 There was once a husband and wife who had everything they could wish for—except children. They were so unhappy the husband decided to consult a magician. After seeing his distress, the magician said, “Go home. Your wish is granted.” Imagine Stan’s surprise when he opened the front door and saw oodles of children of every size, shape, color, and personality. “How will we feed all our children?” he asked his wife. “We’ll make a garden. You go and see what you can find,” she said The next morning he left to find work but no one would hire him. Stopping to rest, he saw a shepherd tending his sheep. All he could think about was the fine dinner even one sheep would make. Suddenly he heard a horrendous noise, so loud the ground shook. A dragon swooped down, scooped up a lamb in each claw and flew away. Stan helped the shepherd gather the frightened sheep and in return, the shepherd gave him half his dinner. He told Stan how worried he was. “If this keeps up, I’ll soon have no more sheep.” “Hmm,” said Stan, “If I rid you of the dragon, how will you reward me?” “It’s not likely you can, but if you do, I’ll give you enough sheep to start your own herd.” For the rest of the day and most of the next, as he herded sheep Stan tried to think of ways to stop the dragon from stealing them but memories of the dreadful noise drowned out his thoughts. After dinner, when the dragon appeared, rushing toward the sheep, the sound was even more horrible than the night before. Terrified, Stan shouted, “Stop your atrocious noise or I will . . .” The dragon was so startled it stopped in mid-flight, landed and asked, “Who are you?” Stan’s fear spoke for him. “I am Stan, the mighty man. I eat dragons for breakfast. These sheep are mine. Leave now or I will eat you.” “Go ahead, eat me.” Stan stepped forward, knife and fork in hand. “Well,” said the dragon, “if these sheep are yours, I better look elsewhere.” He flapped his wings, ready to leave. “Just a moment,” snarled Stan. “You’ve eaten a lot of my sheep. You need to pay me for my losses. That man over there,” he said, pointing to the shepherd, “knows the exact amount due. Pay up or else!” “I don’t have any money, but my mother does. If you come with me and prove you’re stronger than I am, and if she likes you, she’ll give you more gold than you can carry.” Stan’s terror turned to amazement. He felt himself grow strong and bold. “Lead me to her,” he growled as best he could. The dragon’s mother was bigger and more fearsome than her son. Stan was terrified but thinking about his children gave him courage. “I heard you say you’re stronger than my son. Show me!” She gave her son an enormous barrel. “Throw it as far as you can.” It fell so far Stan could hardly see it. “Your turn,” said the dragon. “Oh,” said Stan, thinking quickly. “It’s a pity I might kill you with this barrel.” “What?” yelped the dragon. Stan explained how a magician had given him a gift. Anything he threw would come back and hit the owner. “Well,” said the dragon, not wanting to die, “in that case, my mother will give you another test. Stan agreed, pretending he was annoyed. The dragon told his mother she needed to give them another test. “Very well,” she said. “The one who is stronger will carry the most water.” The dragon lifted the heavy pail, filled it up and was back in an instant. “Your turn,” he said to Stan. Stan bent down. With his pocketknife he began to dig up earth. “No sense carrying a pail when I can dig a new well close by.” “Stop!” yelled the dragon. That well was dug by my great-great-grandfather. It mustn’t be disturbed. “I’ll carry the water for you.” Stan kept digging. “I’ll give you twice the gold I promised if you’ll stop digging. He filled and emptied the pail twice. When the dragon’s mother saw how much water she thought Stan had carried she devised another plan. The next morning the dragon’s mother said, “Let’s see who can collect the most wood in the next hour.” The dragon had no trouble lifting huge oaks out of the ground, but Stan climbed to the top of the highest tree and noticed a vine creeping up toward him. He tied it to a strong branch, then climbed to the top of a second tree. When he noticed the dragon watching him, Stan explained, “It’s too much trouble uprooting one tree at a time. I’ll tie all of the tallest trees with this vine and pull them up all together.” “No!” yelled the dragon. “My great-great grandmother planted this forest you mustn’t ruin it.” “Very well, but this is the last time I’m going to stop. Once I start something I finish it.” The dragon’s mother decided it didn’t matter who was stronger. She wanted him gone. ‘Very well,” said Stan, “but if you want me to leave, your son will have to carry me and the gold back to my home.” Quicker than an eye can blink, the dragon loaded up the gold, put Stan on his back, and flew down to earth. As they approached the house, Stan heard his children laughing. “Maybe you better stop here,” he said to the dragon. “I have lots of children and they’re all stronger . . . Before he could say another word, the dragon dumped him and the gold and flew off. Stan laughed. Hmm, he thought, there’s enough gold here to feed and clothe my children for the rest of their lives. Not bad for three days work.
