put it back in and we’ll bury him alive.” 

“Well, as we put the dirt back in, he can arrange it at different levels and escape and kill us all!” A young woman raised her arm and announced, “Why don’t we just fill the hole with water and we’ll drown him?” 

“Well, as we fill it up with water, he’d be able to float to the edge and escape and kill us all!” 

Well, there were ideas upon ideas until finally came forward the old elder and he said, “Burn him!” The people took a couple steps back. “Burn this monster.” Well, his idea of capturing him in the hole worked, so his idea of burning him shall also. So the people quickly got into a line from the edge of the hole all the way to the beach. In this line of people, they started passing up large pieces of driftwood and putting them at each end of the pit. 

On the night when there was no moon in the sky, all the people gathered around the pit. The parents who lost their son would be the ones selected to torch the first fire. And as they were bending down to torch the first fire, all of a sudden there was this rustling in the brush. Are there more than one of these monsters? Are there families of these monsters? Will we be tormented for the rest of our lives with these monsters? 

About then, out of the brush, came their son. His head was bowed low, he didn’t want any eye contact, for all that had happened was that he had lost his way. The parents were so happy he was still alive, they quickly handed him the torch and he would torch the last fire. And as he was bending down to torch the last fire, Glukeek reared up from the bottom of the pit and he said, “You can’t kill me! Because I am going to get out. And I am going to bite each and every one of you, and suck your blood.” 

Those people kept those fires burning for four days and three nights. The flames of the fire rose so high into the sky that the people on the other side of the Olympics actually thought Raven, the trickster, was creating a second son from the West. On the fourth night, when there was a small crest of a moon, all the people gathered around the pit. The chief took his walking stick and he started stirring the coals that accumulated at the bottom of the pit. And as he was stirring the coals, sparks from the fire rose high into the sky. And as they got higher, they started to cool and fall as ash. But as the ash touched the earth, it all came to life as fleas, mosquitoes, and ticks. 

How many of you have been bitten by Glukeek? Nahashkah.  

About This Story 

Perhaps the most widely known lore of the Pacific Northwest is the humanlike, upright, ape- like figure we affectionately know as Bigfoot, Sasquatch, Yeti-or, to the Indigenous people around Olympic National Park, Glukeek. People from all over the world flock to the Pacific Northwest for a chance to get their own glimpse of the beast and partake in the many Bigfoot community happenings-seminars, conferences, festivals, guided hikes, group expeditions, and trainings dedicated to Sasquatch lore. Here, many tales and personal encounters with Bigfoot are shared among true believers, which go beyond the conspiracy theorists and even attract celebrities, politicians, and scientific researchers. Many believers point to the presence of Sasquatch, or Sasquatch-like figures, in legends passed down for many generations in native tribes. 

Read more in our storytelling project:

Lifting Up the Sky

Glukeek Legend

Learning txʷəlšucid and telling the stories

Living, breathing, working for my culture

Family stories handed down

The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

A family of Moths: Recreating The Moth StorySLAM at home

The Best Mother She Ever Had

‘Out of my heart a story will come: Storytelling in schools’

The Lion and the Mouse

Why do we tell stories around the fire?

The post Storytelling: Harvest Moon tells ‘Glukeek Legend’ appeared first on Seattle's Child.

I am Tulalip, with Snohomish ancestry.

I was grown and raised on the Tulalip reservation, 30 miles north of Seattle, and I continue to live there today. I am the youngest of four children and the only one raised fully enveloped in my culture. My older siblings learned our culture when they were older or adults. As for me, it is all I know.

My father lived off the reservation in Montana most of his life and came back to Tulalip when the Tribe was beginning to grow, and there were more employment opportunities. This created a unique situation where I was teaching him about our culture as young as 5 years old when typically it’s the other way around. Traditionally, your grandparents, aunties and uncles, and your parents teach the necessary traditions, stories, lessons, cultural etiquette, etc. Since my family’s path wasn’t traditional, I found myself sharing stories, the Lushootseed I had learned, protocols, etc., with my parents and siblings.

My favorite story, which I learned when I was little, is called Lifting Up the Sky.

It is a Tulalip story about how, a long time ago, the sky used to be low. It was so low that people and animals would walk bent over it. You couldn’t stand upright. They were constantly bumping into the sky. After some time, all the animals and people decided they wanted to stand tall and knew they needed to lift the sky. They all gathered together and began to take poles and lifted together. It took four tries, and on the fourth attempt, the sky was lifted to where it is now. Everyone rejoiced and was happy that with their work, determination, and collective action, they could accomplish something to better all of their lives.

