Stories from the Stage

MARY MURPHY: When I spoke, I stopped sounding like an adult in an office, and started whining at him like a little kid.

"I can't tell you.

"I'll get in trouble.

Please, let me get my boss."

ALEXIS MUOZ: It was sending some students to go study abroad for a month.

And I'd be able to go if I can afford the flight.

So that's when I decided to sell cheesecakes.

(laughter) ANNE BRYANT: I'll never forget the time during that day when I got really, really ill. John looked at me and he said, "Well, that's the most ladylike vomiting I've ever seen in my life."

(laughter) THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "9:00 to 5:00."

Congratulations.

You are hired.

So, what's the job?

Sometimes work is just a means of making a living.

It can be a true nightmare, or it can be an avenue towards fulfilling our wildest dreams.

No matter who you are or what you do, we all have a story about our 9:00 to 5:00, and tonight's storytellers are here to share theirs.

MURPHY: My name is Mary Murphy, and I'm a writer and storyteller.

I live in Albany, New York, and I live with my husband, Leo, and we have a grown-up daughter who lives in Brooklyn.

And I was born in Syracuse, New York.

And I love telling stories, and I love being on stage, and I also write my own stories now.

How did you get started in storytelling?

Well, I was always interested in being on the stage, and I, I did a lot of acting in my early life.

And I loved it, you know, and I loved the theater, and I loved musicals and all that kind of thing.

And I hit upon storytelling as a way to communicate with an audience and talk story, and I loved it.

What do you learn from the audience when you're telling a story on stage?

MURPHY: Well, it's interesting, you know, because when you tell a story for the first time on stage, you don't really have any idea what effect it's going to have on the audience.

And so, you're really listening for where they laugh or where they're silent and when they are so still that you can almost sense that they're breathing together, at the same time.

And then you know you've hit on something important.

So how do you use silence in your stories?

To me, the most important part of the story is the silence.

Sometimes I'm racing through a part of the story, and I suddenly realize, they're not going to know what I'm talking about.

It takes them time to make the pictures in their head of what you're talking about.

And so, I learned to slow down, but also to pause.

In 1974, I lived in New York City, and I worked at Columbia University's press office, also known as the Office of Public Information.

I was a messenger, typist, file clerk by day.

And at night, I sang Gilbert and Sullivan operettas in a church downtown.

(laughter) I lived with my aunt, a doctoral student at Columbia's Teachers College.

She had friends in the visitor's office at Columbia who in turn had connections in the Public Information Office.

So she was able to get me a job.

Public Information is an exciting place to work.

The office is a liaison between Columbia University and the media.

It also announces the Pulitzer Prizes every spring.

And once in a while, we got to tell the world about a brand-new Nobel laureate.

Unfortunately, not all of its news is good news.

One morning during the second week of November, on a cold, gray day, there was an accident on the East River involving several members of Columbia's rowing crew.

A shell tipped over in the icy waters at dawn, and one of the oarsmen drowned.

Our office was alerted.

Fred, the director of Public Information, wrote a statement that he read later that morning at a press conference.

Mary Ann, the office secretary, and I were to read the same statement and say nothing else to any reporters who called on the phone.

The statement ended with this.

"The name of the victim is being withheld "pending notification of next of kin.

"The name of the victim is being withheld.

The name of the victim is..." He read it so often to so many people that morning, the words stopped meaning anything to me.

Around noon, Mary Ann went to lunch, leaving me to handle the phones.

Every reporter who called wanted something extra, some little scandalous or horrifying detail that nobody else had so that he or she could "scoop" the others.

They bugged me for more information until I finally hung up on them, sometimes in mid-sentence.

After a lull, I got a weird call.

It was a man, who didn't bother identifying himself or his press affiliation.

He spoke in a very quiet voice and said, "Tell me the name of the boy who died."

Well, as it happened, everyone in our office knew the boy's name.

That wasn't usual.

We found out because Larry, one of our student aides, was a rower.

And at first, we were afraid he'd been the one who drowned.

Mary Ann got the name out of Fred and then proceeded to tell everybody in the office.

Fred was furious.

He called us all in and told us our lives would be worthless if we revealed the name to anyone before the family was notified, The man on the phone was waiting for an answer.

Something about the quiet, intense way he spoke caused me to hesitate before I launched into the statement.

But then I did, and I said, "The name of the victim is being withheld pending notifi--" He cut me off.

In that same quiet voice he said, "My son is a rower.

"He was out on the river this morning.

I'm begging you to tell me if he's dead."

I was suddenly shivering.

This is not a call I had expected.

I stuttered out something about putting him on hold while I went to get my boss, but he exploded.

"Don't put me on hold!

Not again!

"I've called his dorm, the rowing office, "even the president's office.

"For God's sake, they all put me on hold.

(exhales) "The sports information office "transferred me to you.

