How do the ways our organizations communicate impact the communities we serve? Could the way we tell stories be working—unknowingly— against our stated mission?
Maybe you have seen (or even helped create) a mailer, email blast, or mission statement whose underlying message is:
“Look at this poor, unfortunate person in need. Notice how your heart swells. Now look at us, a wonderful organization that runs on your swell heart. We need YOU, this story’s hero, to give us $20 to help this poor person on your benevolent behalf.”
This message, while well-intended, gets the notion of story all wrong. It casts the donor in the role of hero. But we all know that a true hero is one who suffers, pushing through to the other side of adversity. The hero is the person we think will lose to the bad guys, succumb to the odds, fall into the gears, stay flat face down until finally crushed by various systems of oppression—and yet lives. This is who the hero is. When we “move the lens,” shifting the perspective onto the true hero, we reveal this more captivating narrative.
The story that sets a participating audience alongside (not above) the true hero is not only the most compelling, it’s also the most effective story we can tell.
If that call-out above brought a flash of shame, take a sec to acknowledge it… and now set it down on the floor. It’s not yours anymore. The world needs us to focus our energy on the creativity that will reverse these unintentional harms, not dwell on them. There’s a saying, “If you want to be a good artist, you have to be willing to be a bad artist.” You have to screw up. You have to, at times, say the wrong things. You have to feel the shame and let it dissolve, so you can exercise your good intention, and move toward better relationships.
Stories Are Not Houses
Can stories be objective?
Stories help us create three psychologically indispensable concepts: stories shape our identity, our meaning, and our purpose. Stories tell us who we are, why we’re here, and what we’re supposed to do about it. To work as ethical storytellers, the first step is to drop the belief we can “get it all right.” All stories harbor bias—no matter the conscientiousness of their creator. Those who observe the tenets of journalism tout objectivity: the truth is like a complex object that can be closely examined and accurately described, like a house. A journalist inspects the roof and walls, until she finds the attic rot or a crumbling foundation, or mice in the walls. In this paradigm, the truth seems discoverable. But stories are not houses; they are not static objects. A story is a series of selections, culled from the infinite combinations of all the conversations, gestures, emotions, doubts, declarations, misunderstandings, and ah-ha’s of everyone who moves, over time, through that house. A story is not an object–it is dynamic.
Because stories are made by overlapping series of selections, they are shaped by the perspective of the storyteller. Holding the camera before a subject makes you a participant in the story. Everything about who the camera holder is can influence what the interviewee says. If the interviewee thinks the camera holder wants to hear a certain storyline, that’s going to bend the story toward that end (not to mention the editing process)—all thanks to bias.
Check Your Wallet
What are types of bias?
It comes in two kinds: conscious biases are those we are aware of (i.e. my wife is the best human on the planet, or Kendrick Lamar is music’s best artist), and unconscious biases, the stereotypes buried in the wiring of our minds. We don’t hold onto unconscious biases on purpose—they are hardwired into the unseen recesses of our brains, and can even be incompatible with our values. That’s why a person raised in a loving church, which happens to be located in a subtly racist society, might not even realize they checked their wallet after bumping into a person of color. A large-hearted person who chose a position in a non-profit organization might have an unconscious bias that whispers: “Because these people are needy, they will keep taking.”
But what we can control is our relationship with confirmation bias: the tendency to favor information that supports our beliefs. Because anecdotal stereotypes have told me an only-child is more likely to be selfish, then I will notice each and every time an only-child seems selfish. My brain, which is generally interested in being right, will say, “Yup, that fits the theory.” But when a child with siblings exhibits the exact same behavior, my brain instead says, “That’s understandable—all kids misbehave from time to time.” This type of confirmation bias can happen with race, or nationality, or any of the categories our minds use to help us make order of the messy, complicated world.
Understanding confirmation bias is vital, because whatever we believe about the people we serve, we’re going to see (and perpetuate) as we capture and present their stories.
The good news is that we can counter our own biases, and one useful way to do that as storytellers is to literally put the narrative in the hands of those we serve. Move the lens. Hand them the camera. Empower them to write the script. We must encourage them to tell us the story we may not know yet.
Flipping the Script
What is an American hero?
As communicators, we know we cannot escape the fact that stories contain arcs—without them we lose our audience. But to keep the story real, we must flip the typical script of “the intelligent, benevolent director who calls all the narrative shots.” We can’t get rid of the narrative construct of hero, but we can move people around to different roles.
So, then: what is a hero?
A hero is someone who goes through the hero’s journey, overcomes a significant obstacle, and becomes a vehicle for redemption. That’s a good story.
Back to that mailing campaign: is a hero someone who can give $5,000 to your organization? Quite likely, this person is not, right now, struggling to overcome a significant obstacle if they have $5,000 they don’t need. Or is the person who gives $20 to sponsor a child the hero? Is the hero the person who is running the non-profit?
When we make ourselves the hero, many times, we’re taking a spot that doesn’t belong to us. Stories like this shape the longterm reality of the people we serve. The trope of “the non-profit supergroup swooping down to save the helpless poor” is a self-perpetuating narrative; it contributes to what those we work with believe about themselves.
Trying to change this paradigm runs counter to popular American narratives. The quintessential American story is one in which “dominant culture Americans” are the heroes. The Hollywood film industry offers plenty of examples of placing a white male in the hero spot meant for someone else: Tom Cruise in The Last Samurai. Kevin Costner in Dancing with Wolves. In a similar way, the organization—which is often the visiting outsider—casts itself in the role of hero, when its true calling is that of “supporting actor.”
