Stories from the Stage

LENA RIZKALLAH: The day of the party arrived, and my heart almost jumped out of my skin when I see Auntie Samira walking in with this big box and a wink.

MICHELLE HACHE: She didn't know what to yell, but she nailed it that day.

My mom was telling everybody there that nobody was going to tell her daughter that she couldn't play.

DEREK MACDONALD: I did choose, in that moment, to try to give him a different kind of gift.

I wanted to give him the privacy that he had always carved out for himself.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Hidden Gifts."

Not all gifts come in a box.

And they're not always shiny when you first receive them.

Sometimes, it takes the space of time and memory and maybe a shift in your heart or perspective for a gift to begin to reveal itself.

Tonight's tellers are going to share about the presents that surprised them and the ones they won't soon forget.

RIZKALLAH: My name is Lena Rizkallah.

I live between New York City and the Hudson Valley in Beacon, New York.

I call myself a recovering attorney.

I studied law and went to law school and then quickly moved into the financial services industry, and currently I'm a financial advisor working with families, individuals, business people, and especially with women.

So, in addition to law and finance, you've also done stand-up comedy, and sketch comedy, and now storytelling.

What drew you to like these audience-based performances?

I started feeling very stale, like I felt like everybody just knew me as an attorney, as a financial professional.

So I just took a stand-up comedy class on a whim, and then I got caught up with a group of people that were just starting the Arab American Comedy Festival in New York City.

And that was such a great stage and platform to start experimenting with other things that I've been wanting to do, like write sketch comedy, write plays, perform a little bit.

What has storytelling taught you about yourself, your family and your community?

Like, maybe things that weren't clear before you got into storytelling.

I feel like with storytelling and the simple stories that I could tell about my family, about growing up, about my experiences, it puts me and everybody else on, kind of, the same even playing field where I don't have to worry that people are uncomfortable or I have to explain who I am.

I just feel like it gives me a platform to share... ...what it's like to be a Palestinian-American and that it's not that much different from somebody else.

My parents are Palestinian refugees who immigrated to the U.S.

and settled in suburban Maryland.

So while I was born in America, I grew up in "Little Palestine."

We spoke Arabic at home.

We would-- my mom would cook all this traditional Palestinian food for dinner most nights.

And we spent a lot of time with our family and extended Arab community.

And I did look a little ethnic, especially in the age of Charlie's Angels.

My hair was very curly.

I did not flip my hair the way that Farrah Fawcett's hair hair flipped.

(chuckles) I had Arab features.

I had a unibrow, and maybe a little sideburn action.

I sometimes smelled like chicken shawarma because maybe that was my lunch.

And kids could tell that there were some differences with me.

I would get asked "But Lena, where are you really from?"

And I would say that was confusing.

I would say "I'm Palestinian, my parents are from Palestine," which to them meant I was either Pakistani... ...or a terrorist.

And when you're seven, you're like, I don't know what to do with any of that.

So it wasn't that I was not proud of being Palestinian.

I was-- it's just that I didn't know how to be an American and I desperately wanted to fit in.

At school there was a group of girls I called "the Jennifers" and I wanted to be just like them.

They were tall and skinny with knobby knees and swishy, long, straight hair and freckles and tinkly laughs.

And boy did they have confidence.

Next to them I was a shy kebab with an Arab 'fro in knockoff Jordache jeans.

Not cute.

One year, the hottest toy in school was a Crissy doll.

And if you guys don't remember what a Crissy doll is, it's the size of an overfed eight-month-old with milky white skin, big eyes and thick, red hair.

And all the Jennifers had a Crissy doll.

They would bring their Crissy doll in to show and tell.

They would play with the Crissy doll at recess.

And I just thought if I could get my grubby little hands on a Crissy doll, then maybe that would be my in with the Jennifers, and they would be my friend.

So for Christmas that year, I asked my parents for a Crissy doll, and like every self-respecting parent of a Gen Xer, they completely ignored me.