0 Comments
 Father Sparrow was grumpy. “I went to the river to bathe in our favorite place,” he told Mother Sparrow who was sitting in the nest on her eggs, “and there was Crocodile, splashing muddy water everywhere. When I politely asked him to be more careful, he told me to find another place.” As if this wasn’t bad enough, suddenly there was an enormous jolt, nearly toppling the nest. Father Sparrow saw Brother Elephant walking away. He yelled, “Hey Brother, you nearly pushed my wife off the nest. She’s sitting on our eggs you know. She almost fell. The eggs nearly spilled out.” Brother Elephant shrugged and began to walk away, without an apology. Father Sparrow was so mad he warned, “If you do this again I’ll tie you up and you’ll never get out.” Brother Elephant laughed. “Go ahead. Tie me up. There aren’t enough sparrows in the world to keep me from untying myself.” He kept on walking and bumping into trees. When Father Sparrow went to have his afternoon bath, he became even more angry; Crocodile was still splashing, muddying up the water. “If you are in this pool when I come to bathe next time, I will tie you up.” Crocodile grinned, splashing even more ferociously. “Go ahead, Tie me up. With my sharp teeth there isn’t a rope strong enough to keep me from freeing myself.” Father Sparrow flew back to the nest. He and Mother Sparrow made their plan. After singing for help from friends and relatives, hundreds of sparrows appeared, approved the plan, and went to work twisting and plating green creeper vines. Pretty soon Brother Elephant came crashing through the forest, into the tree where Mother Sparrow was nesting. “Ready to tie me up?” sneered Brother Elephant. Father Sparrow and Mother Sparrow looked at each other and smiled. “Yes, we are.” With a nod, all the sparrows holding up the long green rope in their mouths flew up and down, in and out, around Brother Elephant’s body until he was bound as tightly as the sparrows could manage. Brother Elephant laughed, ready to burst out. Mother Sparrow said politely, “We would greatly appreciate it if you would lie here, just for a few minutes, if you wouldn’t mind.” “As you like,” snickered Brother Elephant. The sparrows flew away, holding the rope, twisting and turning it among and around bushes and trees, choosing the strongest plants with the deepest roots. When they came to the river Crocodile saw the rope and giggled. “Go ahead, tie me up. Have fun.” The sparrows began twisting and pushing and pulling, in and out, up and down, around and around until the green rope was tight against Crocodile’s body. “Now, when I say pull, pull as hard as you can and don’t stop until you’re free,” yelled Father Sparrow to Brother Elephant and then to Crocodile. When all the sparrows had flown to the tops of trees to watch, Father Sparrow shouted, “Pull!” All of a sudden Crocodile’s body was jerked out of the water, up on to the riverbank, slithering against nettles and thorns. When he tried to gnaw the rope, it tightened. At the same time, Brother Elephant found himself dragged toward the river, crashing into sharp-edged bushes and sturdy trees. The harder they pulled, the more tangled they became. As sunset approached, neither animal was any closer to freeing himself. Pride kept them silent. When Crocodile saw other animals approach the river to drink and bathe. he finally spoke to Father Sparrow. “You are stronger than I thought. If you untie me, I promise never to use your bathing place again.” When Brother Elephant saw animals laughing at his condition, he whispered to Father Sparrow, “If you untie me, I promise never to bump into trees ever again.” Father and Mother Sparrow talked it over. Soon, all the sparrow hopped and pulled and pushed and pecked until Crocodile was free. Mortified, he murmured a weak thank you and slithered away. The sparrows then freed Elephant, who couldn’t believe a tiny bird could be so strong. From that day on, Father Sparrow enjoyed his daily bath and Mother Sparrow sat on her eggs with no fear of falling out of the tree  Once upon a time there lived a shoemaker and his wife who worked hard yet had barely enough money to live on. One day, the shoemaker looked around his shop and found only one small piece of leather. He began making a pair of shoes but it grew late and he stopped before the shoes were finished. The next morning, when the shoemaker entered his shop, he discovered someone had finished the shoes. He sold the shoes and used the money to buy more leather. He worked all day cutting and shaping the new leather but left before he could make the shoes. The next morning, much to his astonishment, once again someone had finished the shoes. He sold them for enough money to buy more leather and spent the day cutting and shaping pieces ready to be made into boots, sandals, and shoes. Grateful for the help, the shoemaker continued to leave pieces of leather cut and shaped, returning in the morning to find the footwear ready to sell. He soon developed a reputation for fine work, with customers lining up to be measured. Eventually the shoemaker and his wife no longer had to worry about money. One day, his wife said to her husband, “I think we should find out who is helping us. Perhaps we can do something to help in return. The shoemaker agreed. That night, they hid in the workshop, waiting anxiously. They did not have long to wait. Two elves dressed in torn and threadbare clothing sang as they worked, quickly finishing all that had been cut. When the elves left, the wife said to her husband, “They have done so much for us. It is cold. Their clothes are too ragged to keep them warm. I will make them winter clothing. While she sewed, her husband made two pairs of tiny boots for their feet. The next morning, the clothes and boots had disappeared. The elves never returned, but the shoemaker had enough leather to make all the footwear his customers requested. He and his wife continued to prosper.  