Hi there!
Last weekend, I dove hard into youth sports. Our oldest son, who lives and breathes soccer, had three games. Our younger son, who knows how to catch and throw spirals better than my Powder Puff self could ever dream of, had a flag football game.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m still there on the sidelines, asking the Really Professional Sports Parents to explain offsides and five-yard penalties to me, but I’m in it - in it with a book tucked into the pocket of my camping chair, just in case.
The book of choice was immigrant advocate Karen Gonzalez’s newest release, Beyond Welcome. And y’all, it’s brilliant. Karen is brilliant. (Karen is also a friend of mine, but really, actually liking and appreciating a friend’s writing makes it even more brilliant sometimes).
Throughout the book, she throws twists and turns. She digs in deep. She says what needs to be said, because her book isn’t necessarily about doing as much as it’s about being. And entering into a space of being, whatever the arena, changes the narrative: it changes the way we interact with the conversation, because it changes the way we see the conversation.
Here’s where ethical storytelling comes into play. As Karen puts it, ethical storytelling is “holistic and involve[s] a well-rounded narrative that fully humanizes and dignifies the people whose stories are being told.”
Whatever the space, wherever the space, it’s easy to dismiss the need for ethical storytelling.
I think about my own experience in a nonprofit ministry sector where I spent nearly a decade of my professional life. When it came to raising money, there were certain kids we wanted to stand on that stage and “tell their story.” We knew whose story was going to bring in a pretty penny.
You can probably guess who those students were not: those students did not generally identify as white. Or rich. Or, for our purposes, as previously Christian. When it came to the yearly fundraising banquet, we had a formula that worked, and it was a formula that pulled at the heartstrings of the (mostly) white donors when the (mostly) white leaders rescued these (mostly-identifying) kids of color from the depths of despair.
The whole point was to get people to give us money.
But we did this at the expense of those students whose stories we exploited, for those we had stand front and center on state all for the sake of raising our yearly budget.
I lament my part in this destruction and in the trauma I caused. And, I seek to do better, by saying my apologies, by leaning into the wisdom of people like Karen, and by speaking out against these injustices.
I know there is a better way forward, but finding solutions sometimes starts with identifying the problem in the first place.
When it comes to ethical storytelling, a well-rounded narrative has to be told. For those in the nonprofit or church arena, this starts with valuing every story that comes before us.
I think of those who dwell in the land of two-minute testimonies - this a belief exists that a storyteller should be able to tell his or her story of conversion (of the “before, during and after” an encounter with Christ) in two minutes or less.
Oftentimes, there exists within this conversion experience a rigid scale of worthiness and belonging. Did God save you from the pit of hell because you were totally hooked on drugs? Were you a teenage sex worker who gave her life to God after the birth of your second child, at age seventeen, no less? The point is not to discount those whose story speaks of these kind of experiences, but to recognize that there is value in every encounter and in representing truth in the narratives we share we those around us.
Let me say it plainly: every story matters.
So if your ministry mostly, solely works with white kids, don’t put the one Black kid up on stage. If your Christian camp mostly, solely works with kids from Christian backgrounds, don’t elevate the story of the one nonChristian kid who hitched a ride to camp as the only one worth telling. If your church mostly, solely serves a population from higher socioeconomic backgrounds, own it. Let the stories of change that happen within the hearts of those members who happen to have more money than 99.9 percent of the population but give away 98 percent of their money speak to the rest of your community.
At the end of the day, the risk of ethical storytelling is rejection.
When we tell those stories that aren’t as sexy, as traumatic or as fetishizing, we risk rejection from those we are inviting into the fold. We risk rejection from those who might open their pocketbooks to us.
But if we are in the business of doing no harm, then we are in the business of trying to do better. As Karen writes:
We can all encourage ethical storytelling by letting others know before we share a story that we have consent to share the following story with them. We can also ask questions when we read stories on websites and donation materials and when we hear stories from the pulpit or at fundraising dinners or meetings. This is the submerse way that we can disrupt toxic and exploitive narratives. This is how we keep others and ourselves accountable and encourage environments where no one is objectified, and everyone is honored, especially those on the margins.
As a writer, a speaker, and a recovering unethical storyteller, I want to seek to do better. I’m so glad people like Karen are here to guide the rest of us.
Join me?
PS: If you didn’t notice, Karen is here on Substack: you know what to do. Also, check out our conversation from IG Live last week if you haven’t already!