Stories from the Stage

KEVIN NEWBURY: I felt like Grandpa was still cheering me on, still reminding me to keep trying to make the world a little bit better.

SRILATHA RAJAMANI: All these people of different genders and sexuality were being themselves.

This place was beautiful.

JAMIE MULLIGAN: They said, "Dad, is what you just told us special?"

I said, "Yes, I think it is, and it's important we share these things."

And they said, "Okay, but wait.

If it's a special night, do we get soda with dinner?"

(audience laughing) THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Proud to Be."

It takes strength to define pride on your own terms, to create family when your rights are challenged, to stand up for yourself when your very existence is questioned.

Tonight's storytellers are going to be sharing the courage and resilience that is required on the journey towards unwavering, radical self-acceptance.

MULLIGAN: My name is Jamie Mulligan, and I was born in Connecticut, but I've lived all over the United States and a few places in Europe.

And I currently live in beautiful, scenic Beacon, New York, with my wife and two boys.

And when did you discover your love for storytelling?

MULLIGAN: Well, I've always loved hearing stories.

I've always loved, uh, storytelling shows.

I've watched Stories from the Stage many times.

And I finally got up the courage to participate in a local storytelling open mic...

Yes.

...in my hometown, a wonderful show called "The Artichoke."

And they saw me at that open mic and then invited me to perform, uh, in their professional show.

Very fun-- we know "The Artichoke" around here.

(chuckling) - Great.

What aspects of storytelling do you find most rewarding?

I love it when I make an audience laugh.

I think making an audience laugh is the hardest part of storytelling.

But I also think it's one of those critical parts that, without it, it can sometimes feel, uh, too heavy, too much of a burden, too hard to buy into.

And I think that if we can make an audience laugh, we can cultivate this feeling that we'll all get through this together.

When I was 25, there were two key parts to my identity.

The first was that I was a man.

I know, it didn't sound right to me, either.

(audience chuckles) I had short hair, I did physical labor for a living, and I did not make it a habit of showing up in public wearing a custom-tailored, silk-embroidered, fit-and-flare, three-quarter-sleeve boatneck dress.

(laughter and cheers) (applause) Because I was a man.

That was my story, and I was stickin' to it.

I did have a plan for how I would tell my friends and family.

They would be gathered in my home.

I would provide a beautifully composed, handwritten letter they would each take turns reading, while I lay comfortably in my grave, having died of natural causes at an old age.

(audience chuckling) I firmly believed that if anyone ever saw me, they would not want me in their life.

Second key part of my identity was that I was a pretentious theater artist.

Redundant, I know, but I was the snobbiest of the snobby.

I told a theater producer once I wouldn't work on his Rodgers and Hammerstein musical because it was "too commercial" and "too conventional."

I said that out loud to a person.

So, I'm living in San Francisco at the time, and one day, I'm walking down Market Street, and I see about 50 yards down the sidewalk, two young people.

And I see them seeing me.

They're looking at me.

And they're saying something to each other.

And they're coming right towards me.

And I don't know what's going on-- they run right up to me, and they say, "Excuse me, are you Brendan Fraser?"

(laughter) Now, before anyone thinks I'm humble-bragging about being mistaken for Brendan Fraser, bear in mind he was not yet the whale of an actor he is today.

At the time, he was famous for things like Encino Man and George of the Jungle.

"Too commercial," too conventional.

I had nothing in common with Brendan Fraser.

As far as I was concerned, he was an inauthentic cipher who simply played the parts he was told to play.

I guess I did have something in common with Brendan Fraser.

I didn't like Brendan Fraser, and I didn't like myself, either.

I told the kids, "No, sorry," and I walked away thinking, "I don't want to be mistaken for Brendan Fraser.

"I don't want to be a Hollywood leading man.

I don't even want to be a man."

That's when I decided I'm gonna need a new plan that involves me being seen before I die.

But how?

My first idea was that I would invite friends out for lunch.

And when I told them about this gender confusion I was experiencing, they would have to accept me because I had just bought them lunch.

(laughter) I couldn't get the words out of my mouth.

Throughout these years, I was dating some wonderful women who told me they loved me, but I felt like I was lying to them, and it was easier to end those relationships than to tell them the truth.

The irony, of course, is that I'm living this struggle in San Francisco.

(laughter) Have you been to San Francisco?

(exhales) Finally, before my 30th birthday, I'm fed up.

And I say, "The next woman who is willing to "spend any time with me at all, I'm telling her right away.

It's better to be rejected sooner rather than later."

Sure enough, I meet a wonderful woman.

She's smart and talented and delightfully goofy.

So I tell her on our second date.

I didn't tell her on our first date-- I'm not a monster.

