Tributes to Nancy Duncan
Nancy Duncan died September 6, 2004 after a long battle with cancer. She was artistic director of Nebraska StoryArts, which she founded and nurtured into a year-round storytelling organization.
A nationally renowned storyteller and educator herself, Nancy was the driving force behind the growth of storytelling in this state. In the Omaha area alone, we have the Nebraska Storytelling Festival, Liar’s Contest, Spooky Stories, Story Connect, a coaching workshop and now the Moonshell Festival because she gave 600-plus hours of volunteer time every year.
Across the state, she helped organize the Kearney Storytelling Festival and the Buffalo Commons Festival in McCook, both of which are strong and vibrant celebrations of the oral tradition.
Her spirit and humor never waned and she continued to touch people’s lives until the end. Her spirit lives on for many of us who knew her for a brief time or for many years.
Here are tributes to Nancy Duncan written by her friends in the storytelling world and published in the Winter 2005 issue of Healing Story Newsletter.
A Tribute to Nancy that was published in "The Reader" is still available on the author LeoAdam Biga's Blog
My Friend Nancy Duncan By -Roslyn Bresnick-Perry
Nancy Duncan was my friend, and I truly loved her.
I met her at a Jewish storytelling evening during the Santa Fe National Storytelling Conference about nineteen years ago. She was looking for a Jewish teller for the Nebraska Storytelling Festival.
When first introduced to her, I saw a tall, curly-haired women with large smiling eyes, a rather prominent nose and chin, broad shoulders and an easy manner. “You’re not Jewish, are you?” I asked.
She laughed that famous cackle of hers. “Are Gentiles not allowed?”
“God forbid,” I answered. “But you look like an Englishwoman who loves to ride horses.”
“You mean a horsewoman,” she said, and she started to laugh so hard she had all of us laughing with her. “You’re a cheeky one,” she continued. “No one ever described me in that manner before. And the stories you told match your personality.”
“It’s called chutzpah,” I answered, and at that very moment, we both knew we were going to be friends forever.
Over the years our friendship grew, and we not only met and roomed together at storytelling conferences and festivals, but visited each other’s homes, as well.
“Nancy,” I would say, “when will I be telling at your Nebraska Storytelling Festival?” “You will be,” she would answer. “I’ve got to get the right mix.”
“But Nancy, I’m your friend!”
“I know,” she would laughingly answer. “So what?”
“You better invite me before I die—you know I’m not a youngster anymore.” “Don’t worry,” she said, “you’ll outlive me.”
I was at last invited to her festival. It was wonderful, but she was so busy, I hardly saw her. I promised I would come to visit when she had more time.
But when did Nancy have more time? It is hard for me to look at her many achievements—storyteller, educator, promoter of festivals, director, actor, artistic director of a children’s theater, social activist, mother, grandmother—without remembering her Weltanschauung, her world view, her attitude toward people, her joy of life, her deep commitment to what she believed could help heal a sick world.
“One at a time,” she would say, “we should listen to each other, hear each other’s stories, tell the stories, and tell them in a way that make people listen.” She felt keenly responsible for making this happen and took that role, a weighty assignment, very seriously. And yet she was one of the most fun- loving people I have ever known.
For her work and commitment, Nancy was awarded the National Storytelling Network’s Leadership Award. One day, she called me on the phone with real concern. What kind of dress should she wear to the ceremony? Knowing I was a fashion designer in my other life, she felt I had the answer without seeing her wardrobe.
“I don’t know what kind of dresses you own, but it should be something elegant.”
Nancy thought a while. “Okay, I know what I can do.” She brought three dresses with her to the conference. We chose the most elegant, and she looked like a queen onstage. After being presented with the award, she smiled, turned around, bent over, and then turned back to the audience, with her all-embracing chicken head on her head and shoulders. Then she flapped her arms in a very chicken-y manner and let out a buukk, buukk, buukk. The entire audience broke up; no one could stop laughing. Nancy’s favorite costume had to be part of the ceremonies.
It was not long after that conference that Nancy discovered she had cancer. We were all horrified. I called her up in tears, but she answered the phone with laughter in her voice.
“Oh Rozzy,” she said, “I’m so glad you called. “I was going to call you later today, but I got so busy.” “What’s going on, and what the hell are you laughing about?” I asked. “I hear lots of goings-on in your
house.” page
“Well, you see,” Nancy said, “I’m going to the hospital tomorrow, and I’m going to lose my breast. So I thought I should make a mold of my breast. Then I got the idea of making chocolate breasts for all my friends and mailing them for Christmas. Do you want one?”
“You are one crazy lady,” I said, starting to laugh myself. “I’ll only take one if it has a nipple.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll put one on for you right away.”