You do know his name, don't you?"

My silence assured him that I did.

When I spoke, I stopped sounding like an adult in an office and started whining at him like a little kid.

"I can't tell you.

"I'll get in trouble.

Please let me get my boss."

But he knew what to say.

"Listen, I know you don't want to disobey your boss.

"So I'll tell you what we'll do.

"I'll just say my son's name "and you say yes or no.

"That way you won't really be telling.

Just yes or no.

Please."

I could hear someone else drawing a shaky breath on an extension.

A woman, I thought.

And then I understood.

I was maybe about to tell a mother and father their son was never coming home again.

I was 23 years old, and this was the biggest moment of my whole life.

The press release I'd been so bored with all morning had become real.

A real boy died, and real parents didn't know yet.

I should have put down the phone and gone to get Fred.

But I just couldn't leave him there alone on my desk.

So instead I whispered, "what's his name?"

The mother said it first.

The father echoed a beat behind.

When I heard it, I jumped up and shouted, "No!

No, it wasn't him!"

I was high on adrenaline and relief.

"It wasn't your son."

(laughs) Fred came to his office door and put a disapproving finger to his lips.

But I barely noticed him.

I was listening to the dad choking out, "Thank you," as he began to cry.

His mother said, "We'll pray for the parents who don't know yet."

After I hung up, I... my adrenaline deserted me, and I stood on shaky legs, waiting for the powers of speech and movement to return.

And when they did, I went into Fred's office, meaning to tell him I wasn't going to answer the phone anymore that day.

But he spoke first and said the boy's parents had been notified, the name was being released to the press.

We'd be getting a new statement to read soon.

So I went back to my desk, sat down, and picked up the phone because it was ringing.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) I was very young when I experienced this story, and I think what it did, in looking back is it gave me a moment to grow up.

It gave me a moment to suddenly feel I did a big thing, a big adult thing, because I had to choose between following orders and following the routine or connecting with these people that were suffering so much.

MUOZ: My name is Alexis Muoz.

I'm born and raised in Boston, Massachusetts.

I'm an educator for Boston Public Schools and the proud owner of Yo Soy Customs, where we focus on designing apparel and custom sneakers.

I understand that you grew up in Puerto Rican communities here in Boston.

What role did storytelling play in your upbringing?

Oh, everywhere we went, from hanging out outside on the porch to the basketball court, playing dominoes, having a bunch of people just talking about whatever experiences either at the day, or in the moment.

You know, I just remember growing up having my abuelos, my abuelas, my titis, my tios, everybody just sharing.

"Oh, back at home in Puerto Rico, "we used to do this and that and now that we're here."

Even though they're in a total different land, they're still bringing part of their culture and the heritage back over here and just, you know, allows us to, you know, see what it is that they went through.

And because of that, it just made me want to learn more and more and more.

So is this your first experience with storytelling?

This is.

I'm definitely coming out my comfort shell.

I wouldn't consider myself a storyteller, but I'm willing to take the chance and see how it goes.

As an educator, what lessons are you hoping to teach your students?

Teaching our students how to hold themselves accountable of their actions and teaching them integrity.

And what lessons do your students teach you?

A lot, they teach me how to be patient and also to know that, you know, everyone has their own different approach of handling things, and that I need to find ways to accommodate my work to help the child succeed.

One day during my freshman year of high school, I was told to report to the dean of students' office.

As I walked in, I seen Mr. Love, this big stocky guy that was loud.

He spoke his mind.

He also had this presence that just demanded attention and respect.

Besides that, he liked joking with his students.

So much, the first day we met, he told me I reminded him of one of those Spanish Harlem guys from New York.

Immediately, I got defensive.

It wasn't the Spanish part, since I'm Puerto Rican.

(quiet laughter) It was the fact that he was considering me a New Yorker.

(laughter) Yeah.

(laughter, scattered applause) So I tell him, "Yo, I'm from Boston, all right?"

(laughter) He's staring at me, just sizing me up, like the way he is right now in his office.

Besides Mr. Love being in his office, I recognized my mom.

And she had that, "Yeah, we need a talk" look.

(laughter) Immediately, I knew why she was there.

So the night before, I stole about $100 from her to buy some weed.

I tried explaining myself but Mr. Love wasn't tolerating it, telling me, "Hey, look at your mother.

"Does this make you proud?

"You know she's going to be the only one that's ever going to look out for you, right?"

As I sat there, I was ashamed of my actions.

I was making a bunch of mistakes at that time that was disappointing my mother.

Growing up, I didn't have many positive male role models.

Lots of people in my family didn't graduate high school.

My dad wasn't in the picture as much as I wanted and needed.

And most of the people I hung out with outside of school, including my relatives, were involved with that street life.

Selling drugs, robbing, and shooting people.

With that came the nice clothes, the fancy cars, money, power, and respect.

