How To Tell Stories That Don't Belong To You
It's different from gossip, I promise
We all love something to gawk at
My least moral belief is that Americans, as a whole, get along 10% better when there’s some trashy, sensational, made-for-the-tabloids trial on TV. You know the ones I’m talking about. Most recently Karen Read took center stage, but Amanda Knox, Casey Anthony, and OJ all had their time in the spotlight.
Such spectacles, morbid though they may be, give us something to talk about. Your grandmother may be a MAGA Republican with questionable views on the emoluments clause, but she’ll happily listen for hours while you talk her through the Reddit post you just read about the lack of evidence. Your intellectual Bushwick friends won’t want to admit to something as tawdry as following the case, but put a $19 New York City cocktail or two in them and they’ll be racing to tell you why they just know the accused is guilty, even if we live in a police state and it’s—like—totally messed up.
Look, we’re not better people for rubbernecking at others’ tragedy. After all, these situations almost always involve some terrible loss of life. And media types with stiff upper lips are quick to point out our moral degradation for reveling in the suffering of others. They have a point. But I don’t think it’s really about enjoying suffering so much as we like gawking at a good story when we’re freed from the burden of knowing the actual participants. Simply put, we love stories that don’t belong to us.
As people, we hunger for shared stories—the more salacious, tawdry, or intriguing—the better. There’s a reason the New York Post is a cultural mainstay (and LA-based friends be on the lookout for your version very soon), even if that’s something we shouldn’t be proud of. We love the aforementioned court cases and the tabloid-industrial complex because we can gab about all the details without knowing any of the people involved. It’s the dopamine rush of gossip without the uncomfortable moral consequences of immediate knowledge of the parties. Because when we do know the people involved, there are all sorts of uncomfortable follow-ups. After all, no one wants to see their friends suffer or wonder if the story providing entertainment is, in fact, something they have a responsibility to intervene with.
And we don’t rely on headlines alone to find these stories. Instead, we often find them thanks to people we know personally. Let’s be clear, though. I’m not talking about gossip. It’s closely related, but real gossip typically requires all participants to know the subject. Instead, I’m talking about a story-category we often fail to name: the best stories our friends tell us that we retell because of how good they are. These are the stories that are so funny, so engaging, or so moving that once you hear them you just have to share them, even if the recipients of your version have no connection whatsoever to the people who originally told the story or anyone actually involved in it.
It’s simply too good not to tell
I realized this was a phenomenon only recently, after my eleventh gathering in a row talking about the Sidley biter. I’m not a lawyer and I wasn’t sharing it with lawyers, but it’s been good chat over drinks these past few weeks. Once I realized that I was retelling stories to which I had no real relation, to people who knew none of the parties involved, I started cataloging some other unowned stories I tell and retell.
See, I love stories. I love being told stories. I love telling stories. They keep our spirits warm by the campfire at night. They give us a good excuse to order one more round, since we’re just getting to the good part now. They keep us laughing and crying and living this life together. The fact that I wasn’t involved in the story doesn’t mean it’s not good for retelling. Throughout their history, bars and taverns and speakeasies have overflowed with stories of questionable provenance that nevertheless provide fierce entertainment.
My all-time favorite example in this category? I have a dear friend who’s descended on her distaff side from some real Mayflower-type blue bloods. One particular ancestor of hers happened to be a true bon vivant, whose partying was interrupted in an untimely manner by the American Civil War and a bad draft number. Luckily for our carousing protagonist, capitalism provided an easy solution in the form of hiring some poor Irish schmuck—like yours truly’s ancestors—to go fight on the front lines in his place. Unfortunately, this unlucky Celt found himself on the wrong side of a rebel bayonet at Gettysburg and didn’t make it back north.
Through some flaw in the process or clerical error, it was this Irishman’s hard-partying sponsor who received word that he’d won a Purple Heart on account of his “wound” in battle. So did our well-financed hero politely turn down the medal and insist it go to the dead man’s family? Fat chance. He hired out a few train cars to take him and a dozen friends down to D.C., party-bus style, to collect his medal. Unfortunately, grain liquor and steam engines don’t mix particularly well. Our protagonist over-imbibed and when hopping between cars fell right between two of them to his untimely demise.
That is an amazing story! There are relatable flaws, social injustices, and a cautionary-tale comeuppance at the end. I’m sure my friend’s ancestors were devastated when it happened, but the intervening years have stripped out the tragedy and left us with the humor and spectacle and (I think) the moral lesson. Of course, plenty of these stories are told without needing a century to pass.
Plus, I suspect that the origin of folklore has a lot to do with stories like this. Aesop probably didn’t know a steadfast tortoise and a mouthy hare. Rather, I bet he didn’t want to embarrass two friends of his who made pots at varying speeds, so he disguised the story of one unexpectedly beating the other in fantasy, in order to retell it more easily and make the lesson accessible to all. I’m not saying telling your friends about a cousin’s co-worker’s mishaps will be recast with talking animals in two millennia, but I think we can acknowledge the fun in sharing tales that don’t immediately involve us.
But remember to play things safe
As you can clearly tell by now, I’m in favor of telling and retelling stories, even if they don’t belong to you. However, I think there are some general guidelines for doing it ethically and effectively.
Respect the Cone of Silence. If this story is something your friend expects you not to repeat, then don’t repeat it. And if they’re okay with some light retelling, the best policy is to anonymize heavily. After all, “my friend knows somebody who…” works just as well among strangers at a dinner party as “you’ll never guess what Alex’s cousin Mark did…” Anonymity is doubly helpful because you should:
“Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.” Mark Twain probably didn’t actually say that, but it’s nice to give credit somewhere. My theory on why the Irish and American Southerners are such skilled yarn-spinners is that they’re comfortable relating the facts of the matter without caring so much if the facts are, well, facts. If the point is to entertain a crowd or illustrate a lesson, scrupulosity in truth-telling can sometimes get in the way. Most history is a little made up anyway. However, the caveat here is:
Don’t use the story to justify anything too important. Look, if you’re talking to an infuriating uncle at a barbecue it’s probably fine to support your argument for why one shouldn’t self-medicate with ivermectin by citing that friend of a friend whose arm fell off after they took it, even if the worst side effect they had was a bad headache. But please, no matter how much family lore you have regarding your Cherokee ancestry, unless you’re rock-solid certain, don’t put it on a college application. Or at least don’t do it and run for President. Use your judgment as to when and where to support your argument with a story and all should be well.
Finally, remember the human being involved. It should be clear by this point that I’m suggesting this category works best when you strip personal details away from the narrative until it’s an anonymous, timeless tale, but if that’s difficult to do, try to hold a little space for the fact that you might be talking about a real person who lived or is living a real life. Things are hard, and sure—we all gossip a little, but it’s only okay-ish if, when the lights come back on, we go back out into the world with empathy, kindness, and compassion for others.
I usually get a good answer or two when I pitch this concept to my friends at dinner and ask what stories they tell again and again that aren’t originally theirs. I’d love to hear from you if you have any you’d like to share with me—names changed, of course.
I’m glad you stopped by
Thank you for making it this far. Cheers for now, and I’ll see you Friday for another edition of the Weekend Read.
