Ruptures in the Margins: Storytelling Outside of Euro-Western Practices Pt 2

In Part 1 of this three-part series, I shared my reflections on what stories are and how they emerge in our lives, including within early childhood centres. I discussed how Western understandings of child development shape many of the stories that come to be regarded as truth in early childhood settings. I posed questions about what might unfold if we invited other ways of knowing to guide how we make sense of the world. To illustrate this, I drew on an example from my work with the pedagogical narration Monsters Transform a Place to demonstrate how working with stories alongside children can open up different understandings of the world.

In this and the third post, I will continue to weave understandings of storytelling outside of Euro-Western logics as an invitation to complexify early childhood education. I wish to preface this discussion with an acknowledgment: storytelling is a vast topic with countless interpretations, and fully addressing its intricacies is beyond the scope of these posts. Working with and living through stories is a lifelong endeavour for me. I am not offering a comprehensive framework for storytelling in early childhood education or a roadmap to “best practices.” Instead, I invite you into my storytelling orientations, describing how they inform classroom work and their broader implications for ethical practice in early childhood education.

In this second blog post, I shift from extending and questioning Euro-Western understandings of storytelling to engaging more closely with Indigenous stories. Storying with others’ stories is a significant task that must be approached with careful ethics.[1] When thinking with Indigenous storytellers, I remain deeply aware of my responsibility, as a settler, to work in good relation. This involves acknowledging the origins of the stories, seeking appropriate permissions to share them, and respecting their context.

I believe it is vital to engage with Indigenous stories in educational settings and that educators hold a responsibility to “unpick the ways”[2] colonization has been woven into the fabric of classrooms. The process of undoing such practices, drawing on Nikolas Rose as discussed in Part 1 of this series, requires slow and careful work in consultation and ongoing relationship with Indigenous people. This work demands time, effort, and humility, and it will inevitably remain imperfect.

When I notice connections between my own thinking and the Indigenous stories I encounter, I am reminded that these stories are not myths or allegories, nor are they simply tools to reinforce my pre-existing Western frameworks. Instead, Indigenous stories are truth.[3]

In this post, I will engage with a Creation story as told by Indigenous storyteller Thomas King. By reflecting on King’s work alongside my own storytelling practices, I will share how walking with his stories invites me to reconsider the types of narratives that are told and retold in our world. I will also explore how these ideas have shaped and influenced ongoing work in the classrooms I work in.

Bear-Human Complications: Who Matters Here?

“What about human beings?” said the animals. “Do you think we need human beings?”

“Why not?” said the Twins. And as quick as they could, the right-handed Twin created women, and the left-handed Twin created men.

“They don’t look too bright,” said the animals. “We hope they won’t be a problem.”

“Don’t worry,” said the Twins, “you guys are going to get along just fine.”

– Thomas King[4]

On the land now known as British Columbia, during the summer and fall of 2023, a severe drought occurred and heavy smoke blanketed the landscape. Forests were extremely dry, and typical food sources for the large black bear population—“sus” in Dakelh—were scarce. As a result, sus began entering my community in northern British Columbia in large numbers, searching for food. While bears have always lived here, this year their presence became a tangible reality for the human population.[5] Garbage cans and unpicked fruit trees became easy food sources as bears scrounged relentlessly throughout the summer. Come fall, they entered hyperphagia, the uncontrollable drive to eat in preparation for winter hibernation.[6]

 

Thomas King’s masterful telling and retelling of Indigenous Creation stories invites curiosity, mystery, and wisdom on how stories live and move through the world. His portrayal of the Twins creating humankind offers a humorous yet telling foreshadowing of the complex relationships to come. Throughout King’s storytelling, stories are dynamic, taking unexpected twists and turns. King reminds us that stories are not simply human-made fictions but the essence of who we are: “The truth about stories is that’s all that we are.”[7]

For those of us shaped by Euro-Western ways of knowing, this is a complicated idea. We are taught that human development defines our existence, progressing in a predictable order—birth, learning to walk and talk, mastering fine motor skills, adapting to social norms, and grasping abstract concepts. King offers a different understanding: not only do we create and retell stories, but we are stories. He invites us to see the world as a storied place in which we are immersed.

