Sheela Clary

The Moth Radio Hour podcast includes a tiny number of the total stories told, so you can’t listen to my winning StorySlam story. (I summarize it below.)

In early September 2015, I searched themes for upcoming New York events and landed on “Rescue.” It just so happened I had a rescue story in my back pocket. On the balmy night of September 28, 2015, the Bitter End, legendary music venue, was packed, standing room only. There were 20 names in the hat, the Moth folks would be picking 10, and mine was the ninth name called.

Here is my summarized story:

About 10 minutes prior to informing me that he might rape me, a Papua New Guinean politician is sitting in our only chair, drunkenly enumerating in English all the things he knows about America. I sit at his feet on the bamboo floor. It’s 2 a.m. and I’ve been roused from sleep to meet him.

I’m a twenty-four-year-old Peace Corps volunteer one month into a monthlong homestay, and I have been living happily in a three-room hut with Papa David and Mama Julie. David is a warrior, the chief of his tribe, and now fiercely protective of me, his temporary daughter. Each morning he insists on walking me to catch the bus to the training center—swinging his machete and humming “Hava Nagila”—because who knows what might happen in the two hundred feet between house and road.

As the bus pulls away he stares at me with squinty, worried eyes and cries “Lukim yu, gel bilong mi!” (See you, my daughter!). I think he’s wonderful, and also a bit much. “Thank you, Dad, no need to worry. I can take care of myself,” I try to convey through the window, with comforting eyes.

But now, here on the floor at 2 a.m., David is sitting beside me staring at the creepy politician with shining eyes that say, “If only my ancestors could see me now!”

As the politician drones on about the wonders of skyscrapers, my mind turns to where he will be sleeping. Julie had told me they were giving him their bedroom, but I realize she hadn’t mentioned where she and David would be sleeping. David speaks no English, and he’s too impressed with the politician to read my body language. I feel totally alone, for the first time in Papua New Guinea. Abruptly, the Governor ends his skyscraper lecture, and grabs my hand. He pulls me in, and announces, “If something should happen in the night, don’t fight it, just try to enjoy it.”

I turn around, pull aside the skirt that serves as the door to my room, crawl under the mosquito netting and into my sleeping bag, and wonder what to do next. David speaks no English. He’s in this guy’s thrall, so not reading my body language, either. After deciding there is nowhere I can get to in the dark, I spend the hours until dawn listening to the politician’s snores, clinging to the personal alarm, a tiny noise grenade, that the Peace Corps gave to female volunteers. As soon as I see light breaking through my bamboo wall, I get dressed and walk myself to the bus.

I tell Jonathan the head trainer what happened, and he tells me I can stay there at the center in a free room until the coast is clear. I want to hug him in gratitude. But as I slowly gather over the course of the morning, I’ve not escaped from the creepy politician. He’s holding a rally on the field next door. A crowd gathers and eventually I can hear that same lecturer’s drone, this time over a PA system, and cheered on by hundreds of people. I have no choice but to listen, my stomach churning with bitterness.

What am I doing here? I wonder. What an idiot I’ve been, playing house in an unfamiliar place with pretend parents who are no more loyal to me than any other stranger. For the rest of the morning, I consider what it would feel like to go home to my real Papa David. I am less than three weeks into a two-year commitment.

But heading outside for lunch, I hear someone shout my name from the field in the distance. “Sheela! Sheela!” A small, lone figure is pressed up against the fence, waving wildly. Up close, Papa David’s face is shiny with tears. He reaches his hands out to me, crying, “Sori tru, gel bilong mi!” (I’m so sorry, my daughter.)

It’s not the last time during my life in Papua New Guinea that I will give up on comprehending and give in to love. David and I hold hands through the fence, as he explains through our tears that he and his machete had been standing watch outside my bedroom until daybreak, ready to do battle.

Phew. Intense. Since telling that story, I’ve studied what qualities engage, bore, mesmerize, or distract me.

What are some of the key ingredients?

1. High stakes: “Will she be attacked in her own bed” are the stakes in that tale, which are objectively high. But really the stakes in a good story only need to be high for the storyteller. In one of my favorite Moth stories, “An Extra Hot Dog” by Marco Huertas, the stakes would seem to be quite low, but a humble hot dog comes to represent something much larger for the storyteller.
2. Contrast: My rescue story had the built-in contrast of young American girl / Papua New Guinean tribal chief. The Moth story “Cat-Cow-Meow” is a great example of a more familiar contrast. The storyteller is John Dubuc, a 300-pound football player and guard at a juvenile detention facility, whose employer sends him on a weeklong yoga retreat. If instead the story had been ‘Middle-aged female writer of average build is sent on a weeklong yoga retreat,’ there would be zero story, because half the people at any given yoga retreat fit that bill. (Local Berkshire folks will appreciate this locale and might have had a similar experience to the storyteller’s!)
3. A vulnerable narrator: I struggle with this aspect of storytelling. It’s a tricky line sometimes between vulnerability and a confessional, which comes across as self-serving and makes audiences cringe. A new and improved version of my rescue story would lean into vulnerability much more. My favorite example of effective soul-baring is Danusia Trevino’s Moth story, “Guilty.” She’s a rebellious Polish-born punk called to serve on an American jury. (Nice contrast and stakes, too!) I thought at first it was a straight-up I-fought-the-law-and-I-won tale, but it takes an unpredictable turn, and in the end it’s all about belonging. It brings me to tears every time.
4. Self-editing: The Moth gently tries to enforce a five-minute length for their open storytelling events, and I find that the best stories have not a word to waste. Carefully-selected details move the story along, develop a character, or accentuate the theme. The storyteller has either practiced a lot or has a natural sense for what information is essential and what can be left out. For a masterclass in concision (also, establishing high stakes and opening your heart up to strangers), listen to Steve Zimmer’s tale of eBay woes, “To Bid Or Not To Bid.” It begins: “I’ve never been married, or lived with someone, or owned real estate, or taken a real vacation, or purchased brand new furniture. These are sources of concern for my girlfriend Megan when she moves in with me in July, 2014.” I can already tell that this will be a well-practiced story, with not an ounce of fat on it.
5. Transformation: A good story, even a five-minute story, features a narrator who experiences some sort of change. Maybe that’s the element that most clearly distinguishes a story from an anecdote. She goes from naïve to wise, he is introduced to the weight of guilt, he goes from tough guy to purring cat, she is made to understand what she’s been looking for in all the wrong places, he learns how to make a commitment. A good story taps into our common humanity, and so is a gift for its listeners.

Here’s to the power of stories to connect us. Please join me Thursday night at Berkshire Botanical Garden for an evening of storytelling, beginning at 6 p.m.

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