(laughter) What I told her was a mess of feelings about sex and clothing, and it was all over the place.

But she saw me, and she still wanted me in her life.

So I married her.

That was just the start.

I got myself into therapy, and it would be eight years before I wore what I wanted to wear in the light of day.

I try not to think about all the dresses I could have bought with eight years of therapy money.

(laughter) There were a lot of people to tell, but life got messy.

We moved countries twice, and we had kids.

I worried for years about telling the boys.

Finally, when they were nine and 12, I sat them down and I said, "I think it's amazing that you're growing up "in this world where you can be what you want to be "and not feel ashamed.

"'Cause that's not the world I grew up in.

"I felt a lot of shame for who I was, "and I don't want you boys to ever feel shame.

"And so I want to tell you now that I identify as gender-fluid and nonbinary."

And then I talked a little bit about what that would mean for us going forward as a family.

And when I got to the end, they looked at me like I had just told them we were having leftovers for dinner.

(audience chuckling) They said, "Can we eat now?"

And I said, "But wait, don't you have any questions?"

And they said, "Dad, is what you just told us special?"

I said, "Yes, I think it is.

And it's important we share these things," and they said, "Okay, but wait-- if it's a special night, do we get soda with dinner?"

(laughter) Which I think is the exact right response.

After that, it was time to tell everybody.

But I wasn't doing 100 coming out conversations.

I had a video online.

I gave people a link, and what came back were almost entirely messages of love and support.

People saw me, and they wanted me in their life.

Where was I?

Oh, right, Brendan Fraser.

So, recently, he made a film called The Whale, I think we can all agree, a step up from Encino Man.

And in it, he plays a morbidly obese man on the verge of death.

He is eating to self-medicate, and he has all but given up on the idea of ever being seen.

At one point, he says to his estranged daughter, "Look at me-- who would want me in their life?"

And I suspect I'm not the only one in this room who knows what that feels like.

But I bet very few of us will ever know what it's like to be paid $12 million to feel that way.

(laughter) I then read some interviews with Brendan Fraser.

He talked about his struggles with mental health, the difficulty of coming out with his own story of being sexually assaulted, and the challenges of fatherhood and celebrity.

So I guess I like Brendan Fraser now.

I know, it doesn't sound right to me, either.

But if I can like Brendan Fraser, I suppose that means I can like myself, too.

Thank you.

(applause and cheers) RAJAMANI: My name is Srilatha Rajamani.

I was born and raised in India.

I work in tech.

I do stand-up comedy and storytelling, mostly in New York City.

OKOKON: When you consider storytelling as a tool for sharing or understanding, how can the tool of storytelling be used in queer communities and immigrant communities?

RAJAMANI: One thing that story creates is a community of people who have lived through some very, maybe good, maybe bad, but definitely remarkable occurrences, and they have emerged from it, and they have insights to offer.

And I think that is important in the queer community, because oftentimes, especially those of us in the immigrant community, we are mostly alone.

So to find that, to find that community from an unexpected source, and to find that, you know, hey, regardless of, like, how different we may look externally or, you know, age or demographic, we have something in common, we can learn from them.

And I think that will give us, maybe, some tools to move forward... - Mm-hmm.

- ...because we all deserve to have some kind of community.

We all deserve to be understood, I think.

And that's why storytelling is important within the queer community.

- Mmm.

What does being onstage mean for you?

It is the one place where I can be my real self.

Everywhere else, I'm always, um, putting on a mask.

Because if you're not your real self on stage, the people are going to know, the audience will know, and you will lose your connection with them.

And that is the one place where I actually make real connections with people, even if it is for those few minutes.

And that is the best feeling in the world, to connect with people.

I'm in the green room of a comedy theater in Boston, but this is quite unlike a lot of the green rooms that I have seen, because here there were performers in Venetian masks, trapeze artists, and even one guy in a bunny suit, which was very different from all the comedy green rooms that I'd been in, which was mostly cis white male stand-up comics, where the jokes were all about their wives, girlfriends, and the occasional Tom Brady.

(chuckling) And here the people were very nice.

They were asking me, "Oh, my God, what is your act?"

And I would say, "I'm a comedian."

And they would be, like, "Wow, that's so cool."

A nice way to make a human connection, right?

Because the closest I had come to a human connection in stand-up comedy was when someone asked me, "Are you related to Mindy Kaling?"

(laughter) But I had fallen into stand-up comedy quite accidentally.

Um, I took a comedy class after I became an empty nester parent.

My daughter started college, and I was suddenly having all of this free time.

What should I do?

Should I think of myself, my hopes, my future?

But that was a scary thing.

Uh, that, my, my own thoughts and my dreams were like a Pandora's box, and I did not want to open that box.

Comedy was an escape.