And like most kids in the hood, I fell in that trap and I wanted those things.

My mom, she did everything that she possibly can to raise two boys on her own and for us to have a place called home.

Even after several conversations with my brother and I, telling us that there's nothing out in the streets besides problems, I decided not to listen.

I was the hardhead, and I had to learn the hard way.

There were so many things that I did that I hid from my mom.

Like one day, my brother, uncle, and I, we went to a party.

He ended up getting in an argument with the guy from a gang.

He was wise enough to know it was time for us to get up out of there.

So as we drove off, a guy came out the building.

Starts shooting at the back of the car.

Pow!

Pow!

Pow!

When that happened, as I'm crouching down, I feel something hit the back of my shoulder.

And I'm worried now, but I stayed quiet until we got far away from the scene.

As we got further, I start touching my body.

(exhales) I recognize that I'm okay.

But then I start to think, "Man, I need to be careful with who I'm hanging out with."

So, the next day, I go to school.

Mr. Love pulls me to the side, and I'm not even sure how he found out about this situation.

But we start talking about the same thing I was thinking about the night before.

And then he tells me, "Hey, you should think about leaving Boston for a few."

That wasn't the first time that thought was mentioned.

The whole idea about me living out in Florida with my grandmother, was mentioned by my mom.

She understood the importance of a child being raised by their parent, so that never happened.

But this time, when Mr. Love mentioned it, I truly took it into consideration.

But I wasn't expecting this man to say to Rwanda.

Mm-hmm.

(laughter) I wasn't even sure where that was at that time.

So he tells me, "Africa."

And I'm like, "All right."

But the only reference that I could think of at that moment was based off this movie, Ace Ventura: Pet Detective, with Jim Carrey.

(laughter) Right?

Anyways, my school, they were sending some students to go study abroad for a month.

And I'll be able to go if I can afford the flight.

But I knew this was going to be a challenge for my family.

But it motivated me.

I wanted to help out, raise the money the clean way, no drug money.

So that's when I decided to sell cheesecakes.

(laughter) My mother and I, cheffing it up, selling it to friends and families, in schools, at work, local businesses, at church, everywhere.

And it was a big hit.

We sold out, and I was able to afford my flight.

During my time in Rwanda, I had an amazing experience.

It taught me how to be more grateful and open-minded.

I thought I was struggling back at home.

But compared to most people in Rwanda, my problems were nothing.

Mind you, 14 years before that trip, a genocide occurred there.

The way that the people were showing each other love and support on a daily basis to rebuild their communities truly inspired me.

It made me question what I was doing back at home and the change that I'm going to have to make.

So when I returned back from my trip, I started taking school more seriously.

I was even elected as the class president for the last two years.

I started to shadow the principal, Miss Skipper, at that time, because I wanted to study education and become a principal.

I remember a conversation that we had and she's telling me, "Man, are we looking at the same person?"

Nowadays Mr. Love is looking at me differently.

He's happy for me.

And he tells me that he's proud of me, that he recognizes the change that I've made.

Seven years later, I'm standing in a classroom working with students with similar challenges I had growing up.

And that's when I see my reflection.

Not my actual reflection, but one of my students, a six-year-old boy.

He's smiling.

Dressed up in a suit, a tie, and dress shoes, like I worn almost every day ever since I became an educator.

He tells me, "I'm you, Mr. Muoz.

I want to be just like you."

It brought so much joy to me to know that I was making an impact on his life the same way Mr. Love had on me.

And instead of disappointing my mom, now she's proud.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) BRYANT: I am Anne Bryant, and I live in Down East Maine.

I grew up in New England, mostly in New Hampshire.

I'm a YouTube producer, a video editor, and videographer and a freelance writer.

Can you talk a bit about living in Maine and what you like about it?

There are about 3,000 islands off the coast of Maine, and some are uninhabited, some have cities on them.

And...

I love the self sufficiency of the people who work there.

I probably live around the most capable people that one could ever meet in a, you know, a tight group.

Mmm.

It's very dark in the wintertime, but it's just a wonderful place to be a part of the community there.

Most of your work has you behind the camera.

What does it feel like to be now stepping on stage in front of the camera?

There have been times when behind the camera, I would love to guide the story with my hand right on it.

So in a way, I love having the control of all the words.

And I especially jumped at the opportunity to be able to tell this story, because I hope that it makes other people think about mentors.

I hope it helps other people think about the places where they can help other people feel very, very welcome.

About 12 years ago, a man named John invited me to come down to the Caribbean.

My friend Andy came, too.

We were to sail his 36-foot boat from the BVIs to Antigua, which is about 200 miles.

And I had never sailed before, didn't know anything about boats.

And the trip was in about two weeks.

So there I was, January, I walk out of the airplane, 80 degrees.

Poof.

Hits me right in the face.

And I packed for any occasion, anything that might have come up.