Taking King’s insight seriously means recognizing stories as ever present within us and around us. Our bodies carry stories from the moment they come into existence. Genetic material, family history, daily movements, and the surrounding world all contribute to our story. This perspective broadens our understanding of what it means to be human. Instead of focusing solely on developmental milestones or interpersonal relationships, it positions us as part of a complex, ever-expanding relationship with the world.

From this lens, it is vital to ask: Which stories are being told, retold, and given attention? Moreover, we must acknowledge that humans are not the only storied beings. More-than-human bodies and assemblages—like sus—are also storied. Sus are living beings with their own knowledge, adaptability, curiosity, and playfulness. They are as much made of stories as humans are. During the summer of 2023, this became an undeniable truth for me, and I was deeply troubled by what unfolded.

Sus as Enemy: Dangerous Stories Emerge

Everyone feels unsettled under red-tinged skies and ash-covered land. People move restlessly, their throats choked with smoke. As the berries fall from the trees, sus are on the move too. They clamber over fences, rip the nailed-down lids off rural garbage cans, and rest their exhausted, overheated bodies in the crooks of cottonwood branches. People are uneasy. Daily chatter grows louder as the conservation hotline becomes overwhelmed with bear sightings. News and social media shift the narrative from “cute” bear encounters of previous years to something more worrisome. The prevailing story is that sus are becoming “food habituated.” Experts warn that having found food in cities, towns, and rural areas, the bears may not return to their natural diet, even when forest food becomes plentiful again.

Bears scavenge human leftovers wherever they can, and once they find a food source, they guard it. This behaviour is labelled “aggressive.” Bears are now seen as dangerous. The daily count of euthanized bears climbs. Explosive deterrents rock the neighbourhood as authorities attempt to scare the bears away. The first time I feel a blast, I am in the local pharmacy. The boom reverberates through my body.

In his Massey lecture series, Thomas King examines the histories and narratives that govern our world—stories that shape perceptions, beliefs, and values and demand ethical scrutiny.[8] King repeatedly reminds us that stories are powerful and “dangerous things.”[9] As seen during this wildfire summer, the story of sus, told and retold by humans, has become a dangerous one. Bodies are on high alert, and the perception of bears shifts from coexistence to conflict.

Thinking with Indigenous stories calls for examining how Euro-Western narratives continue to colonize Indigenous peoples in the present.[10] Euro-Western interpretations often devalue Indigenous ways of knowing by reducing their stories to mere myths.[11]Feminist scholars remind us that it’s crucial to critically assess how myths shape discourses of Indigeneity and Canadian exceptionalism.[12] This narrative positions Canada as a peaceful colonizer, masking ongoing injustices and erasing the richness of Indigenous knowledge systems.

Take, for example, the first observance of Truth and Reconciliation Day in Canada in 2022. Media[13] reports detailed how some schools responded with pan-Indigenous crafts and activities, erasing the distinct knowledge and practices of local Nations. When such days of observance are introduced, the instinct to create fun and palatable activities often leads to oversimplification or misinformation. A common misconception emerged that year: the assumption that all Indigenous peoples wear headdresses. Consequently, children were asked to make feathered construction-paper headdresses, ignoring the ceremonial and spiritual significance of these items. These activities failed to spark curiosity about the specific practices of local Indigenous peoples and reinforced the false narrative of Canada as a respectful multicultural society while marginalizing Indigenous ways of knowing.

Delving deeper into how stories shape our world reveals their profound impact on our lives. History itself is a collection of stories—carefully chosen to convey particular “truths” and shape societal structures.[14] Consider King’s retelling of Skywoman’s twin children collaborating with animals to create the world. When deciding whether to introduce humans, there is apprehension about the challenges this relationship might bring.

As the story of sus unfolds, it’s clear that some lives are deemed more important than others. While every being on this planet carries a story that evolves throughout their lifespan, our Anthropocene era[15] prioritizes human narratives. In a human-centered society, the stories of humans—and those that matter to humans—dominate, reinforcing the belief that human lives take precedence over all others.