After her chemotherapy, Nancy, her daughter Lucy and I did a workshop at the next conference, called “I Cried So Hard I Laughed.” It was Nancy’s idea to do a workshop on loss and dying. With her bald head, she spoke about losing her breast and her hair, and told her story about her breasts saying good-bye to one another. Then she told another story about her hair falling out in the shower, forming into the word Help! She ended with an appeal to women to become more aggressive in demanding more research. The response from the audience was unbelievable.
Things did not go well. The cancer metastasized into the other breast and the liver. Whenever she had a day of relief, Nancy worked. But she became weaker and weaker, and the telephone conversations between us almost stopped. Her three children, Lucy, Guy and Barnaby, kept us all apprised of her condition. We, the friends who loved her, are indebted to them for their loving and healing correspondence.
Finally, Nancy and her family decided she should enter a hospice. One afternoon I received a call from her. She sounded almost like her old self.
“Rozzy,” she said, “Do you believe in reincarnation?” Me “I don’t think so; why do you ask?”
“Well if you do, you’ll be able to find me in a river, because I’m coming back as a river otter.”
“A river otter—how gross! They’re so slimy.”
“No,” she said, “they have wonderfully smooth skins, and they build up the riverbanks, and then they slide down them, laughing this funny laugh.”
And Nancy started to mimic their laughter.
“Okay,” I said, “if you come back as a river otter, I’ll believe in reincarnation and I’ll find you.”
We both laughed.
“Rozzy,” Nancy said again. “Why do you think so many people love me?”
“Because you don’t judge people, and you laugh a lot.”
“That’s why I love you too,” she said. And we hung up.
Several days later, Nancy passed away peacefully. Storytelling has given me many gifts. But nothing compares with the gift of the wonderful storytellers I have met on the way. They are all stars, but Nancy was one of the brightest. Though she is gone, her light is still with me. I think of her many times throughout the day, when I need a question answered or a good laugh.
The last dream I had of Nancy told me in no uncertain terms the role she has played in my life. I dreamed I was in a wonderfully spacious garden. The colors of everything around me were almost blinding. I noticed that not too far away there was a group of people. They had their backs to me, but I was astounded at how beautiful they looked. They were dressed in the most magnificent hooded robes of delicate white wool.
Since I still had the eyes of a fashion designer, I walked over to them quietly, so they wouldn’t hear me, to touch the fabric. Getting closer, I saw that the hoods and sleeves were lined in a glorious white satin that glowed in the sun. As I stood there, enchanted by the sight, one of the figures turned to me. It was Nancy!
“What are you doing here,” she asked with a smile. “It’s not your time.” “But I want to go with you.”
“You can’t; you still have things to do.”
“But how will I find you—there are so many rivers, and otters are not so big.”
“Just listen for my laugh.” Nancy started to leave with the others, then turned back to me and handed me a lovely white woolen pouch that matched her robe.
“Here,” she said, “This is a gift for you. But when you leave, you must give it to someone who will not use it for themselves.” Then she turned back to the others, and they all disappeared.
I just stood there, not knowing what to do. At last I decided to open the pouch. In it were cylinders of gold. I wondered, to whom can I give this when I leave? I was so troubled by the thought that I woke up. It was still dark in my bedroom. I lay awake, remembering the dream. And I thought, who would I give this valuable gift to? And isn’t it strange that Nancy should give me gold?
Then I realized that what Nancy had given me was not gold, but stories. And I knew what I should do.
Roslyn Bresnick-Perry is a nationally known storyteller, author, translator, teacher, prize winning recording artist and \ keynote speaker. She makes visible to audiences the stories of what it means to be Jewish in our modern world.
Memories of Nancy Duncan By Gail Rosen
I met Nancy when she was grieving. It hadn’t been long since her husband Harry had died when she came to my workshop on storytelling and bereavement at the 1998 NSN Conference. Though open about her loss, no one smiled as easily or laughed as infectiously as Nancy. The next day she invited me to present at a conference in Kearney, Nebraska, in 1999. I didn’t know her at all at the beginning of the trip, but by the end I was in awe of her humor, her talent and her generosity. I knew I had been embraced by her warmth, her openness and her graciousness. She worked tirelessly for storytelling and creating venues for storytellers. And her own telling was smart and rich and funny and deeply meaningful.
Living in Baltimore, I didn’t see her often - just at the national conferences each July. We only spoke a couple of times a year, but always with the feeling of deep friendship and easy intimacy. I believe our relationship was not unique for her. She seemed to appreciate and offer that delicious humor and straightforward emotional connection to so many people.