This dynamic is exacerbated by our desire to tell stories in which we’re successful, in which we win. We never tell the stories of our mistakes—that’s bad PR. We’re never the ones who contribute to the problem of poverty or help start the war—it’s just random, inscrutable poverty that we’re fighting.
Stories do need solutions, but the answer isn’t us.
Questionnaires vs. Relationships
How do you get the real story?
Sure, it would be nice—both efficient and convenient—if the world’s best documentarians would just write up a list of the Top-Twenty Questions that squeeze from a person the tidbits our cameras want. Set up the lights, read these questions in sequence, and capture the magical teardrops! No. No set of pre-formed questions will get any and all interviewees to open themselves up to the dynamic process of story discovery. And don’t forget about unconscious bias: a questionnaire often tells the organization’s story, rather than that of the interviewee.
To ask for a real story is to ask for relationship.
As we’re outlining the journey of the hero, we have to guide interviewees beyond the narrative they assume we want. People come prepared to tell us a story, one that fits into their perception of our desired narrative. The questions we ask will radically change what they give us in return. Remember: it’s likely the people we serve have internalized harmful stories. It’s hard to believe that you are the hero if an entire culture and its story industry has taught that it is usually powerful white males who are the heroes.
As we get to know those we interview, we ask questions about their strengths, ideas, passions, and dreams. We transform our relationship with those we serve—and their desire to be involved in the storytelling—just by honoring them with questions that affirm their experiences.
To build a story arc that humanizes, do not make the opening moments a characterization of a person’s problems. Defining people by their problems dehumanizes them, and frames them as the problem, not the solution. Instead, we articulate our hero’s dreams, ambitions, and strengths first. We prioritize their personhood.
Next, we allow them to describe the obstacle, in their own words. Some organizations tend toward explaining the problem in the organization’s voice. This tends to problematize the subject, and elevate the organization to “expert.” People are the experts in their own experience. Instead, if we do need the organization’s voice, the CEO can play a supporting role, helping to explain the organization’s philosophy. If we include a hero from our organization, it is a person at work on the ground.
One approach is to ask how our interviewees have tried to overcome their obstacle, or what they think their community needs. Asking those types of questions frames them as the experts they are.
Moving Past Fear & Pity
Can stories harm?
Organizational barriers can prevent donors from a stronger connection with our mission. Consider what emotion our marketing might elicit in our donors. Pity can motivate giving. Remember the mailing about a sad person in need? If we’re motivated by pity, we give and feel good— for maybe five minutes.
Other times, we’ve offered donors fear. One website I recall included a photo of a black man next to the phrase: “Mentoring is proven to decrease violent criminal behavior.” With that angle, a white person who has been made afraid might indeed donate $100, but the fear that motivates him will cost more in damage to the world than any good done by that donation. This harmful message can feed an unconscious bias that will affect this donor’s future interactions with people of color.
Instead of fear and pity, let’s offer a higher form of human experience. Let’s offer the feeling of relational connection with others.
Donors will want to invest in relationships that are meaningful to them. Kiva, the microlending organization, has it figured out. Donors will relate to a struggling single mother trying to start her own business and want to partner with someone with so much potential. Notice the difference in emotional response: empathy and hope, not pity.
The Oregon Humane Society also promoted connection in their campaign “End Petlessness” in a flipped script. In the photos and videos, it’s humans who need saving. The animals don’t look mottled and pathetic and in need of a hero to provide them shelter and medical care. Instead, the ads offer relationships. These dogs could rescue you.
If you offer a relationship and connection, you don’t need to ask for money. People want to share their resources when they feel connected and inspired. If you offer relationship and connection, the work is done.
From Victims to Stewards
How can stories change lives?
When relationships become the goal of our storytelling, communities will transform. The communal telling of stories—us with them and them with us—will reshape our role, redistribute power, and allow the people on the ground to shape their own stories.
For example, we have seen the way the gospel story reveals to people their true identity, providing meaning and purpose for their lives. In many countries around the world, fatalism has told people they are poor because they are being punished for a past life. If you believe you were born poor for a reason, you don’t believe you can escape it.
In one of these countries, there was a community that starved for two or three months every year, until a missionary (with a marketing degree!) introduced them to a new biblically-based identity story. Instead of staying stuck as spiritual victims, they are now stewards of the land. They now believe God has given them what they need to manage their resources. They’ve invested in building bridges to help get their crops to market, and it’s a place where everyone is fed, year round. Their story is a bridge for others to access a new perspective about who they are. They are the heroes that transform their community.
As communicators, story is how we make a difference in the world. The question is whether our stories shape identity, meaning, and purpose in a way that helps, longterm, the people we serve. When our messages miss this mark, they don’t serve our charitable intentions. When we miscast the hero, we leave society’s best solutions out of view, invisible. Outside of the lens.
Our stories should illuminate past and future paths of the people we serve. Our stories should show the people we serve, and those who want to help, their best-lit selves. Our stories should edit out the tired tropes, the dross and moss of biases, that obscure their true, heroic personhood.
Whether we are mentoring kids or working with the homeless, the people facing the problem will find the solutions when they believe a story that gives them the agency to be the hero.
Stories will heal divides, build relationships, and inspire human potential. Stories will change the world.