This is a very condensed version of this story, and there are multiple layers to it—as many tribal stories do—but this one always stuck with me. I always think of my community and Tribe and how it takes everyone to work together. I think of all the people, cousins, family, parents, and siblings who have helped lift a pole in my own life to get me where I am now.

All my family and siblings have lived in Washington for over 30 years now, and we all know our culture, actively participate in it, and know our traditions.

I am very fortunate to live, breathe, and work in and for my culture. I have the lived experience, the academic experience (BA in Anthropology and American Indian Studies from UW and an MA in Cultural Studies from UW Bothell), and a 13-year career of professional experience working in informal education in museums.

Read more from our storytelling project:

Lifting Up the Sky

Glukeek Legend

Learning txʷəlšucid and telling the stories

Living, breathing, working for my culture

Family stories handed down

The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

A family of Moths: Recreating The Moth StorySLAM at home

The Best Mother She Ever Had

‘Out of my heart a story will come: Storytelling in schools’

The Lion and the Mouse

Why do we tell stories around the fire?

The post Living, breathing, working for my culture appeared first on Seattle's Child.

It started off with introductions and as I moved through my middle school and high school years, I learned conversation.

I remember that the first story  introduced to me in class: Lady Louse by Vi taqʷšəblu Hilbert. As a class we translated the txʷəlšucid into English. It was very exciting for me at the time because I got to hear Vi Hilbert speak and I had the opportunity to further my knowledge of the language and break it down piece by piece. Every time I learned something new, I would share what I learned with my family as soon as I got home. 

There were not a lot of txʷəlšucid speakers at the time and my family often did not understand what I was saying. When I spoke, I would translate what I said in English for them. They supported me and I carried the language into my home by creating a language nest. My family would help me practice and, in turn, listen to me while I was speaking. As a kid, I recall my mom would always tell me “dicu,” which means scoot over or move.

As a young adult, I learned more about storytelling nights hosted by the Puyallup Tribal Language Department. Social media, live streams, and videos posted afterward helped push the stories out. 

I started telling stories myself with the language department around 2022. I remember the first story I was a part of was called “Bird Children.” 

The one thing I love about storytelling is the gʷədᶻadad—the thing the listener takes away from a story. The gʷədᶻadad is an important teaching and you are not to share your gʷədᶻadad. Doing so can take away from the other listeners and ruin their own gʷədᶻadad. I became more intrigued with learning traditional stories and hearing the elders speak. 

Traditional stories have helped me throughout my life to stay grounded and to keep my body still. As I learned more stories, I learned more teachings and how to use our “cəlac dxʷgʷəlčšid.” Our five teachers. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and body. 

Grandview Early Learning Center where I work began hosting storytelling nights for the community because these teachings were important to share with our children. It is important to keep passing the traditions to the next generations so we do not forget them and we honor our elders and ancestors. The language is important and I love everything about it. Storytelling nights have truly brought our center together and connected us all on a deeper level. 

Many people have had a part in carrying our stories forward through practicing and incorporating txʷəlšucid language and stories into our classrooms. That is what storytelling night is all about, to keep the stories and teachings alive.

Because I work at my tribe’s daycare, it has always been important to me that when we host storytelling nights we keep them open to the community. The language brings everyone together and I think it’s important that these events remain open because all are welcome. I love when we have new faces show up and listen. 

Traditional stories can benefit both indigenous and non-indigenous people. As I speak my language, it helps me feel more connected to my roots and closer to home. It can have a great impact on non-indigenous people because a majority of towns that you reside in are on tribal lands. 

All throughout the Pacific Northwest, you can learn the traditional backgrounds of these tribes and the teachings that come with them. 

Read more from our storytelling project:

Lifting Up the Sky

Glukeek Legend

Learning txʷəlšucid and telling the stories

Living, breathing, working for my culture

Family stories handed down

The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

A family of Moths: Recreating The Moth StorySLAM at home

The Best Mother She Ever Had

‘Out of my heart a story will come: Storytelling in schools’

The Lion and the Mouse

Why do we tell stories around the fire?

The post Learning txʷəlšucid and the stories of my ancestors appeared first on Seattle's Child.

My 10- and 12-year-old sons and I snuggle on the couch as I take them back in time, retracing memories stained into the fibers of my very being . . .

When I was a little girl, on hot summer days, I’d shove a wad of $1 bills into my pocket and ride my bike about two miles from where we lived down to a Safeway store in hopes of buying a box of popsicles to take home and share. 

I’d ride carefully up and down our hilly streets, pass through rush-hour traffic (without a helmet, can you imagine?!), get to the store entrance, throw my bike down, and run inside to make my purchase. I’d always worry about how I needed to get home before the popsicles melted . . .

