55: Reflections on Narrative Inquiry—Reading the World

Crane-man, a fictional character in Linda Sue Park’s Newbery Award winning novel set in twelfth century Korea, says the words above to his orphaned companion Tree-ear who lives with him under a countryside bridge. In many ways, I thought as I read them, I found myself situated between those two statements. As a university professor, I should be reading those “great words,” yet I frequently find myself reading the stories I see unfolding around me with more enthusiasm. Though I find great words that I like and that inspire me (often emanating from many sources, not just the professional literature in my field), it is the human narratives in the world around me that I read that resonate most with me. As I do research centered on bilingualism, literacy, and multiculturalism, I find myself reporting on that work narratively. I may begin by trying to fit my words into the scientific research paradigm the academic academy so highly prizes. But I often feel that, for me, it is like trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. I am straining to control the language I want to use to describe the beautiful children to whom I have just read a story in a study I conduct. I am holding back the metaphors that whirl through my mind to describe a student like Luis¹ in my reading groups. He is a bright young boy who loves to draw stories to share with me and begs not to be returned to his stern second-grade teacher who does not value his art work. I am dreading having to assess Lisa’s¹ responses to literature to prove in some way that what we do together during our time spent reading, writing, and producing art is valuable. Instead I want to tell my colleagues and my student teachers that shy, sweet Lisa, who cannot eat the cupcakes I bring to celebrate Lilly’s¹ birthday because her religion prohibits her from participating in parties, squeezed my hand today and whispered that she loves to paint. Or that the result of my three-month study using Latino children’s books with first graders is that Hernán¹ commented after hearing Rudolfo Anaya’s (2000) folktale Roadrunner’s Dance, beautifully illustrated by David Diaz, “Teacher, I didn’t know Mexicans could make books.” The responses to the multicultural literature I share in small groups unfold for me as the story of Lisa, of Luis, of Lilly, of Hernán. That is how I best convey what I observe in my inquiries. The student lore that William Schubert (1993) encouraged researchers to chronicle seems a powerful vehicle to me that can help educators to more fully understand the diverse students they find in their classrooms.