From “Bearmageddon” to Sus Forest Walks: Entangled Responsibility

“Bearmageddon” becomes the catchphrase of the summer. Social media is flooded with bear encounters, an endless doom scroll of sightings. Close and personal encounters escalate. People routine set off their car alarms before leaving home to scare off any lurking bears. Orphaned cubs wander into gardens, balancing on hind legs to devour berry patches. Bears dart across roadways or are struck by vehicles, their bodies left in ditches until city services remove them. It is a summer unlike any in living memory.

One evening, a yearling sus yaz, scraggly and limping, attempts to tree itself in my backyard but cannot. Every movement is a heaving exertion, one foot dragging behind its body. At first, I hesitate to call the conservation hotline. Picking up the phone might sign a death warrant. But as I watch the small body struggle, I cannot turn away.

I pick up the phone.

Hours later, after the bear has slowly, painfully wandered toward the greenbelt to the north, there is a knock at my door. The conservation officer and I talk for some time. They drive slowly through the neighbourhood, taking note of tall grass and deep ditches where sus yaz might hide.

I never learn how the story ends.

 

Throughout these events, the dominant perspective remains human centered. Humans are positioned as the agents of change—the irresponsible culprits who lure bears with garbage, the heroes and heroines attempting to fix the problem, or the forgetful mistake makers who can mend their ways. Bears are cast as either villains or victims—slaves to their instincts, unable to change course once they have raided a garbage can.

The prevailing narrative places control squarely in human hands: the problem of who bears are and how to solve them. While some discussions acknowledge climate change, human expansion, and the displacement of bears as original inhabitants of this place, these voices are drowned out by louder narratives that seek to manage or eliminate bear presence rather than imagine new possibilities for coexistence. Nowhere in these dominant discourses is there an invitation to consider humans as bear protagonists, to embody bear stories, or to ask what sus might teach us.

In his lectures, King reminds us that stories require responsibility. Each lecture ends with the same words:

“It’s yours. Do with it what you will. Cry over it. Get angry. Forget it. But don’t say in the years to come that you would have lived your life differently if only you had heard this story. You’ve heard it now.”[16]

As I think back on the human-bear stories of 2023, I wonder what might have been possible if sus had been considered as mattering differently—alongside, rather than in opposition to, human concerns. There are no guarantees that alternative outcomes would have emerged, but I offer this story to provoke conversations about ethical response, incommensurability, and human responsibility within a larger, more storied world.

Thinking with King, I ask: What is my responsibility now that I have heard (and lived) this story? To echo his admonition, I will not be able to say in the years to come that I was unaware of the fraught and entangled relationships between my community and bears. Now, I am implicated in how this story continues to unfold. Noticing this implication—and working with the ethical responses it demands—will shape my third and final post in this series, where I invite readers to consider pedagogical commitments.

The summer of “Bearmageddon” fades from social media feeds, but its traces remain. In a small rural community, educators, children, and I walk in the forest. Each month, when I visit the centre, we pay close attention to the lives of bears. As we enter the undergrowth, our voices rise in a sing-song chant.

“Hello, bears!”
“We are here, bears!”
“We don’t want to see you, but we hope you eat well!”
“We hope you sleep well!”

Toddlers race ahead down the now-familiar paths, an educator keeping pace at the front of the group. Walking slowly, infants step carefully around piles of bear scat, their hands clasped with adults’. We share this place, bound in a joyous search for signs of sus. This year, we hope for a bountiful harvest—enough for all of us to eat until our bellies ache with the sweetness of knowing there is enough to share.

Educators, keenly aware of the previous summer’s drought, celebrate the swollen rivers and the bushes heavy with berries. They speak calmly about the bears who also share this forest. The children—some walking these paths for only the first or second summer of their lives—respond with eager curiosity. They do not retreat from sus but instead run toward their traces, seeking signs of bears in a world that holds hope for other kinds of relations.

This is a small movement but one made visible by the lessons of the previous year. The stories of those smoke-filled days remain in our bodies, shaping how we activate a different bear-human story—one of joyful communication and hopeful invitation.

