In an epigraph to his 1926 novel, “The Sun Also Rises,” Ernest Hemingway quotes Gertrude Stein: “You are all a lost generation.”
Stein was referring to those born between the 1880s and 1900, particularly the men who had served in World War I and the men and women of the “Roaring Twenties.”
In some ways, no matter whether we are boomers, Gen X, millennials, or Gen Z, we too are all lost generations. The roots of place, family, faith, and history that once shaped personalities largely disappeared in the West over the course of the 20th century, falling victim to war, political upheavals, and sweeping cultural transformations. In fact, this concept of roots seems almost antiquated, replaced by the atomization of the individual and, in many cases, by obsessive self-interest.
But suppose we want something else? Suppose we want better relationships with our co-workers or to deepen our children’s connections to their family heritage? What can we do?
Well, for one thing, we can tell stories.
Most of us are natural storytellers, and stories shared with others are major building blocks for relationships. Let’s say a co-worker who’s new on the job misplaces some files and tangles up an important transaction. Her supervisor might just give her some pat reassurance and move on. Or instead, he might tell her about the time when he was just starting, forgot to return a call to a client, and nearly cost the office a small fortune. Here, the newcomer receives not only comfort for her mistake, but also an anecdote that creates a tiny link between them. Out of such small beginnings, good working relationships are born.
Sharing stories can also link us to our family history, giving our children in particular a keener sense that their roots into the past extend far beyond their birth. If a child asks her grandmother whether she liked school when she was in third grade, and that good woman spins out tales of friendships, troubles with the times tables, and school mischief, then their bond is strengthened.
Here’s a real-life example. When I tell my grandkids the stories I’ve heard of their great-great-grandfather Clark, who was a Scotish Irish immigrant and somewhat of a wild man, I build a bridge for them to meet a man who died over a century ago. When I tell them the war stories I heard as a boy from my dad—he was a combat infantryman who fought the Germans in Italy—I again create in them a bond of belonging, of lineage.
And as for us, when we don’t think to ask our parents or other older family members for their accounts of the past, those stories are gone forever into the grave along with their now-silent teller. These lost opportunities can leave us with lifelong regrets. How many of us, for instance, ever asked our parents about their first date? How many of us know where they honeymooned, or indeed if they went on a honeymoon? What were they thinking and feeling when we first came into their lives?
“Tell me a story” is one of a child’s favorite requests. Grownups don’t ask others for that favor, but surely somewhere buried inside us is our old love of a good story. If we want to improve our work relationships, break the rampant loneliness in our society, and nourish the roots of our past, we need stories.
Barring the impediments of age and infirmity, each one of us is a walking library of stories. All we have to do is unlock the door and share them with others.