And also, it was the first time I did something for myself that probably my family wouldn't approve of.

You see, I grew up in India in the 1980s, when it was a time of unequal gender roles.

And I was a good child growing up in India, because all it took for me to be a good child was to do well in school and not show any interest in boys.

(laughter) Easily managed.

(laughter and applause) And then when I finished college, all of a sudden, it was, like, boys, boys, boys.

Because, you know, now is the time for you to get married.

The time, you know, my parents wanted to arrange my marriage.

I did not want to get married, and they said, "No, you have to get married and find your family."

And I was, like, "What are you saying?

You are my family."

I did not want to get married.

I was afraid of what it took to get married, to have a relationship with another person, a man.

It just filled me with, like, fear and revulsion.

And I tried to explain that to my parents.

But they were, like, "No, you know, the family that we are now, we are not.

"For a girl, the family that she marries into "is her only real family.

Your husband and child are your only real source of security."

And I tried to struggle against that as much as I could, but I didn't know what was wrong with me, why I was feeling so scared, and why I was not able to do the thing that all the girls around me were doing.

I got married, and then I got a child.

And after that, I felt like the checklist of tasks my family had given me was now complete.

Marriage, child, I am done.

And now I could, I could just do my thing, which was, like, separate from that marriage, that situation that made me so uncomfortable.

I separated, and I moved across the country to raise my daughter as a single parent.

And I spent the next ten years being a good parent.

And then she went off to college.

And this empty space, the thoughts, the fears, all of that is just crowding through me again, and I don't know what to do, which is when stand-up comedy happened.

And it rescued me from there, because here's the thing with comedy: You don't have any standards to live up to.

(laughter) You can be yourself.

You can be what you want to be-- you choose your own path.

And that had never been something that had happened for me in my life, which is why, that day, in that green room, everything was so amazing to me, because here was a space where all these people of different genders and sexuality were being themselves, but they were also sharing love, exchanging hugs and positivity and so much affection, that I felt this was amazing.

This place was beautiful.

And I wanted to be there again and again.

So I then started seeing a lot of their other shows.

And that's when I got introduced to this community known as LGBTQIA-plus.

Because until then, I knew LGBT, but I did not know all of the other letters, and suddenly all of these new letters.

And I was just, like, "What is this about QIA-plus?"

And of course, I was interested in the A-plus.

As an Indian, I was interested in the A-plus.

(laughter) And as I read about asexuality, I felt, like, my core shake.

Because, you see, in India of my youth, it wasn't just attitudes towards gender that was unequal.

It was also attitudes towards sexuality.

My birds and speech, speech that I got from my, my family was basically, "Don't wear attractive clothes and don't let men touch you.

Otherwise, you will shame your family."

Good girls were not allowed, supposed to have sex until they got married.

And I had always thought I was a good girl because I was conforming to that.

But then I realized I conformed not because I was a good girl, but because I was not interested in sex.

And that is why, for the longest time, I thought, "Oh, I am not attracted to men or women.

"I don't know what is wrong with me.

"Maybe I'm incapable of love.

Maybe I am broken inside."

So I shut myself off from the world.

But here was this letter A, telling me that I am not incapable of love.

I am just not okay with sex.

And that's okay, right?

It's okay.

(applause) I just don't like sex.

I don't like sex like I don't like those coconut doughnuts at Dunkin' Donuts.

(laughter) Simple.

Because of that community and that show, my mind that had just been limited, and previously also just limited to LGBT, now discovered LGBTQIA+ is not just seven colors, but a spectrum of infinite colors.

I am accepting myself as an asexual.

But sometimes the world takes a little bit more time to catch up.

Like the doctor that I went to once.

You know, I told him I'm asexual, celibate.

And he's, like, "Well, if you are not having sex, why bother keeping your uterus?"

Why, indeed?

Because I'm a hoarder?

(laughter) But, you know, after coming out, my first task was to come out to my daughter.

And I had to plan that well.

I was very nervous about it.

I came out to her.

And then she was very calmly, you know, composedly saying, "Oh, I thought all parents were."

(laughter) I would love to find a non, non-sexual partner of any gender, but if it's, if I don't, it's okay.

I'm happy with myself, my community, my friends, who are my chosen family.

And when I go up on stage now, I tell my audience, "I am Srilatha.

"I am asexual, celibate, "sex-repulsed, pan-romantic, "loving, friendly, golden retriever... (laughter) "...and also a very funny and cool mom, according to my daughter."

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) NEWBURY: My name is Kevin Newbury, and I am a theater, opera, and film director and producer.

I live in New York City, and I am from Maine, originally.

To go from being a director to now being the person who is on stage, what has this transition been like for you?

It's so much fun to be on stage, and I, I love speaking in front of people.

