{"id":279,"date":"2018-04-20T15:05:10","date_gmt":"2018-04-20T19:05:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/?p=279"},"modified":"2018-04-24T11:52:16","modified_gmt":"2018-04-24T15:52:16","slug":"safety_of_stories","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/","title":{"rendered":"The Safety of Stories in an Unsafe World by Madeline L. Taylor, Registration Coordinator"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">My bus ride to work, down Columbus Avenue in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, is frequently crowded with parents and young children en route to school. I love when I end up on the same bus as one particular mom and her two elementary-school-aged daughters. As the bus bumps along in its morning daze, the mom reads aloud in a quiet voice to the girls, who sit on either side of her and lean in close to listen. The first time I saw this family, the mom was reading <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A Wrinkle In Time<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> &#8212; my childhood favorite, one that has endured into my adulthood &#8212; her voice intoning L\u2019Engle\u2019s wise and fabulous words as her daughters listened with bright, albeit slightly sleepy, eyes. My own eyes glistened a little as I was touched with memories of my own encounters with the book. I felt bereft when they closed the book and jumped off the bus; it\u2019s hard to return to the mundane realities of our world when the enticements of another world await.<a href=\"https:\/\/i1.wp.com\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/220px-Swiftlytiltingplanet.jpg\"><img data-attachment-id=\"281\" data-permalink=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/220px-swiftlytiltingplanet\/\" data-orig-file=\"https:\/\/i1.wp.com\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/220px-Swiftlytiltingplanet.jpg?fit=220%2C337&amp;ssl=1\" data-orig-size=\"220,337\" data-comments-opened=\"1\" data-image-meta=\"{&quot;aperture&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;credit&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;camera&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;caption&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;created_timestamp&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;copyright&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;focal_length&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;iso&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;shutter_speed&quot;:&quot;0&quot;,&quot;title&quot;:&quot;&quot;,&quot;orientation&quot;:&quot;0&quot;}\" data-image-title=\"220px-Swiftlytiltingplanet\" data-image-description=\"\" data-image-caption=\"\" data-medium-file=\"https:\/\/i1.wp.com\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/220px-Swiftlytiltingplanet.jpg?fit=196%2C300&amp;ssl=1\" data-large-file=\"https:\/\/i1.wp.com\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/220px-Swiftlytiltingplanet.jpg?fit=220%2C337&amp;ssl=1\" loading=\"lazy\" class=\"size-full wp-image-281 alignright\" src=\"https:\/\/i1.wp.com\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/220px-Swiftlytiltingplanet.jpg?resize=220%2C337\" alt=\"\" width=\"220\" height=\"337\" srcset=\"https:\/\/i1.wp.com\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/220px-Swiftlytiltingplanet.jpg?w=220&amp;ssl=1 220w, https:\/\/i1.wp.com\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/04\/220px-Swiftlytiltingplanet.jpg?resize=196%2C300&amp;ssl=1 196w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 220px) 100vw, 220px\" data-recalc-dims=\"1\" \/><\/a><\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This morning, the family was reading the third book in the series, <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A Swiftly Tilting Planet<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">. They were a few pages in, and when I sat down next to them, I overheard a quiet conversation. One of the girls asked what would happen if the book\u2019s antagonist, a cruel dictator, started a nuclear war as he threatened to do. The mom responded that a nuclear war would destroy the entire world; that if one country attacked, another would attack in turn, and we would all be completely ruined. But the mom was quick to reassure them: this wouldn\u2019t happen to us today. There are good people who will stop nuclear wars from happening. <\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">They returned to reading; they returned to a world where nuclear war was a construction of fiction and where peace has a fighting chance of prevailing. But of course, the mom knew &#8212; as I do, as every adult knows, as increasingly more children know &#8212; that nuclear destruction is altogether too real a possibility. L\u2019Engle wrote the book in 1978, when Cold War anxieties abounded and seeped into the collective cultural consciousness. Its relevance, one would hope, would have decreased by now, forty years later. But the storyline has only warped and developed and shifted into new, horrendous realities. We\u2019ve had many valiant peacemakers, but the antagonists still overwhelm us.<\/span><!--more--><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">As I sat out the remainder of my bus ride, I contemplated the ways that stories reveal reality slowly, gently, by couching it in terms that children can comprehend. Story doesn\u2019t obliterate or attack; it seeps. It brought to mind the wisdom of Emily Dickinson, who wrote:<\/span><\/p>\n<p><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Tell all the truth but tell it slant \u2014<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Success in Circuit lies<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Too bright for our infirm Delight<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Truth&#8217;s superb surprise<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">As Lightning to the Children eased<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">With explanation kind<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Truth must dazzle gradually<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><em><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Or every man be blind \u2014<\/span><\/em><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Dickinson here speaks of dazzling truths, ones whose brilliance can overwhelm our finite minds, but the message rings true for those realities that have no \u201cexplanation kind.