If a story moves you act on it Sisonke Msimang
Translator: Joseph Geni
Reviewer: Joanna Pietrulewicz
So earlier this year,
I was informed that I would be
doing a TED Talk.
So I was excited, then I panicked,
then I was excited, then I panicked,
and in between the excitement
and the panicking,
I started to do my research,
and my research primarily consisted
of Googling how to give a great TED Talk.
(Laughter)
And interspersed with that,
I was Googling Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie.
How many of you know who that is?
(Cheers)
So I was Googling her
because I always Google her
because I’m just a fan,
but also because she always has
important and interesting things to say.
And the combination of those searches
kept leading me to her talk
on the dangers of a single story,
on what happens
when we have a solitary lens
through which to understand
certain groups of people,
and it is the perfect talk.
It’s the talk that I would have given
if I had been famous first.
(Laughter)
You know, and you know,
like, she’s African and I’m African,
and she’s a feminist and I’m a feminist,
and she’s a storyteller
and I’m a storyteller,
so I really felt like it’s my talk.
(Laughter)
So I decided that I was going
to learn how to code,
and then I was going to hack the internet
and I would take down all the copies
of that talk that existed,
and then I would memorize it,
and then I would come here
and deliver it as if it was my own speech.
So that plan was going really well,
except the coding part,
and then one morning a few months ago,
I woke up
to the news that the wife
of a certain presidential candidate
had given a speech that –
(Laughter)
(Applause)
that sounded eerily like a speech
given by one of my other faves,
Michelle Obama.
(Cheers)
And so I decided that I should
probably write my own TED Talk,
and so that is what I am here to do.
I’m here to talk about
my own observations about storytelling.
I want to talk to you
about the power of stories, of course,
but I also want to talk
about their limitations,
particularly for those of us
who are interested in social justice.
So since Adichie gave that talk
seven years ago,
there has been a boom in storytelling.
Stories are everywhere,
and if there was a danger
in the telling of one tired old tale,
then I think there has got to be
lots to celebrate about the flourishing
of so many stories and so many voices.
Stories are the antidote to bias.
In fact, today, if you are middle class
and connected via the internet,
you can download stories
at the touch of a button
or the swipe of a screen.
You can listen to a podcast
about what it’s like
to grow up Dalit in Kolkata.
You can hear an indigenous
man in Australia
talk about the trials and triumphs
of raising his children in dignity
and in pride.
Stories make us fall in love.
They heal rifts and they bridge divides.
Stories can even make it easier for us
to talk about the deaths
of people in our societies
who don’t matter,
because they make us care.
Right?
I’m not so sure,
and I actually work for a place
called the Centre for Stories.
And my job is to help to tell stories
that challenge mainstream narratives
about what it means to be black
or a Muslim or a refugee
or any of those other categories
that we talk about all the time.
But I come to this work
after a long history
as a social justice activist,
and so I’m really interested in the ways
that people talk
about nonfiction storytelling
as though it’s about
more than entertainment,
as though it’s about being
a catalyst for social action.
It’s not uncommon to hear people say
that stories make
the world a better place.
Increasingly, though, I worry
that even the most poignant stories,
particularly the stories about people
who no one seems to care about,
can often get in the way
of action towards social justice.
Now, this is not because
storytellers mean any harm.
Quite the contrary.
Storytellers are often do-gooders
like me and, I suspect, yourselves.
And the audiences of storytellers
are often deeply compassionate
and empathetic people.
Still, good intentions
can have unintended consequences,
and so I want to propose that stories
are not as magical as they seem.
So three – because
it’s always got to be three –
three reasons why I think
that stories don’t necessarily
make the world a better place.
Firstly, stories can create
an illusion of solidarity.
There is nothing
like that feel-good factor you get
from listening to a fantastic story
where you feel like you
climbed that mountain, right,
or that you befriended
that death row inmate.
But you didn’t.
You haven’t done anything.
Listening is an important
but insufficient step
towards social action.
Secondly, I think often we are drawn
towards characters and protagonists
who are likable and human.
And this makes sense, of course, right?
Because if you like someone,
then you care about them.
But the inverse is also true.
If you don’t like someone,
then you don’t care about them.
And if you don’t care about them,
you don’t have to see yourself
as having a moral obligation
to think about the circumstances
that shaped their lives.
I learned this lesson
when I was 14 years old.
I learned that actually,
you don’t have to like someone
to recognize their wisdom,
and you certainly
don’t have to like someone
to take a stand by their side.
So my bike was stolen
while I was riding it –
(Laughter)
which is possible if you’re
riding slowly enough, which I was.