A number of us were blessed by her emails, full of inspiration, passion for justice, love of storytelling, poetry and fun. I wish I had saved them all. I found her first letter to me about her breast cancer in my “stories” file. Here’s part of what it said:
“I tried to talk one of the surgeons into substituting a mini face-lift in place of breast reconstruction (which I’m not planning to do), but TARNATION! I don’t think I’ll even get an extra mole removed as a side- benefit in this process. Have to admit I did spend a sort of soggy weekend March 11-12. I planned my own funeral about four times, then planned the funerals of about six people who I think should die before I do, and then just got bored with all that planning so I read Brat Farrar by Josephine Tey (sweet novel). Took some photos of my right breast and wondered if, when they take it off, I could save the skin and stuff it as a future installation piece in some storytelling production. You never know when you might need an old body part. I’ve been recycling for the past 15 years and don’t know why I should quit now. I should cast it before Tuesday so I could make replicas or sculptures - I’m thinking, it would be nice in chocolate.”
Throughout her illness, she kept us all up to date on her treatment and condition, with posts filled with her particular intelligence and biting wit. She knew we wanted to know, and that we cared. She also worried that she would cause us worry. She said in one post, “If you’d like to be removed from these mailings about my medical adventures, I can fully understand. Knowledge is not always a blessing. The most difficult part of this story, for me so far, is the pain I am causing my loved ones. So let me know if you DO NOT WANT TO STAY POSTED.”
In the Spring of 2003, Nancy told me that she was finally getting some national recognition and reputation for her storytelling, but people were afraid to hire her for festivals a year in advance. “They’re afraid I might be dead,” she said. “But they could be dead too!” So the Healing Story Alliance executive committee decided to ask her to present at our 2004 preconference. She was delighted, and designated Cynthia Changaris to present if she couldn’t. It was only a few weeks before the conference, when she gave up the hope that she could be well enough to come. I shifted some of my travel plans about two weeks before the conference, and went to see her for just two days. Even though she was thin and so tired, she was full of feisty banter and generous listening. I heard her on the phone, still caring for her friends, saying, “I loved you the first time I met you and I still do.” She insisted that I go through her closet and try on clothes that I might wear, clothes that now embrace me in her memory.
We both knew it would be the last time I would see her, but I couldn’t bring myself to really say goodbye. I still don’t want to. So I won’t. Instead I’ll try to keep her living memory present, to listen to her voice on her story recordings, to read some of the emails I saved, to talk of her with friends who knew her and to “introduce” her to friends who never met her. I’ll try to take in a little more of her enthusiasm, generosity, wit and grace, to make it part of myself. I am so very grateful to have known Nancy and to remember her.
Gail Rosen founded the Healing Story Alliance and served as the first chair.
Rosen works with Hospice and end of life care through storytelling.
Thinking about Nancy: a prose poem
Nancy and her daughter were telling a story.
-A thick haired beauty and her baldheaded mother - a sort of canny glory unfolded on a wide lipped stage.
It was a room disguised for conference but arranged for corporate blunder.
But, through their story silence thundered, interrupted only by laughter.
Language and pauses, riding on heartbeat were minced with sorrow like an onion thinly sliced and unseen.
It entranced us, made us whole. they talked about cancer survival, connection, and union. made us victorious
banished fear
teaching making friends with death to create a ceaseless reunion.
It is no surprise that Nancy’s death was shared and our hearts pried open. She unrelentingly never stopped in the middle;
never stopped even at the end,
She reminded us of all our soul’s transcendence and of friendship not forgotten.
In this trusting, she remains.
(Laura Simms, September 7, 2004)
Laura Simms serves on the Advisory Committee of the Healing Story Alliance.
Simms storytelling includes working with survivors of 9/11 in New York City, where she lives.
“I’ll continue dreaming of our dance together”
Remembering Nancy Duncan by Allison Cox
I have 106 E-mails in my inbox that I just cannot bring myself to erase. They are all from Nancy Duncan. Most of these missives urge me to learn about more ways I can change the world, Nancy nudging me into action… “now they are targeting Medicare—just as they have targeted overtime pay and good jobs”... “8 percent of the US population have unsafe levels of mercury in their blood and the hardest hit are new-born infants”… “buy breast cancer stamps and send out the word”… “there is a Constitutional Amendment being proposed that will ultimately ban homosexual marriages/civil unions and possibly domestic partner benefits in the future”… “the UN is gathering signatures in an effort to avoid a tragic world event”...
I have to admit that there were times that I felt too tired to read the latest news item Nancy sent. Some days I would think, “today I need a break from all this.” Now I regret that I ever deleted any of these, because after just going through the ones I kept I find such gifts of hope and life. Most encourage working toward peace. Perhaps it is a story of why the Dalai Lama did not fight against the Chinese army - “Of course the mind can rationalize fighting back... but the heart, the heart would never understand. Then you would be divided in yourself, the heart and the mind, and the war would be inside you.” Sometimes she sent questions
- “Aren’t Allah, God and Jehovah, after all, three names for the same divinity?” And she shared true stories, such as a friend’s first flight after 9/11 and how the pilot and stewardess invited them all to protect and care for each other during their flight - “It was a day that everyone leaned on each other and together everyone was stronger than any one person alone. It was quite an experience.”