\u201d How can any parent or teacher look a child in the eye and explain to them that, if a dictator decides to push a button, entire countries of people will die in an instant? How can we explain total destruction to young humans who are the literal embodiment of creation? <\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I think the mom on the bus had it right. She found the way to \u201ctell all the truth\u201d &#8212; to prepare her children to receive the realities of the world &#8212; \u201cbut tell it slant\u201d &#8212; so that their young minds could understand evil in the context of good; antagonists in the context of heroines and heroes; death in the context of life. Stories are safety, not because they allow us to retreat from the world, but because they give us a place to grow a new world altogether. Stories, in their infinite creative power, are microcosms of possibility. <\/span><\/p>\n<p><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">By the end of <\/span><i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">A Swiftly Tilting Planet<\/span><\/i><span style=\"font-weight: 400;\">, the protagonist has used telepathy and time-travel and ingenuity to alter the course of history and avert nuclear disaster. In all likelihood, those little girls on the bus aren\u2019t going to be able to do those fantastical feats. But they will witness how peace is possible and how a light flickering can overcome the darkness. That flickering light dazzles gradually; it reflects off the dark pupils of their eyes and shines into a new and superb reality.<\/span><\/p>\n<p><em><strong>Madeline L. Taylor<\/strong> joined Writopia as an intern in June 2015 and, after a year of working part-time, began full-time as Registration Coordinator. She also served as the Production Stage Manager for the Writopia Worldwide Plays Festival 2016. She graduated summa cum laude from Barnard College at Columbia University with a BA in English &amp; Creative Writing. At Barnard, she stage managed, edited, and contributed to student-written theater productions, and her main areas of instruction at Writopia are the Playwriting &amp; Performance program and the Essay Writing program. She writes primarily creative non-fiction and short fiction, and received recognition for her non-fiction writing at Barnard College with the Schwimmer Prize for the Humanities and the Estelle M. Allison Prize for Literature.<\/em><\/p>\n<div class=\"sharedaddy sd-sharing-enabled\"><div class=\"robots-nocontent sd-block sd-social sd-social-icon sd-sharing\"><h3 class=\"sd-title\">Share this article:<\/h3><div class=\"sd-content\"><ul><li class=\"share-facebook\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"sharing-facebook-279\" class=\"share-facebook sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/?share=facebook\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to share on Facebook\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-twitter\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"sharing-twitter-279\" class=\"share-twitter sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/?share=twitter\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to share on Twitter\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-pocket\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"\" class=\"share-pocket sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/?share=pocket\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to share on Pocket\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-reddit\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"\" class=\"share-reddit sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/?share=reddit\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to share on Reddit\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-print\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"\" class=\"share-print sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to print\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to print (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-end\"><\/li><\/ul><\/div><\/div><\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>My bus ride to work, down Columbus Avenue in the Upper West Side of Manhattan, is frequently crowded with parents and young children en route to school. I love when I end up on the same bus as one particular mom and her two elementary-school-aged daughters. As the bus bumps along in its morning daze, &hellip;<\/p>\n<div class=\"sharedaddy sd-sharing-enabled\"><div class=\"robots-nocontent sd-block sd-social sd-social-icon sd-sharing\"><h3 class=\"sd-title\">Share this article:<\/h3><div class=\"sd-content\"><ul><li class=\"share-facebook\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"sharing-facebook-279\" class=\"share-facebook sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/?share=facebook\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to share on Facebook\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to share on Facebook (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-twitter\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"sharing-twitter-279\" class=\"share-twitter sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/?share=twitter\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to share on Twitter\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to share on Twitter (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-pocket\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"\" class=\"share-pocket sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/?share=pocket\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to share on Pocket\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to share on Pocket (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-reddit\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"\" class=\"share-reddit sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/?share=reddit\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to share on Reddit\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to share on Reddit (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-print\"><a rel=\"nofollow noopener noreferrer\" data-shared=\"\" class=\"share-print sd-button share-icon no-text\" href=\"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/safety_of_stories\/\" target=\"_blank\" title=\"Click to print\"><span><\/span><span class=\"sharing-screen-reader-text\">Click to print (Opens in new window)<\/span><\/a><\/li><li class=\"share-end\"><\/li><\/ul><\/div><\/div><\/div>","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"spay_email":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false},"categories":[4],"tags":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p9aRpX-4v","jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack-related-posts":[{"id":204,"url":"https:\/\/www.writopialab.org\/writopiaspeaks\/sojourn\/","url_meta":{"origin":279,"position":0},"title":"Personal Reflections on a Safe Space to Heal and to Write by Lyndsay Hall","date":"October 16, 2017","format":false,"excerpt":"The Sojourn Domestic Abuse Shelter\u2019s second-home, where mothers and their children flee and hide from violent households, sits on a cul-de-sac without signage. 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