(laughter) Yeah.

You guys know.

So I did get some things off my list.

I got a yellow Walkman, I got some juicy lip gloss, but no Crissy doll.

And later that day, we went to my Auntie Samira's house for Christmas dinner and she was really sweet.

She ended up getting all of the little cousins a Christmas gift.

So when I saw my cousin Judy grab that big box that she got and start unwrapping I thought, "Wait a second, could it possibly be?"

And sure enough, Judy got a Crissy doll.

And I thought, if Judy got a Crissy doll, then surely I would have, right?

Wrong.

I got my gift.

It was a smaller box, and I opened it up and it was a Snoopy electric toothbrush.

(audience laughter) (sighs) And I was so disappointed, but I didn't want to be rude, so I said, "Auntie, thank you so much "for the Snoopy electric toothbrush, but I really, really want a Crissy doll."

And my Auntie Samira said, "You're going to get it for your birthday."

And I was elated.

I was overjoyed.

I was like, this is it, this is when my life changes-- I'm going to get a Crissy doll and my life is totally going to change.

But here's the thing; my birthday is June 2.

(audience laughter) I was not deterred, though.

I said, you know what, though?

Give or take six months, I was going to have a Crissy doll.

And that would just be the beginning of a whole new chapter in my life.

So New Year's Day, 1980, I jumped out of bed and I was like, this is the year of the Crissy doll.

(audience laughter) And I would knock off one day after the next after the next, as I got closer and closer and closer to my birthday.

I even started fantasizing, like, sitting in the middle of the Jennifer circle, like, braiding our Crissy dolls' hair together and laughing our tinkly laughs.

But a couple weeks before my birthday, my parents sat me down and they said, "Listen, we have a very good idea.

"Your birthday's in June.

"Your brother's birthday's in June.

"Why don't we have one big, fat Palestinian birthday party on your brother's birthday?"

Which is three weeks after mine.

I said, you know what?

Just stay cool.

It's been five months and ten days that I've waited.

I can wait three more weeks.

But I was tense.

The day of the party arrived, and my heart almost jumped out of my skin when I see Auntie Samira walking in with this big box and a wink.

But I couldn't just rush out and open the present willy nilly.

No, there was a protocol at our birthday parties.

First, all the aunties and uncles and cousins come in.

You have to say hello.

Then you gotta pull out all the food and put it all on the ping pong table, which is where we ate.

(audience laughter) All the braised lamb, and the malfouf, and the grape leaves and the falafel and the fattoush.

And then we gotta clean all of that up.

And then the birthday cakes come out.

One for me, one for my brother.

They sing Happy Birthday twice, somebody throws up.

(audience laughter) And then after that, my mom says, "Okay, everybody, "outside ten minutes and then we'll call you in to open the presents."

And she pushed me out because I was really hovering by that gift pile.

So I'm standing outside right by the door, watching my cousins play kickball in the street.

And all of a sudden there's a car that comes barreling down the street really fast.

And a kid calls out, "Car!"

And all the kids scurry out of the way, except for my little cousin Jimmy, who goes right into the street, gets hit by the car.

(audience groans) I know, right?

It was mayhem.

It was chaos.

Everybody was freaking out.

There was blood everywhere.

Jimmy was on the ground.

He ended up being okay-- he had a bloody nose.

But for the moment, it was complete chaos.

And it brought the party to a full stop.

Everyone was hysterical-- except for me.

I was standing right where I was, watching this whole scene.

And that was the moment that I lost all my patience.

I was like, it's been six months, 16 hours and 37 minutes.

I am not waiting one more second for my Crissy doll.

And I turned around and I went into that empty house.

I went to the gift pile, I kneeled down, I pulled out that box, I unwrapped it, and I finally had my Crissy doll in my arms.

(cheers and applause) The next day, I woke up with a devastating realization.