When the creator Baiame no longer walked the earth, the flowers and trees all died except for three trees that he marked as his own. Only here could bees make honey. Only here could parents show their children how the earth used to look when flowers and trees graced the earth. They longed to taste the honey yet dared not. After seeing their longing, the All-seeing spirit told Baiame how people appreciated his trees, yearning to taste the honey. As a reward for their respect, Baiame sent them goonbeams and manna though the drought continued. The earth remained bare. The children were delighted with the new found food but the older people mourned the absence of life as it had been. One day, a group of elders decided to journey to Baiame to plead with him to restore the earth, to return the flowers and trees. Just before dawn, they traveled to the foot of the great mountain, searching for the path of stone steps, cut by the spirit of Baiame. They climbed for four days and four nights, unwilling to rest before reaching the summit. At the top, too exhausted to go any further, they drank from a spring of fresh water that quenched their thirst and revived their spirits. In the distance, they saw stones piled in the shape of a circle. No longer tired, they made their way to the center of the circle. Here they heard the voice of Baiame’s spirit messenger who asked why they had come. They told the spirit how all but the three trees of Baiame died when he no longer walked the earth, how the bees disappeared. They asked how the flowers and trees and bees could be restored, the earth fragrant and fertile. The spirit messenger told the attendant spirits to lift the elders to the place of Baiame, where flowers and trees bloomed eternally. Through their tears, the elders gasped with awe at the sight of so much beauty. They listened carefully as Baiame told them how to return fertility to the earth. Following his teachings, the elders gathered as many different trees and flowers as they could hold. The spirits then carried the elders down into the stone circle where they learned how to cradle the tiny plants and carry them to safety. The people of the earth welcomed the elders, looking with awe and astonishment at the brilliant colors, smelling the sweet fragrances, welcoming the bees gathering nectar. Once more trees and flowers graced the earth filling the hearts of the people with hope and joy. As the spirits foretold, there are still times of drought, when the goonbeams and manna take the place of honey, but the trees and flowers thrive, sheltering the bees who return with the new rains.  The people were bumping around in the dark and the cold. Someone asked, “Is this all there is? Will there never be anything more?” No one could answer for it was the only world they knew. They continued to live in their cold dark world until one day, a strange animal appeared. They asked it, “Is this the only world there is?” The strange creature answered, “I do not know, but sometimes, I go to a place that feels different.” “How is it different?” “I cannot tell you for I am blind. All I can say is that it feels different.” One brave person asked, “Will you take us to the place that feels different?” “Yes,” answered the creature whose name was Mole. “I can take you to that place, but you must know that when I travel, I dig out the earth in front of me and then put it behind me. If you come with me you will never be able to return to where you came from.” The people talked among themselves. Some were frightened to leave the only place they had ever known. Others were willing to try anything to live a better life. And so it was that Mole burrowed his way to the place that felt different, digging out the earth in front of him, passing the earth back to the people who put it behind them. It was a long difficult journey. People complained. They were tired and cold. It was still dark. Some longed to be where they had been. At least there they could stand up. Then, without warning, Mole said, “This is the place that feels different. This is where I must leave you.” No one knew what to do. Although it was dark, it did feel different; it was not as cold. People began to walk around and a few ventured out into a place that hurt their eyes so badly they retreated into the dark, crying and moaning in pain. Now there were many who wished they had never left the place where they had lived for so long. In the dark, nursing their eyes, they