I think one of the funny things is that I've had to be vulnerable, practicing the story in front of my partner and some of my colleagues.

And I'm used to being the one that gives the direction.

And so it's been an exciting and vulnerable thing for me to be taking direction from my friends, saying, like, "Kevin, you need to talk a little slower.

You should use your hands more thoughtfully."

That sort of thing.

So, it's been a nice role reversal to be on the other side of the footlights.

What's the most exciting part about your work as a director?

My favorite thing about directing is collaboration.

I like to say that my favorite opening night or my favorite film screening is when I forget what idea came from where, because everybody involved in the project feels a sense of ownership and connection and a true shared vision.

When my partner, Brandon, and I moved into our new apartment in New York City last fall, my parents took the bus down from New Hampshire to visit us and see our new place.

As they walked in, they hugged us both tightly, beaming as they took in our new home.

And they handed us some housewarming gifts, some new kitchen towels, a cheese board plate, because we love to entertain, just like they do, and a small plastic case, like something you would store paper clips in, plastic clear on the top, solid blue on the underside.

As my mom handed it to me, she said casually, "Kennett High School just celebrated "its 100th anniversary.

"And at the big ceremony, they dug up a time capsule, and Grandpa wanted you to have this."

Uh, my grandfather died in the year 2000, so, needless to say, I wasn't expecting him to send a housewarming gift.

(audience chuckles) As I opened the case, I was struck by the smell of earth and rust.

And inside was a typewritten note dated July 10, 1974.

It read, "This identification tag "was worn by the Reverend George T. Davidson, Jr., during World War II, 1942 to 1946."

The note goes on to detail my grandfather's decades-long relationship with Kennett High School.

He then goes on to list some of his other accomplishments.

Distinguished Educator Award from his alma mater, Bowdoin College.

I also went to Bowdoin.

Ordained lay minister serving several local area churches.

"Conductor" of a summer camp for boys in New Hampshire.

I idolized my grandfather as a kid.

He was a true community leader, and he always tried to get the best out of everyone.

His arms were always open for a hug, and his ears were always open for counsel.

As far as I could tell, my grandfather accepted everyone.

And even though he was so supportive all the time, I was his only grandson, and part of me knew deep down that I might not have been the grandson he most would have hoped for.

You see, Grandpa loved sports, especially baseball.

And I did make my best effort at sports.

In elementary school, I even attended baseball camp at the same summer camp that my grandfather had built from scratch in the 1950s.

But let's just say that I wasn't a natural.

(audience chuckling) But, uh, Grandpa was always there to cheer me on nonetheless.

Even in Little League, as I stood in left field praying to Judy Garland that the ball would not come to me... (laughing) ...Grandpa was still in the bleachers, encouraging me.

"Keep your eye on the ball, Kev."

I came out to my parents and my sister in college, and they took the news well, all things considered, although they were a little surprised since I had been in a loving relationship with my girlfriend all through high school.

But Mom and I decided together not to tell Grandpa, because, well, he'd been having some serious heart issues at the time.

And, you know, he was from a different generation.

And we didn't want to cause any undue stress for him in his twilight years.

This was 1998, and so all we knew from growing up in Maine was what we saw on the news.

If you were gay, you were going to get AIDS, and you were going to die.

So we didn't tell him.

Grandpa died less than a year and a half after I came out to everyone else.

Although I'm not a minister or a baseball coach, I do direct opera, theater, and film for a living, which is kind of the same thing.

(laughter) And I have returned to that camp that my grandfather built every summer, often directing super-queer indie films... ...starring my friends, in the woods, in their spangly feathered headdresses, Mom and Dad trying in earnest to get everyone's pronouns right.

In World War II, my grandfather served in the Pacific, on Tinian Island.

As a kid, my grandfather told me that when he was leaving the island after the war, he looked back and saw rows and rows of white crosses on the green hillside.

He told me that he had promised himself in that moment that if any of those men could come back and ask him what he had done with his life, that he would be able to say that he made the world a little bit better because of the sacrifice they made.

So here I am with my grandfather's dog tag, a gift he gave me three years before I was conceived, now arriving in my hands 24 years after he left us.

And for me, the sign could not have been clearer.

I felt like Grandpa was still cheering me on, still encouraging me, still reminding me to keep trying to make the world a little bit better.

And for me, that means telling stories about our shared queer history, about the queer community that I cherish, and about the many queer ancestors that we have lost-- our own crosses on our own hillside.

Even if Grandpa could not have completely understood me then, I feel like he understands me now.

With this precious time capsule gift, I can still hear my grandfather's voice in my ear.

"I am proud of you, Kev.

Keep your eye on the ball."

Thank you so much.

(applause and cheers)