It was summertime and school was out.

(audience laughter) So there was no opportunity for show and tell and there was no circle of friends.

I saw the Jennifers that summer at the pool or at parks, and they had moved on.

They were practicing their dance moves and having dance-offs.

I even saw them once and they saw my brand new Crissy doll.

They never invited me to a dance-off.

And pretty soon the novelty wore off and she ended up in the back of the closet.

Years later, in seventh grade, I finally found my forever best friend, Sophia.

She was just like me.

She had curly hair, she had Palestinian parents, she even ate shawarma.

But the one thing she had that she taught me was confidence.

She had the confidence to eat her shawarma and also have friends and be a cheerleader and be in the band.

And years later, I found myself at our 25-year high school reunion with Sophia on one side and the Jennifers on the next side, jamming and having a dance-off to Madonna's "Like a Virgin" in the ballroom of the Rockville Marriott.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) HACHE: My name is Michelle Hache.

I grew up here, right outside Boston in the city of Waltham.

My husband, Roger, is a singer-songwriter.

I have two grown children, and I'm a fourth grade elementary school teacher.

What drew you to teaching?

Well, first of all, I really like kids and not so much grownups, so it was definitely a good fit for me.

But I really like working with kids.

I like those moments where we get to do something and something kind of clicks and you go, ah, we've all got it.

So that's really what drew me to it.

I started working with kids when I was young, working at camps, and I just kind of floated into it.

So in your own stories, are you kind of most drawn towards, like, big moments or tiny moments?

Honestly, I think most of my stories focus around relatively small moments, you know?

Things that have stuck with me for one reason or the other.

What are you hoping that the audience might take away from your story tonight?

Well, I hope they get a couple chuckles, um.

But I hope that people, you know, can recognize that those small connections can be really important to people.

You never know what that small moment might be that has an impact that lasts.

I did not always fit in with my siblings.

My brother was definitely not a join-the-team, play-a-sport kind of guy.

And my two sisters were pretty much what you'd expect from little girls growing up in the '70s.

They liked pretty dresses.

They liked patent leather shoes.

(audience laughter) My younger sister liked to play house and play with her dolls.

I'm not even sure I owned a Barbie.

I did have a G.I.

Joe with kung fu grip, though.

(audience laughter) My older sister went to dance class.

She went to gymnastics.

My mom tried very hard to get me into gymnastics, but I thought, me in a leotard?

No.

I want to play a game with a ball and the opportunity to crash into people.

My dad loved sports-- as a kid, he was a good athlete.

He played everything.

By the time us kids came along, he was pretty content to just play catch in the backyard or watch the game on TV.

Our house had one TV and four channels.

It did not matter what the game was.

It did not matter what the sport or the team was.

If there was a game being broadcast, that's what was on our TV.

My mom did not understand his obsession with watching sports.

Watching grown men play a children's game, the outcome of which has no bearing on our life whatsoever.

But if she was confused about her husband's impassion for sports, she was really, really confused by her very small daughter who wanted to play those sports.

I asked, please, can I play football?

My dad was mostly on board with it.

(audience laughter) My mom used her executive power to veto him.

I begged, could I play hockey?

Hockey was what I wanted to play.

The word "hockey" was not even completely out of my mouth before my mom said no.

(audience laughter) If she was not going to let me play a full contact sport against boys on turf, there was no way she was going to let her undersized daughter play a full contact sport on ice with sharp metal blades strapped to their feet.

I did get signed up for basketball and soccer and baseball.

And in fairness to my mom, she came to a lot of my games.

She came to "cheer me on."

But I think she was really there in case I needed to go to the emergency room.

(audience laughter) She would come to Little League, take her folding chair and park herself out past third base, down out in foul territory.

She would sit down, cross her legs at the ankle then pick up her book and commence reading.

That is how she watched my baseball games.

(audience laughter) If somebody cheered loudly or if somebody yelled "heads up!"

