Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, when trees could
talk and fairies danced in the sunset, so long ago that I was a lad and my dad
was too, east of the sun and west of the moon, there was and there was not a
storyteller. And this storyteller was often asked a question – “Where am I in
these stories? They are all about beautiful princesses locked in towers, who
are rescued by a handsome princes and lives happily ever after. I am not
beautiful. I am not a princess. I don’t want anyone to rescue me and I don’t
want to marry a prince.”
Wondertales (more often referred to fairytales) are strange beasts. They are stories that roam
through the subconscious, long after the teller has finished telling. They are
stories that invite us into the realm of the soul and when we are there, ask us
questions in a language that we cannot quite understand, but definitely
remember from somewhen long, long ago.
And then, to our deep irritation and our deep revulsion,
these magical, ancient tales offer us pictures of beautiful, slightly pathetic,
princesses locked in towers by evil, ugly witches. The modern woman feels
slighted, forgotten and maybe even insulted by this picture of woman-ness.
Between the beautiful& good and the ugly&evil, we are at risk of
finding ourselves absent from these magical stories. And so we ask the question
– Can we change them? Do we, in fact, have a duty to change them? Switch the
genders! Make the princess ugly and the witch beautiful! Do we want our
daughters and granddaughters to wait for a prince to save them?
And part of me - the same part that refuses to be the first
to say “I love you”, the same part of me that is determined to keep my own name
if I marry and has a tingle of jealousy when a beautiful woman walks into the
room - clamours to join the cacophony of objections.
“I am not a princess! I don’t need saving! Why should the
princess have to be beautiful anyway? Why can’t the princess save the prince!”
But, then my stomach turns and churns and heaves as if
sailing out on a stormy sea with the thought of taking one of these ancient
stories, one of these magical, dreamy fairytales and imposing my conscious,
head-driven want upon it.
When I read a wondertale, I remember that these are not the
finished article, but a frozen moment in the history of that particular story. And
then, as I read on, the stormy sea calms as my head begins to know what my
stomach tried to tell me.
My head criticises the princess in the Goose
Girl for crying when her maid refuses to get her a glass of water, but then I
see that it is at this moment she realises she is alone. I remember that moment
when I realised that I have to make my own decisions now and that it was time
to look after myself. It is a frightening and moment, that is well worth the
tears of a princess.
My head is angry at Briar Rose for having
to wait for a Prince, for the kiss ‘of true love’ to wake her, but then I see that
it was never part of the deal that she be woken by a kiss. It is rather that a worthy
man just happens to show up at the right time.
My head is furious with the princess who
kisses frogs because they are to turn into handsome princes, but then I read
that this never happened. The Princess threw the frog against the wall, because
she did not want him in her bed. The violent act was the key to unlocking the
transformation.
My head was so busy and overflowing with images from TV,
film and Disney Ltd. that I had forgotten to the real stories.
And then beauty.
Why do we get so angry with the constant stream of beautiful
princesses? The words ‘beautiful’ and ‘fair’ have become so culturally loaded that
we seem terrified of them. We don’t want to offend; we want to offer our
children a ‘reasonable’ mirror in which to find themselves, not this idyllic
princess figure with her beauty and her fair-face. Listening to stories of
beautiful princesses will surely reinforce to our young people that beauty is
equal to worth. Won’t they?
Two thought sbegin to clamour for attention as I write:
The first says that we are storytellers and we conjure and
create these stories as we speak. They only really live as we speak them, so
why are we conjuring a beauty that is based in the physical? Surely that is the
kind of beauty we object to – the physical obsession that makes us feel inadequate,
unwanted and unloved. We cannot surely be objecting to one who is truly beautiful,
in the proper way – the way that shines out of whatever shape we are in. So maybe
we must practise conjuring princesses with our breath that are not physically
attractive, but are truly beautiful. What we perceive as beauty is beauty – we can
create what it means to be beautiful each time we tell.
Beauty is a
characteristic of a person, animal, place, object, or idea that provides a
perceptual experience of pleasure or satisfaction. Wikipedia
And then the second thought begins to rise. Why don’t we see
ourselves mirrored in the beautiful princess? Is it her beauty? Is it because
she can’t do everything herself? Is it because she needs rescuing?
This thought sits gently in my mind, asking myself why I don’t
think I’m a beautiful princess, who sometimes needs rescuing. I don’t have the
answer yet. I do realise one thing, however – I am stronger when I am with
others and I am stronger when I am comfortable within myself and so, I am happy
to find myself in the girl who needs support from others to find her full
potential. We are nothing when we are alone; everything is connected.
I am a drop in an everlasting sea.
A story is a current flowing through and flowing from the millions of
drops that surround me.