heard a small kind voice. “Hush my children, do not cry. Listen to me.” “Who are you?” they asked. “I am your Grandmother Spider. I am here to help you. If you do as I tell you, all will be well. Your eyes hurt because they are not used to light. The sun is very bright. You must give your eyes time to learn to see light. When you walk outside, keep your fingers closed in front of your closed eyes. Slowly, open your fingers. Take a few breaths, then open your eyes. Never look at the sun for it will hurt your eyes. Do as I say. Your eyes will thank you.” People followed Grandmother Spider’s advice and it was as she promised. Their eyes learned to see. But all too soon the light began to disappear. Not knowing what else to do, the people huddled together in the dark, wondering and waiting, too frightened to leave. Once again Grandmother Spider spoke to them. “Hush my children, do not despair. All shall be well if you listen to me. The light will return. When it does, you will see four mountains. To the north is White Mountain. Do not go there for you will find only ice and snow and you will freeze to death. To the east is Red Mountain. Do not go there for you will encounter fierce creatures and you will bleed to death. To the west is Black Mountain. Do not go there for your crops will not grow and you will starve to death. To the south is Green Mountain. It is the furthest and the path is uncertain, but if you keep your eyes on Green Mountain you will find your way. And, when you see a creature that reminds you of Grandmother Spider, but is not Grandmother Spider, and a creature that reminds you of Mole, but is not Mole, you will know you have arrived.” And so, just as Grandmother foretold, the light returned. Some people looked at White Mountain and said, “White Mountain is not far and we are not afraid of cold. We will tell you what we find when we return. They never came back. Soon, a few people became restless and said, “Black Mountain is quite close. We know how to manage darkness. We will tell you what we find when we come back. But they too did not return. “We are not afraid of fierce creatures,” said all but two of the people who remained. “Why walk a long distance when there is Red Mountain, a place we can see. We will fight whoever attacks us and win. We will tell you what we find when we return.” None of them were seen again. Now only one man and one woman were left. Even in the bright sun, they could barely see Green Mountain. The woman said, “I think Grandmother Spider spoke truth. We must walk to Green Mountain if we wish to survive.” The man agreed and they began walking toward the south. It was a long journey. Walking in the hot sun was exhausting. The memory of those who had not returned kept them from giving up. They walked and walked and walked toward the mountain that seemed to keep its distance; it was all they knew to do. One morning, as they stopped to rest, the woman saw a strange creature passing by her. Cautiously, she moved closer to it. The man said, “Be careful, it might be dangerous.” The woman kept looking. The man joined her and they crept close enough to see the markings on the creature’s back. “Look, said the woman,” it reminds me of Grandmother Spider.” When the creature heard the woman’s words, it pulled in its head. “Oh,” said the man. “It cannot see where it is going. It reminds me of Mole.” The man and the woman remembered the words of Grandmother Spider. They had arrived at Green Mountain. They had come to the place that was home.  There was once a woman who kept all her songs and stories to herself because no was willing to listen to them. All of her memories and longings remained buried deep within. After a time, her stories and songs grew restless—they wanted to be heard. They struggled to come out, but the woman could not share them. Finally, they made their way into her dreams. While she slept, she tossed and turned as the dreams roiled around inside her. She woke up, confused. “What’s the matter?” asked her husband? “I don’t know,” she replied. One morning she was so tired that after her husband left for work she lay down on the kitchen floor and fell sound asleep. Her mouth opened and she began to snore. The stories and songs escaped into the air, hovered above her, watching her sleep. “We cannot leave her like this,” they said. “What will she do without us?” The stories turned themselves into a robe and hung on a peg by the bedroom door. The songs became slippers and rested underneath. That night when her husband returned from work, he got suspicious. “Who was here while I was gone?” “No one.” “Who do those slippers and robe belong to?” “I don’t know,” she said. They argued. When night fell they were still arguing. Now in that village it is a custom that when a couple disagrees and can’t settle their disputes by the end of the day, the husband spends the night in the Temple of the Monkey King. The husband stormed out of the house and went to the temple. He lay down to sleep in one of its darkened rooms. The wife sat at the kitchen table trying to make sense of what had happened. Finally, she blew out the candle, put her head down on the table, and fell asleep. Each night, in that