Storytelling
Connective's Community Services Office on Fraser Street is a drop-in resource centre for people facing ongoing barriers. It helps people connect with housing, identification, income supports, and health care while supporting people during transitions and deepening understanding of the challenges surrounding justice, poverty, and reintegration.
Like any volunteer position, it started with a lot forms. A tour, a test, a police information check, and when that wrapped up, a couple more forms. I lost the cursor, the page, and occasionally the point of being there. I actually expected a polite rejection.
"Thanks, Deb. You're an actor, inexperienced with this population, and less funny than you think." But I was accepted and oriented.
My initial goal was to stay connected with incarcerated people or folx returning from incarceration because during the past few years, I have been working with William Head on Stage (WHoS) in Victoria. Victoria is a long way to commute. So I was looking for meaningful volunteering closer to home where I could share my approach to personal storytelling.
On my first Thursday morning, I waited in the bright, open general-use common room. People came in from the rain to get warm, meet with their support workers, use the computers, the bathrooms and the coffee station, but nobody came to the storytelling table even when invited. The following week... nobody came.
There were initially 3 volunteers, so Patrick, Nicola, and I agreed that if Thursday Storytelling suddenly became bursting-busy, I would let them know, but, until then, I would keep showing up and see if…just if.
Then Jay arrived Jay carried 2 backpacks, a bag of cans to recycle, a tightly scheduled calendar, a bulldog clip full of his carefully preserved artwork, an impressive vocabulary and head of hair. He announced, "I'm not a storyteller," and for the next hour and a half, he told me astonishing tales. According to him, “Those are not stories!” Just moments. Memories. Encounters. Adventures. They were beautifully observed slices of a poetically and politically complicated life, delivered with detail and timing. They were stage-ready. He rapped, recited, sang and drew. It was clear the stories were there. The work was convincing Jay that people genuinely wanted to hear them.
Every week I held the space for two or three hours, and for the next few months, other fascinating humans came and went, but Jay was the only regular participant.
Summer arrived, and the Connective Tuesday morning Art Studio was going on hiatus if I didn’t take it on, so I said yes to moving my volunteer shift and focus. Jay was happy because Tuesdays would work better for UCan. And instead of trying to convince people to share their personal narrative, I facilitated an open art studio.
I dug through the supply cupboard—acrylics, watercolours, paper, markers. I planned focused projects for anyone who wanted guidance and left space for anyone who didn't. And people arrived. And came back.
People who didn't feel comfortable sitting with me on Thursday’s storytelling leapt at Tuesday’s art supplies. We laughed, got messy, and I learned which projects worked and didn’t.
Some social workers said their clients were enjoying Tuesdays, I took requests for the following week’s projects, I heaved in neighbourhood-donated art supplies, and even the administration, students and staff joined in.
The circle now holds a full range of abilities and life experiences. A couple folx clearly have formal art training. Some haven't picked up a paintbrush since childhood. Some speak rapidly. Others speak little, communicating through interpreters or the written word. Some are living with developmental disabilities, acquired brain injuries, mental health challenges, and most wear the long shadow of trauma.
Some people are prolific in their artistic output, and some draw a circle and are done, but while hands are busy sketching, beading, tearing paper, and stamping patterns, stories flow forth. Not polished stories looking for applause; heartfelt truths and honest descriptions of unique lives lived.
Someone shared the joy of becoming a hockey scorekeeper at the local rec department and the joyful anticipation of finding an apartment after years of housing insecurity.
Someone remembered fishing with their granddad before addiction changed everything.
Someone wove us a story around the pieces of clothing they had created for that gathering while the fact that they haven't spoken to their family in years was an aching throughline.
I've spent nearly twenty years teaching personal narrative, and being at Connective has reminded me again that storytelling isn't about standing on stage; it's about creating a space that feels safe enough for people to forget they're self-consciousness so we can all learn more about other people’s normal, the fragility of human existence and the fact we’re all struggling along.
I’m guessing that creating art gives everyone a place to rest our eyes and open our ears. It lets conversations wander and empathy bloom.
Jay still attends. He insists he isn't a storyteller, but he smiles more and is planning to share his story about his unhoused-normal at the Word Festival on September 19th. Jay is also hatching other long-term projects like a Zine and an Underground Arts Map of Metro Vancouver.
So I’m still volunteering at Connective, with a group of people I didn’t expect to gather, sharing an art form that is far from my profession, and I will stay as long as I am allowed because it's the best part of my week and sometimes storytelling begins with a paintbrush.
Deb Williams is an actor, director, playwright and producer whose work focuses on the belief that listening to one another's true lived personal stories makes the world a better place. She is one of the co-creators and stars of Mom’s the Word, seen in 19 countries by millions around the globe, and Artistic Producer of The Flame—the West Coast's premier storytelling event/workshops. Her writing reflects a belief that art can illuminate what is difficult to say and remind us of what still matters. When not writing or acting, Deb can usually be found painting with bright colours and caring for her marvellous flock of chosen grandchildren. www.theflame.live
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