Secret to literacy is all in the story

I walked as one of 10,000.

I couldn’t read the subway maps, I was dressed differently and immersed in a brave new world with nothing but identification and a few hundred dollars. I had traveled to New York City to the annual convention for the National Council of Teachers of English in search of the definition for 21st century literacy.

On East 125th near Harlem, I found it — the story.

Pedro Noguera of New York University, in a speech sponsored by the Conference on English Leadership, eloquently described the early 21st century as an era when opportunity will be determined simply by who will read and who will not. Readers earn more, exercise more and vote one and a half times more than nonreaders.

Knowing that print readership is on the decline, I listened to Noguera for a new literacy to emerge like a phoenix from the ash.

However, I heard that the loss of readership isn’t a call for a new literacy; instead, Noguera maintained while leaning against the podium that it’s literature that will build the curiosity and imagination our densely diverse 21st century depends on for survival. The power of literacy, he argued, is in the power of the story.

Daniel H. Pink agrees in his work, “A Whole New Mind, Why the Right-Brainers Will Rule the Future.” Pink demonstrates the power of story in a number of ways. First, he proves people remember and learn more from stories than they do from factoids.

Stories, Pink writes, sharpen intelligence by showing ideas in the context of another, thereby delivering that essential and emotional punch. Characters, rising actions and resolutions add to understanding.

In other words, stories tell more because they show more.

Here is a story: I hiked through NYC’s canyon of buildings in my blue REI raincoat rather than a New York-styled black pea coat. I was sure my pronounced steps would not betray my small-town Alaska-girl naivety.

Suddenly, a young man with a red hoodie jumped in front of me shouting that I had dropped something. I jerked to my right to see what I might have lost. My notorious fear of bears surfaced. I considered the possibility of being mauled in the city. To my credit, I didn’t scream in panic. The red-hooded guy laughed at me, “Hey! You dropped your sense of humor!”

The story proved memorable, the problem of being out of my comfort zone, the rising action of walking through crowds, the climax of considering bears and muggings, with the resolution clearly being to lighten up some.

Then on Thanksgiving Day, burdened with books and bags, I made a small error in map reading that, instead of Grand Central Station, placed me on East 125th and 2nd Avenue near Harlem. Imaging being a working class girl in an O’Henry short story, I swatted at a small pile of litter with my feet for a place to stand and waited for the M60 bus. A mixture of exhaust and warm tortillas hung in the air.

Eventually, I approached a man wearing thick glasses and blue Nike sweats.

“Is this the stop for M60?” I asked.

He pointed to the sign and rattled that if it doesn’t say M60, it’s not M60.

Oh. I blinked hard as I realized I was once again at a wrong bus stop. He looked straight at me, “You’re welcome.”

I said “thank you,” remembering the story called “Good Manners.” I took leave to search for the right bus on the north side of the street.

I asked an older man if this stop was for M60 going north. He nodded. Another gentleman started talking in a thick New York-Italian accent. He was taking the BX15 to see his daughter in Queens for Thanksgiving dinner. He worked hotels all of his life, but since retiring he volunteered. “See,” he said, and pulled out his identification cards, one for a hospital and one as a chaplain for the police. “Antonio Rosario,” they read.

“Ahh,” I said and he got on a bus and waved goodbye. Just as the doors started to close he yelled out not to worry so much. Oops, I thought, I dropped my sense of humor again.

A lot of people started to gather at the bus stop. I was the only white person in the bunch, and perhaps the only one who spoke only English. Definitely, I was the only Alaskan. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights.

A hand reached over and grabbed my arm. It was the silent nodding man. Over here, he motioned. Come on. And he led me up the street to bus M60. The bus doors opened, but this time I remembered the story. Turning around, I thanked him.

“No problem,” he nodded. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

The doors rumbled closed, and the bus lurched ahead toward La Guardia Airport and home.

I had expected to learn in NYC that 21st century literacy meant the Internet, graphic art, music videos, podcasts and wikkis. I was wrong.

I failed to see the future in my attempt to rearrange its possibilities. We are stories. Our connections with others are not made through the worldwide web and expectations, but through our common stories.

So, this holiday season I hope you are all able to share a story or two. Read aloud “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas,” “The Polar Express,” “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” or better yet, Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol.” Share a story of your childhood with your children.

Laugh, look for the surprises, listen to the tales and read. We are more alike than different. And 21st century literacy, I believe, is all about the story.

Emily Forstner is the professional development coordinator for Mat-Su Borough School District.