And there are broadcast letters that Nancy sent out to so many who loved her and wanted to know how she was coping and wishing that we could be there to see her, rub her feet and tell her jokes back for every silly one she sent us. In these, Nancy was utterly honest about her struggle, her hopes, her race against time and her love of being alive. Here is a nugget of a story from a friend that Nancy sent out that tells a lot about how she faced life:
Milarepa, a Buddhist mediator and poet, had been meditating in his cave for many years. He was hungry so he decided to go out and pick up a few sticks so he could build a simple fire and cook a bit of soup for himself. When he came back, he found that a bunch of demons had moved into his cave. He started cursing and throwing sticks at them, but they just laughed at him and made fun of him. Realizing he wasn’t getting anywhere with his angry approach, he decided to try another method. He went in his cave, started to build a fire, welcomed the demons as guests, and asked them to sit down and stick around for a bit of hot soup. All the demons immediately left.
So it is with our fears. When fears come up in our minds, welcome them. Let them know they must be tired from their long journey to find us. Ask them to get comfortable and offer them a bit of soup. We are not going to get rid of our fears. We can’t drive them out with sticks and stones. So we are encouraged to make friends with them. Nancy adds a note at the end: “one way to make friends is to tell stories but those fears. Get them to laugh at themselves.”
While I never got to see Nancy’s chicken stories in person or watch her tell her coyote tales, I am forever grateful that I was treated to a brief rendition of the Pocket People. While sitting in her car one day, she told it to me with her hands dancing across her face as the main characters, mooshing her nose and ears impossibly about and telling the whole tale with sounds but no words at all. If the car door hadn’t been closed, I would have fallen out from hysterical laughter. She was that good.
But perhaps my favorite story of Nancy’s was told to me in little pieces here and there, as she showed around me the Nebraska that she loved. One windy afternoon we stood out on a bridge over the river, watching migrating birds circle overhead as Nancy told me of her husband Harry, her children and grandchildren...
I still see her there as I write this, the wind blowing her brown hair in all directions. Perhaps this is why this poem, among so many others that she sent, is my favorite.
“A poem of motherhood from THE UNSWEPT ROOM by Sharon Olds.”
Sleep Suite
To end up in an old hotel suite
with one’s nearly-grown children, who are sleeping, is a kind of Eden. The one in the second bed
rests her head on two pillows - I did not know that - as she sleeps. The one on the couch, under candlewick chenille, has here and there as he turns
the stuffed animal his sister just gave him
for his twentieth birthday. I roam in the half- dark, getting ready for bed, I stalk
my happiness. I’m like someone from the past allowed to come back, I am with our darlings, they are dreaming, safe. Perhaps it’s especially like Eden since this is my native coast,
it smells something like my earliest life, fog, plumeria, eucalyptus, it is
broken, the killership of my family-
it is stopped within me, the complex gear
that translated its motion. When I turn out the light and lie down, I feel as if I’m at the apex
of a triangle, and then, with a Copernican swerve, I feel that the apex is my daughter,
and then my son, I am that background figure, that source figure, the mother. We are not,
strictly speaking, mortal. We cast beloveds into the future. I fall asleep, gently living forever
in the room with our son and daughter.
Nancy once sent me this quote from Barbara Kingsolver, “…every life that ends is utterly its own event— and also in some way it’s the same as all others, a light going out that ached to burn longer. Even if you never had the chance to love the light that’s gone, you miss it. You should. You bear this world and everything that’s wrong with it by holding life still precious, each time, and starting over.” This quote could hold such unutterable sadness in it for me if it weren’t for another story Nancy also sent me. An elder was going to a nursing home after her husband died and as she was being taken to see her new room for the first time, the old woman said, “I already know that I will love it. Happiness is something you decide on ahead of time. Whether I like my room or not doesn’t depend on how the furniture is arranged ... it’s how I arrange my mind. I already decided to love it.”
It is exactly this spirit that lives and breathes throughout these e-mails that keeps me from deleting them. And so I have them here to revisit again and again, to cherish her words that inspire me to try to help out somehow, somewhere, again and again and again. And to remember our dear friend.
Seems only right that Nancy should have the last word here...
“Keep me in your prayers and meditations. Hold me in the light. And I’ll continue dreaming of our dance together. May Peace Prevail on Earth. Nancy K. Duncan.
Allison Cox combines her love of story with her training as a therapist, social worker, health educator and prevention specialist. She is a member of the Advisory Committee of the Healing Story Alliance and the editor of The Healing Heart books.
“We moved forwards because you must to live forwards which is away from whatever it was that you had though you think
while you have it that it will stay forever.”
Harry and Nancy Duncan in 1995 Christmas letter