Concluding Considerations

Thomas King offers a rich perspective on stories as woven through the world—within us and around us—challenging the human exceptionalism embedded in Western developmental theories that shape early childhood education. The unfolding story of bear encounters and the lingering effects of a drought-filled summer illustrates how stories invite us to notice the complexities of our lives with children. When engaged as a force for movement, stories shift our attention to what matters for children, educators, and pedagogists, as glimpsed in the vignette above. The close presence of bears and their interwoven stories with human lives created an attunement to the world that might not have emerged otherwise.

In anticipation of the third and final installment of this blog series, I invite readers to notice the ways they are attending to complexity in their everyday work. In the final post, I will extend this discussion by exploring how we might challenge calcified stories through an examination of what ethically matters to us in education—our pedagogical commitments. I will consider how engaging with stories and storytelling can serve as a method for unsettling fixed beliefs in early childhood education. To do this, I will share stories from my own pedagogical practice alongside a close reading of Natalie Loveless’s work, which considers how stories can disrupt the status quo. These stories will be offered as gestures toward the rich possibilities of alternative approaches to storytelling in early childhood education.

 

[1] Fikile Nxumalo, “Decolonial Water Pedagogies: Invitations to Black, Indigenous, and Black-Indigenous World-Making,” Occasional Paper Series 2021, no. 45 (2021), https://doi.org/10.58295/2375-3668.1390.

[2] Nikolas Rose, “How Should One Do the History of the Self?” in Inventing Our Selves: Psychology, Power, And Personhood (Cambridge University Press, 1998).

[3] Vanessa Watts, “Indigenous Place-Thought and Agency Amongst Humans and Non-Humans (First Woman and Sky Woman Go On a European World Tour!),” Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society 2, no. 1 (2013): 20–34.

[4] Thomas King, “You’ll Never Believe What Happened” Is Always a Great Way to Start. In The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative, CBC Broadcasting Corporation, 2003, accessed November 29, 2024, https://wcln.ca/_LOR/course_files/en09/unit1/the%20truth%20about%20stories%20A%20Native%20Narrative.pdf.

[5] CBC News, “Prince George Named ‘Deadliest City for Bears’ in Canada,” November 27, 2023, https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/british-columbia/deadliest-city-bears-prince-george-1.7265548.

[6] Grouse Mountain, “Bears in Hyperphagia,” 2023, https://www.grousemountain.com/posts/hyperphagia-2023.

[7] Thomas King, The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative (Toronto: House of Anansi Press), 2003.

[8] Thomas King, The Truth About Stories: A Native Narrative, The 2003 CBC Massey Lectures, CBC Radio, https://www.cbc.ca/radio/ideas/the-2003-cbc-massey-lectures-the-truth-about-stories-a-native-narrative-1.2946870.

[9] King, The Truth About Stories (Anansi), 9.

[10] Tuija Huuki and Veronica Pacini-Ketchabaw, “Indigenous Cosmologies and Black Onto-Epistemologies in Gender and Education,” Gender and Education 35, no. 2 (2023): 119–128, https://doi.org/10.1080/09540253.2023.2170334.

[11] Watts, “Indigenous Place-Thought.”

[12] Veronica Pacini-Ketchabaw and Meagan Montpetit, “More-than-Human Kinship Relations within Indigenous Children’s Picture Books,” In Disrupting and Countering Deficits in Early Childhood Education, edited by Fikile Nxumalo and Christopher P. Brown (Routledge), 2020, 137.

[13] Kelly Huang, “B.C. Preschool Admits It ‘Failed to Do Our Research’ after Headdress Flap,” Vancouver Sun, November 14, 2023, https://vancouversun.com/news/local-news/b-c-preschool-admits-it-failed-to-do-our-research-after-headdress-flap.

[14] Aurora Levins Morales, Medicine Stories: Essays for Radicals (Durham, NC: Duke University Press), 2019, https://doi.org/10.1515/9781478003373; P. Krawec, Becoming Kin: An Indigenous Call to Unforgetting the Past and Reimagining Our Future (Minneapolis: Broadleaf Books), 2022.

[15] National History Museum, “What Is the Anthropocene?”, 2024, https://www.nhm.ac.uk/discover/what-is-the-anthropocene.html.

[16] King, The Truth About Stories (Anansi), 119.