village, when people put out the candles, the flames go to the Temple of the Monkey King to chatter and discuss the day’s events. As the husband lay on the floor, one by one, the candle flames danced into the darkened room where he slept. They chatted, waiting for all the tongues of flames to arrive. After a while it was clear that one flame was late. “Where is it?” a flame sputtered. Finally, the last flame showed up. “Where have you been?” they wanted to know. “My couple had an argument. The husband came home and found a strange robe and slippers by the bedroom door. “Oh, he must have been angry!” the others exclaimed. “Yes,” he was, “but it isn’t what he thinks. The woman has stories to tell and songs to sing but no one ever listens. All her life she has kept them locked up inside her. This morning while she slept, they found a way to turn the stories into a robe and the songs into slippers.” The husband, wakened by the flames, heard what had happened. He immediately left the Temple of the Monkey King and ran back home. In the moonlight, he could see his wife slumped over the kitchen table. He awakened her gently, putting the robe around her shoulders and the slippers on her feet. Then, he sat down beside her, and said, “Tell me your stories. Sing me your songs. I am here. I will listen.”  Once upon a time there lived a man with a large head of well-cared for cattle that he regularly grazed in fine pastures and milked twice a day. But one morning, when he went to milk them, he found they’d already been milked. He found this very curious. He tried to take even better care of them, but that night, and the next morning, when he tried to milk them, their udders were wrinkled and dry. That night, he sat up in his barn to see if he could discover the cause. About midnight, he saw a cord come down from the stars, and climbing down the cord were a group of people. When he ran toward them, they ran for the cord, but a young woman with a calabash and basket remained. She so filled him with light he asked her to marry him. She agreed but said, “There is only one thing I ask of you. Never look into this basket without my permission.” He promised. For a time, all was well. They lived happily together, sharing the work. She cultivated the fields. He looked after the cattle. One day, when he returned to have a drink of water, he saw the basket and looked into it. He saw nothing. In the evening, his wife came home and after one look at him, knew he’d opened her basket. “You looked in my basket, didn’t you? Even though you promised you would not do so.” “Yes, I have,” he admitted, “and I don’t understand why you made such a fuss. The basket is empty. There’s nothing in it.” “You saw nothing in the basket?” “No. Nothing.” With great sadness she said, “If you see nothing in my basket I cannot stay.” She turned away from him and vanished, back to the stars from whence she’d come.  There once lived an old couple with their young daughter. After her husband died, the widow worried about what might become of her lovely daughter when she was no longer able to take care of her. The mother told her daughter, “The world can be a cruel place to a fair and kind young woman. To protect you, I am placing a wooden bowl on your head. Wear it when you go outside. When I am no longer in this world you must always wear it. The bowl will protect you from harm.” After her mother died, the maiden put the bowl on her head and went to work in the rice fields. Many laughed at the sight of a woman with a bowl on her head; some jeered and made nasty remarks. She remembered her mother’s words and ignored the comments. Some men even tried, with no success, to take the bowl off of her head. A neighboring farmer noticed the diligence with which she worked, paying no attention to those who spoke and acted harshly. He invited her to work in his rice fields where she would be safe from those who chose to harm her. In time, he and his wife grew fond of the young woman and treated her like a daughter. One day, their eldest son returned from the city, tired of the life he’d been living. When he saw the maiden with the bowl on her head he asked his father who she was. “She is a kind young woman who works hard.” The son worked alongside her and the two became friends. He grew to love her and asked her to marry him. Although she loved him, she refused. She was a servant. A woman with a bowl on her head. That night she dreamed her mother visited her, encouraging her to follow her heart, that if she did, all would be well. The next morning, the son asked her again. This time the maiden said yes. On the day of the wedding she tried to take the bowl off of her head but it stayed fast. The son tried, but he too could not remove it, nor could anyone else. The maiden asked if he would like to change his mind about marrying her, a woman with a bowl on her head. He smiled and said, “I love you as you are. Let the wedding proceed.” After the wedding feast, as the maiden took a sip of the ceremonial wine, the bowl fell off her head and crashed to the floor. She heard her mother’s voice, saying, “Yes!”  