And later on, when I unpacked my bags, it definitely looked like Mary Poppins, taking things out.

Except the lamp.

I did not bring a lamp.

Andy and I are standing here on this rock wall, and it looks nothing like what I had imagined a place where boats would be, would look like.

And I'm looking out into the water, and here comes John in an inflatable dinghy with an outboard on it.

And he's smiling, and he's tanned, and he looks very grateful to see us.

Big smile on his face.

Last time I saw him, he was wearing a scarf and a big heavy sweater.

And now here he was in this very light button-down, what I like to call his "go into town" shirt, and tells us to hop in the dinghy.

So, moment one in a boat for me was crawling down a rock wall, down into a dinghy.

We ended up traveling for a couple of days before doing that first big jump that we were supposed to do to get to Antigua.

And so, within those first 20 miles or so, I ended up getting very nervous because I was getting pretty sick on every little sail.

And the one thing, though, that I really enjoyed was the very first anchorage that we went to-- so, the place where you drop anchor and spend the night-- I, uh, went swimming.

The first time I ever got to go swimming in January because I'm from Maine.

And so, I'm, I'm swimming around and my friend reminds me that I brought this snorkel and mask.

And I just, I had forgotten about it because who the heck would want to put their face about six inches in the water and look at stuff?

And I did, begrudgingly.

And most of the places down there, you... because the anchors have been in there before, it was broken coral and it was kind of sad.

I thought I'd give it one more try.

And I looked down into the water as I came up the ladder and there was a spotted eagle ray the size of the hood of a Cadillac moving 20 feet below the boat.

I could see all the way down to the bottom, which is another thing we can't do in Maine.

And then we went to go do this first big jump, to the next island in the chain.

And I got very, very ill and I took medication, didn't work.

And John ended up calling the game.

We would maybe just spend the next two weeks traveling around the Caribbean and having a nice time.

So, I changed our flights to leave not from Antigua but from St. Thomas and felt very defeated because it felt like it was my fault and maybe I didn't belong on the water.

But I'll never forget the time during that day when I got really, really ill and felt defeated.

John looked at me and he said, "Well, that's the most ladylike vomiting I've ever seen in my life."

(laughter) And it's about this time that you probably have a picture of John in your head, but I'm going to tell you all about him.

He was a 76-year-old retired brain pathologist.

He had spent his life researching, mostly children's cancers, and he had a bedside manner, because he was a doctor.

And so, even though I felt like I would've been, I don't know, self-selected out of the process, he brought me back in by making me feel like I belong there.

The other thing that had happened is, up to this point, when we decided to sail around the Caribbean, or, excuse me, just the BVIs, we, uh, had the chance to maybe try sailing out a little bit.

And I did not touch the helm at all.

I sort of stepped back.

There was Andy and John.

They had both been sailing before, and I just would stand back.

I do that a lot with men in particular, actually, I just... (murmuring) Go on... (laughter) And so, there was this one day when I realized John said, "Oh, Andy, can you come up and help me with this mainsail?"

Raise up that sail.

He doesn't usually need help, I don't know what that's about.

"Anne, can you grab the helm and just steer us into the wind while we raise the sail?"

"Sure, I can do that."

"Okay, now, we've got the sail up.

"So, why don't you just point the boat over there like you want to go to the edge of that island?"

And so I did.

And that's when I realized that I was sailing the boat.

He came back to the cockpit, shut off the engine, and I could feel the boat lean into that wind and start moving.

And I tried to give him the helm, because there he was.

(laughter) "No, no," he said.

"You're a natural.

Just like my daughter."

When I got home from that trip, I did everything in my power to get on boats.

Any boat that was willing to take me on, I would go on it.

I started hanging out with boat people.

I changed my OkCupid profile to say I was going to live on a boat.

(laughter) And I did.

I went on to do a lot of different things on boats.

And as it goes with dear friends like that, you kind of lose contact a little bit.

And I'd realized it had been a few years when a friend got in touch with me and said that John himself was dying of brain cancer.

Probably about four years had passed, and the second I heard about it, I was sitting in my office at WoodenBoat magazine, where I had become an editor.

And so I wrote him a note to let him know.

I told him about how I had gone to the BVIs again, and I had taught a group of women how to sail as first mate aboard, aboard a boat.

I told him about how I had done the Intracoastal Waterway from Maine to Georgia and back.

I lived on a boat for a year.

And how I had my own boat now.

(quiet laughter) And how he wouldn't like it because it was wood.

(laughter) I do enjoy the nuts and bolts of my work, but I think the reason why I do it is because I want to help other people feel the same exact way that John made me feel.

Which is welcome on the water, excited to learn new things, and maybe that they belong somewhere that they didn't previously think they belonged.

And I bet somewhere John's eyes sparkle every time I bring another wayward person onto the water.

(cheers and applause)