Once upon a time is a lie. We all know that, right? It鈥檚 a sure sign that a story 诲颈诲苍鈥檛 happen鈥攃ertainly not the way it鈥檚 about to be told. Yet, it鈥檚 an enduring turn of phrase: Once upon a time first appears in Middle English, back in the 14th century, according to the Oxford English Dictionary. It came into more common use in the 17th century, and it still works, doesn鈥檛 it? Star Wars was set 鈥淎 long time ago in a galaxy far, far away鈥� and Don McLean opened 鈥淎merican Pie鈥� singing, 鈥淎 long, long time ago, I can still remember....鈥�
, in the effort to make sense of the world and our place in it. We don鈥檛 want to imagine our lives as strings of random events, so we weave the threads into story. In the opening line of Charles Dickens鈥� David Copperfield our narrator states, 鈥淲hether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.鈥� Through other people鈥檚 stories we have practice in seeing ourselves as part of a story鈥攚hether as the hero, or some other archetypal role found in fiction, fable, and myth. We鈥檙e pleased that the slow-and-steady tortoise defeats the cocky hare, but if you had that kind speed and you were racing a tortoise, you might take a nap, too. And admit it: wouldn鈥檛 you also open Pandora鈥檚 box? Can鈥檛 you see yourself flying too close to the sun like Icarus?
Once upon a time is not only about the protagonists. It frees us up to identify on some level with every character. We empathize with Harry Potter, and Hermione and Ron, but some part of us also understands the insecure way that Draco Malfoy lashes out as well. We鈥檙e all Dorothy in Oz, unexpectedly wearing ruby slippers and trying to return home. But we can understand the anger we鈥檇 feel if we had to see those slippers worn by the girl who recklessly landed her house on our now dead sister.
Once upon a time is about truth. Fiction allows us to recognize and wrestle with the range of possibilities in our lives, in our world. The product of that effort is empathy. It can serve us well in understanding not only ourselves and our loved ones, but .
I must have understood the significance of storytelling on some level from a very young age. Or at least, I must have felt it, even without quite understanding. But there鈥檚 a more distinct memory when the power of storytelling changed my life鈥檚 trajectory. It happened in my fifth grade class at Brentwood Science Magnet Elementary School, in Los Angeles. A teacher鈥檚 aide handed me a collection of short stories she thought I might like. I was unfamiliar with the author, Ray Bradbury, and the book had a childish title: . There was no cover: it was a hardcover copy missing its book jacket. I sat down and opened to the first story (from which the whole collection took its name), without any great expectations, and read:
There was this fence where we pressed our faces and felt the wind turn warm and held to the fence and forgot for a moment who we were and where we came from but dreamed of who we might be and where we might go."
If you read that sentence aloud, you might end up breathless, just like the group of teens the narrator describes. That鈥檚 45 words and no commas, so it produces the physical and emotional effect together, including the reader among those who dream of the possibilities of the future. Up until that day, my dream was to become a marine biologist and study whales and dolphins. I 诲颈诲苍鈥檛 know it at the time, but R is for Rocket was a turning point, an initiation, linking my future pursuits to reading, writing, and sharing stories.
It鈥檚 been almost 40 years now since I met Ray Bradbury鈥檚 characters, and about 25 years since I met Bradbury himself and told him my story. It鈥檚 been more than 20 years since I began teaching, and I鈥檓 preparing to meet a hundred-something new students next month. Some of my planning is more mundane, and some is exciting as I鈥檓 learning something new in the process. Part of me wishes I could figure out the perfect book for each student I鈥檒l meet this year, and I could just hand them something that would change their lives. And part of me wishes I could simply tell them my story about stories, and that would convince them all that there are truths to be discovered in Once upon a time.
But the real truth is that my students, at 16 and 17 years old, are already on their journeys, well on their way, and my part in their story, no matter how earnestly and professionally I play that part, may be inconsequential and forgettable. That鈥檚 fine, it doesn鈥檛 need be about me. Ultimately, if the literature can provide the occasion for students to think deeply and learn or reaffirm something useful to know about life and society, it will have been worth the summertime hours I gave up once upon a time.