For as long as anyone could remember, the tribe cherished the statue of Golden Eagle, given to them by god Ches for their goodness and wisdom. They were told to guard it well for it had magical powers but there would come a time when they would have to give it back. For generations the god’s gift brought victory and good fortune to the tribe. Then, a ruler died leaving no sons to rule. According to their law, a daughter could become the ruler. Because the young woman was wise and kind, she was accepted by the tribe who loved her gentle ways. She had not ruled for many moons when she became ill, so ill that nothing the tribe and their healers did—making medicines, creating brews, doing sacrifices, painting their bodies, performing special dances—cured the princess. One morning, she woke early and spoke to her dearest friend and companion. “Mistafa, god Ches appeared in my sleep. He asks that Golden Eagle be returned to his temple on the mountain peak. Only then will I be well.” Mistafa told the princess it was only a dream, but the princess was clear. “I am too weak to go. You must go in my place.” Mistafa was besieged with doubts and fears. “Who am I to approach a temple only chieftains visit? How will I find the way? What if I am not strong enough to carry Golden Eagle all the way?” The princess told her, “Do not be afraid for god Ches will support and protect you. He will show you the way. When you reach the peak of the mountain bury Golden Eagle at the side of the temple. Call out to god Ches three times. He will hear you. Listen well to what he says.” Mistafa wrapped Golden Eagle in a soft cloth and began her journey. Her arms ached from carrying the sacred sculpture. Her feet ached from the miles she walked. Seeing the mountain peak gave her new strength and energy. Using a sharp rock, she dug a hole deep enough to bury Golden Eagle, then cried out to god Ches three times. All was quiet. She fell asleep nestled in the cloth in which she had carried the sacred statue made of gold. When she woke the next morning, she saw what she had not seen before. Where she had buried Golden Eagle there was now a lovely bush covered with green leaves and purple blossoms. A voice commanded. “Gather leaves in the cloth and bring them to the healers. Tell them to brew a strong tea and serve it to the princess.” Mistafa did as she was told, then made her way back without stopping to eat or drink or rest. She brought the leaves to the healers who prepared the tea. With each sip of the strong brew the princess regained her strength and ruled wisely for many years.  Little Parrot loved the jungle. Every morning she would fly over the greenery, look at what lay below, and count herself fortunate to live in such a place. Only when she was sure that all was well did she fly back to earth and eat her breakfast. One morning, while flying overhead, she saw nothing but thick, dark smoke. The jungle was on fire! Little Parrot flew over to the river as fast as her small wings permitted, took a huge gulp of water, flew back to the fire, and spit out the water, trying to quench the massive flames. Back and forth she went, from the river to the fire, from the fire to the river, trying her best to put out the fire though she was very little and could only take tiny gulps each time. She soon became exhausted but kept on going. Her beloved jungle was at risk. As she was flying for the umpteenth time to the river, worried that the jungle would burn before she could put out the fire, she heard a loud laugh. Then she heard a cackling voice say, "You’re a silly parrot. You’re too little to put out such a big fire." Little Parrot looked up and saw Eagle, the largest bird in the jungle. “I don't need advice” she said. “I need help,” then continued flying to the river. The next thing Little Parrot knew, a huge stream of water poured from the skies dousing part of the fire. Little Parrot did not stop to see who was helping her, she just kept flying to the river and back, hoping that with help the fire would soon be put out. When there were no more flames, Little Parrot looked around to see if she could find the source of the help for which she was so grateful. Surprised, she saw that it was Eagle. Though she was utterly depleted, she flew up to Eagle and said, “Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Were it not for you, the fire would still be burning.” “No,” said Eagle, “it is I who must thank you.” |
World TalesAge old stories of wit and wisdom from around the world. Tales retold by Nancy King. Archives
December 2024
Categories |
RSS Feed
Copyright © Nancy King 2020 | Site Design by Angulo Marketing & Design
|
|
Nancy King is a widely published author and a professor emerita at the University of Delaware, where she has taught theater, drama, playwriting, creative writing, and multidisciplinary studies with an emphasis on world literature. She has published seven previous works of nonfiction and five novels. Her new memoir, Breaking the Silence, explores the power of stories in healing from trauma and abuse. Her career has emphasized the use of her own experience in being silenced to encourage students to find their voices and to express their thoughts, feelings, and experiences with authenticity, as a way to add meaning to their lives.
|