Remembering Joe: In Memoriam: Joseph McLellan, September 27, 1945–November 30, 2021

Remembering JoeIn Memoriam: Joseph McLellan, September 27, 1945–November 30, 2021 Marc Kuly (bio) and Jessica Senehi (bio) Marc Kuly: The first story I ever heard Joe McLellan tell was about the sound of a heartbeat. He had been invited to tell stories to students at the school where I taught. In the midst of a mass of middle schoolers, Joe took out his drum and began to play it softly as he told his story. The students went silent and listened as he explained that the drum echoed the sound of a mother's heartbeat and that all of us are united by the memory of that sound. I heard Joe tell that story many more times over the years, and every time he told it, it drew a tear of joy from my eye. Joe's stories were diverse. They could be about the Anishinabe spirit Nanabosho, they could be about Hutterite conscientious objectors, or they could come from his own experiences growing up different. His delivery was equally diverse. Sometimes he was nearly silent, whispering words. Other times he was exuberant, punctuating stories with shrieks and shouts. It was as if the stories he told lived out into the world through him. When he told stories from his own childhood, there were times when I could see him as a boy, right there, up on stage. But across his diverse repertoire and delivery, there was a unifying thread. Joe's telling centered on revealing our common humanity. Just like the sound of his drum, his stories reminded us of the beating heart, equal parts vulnerable and strong, that we all share. Each in its own way, his stories persuaded listeners to rekindle their kindness toward themselves and others. [End Page 279] Joe was a mentor to me. I didn't ask him to be one. In fact, I never asked Joe to do anything for me, except for one time. I had been trying to use storytelling in my classrooms for most of my career and, by good fortune, was given a chance to coordinate a day-long workshop on storytelling for teachers from across our province. It was high stakes because it marked a turn toward the art and heart of teaching. In years past these workshops had focused on leadership strategy and had featured big name speakers from think tanks and universities. I asked Joe for advice. By the end of the conversation, he had reassured me of the power of storytelling and offered to share the burden of bringing it to this event. That day was magic. I did a small part, sharing stories of storytelling in my classroom. But Joe did the rest. He told a story that lasted the whole day. Of course, there were breaks where we all did activities and tried out different storytelling approaches he led us through, but by the end of the day, we had all become characters in the overall story he was telling. Through laughter, so much laughter, and the kind of tears that show up when you recognize that you aren't alone, he brought everyone in the room together. At the end of the day, I was exhausted. The stress of living up to the expectations of the organization that hosted the workshop and my real, but unfounded worries about whether storytelling would be received by this group had weighed on me. I was standing with one of Joe's friends, another wonderfully caring storytelling mentor, Jamie Oliviero, who had closed out the event. We were in front of a window in the conference center where the workshop was held, looking out over the expanse of Lake Winnipeg as the sun set. Joe walked up behind me, put his hand softly on my shoulder, shared a look with Jamie, and said, "good work, our boy." That memory is a treasure. After delivering a masterpiece, he chose to not only congratulate me, but to let me know I was part of a family of storytelling. Just like so many of his stories did, he let me know I was not alone. I am not the only person that Joe invited into the family...

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