Our Legacy is the Stories They Tell About Us
“Tell me another family story” came the urgent plea from our eight-year-old grandson, the same request he often makes on phone calls and visits. So I delivered a new one. When our daughter, his Aunt Jennifer, was three, I tell him, I had just come home tired from work and dropped onto the living room Bentwood rocker. “Would you like a drink of water Daddy? she lovingly asked. “Sure.” A couple minutes later her tiny hands lifted a glass of water which I promptly drank with affection for her thoughtfulness at such a young age. Then I realized: she can’t reach the sink. “Where did you get this water, Jenny?” “From the toilet.” A brief moment of worry and a memory to be savored followed. Our grandson giggled with abandon.
When he’s grown into a man and I’m no longer around I hope that story, among others, will be. Perhaps he’ll tell it at family reunions or to a child of his own. My professional achievements – the kind of stuff in most obituaries – will not be the subject of family stories. They might admire what I accomplished, but if I have a choice, it’s those other stories I’d want remembered. Without those, and the lessons in them, the most important parts of me will have vanished as surely as a setting sun.
It’s in the stories about us that we pass on gifts of who we are. For a few of us those stories may tell of great triumphs in the arts, science, business, politics or social welfare. For most of us, the stories people tell will be about achievements on a smaller scale – the family and community. For all of us, it is in these narratives that we demonstrated what we thought counts, how we treated others, how we loved, when we laughed and what we cried over. Without these stories, our legacy would be as bland as a blank canvas. No one would know what values defined us and what richness we found in living.
Of course it’s also the stories we tell about others who impacted our lives that are our legacy, for if we don’t tell them, the people in those stories and the lessons they offer will die with us. My grandfather was taken forcible from his shtetl, conscripted into the Russian Army shortly after the turn of the twentieth century. Such conscription meant a 25-year commitment, as had been extracted from his father. He escaped by gorging on beets to turn his urine red, Feigning a sickness thus got him sent to the hospital tent. As he knew, that tent was at the edge of the army’s encampment near the Turkish border. In the middle of the night, he snuck under the tent. He crossed into Turkey and eventually made his way to America, arriving without a penny in his worn pockets. He learned the language, built a business and made a life. I and all those who followed owe a debt to him, for without this brave act the Holocaust most likely would have ended our family. We often recall and retell this story for what it teaches about determination, moral courage, love of family and hard work. He taught by who he was - the story his life embodied.
This sharing of stories across generations, comprises the ties that make families, shape our heritage, spark our dreams and fuel our behavior. As with my grandfather and my strange glass of water, you don’t have to be bigger than life or a notable success to be remembered and provide stories that can help guide others’ futures. Never underestimate the power of who you are and how your stories impact others.
Understandably, not every story will be positive. Our imperfections foster stories too. Where we have failed, been less than loving or behaved in ways that sparked regret, stories about us may still be told, even if we wish they were not. Those stories also offer valuable lessons. This is illustrated in Arthur Miller’s play Death of a Salesman when Willy Loman’s son, Biff, reflects on his father’s death. Willy was a broken man, never achieving the triumphant sales stardom he hoped would crown his life and be his legacy. He poured much of his despair into fixing his house and building a front stoop. Commenting on his father’s life to his Dad’s friend and neighbor, Biff remarks: “You know something, Charley, there’s more of him in that front stoop than in all the sales he ever made …” The meanings in Biff’s story about his father have fostered powerful conversations and learning well beyond the Spartan stage set on which Willy lived.
We live in a world flooded with discrete bits of information – facts, data, images – constantly bombarded with bit and bytes. We make sense of that world through the fabric of stories that weave those bits and bytes together. Only stories give them meaning. When those stories are told we and others live on, continuing to teach and hopefully inspire.
Photo Credit: janosch-lino-unsplash.com