She might look up from her reading.

But for the most part, most games were spent with Agatha Christie.

(audience laughter) We were playing on a hot June day.

It was early June, but it felt like one of those August days that are hot and dry and bright.

We were playing against a team that had yellow jerseys, and they kind of glowed in the brightness.

I could feel the diamond dust in my glove.

I could feel it under my hat.

I could feel it between my toes.

When I watched baseball with my dad, and Major League pitchers did this... So I did that.

(audience laughter) This allowed me several opportunities to get a glimpse of my mom sitting out in left field.

(audience laughter) I can still picture her sitting there today, with her giant floppy sun hat and her Jackie O sunglasses.

The boy coming to the plate was the coach's son.

The coach was not a happy man.

He did not like the fact that there were girls in his league.

My team had two girls on it.

Most of the teams had one or two girls.

His team had none.

And as his son dug into the batter's box, he yelled out to him, "Go get her."

And something about the way he punched "her" made me feel a little uneasy.

And I threw my first pitch and was past the boy before he even had a chance to lift that bat off of his shoulder.

The ump yelled, "strike one."

And the coach yelled, "Hey, swing that bat!

Don't stand there looking at it!"

My second pitch went in.

It wasn't as good as the first pitch, it was outside.

The ump called it a ball.

The bat never left his shoulder, but the coach still yelled, "Hey, swing the bat."

What are you looking at?"

It was a ball.

(audience laughter) You don't swing at those.

(audience laughter) I thought about everything my dad had ever told me about throwing a good pitch.

Dig in that back foot, kick high, kick hard.

And as you whip your arm around, make sure your hand lands at your hip.

That's what I did on the next pitch.

The batter twitched.

The ump called, "Strike two!"

And the coach lost his mind just a little bit more.

(audience laughter) "Don't let her strike you out!

Swing that bat!

Stop looking at it!"

I knew that no matter what I threw, the next pitch he was going to swing.

He was white knuckling that bat, ready to go.

My mom had put down her book.

My mom was watching the game.

She was staring intently at the batter.

I threw that next pitch.

He swung with everything he had.

It was like out of a cartoon, like Bugs Bunny swinging with everything, corkscrewing his body, buckling his knees.

The ump called him out.

And for a moment, I felt very bad for him.

Not because he struck out.

Everybody strikes out in baseball.

And on that day, I was a better pitcher than he was a batter.

I felt bad because he was going home with loudmouth coach.

(audience laughter) It was at that moment that I heard something I'd never heard before.

My mom was yelling.

Don't get me wrong, she yelled plenty at home.

(audience laughter) But out here in the wild, at a baseball game, she didn't know the rules.

She didn't know when to yell.

She didn't know what to yell.

But she nailed it that day.

"He didn't let her strike him out!"

My mom was telling everybody there that nobody was going to tell her daughter that she couldn't play.

Unless it was her.

(audience laughter) She was also telling everybody, "I've got your back."

I have grown kids now.

It's been 50 years.

I remember the words.

I remember how it made me feel.

And I hope that my grown kids know that I have their back even half as much as my mom had mine that day.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) MACDONALD: My name is Derek MacDonald.

I'm a writer and systems consultant originally from Massachusetts, and I live in Burlington, Vermont.

And I understand that you define yourself as a writer by trade.

Can you tell me what first drew you to writing?

Writing was where I have always been able to show up as my full self.

I grew up in a pretty chaotic household where I wasn't always able to speak my full thoughts.

I wasn't able to express myself fully.

And when I am writing, I feel like it allows me to best make sense of my ideas and present them in a way that feels most in line with who I am.

So over time, what would you say that you've learned about the strength of sharing a vulnerable part of yourself out loud?

MACDONALD: I always thought that people respected credibility and perfection.

And I feel that's what I tried to present for a very long time.

And after sharing that personal story on stage, I realized that people actually relate more to the imperfection.