(Laughter)
So one minute
I’m cutting across this field
in the Nairobi neighborhood
where I grew up,
and it’s like a very bumpy path,
and so when you’re riding a bike,
you don’t want to be like, you know –
(Laughter)
And so I’m going like this,
slowly pedaling,
and all of a sudden, I’m on the floor.
I’m on the ground, and I look up,
and there’s this kid peddling away
in the getaway vehicle,
which is my bike,
and he’s about 11 or 12 years old,
and I’m on the floor,
and I’m crying because I saved
a lot of money for that bike,
and I’m crying and I stand up
and I start screaming.
Instinct steps in,
and I start screaming, “Mwizi, mwizi!”
which means “thief” in Swahili.
And out of the woodworks,
all of these people come out
and they start to give chase.
This is Africa, so mob justice in action.
Right?
And I round the corner,
and they’ve captured him,
they’ve caught him.
The suspect has been apprehended,
and they make him give me my bike back,
and they also make him apologize.
Again, you know,
typical African justice, right?
And so they make him say sorry.
And so we stand there facing each other,
and he looks at me, and he says sorry,
but he looks at me
with this unbridled fury.
He is very, very angry.
And it is the first time that I have been
confronted with someone
who doesn’t like me
simply because of what I represent.
He looks at me
with this look as if to say,
“You, with your shiny skin
and your bike, you’re angry at me?”
So it was a hard lesson
that he didn’t like me,
but you know what, he was right.
I was a middle-class kid
living in a poor country.
I had a bike, and he barely had food.
Sometimes, it’s the messages
that we don’t want to hear,
the ones that make us
want to crawl out of ourselves,
that we need to hear the most.
For every lovable storyteller
who steals your heart,
there are hundreds more
whose voices are slurred and ragged,
who don’t get to stand up on a stage
dressed in fine clothes like this.
There are a million
angry-boy-on-a-bike stories
and we can’t afford to ignore them
simply because we don’t like
their protagonists
or because that’s not the kid
that we would bring home with us
from the orphanage.
The third reason that I think
that stories don’t necessarily
make the world a better place
is that too often we are so invested
in the personal narrative
that we forget
to look at the bigger picture.
And so we applaud someone
when they tell us
about their feelings of shame,
but we don’t necessarily
link that to oppression.
We nod understandingly
when someone says they felt small,
but we don’t link that to discrimination.
The most important stories,
especially for social justice,
are those that do both,
that are both personal and allow us
to explore and understand the political.
But it’s not just
about the stories we like
versus the stories we choose to ignore.
Increasingly, we are living in a society
where there are larger forces at play,
where stories are actually for many people
beginning to replace the news.
Yeah?
We live in a time where we are witnessing
the decline of facts,
when emotions rule
and analysis, it’s kind of boring, right?
Where we value what we feel
more than what we actually know.
A recent report by the Pew Center
on trends in America
indicates that only 10 percent
of young adults under the age of 30
“place a lot of trust in the media.”
Now, this is significant.
It means that storytellers
are gaining trust
at precisely the same moment
that many in the media
are losing the confidence in the public.
This is not a good thing,
because while stories are important
and they help us
to have insights in many ways,
we need the media.
From my years
as a social justice activist,
I know very well that we need
credible facts from media institutions
combined with the powerful voices
of storytellers.
That’s what pushes the needle forward
in terms of social justice.
In the final analysis, of course,
it is justice
that makes the world a better place,
not stories. Right?
And so if it is justice that we are after,
then I think we mustn’t focus
on the media or on storytellers.
We must focus on audiences,
on anyone who has ever turned on a radio
or listened to a podcast,
and that means all of us.
So a few concluding thoughts
on what audiences can do
to make the world a better place.
So firstly, the world
would be a better place, I think,
if audiences were more curious
and more skeptical
and asked more questions
about the social context
that created those stories
that they love so much.
Secondly, the world
would be a better place
if audiences recognized
that storytelling is intellectual work.
And I think it would
be important for audiences
to demand more buttons
on their favorite websites,
buttons for example that say,
“If you liked this story,
click here to support a cause
your storyteller believes in.”
Or “click here to contribute
to your storyteller’s next big idea.”
Often, we are committed to the platforms,
but not necessarily
to the storytellers themselves.
And then lastly, I think that audiences
can make the world a better place
by switching off their phones,
by stepping away from their screens
and stepping out into the real world
beyond what feels safe.
Alice Walker has said,
“Look closely at the present
you are constructing.
It should look like the future
you are dreaming.”
Storytellers can help us to dream,
but it’s up to all of us
to have a plan for justice.
Thank you.
(Applause)