I’ve told my kids this story many times, and yet they still wait to hear if I made it back in time.

The oral record of a family

Storytelling is the most powerful way to record and give children a glimpse into your own lived experiences, culture, traditions, and ancestry.

Often, my kids forget that my husband and I were once their age. They forget that underneath these tough exteriors, house rules, and parental responsibilities, we too, experienced childhoods filled with joy, challenge, triumph, and trauma. When my husband and I share our life experiences, we teach our kids lessons, keep memories about loved ones alive, and deepen their connection to us and our families.

Little hints at why we do what we do

My children have five grandparents. One is my mom, who passed away when I was 17. There isn’t a day that passes that I don’t wonder what it would have been like to have her here. I keep her alive and in my children’s world by sharing stories about her. 

Your grandmother was a nurse and always worked the afternoon shift. At 11 p.m., my dad would drag me to the car and drive an hour to Washington, DC, to pick her up after work. 

I’d sprawl out in the back seat, rhythmically moving with the car’s acceleration, eventually rocking myself half asleep. When we all got home, my mom would open her maroon and gold pleather purse and pull out a small can of Dole pineapple juice and a few pieces of candy for me. “Save some for your brother,” she’d tell me. It let me know she was thinking about us throughout her day . . .

READ AND LISTEN: The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

Now, I too pick up a few candies or other treats and stash them in my purse, pulling them out the next time I see my kids. I’ll direct one child to save some for their sibling. Because they know my mother’s story, they know where this loving tradition comes from.

Research shows the benefits

Beyond family connection and passing down history, there are many reasons to engage in family storytelling. For example, according to a report from the University of Nevada Cooperative Extension, children who grow up with family storytelling view their family as stronger, have higher self-esteem, lower anxiety levels, fewer behavior problems, and can deal with stress better. Learning that your father got through a tough situation can give you courage.

A case in point: the stories from my husband Anu, who grew up in India. If you’ve heard of parents who tell tales of walking uphill both ways in six feet of snow to school, that’s the tenor of some of my husband’s storytelling with our boys. 

A chicken and two scorpions

Every story he tells has a lesson and has shaped our family’s values. Our kids’ favorite starts like this:

When I was about five or six years old my father and I went to visit my grandparents in Prakannam. Their house is located in the mountains and it was a long drive to get there, over bumpy roads with lots of twists and turns.

When we got there my dad had gone inside to visit with his parents, while I stayed outside to play. The porch was filled with interesting things to look at. I could hear chickens clucking at my neighbor’s house as I skipped around the yard. I spotted two baskets filled with straw at the corner of the porch. They were wide woven baskets, the type that workers carried on their head to transport goods from one place to another. I decided to move them around and tip them a bit to see what was inside. Two black scorpions scampered out and I dropped the basket, stepping back quickly. Their tails were poised up and over their heads, ready to strike with their poisonous pincers . . .

How to share a story

Here are some ways that I and my family have found to keep our stories alive and to keep passing them down:

• Talk to relatives and ask questions. The best way to find and retell stories is to ask open-ended questions to explore milestone events or how they felt about an incident in their life. 
• Share the joy and sadness. The tales of challenge and sadness are the ones that will teach children about overcoming obstacles and will highlight resilience.
• Record your story. Record your story through writing, photography, or a voice recording. I value the voice recording above other media because the voice is fleeting. We interviewed my husband’s parents about how they met, and it provides one of our fondest memories.
• Celebrate the holidays with storytelling. Family gatherings are a great time to pass down (and record) stories from generation to generation.
• Embrace silence: Oftentimes, one or more long quiet pauses will punctuate the best stories.

Did I make it?

In the meantime, this story started with a story. You may be wondering, how did the popsicle story end? 

I wound the plastic bag around my bike’s handlebars, securing my treasured treats, and hopped on my bike. I weaved between parking spaces and cars and then back through traffic. My knees hit the popsicle box every so often. 

The box flew forward and then swung back again and again. I raced on my bike, sweat dripping down the side of my face. I turned left onto my street and up my driveway. Unwrapping the plastic, I cherished the taste of my cherry-flavored popsicle, its juice beginning to drip ever so slightly. I’d made it home just in the nick of time. 

Read more from our storytelling project:

Lifting Up the Sky

Glukeek Legend

Learning txʷəlšucid and telling the stories

Living, breathing, working for my culture

Family stories handed down

The Chicken and Two  Scorpions

A family of Moths: Recreating The Moth StorySLAM at home

The Best Mother She Ever Had

‘Out of my heart a story will come: Storytelling in schools’

The Lion and the Mouse

Why do we tell stories around the fire?

The post Family stories handed down appeared first on Seattle's Child.