Mm-hmm.

And it completely changed how I approach the ways in which I choose to share myself.

It was completely dark.

I had just jolted awake, and I was trying to figure out what sound had done it.

I was really listening, but my eyes were still closed.

I was trying to figure out, where am I?

What am I doing here?

So I started to take in my surroundings.

I'm in a twin bed in my childhood home.

I'm home for the weekend from college because my grandmother had just passed away.

And as I'm lying there, I'm listening, and that sound happens again.

And I fill with terror, because I've recognized what it is.

Now, these used to be bunk beds, so the twin bed next to me is where my grandfather was staying for the weekend.

And the sound that I'd heard was him sobbing.

I'd never heard that sound before, not from him.

I'd never seen anything other than completely straight face.

He was really well-known for this kind of, like, resting, grumpy face thing, (audience laughter) But he did it with such a dry wit, that it was almost admirable.

Me and my siblings liked trying to make him break.

So on Christmas, whoever opened the first present, got to go pin the bow on grandpa's bald head.

(audience laughter) That was our way of trying to crack the armor a little bit.

And I don't think we ever succeeded.

My grandmother was the expressive one.

She would absolutely beam when you walked into a room.

Light up, fill you with just complete warmth.

And then she would throw her arms wide and wait as you made your way to her across the room to give her a hug.

And then she would hold on for way too long.

But it was awesome.

(audience laughter) So as I'm listening to my grandfather sob, I have no idea what to do.

The only time I've ever seen him come close to displaying the emotions he was feeling, was when he would sing to my grandmother on their anniversaries.

And then they would take to the stage, and they would dance together.

And as I'm laying there completely still, eyes still closed, I'm trying to figure out what to do.

Should I console him?

Should I do nothing?

And it dawns on me that... ...he's been around family all weekend, and he's chosen this moment in the middle of the night... ...to let his guard down, to not keep his composure.

In my family, keeping your composure is currency, especially if you're a male-identifying person.

It's never been modeled to me to display emotions differently.

I didn't know how to make his pain go away in that moment.

I wanted to reach out, to squeeze his shoulder, to give him a hug, to let him know that he wasn't as alone as maybe he thought he was.

Who's surrounded by family.

Even though it was in his son's house.

In his grandson's room.

With fire truck bed sheets.

(audience laughter) But we lost someone we loved, too.

And I wish we could have shared that more openly.

Even my dad didn't really know how to display what he was feeling.

He stayed super busy during the funeral, checking on other people.

He doesn't have quite as good a resting, grumpy face, but he was trying.

So as I'm thinking about reaching over... ...the thing that really stuck with me and made me hesitate was when I was a kid, I would dress up and put my grandmother's beads on and clomp around in her high heels to try to make people laugh.

It worked.

(audience laughter) But not for my grandfather or my dad.

I remember feeling like they actually didn't like it at all.

And so I had a chance, laying there, thinking about what to do.

Am I going to keep my composure?

Or can I reach out?

And share this moment with my grandfather?

And I didn't.

I still think about it.

I did choose in that moment to try to give him a different kind of gift.

I wanted to give him the privacy that he had always carved out for himself.

I hope it was enough.

I hope he was able to grieve in that moment.

They had been married, he and my grandmother, for over 50 years.

I can't imagine what that loss felt like for him.

They never really spent time apart.

They were always together.

And I didn't know how to make his loneliness go away.

But hopefully I could help him... ...deal with it in the way that he wanted to.

The men in my family... ...are taught to keep their composure.

The gift I chose to give my grandfather... ...was his privacy.

But it wasn't until later, after he had passed and I had missed the chance to tell him all of this, that I realized the gift that he had given me, which is that in our family, where keeping your composure mattered so much, he helped me realize that I could choose.

And so now every time I tell my friends that I love them, or give them a big hug that lasts just a little too long, I think of my grandfather... ...and I appreciate that gift.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause)