Stories from the Stage

JACQUELINE BAILEY: We had 310 classmates in my class.

Seven of them were women.

Five of us graduated.

AMY TOENSING: And we're holding on for dear life as we try to make it across a treacherous bay at the very top of Australia.

VANNA HOWARD: I was always very comfortable being behind the scenes.

But then I started to get calls from people urging me to run for office.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "What Matters Most."

We all know that what matters most is often not a matter of material possessions or accolades.

It's about connection.

It's about compassion.

It's about the strength of our convictions.

It is the love that persists long after the lights have gone dim.

It is the kindness that lingers long after a moment has passed.

Tonight, storytellers are sharing their stories of those moments that showed them what matters most.

TOENSING: My name's Amy Toensing.

I live in Syracuse, New York, but I grew up in New Hampshire.

And I'm a photographer.

And you've been working for two decades now as a contributor to National Geographic.

And so I'm wondering, with all the different places that you travel for your photography, how do you prepare yourself for the work that you're going to encounter there?

I start with pretty just basic research.

And I come to it as a journalist, so I'm doing research, I'm trying to find out who's involved in the story.

And then why is that story important now?

And then when I get in the field, I try to kind of forget about all of it and trust that I know the story.

And then it needs to come completely from my heart.

So when you think about the story that you're going to be telling us tonight, what was the creative process like for you to craft this story?

So when I was asked to do this and I sat down to try to come up with a story, I thought I didn't have any stories.

'Cause I always have my photographs behind me.

And my husband was like, "But you don't have to show it, you can just talk about the story leading into it."

My husband and I are being tossed and thrown around in a tiny little boat.

There's waves of saltwater coming in from all sides, crashing on us.

Our eyes are stinging, and we are drenched.

And we're holding on for dear life as we try to make it across a treacherous bay at the very top of Australia.

It isn't until we're in the middle of this bay that we realize this tiny little boat doesn't even have any life jackets.

(audience laughter) But then we realize it doesn't even matter.

Because if we go overboard, we're going to get eaten by saltwater crocodiles or bull sharks.

I'm a photographer, and I'm on assignment for National Geographic magazine.

I'm working on a story about a group of marsupial animals that went extinct about 50,000 years ago, all at the same time.

And my husband is with me because he's also a photographer.

In fact, we met in the halls of National Geographic, and we realized right away when we started dating that we would never see each other unless we assisted the other one on assignment.

So I asked him if he would come on this one, and he agreed.

But it was right about now that he was wondering why.

(laughter) So when people ask us what we do and we tell them that we're National Geographic photographers, they usually assume that we photograph lions and tigers and bears.

And usually, we photograph people.

But right now we're not doing either.

We're just holding on for dear life, trying to get across this bay to photograph some rock art that might help explain some of the mystery around these lost animals.

Our dinghy captain is a cross between Crocodile Dundee and Dumbledore.

(audience laughter) His pants are full of holes, and they're being held up by a makeshift rope belt with a giant filet knife wedged in.

And his accent is so thick that we're only understanding every other word, to the point of when he starts pointing out at the horizon and he's yelling really loud, we're not sure if he's pointing out the sights or if something's terribly wrong with our little boat.

But eventually, miraculously, we make it to the other side, to our camp that's right near the rock art.

And this rock art is a simple line drawing.

There's a human with an arched back and a giant spear thrusting towards what some think is one of these animals, one of these lost animals.

And if it was, then it might help explain some of the mystery around why they disappeared, because it would put humans and these animals on the planet at the same time.

And so when I'm finally in front of this rock art and I'm trying to figure out how to frame this part of my story with my camera, I'm suddenly overcome with this deep sense of connection, this kinship with this other storyteller from tens of thousands of years ago, who also decided to take a moment and document something important.

A couple weeks later, at the end of our trip, my husband and I end up on a beach in an Aboriginal community.

The sun is setting and the sky is purple and orange and red, and the tide is going out, and there's beautiful brain coral being revealed, and there's kids running everywhere.

And I was photographing them, but I started to photograph this one little boy.

He and I, we made this special connection.

And at some point, I knelt down and I showed him the back of my camera to offer for him to see more pictures.

And so he came over, and he immediately accepted by sitting on my lap.

And he was covered with sand.

And so now I was covered with sand, and we were looking at pictures, and we were laughing and having a great time.

And usually this would be just another moment on assignment stored in my head.

But my husband was there, and he decided to take the time to document it.

And it's not any picture that would land on the photos that you would see in National Geographic magazine.

It's just a simple snapshot, but it sings with joy.

You know, a few months before this trip, my husband and I got married.

And we were not classic newlyweds at all.

We already owned a house.

We had bought several cars.

We'd formed an LLC.

(audience laughter) And we were still getting married.

But it was right around this time that we started to dream about becoming parents and wish for a child.

And so years went by, and we continued to dream and wish, and we tried.

And then we decided to grow our family through adoption.

And like most people in the United States, we chose an open adoption, which means that the birth mom or the birth family gets to choose where the child goes.

And there's an opportunity for a continued relationship and communication.

So in order to start this process, we had to build a website, and we had to collect photographs and writing and put it up on this website to show people who we were-- our backyard, our pets.

It's basically match.com for adoption.

(laughter) And then you make it go live.

And you wait for somebody to pick you.

So I was sound asleep on assignment in Uganda in my hotel room when I was woken up by a call from my husband.

And he was breathless and excited.

There was a 15-year-old young woman who was pregnant with a little girl, and she had chosen us.

And we had a few hours to decide.

So a few weeks later, in a doctor's office in New York, we met our daughter's birth grandparents, birth mom, and birth auntie for the first time.

And on a black and white sonogram screen, we saw our daughter for the first time in a black and white image, and her little feet kicking.

And we heard her heart beat for the first time.

(breathes deeply) And our hearts skipped a beat.

And when we asked, "Why?

Why us?

Why did you choose us?"

Our daughter's birth mother described a photograph of me on a beach covered in sand, laughing with a little boy with so much joy.

The same joy that we've felt with our daughter for seven years, our beautiful daughter who has built our family.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) HOWARD: My name is Vanna Howard.

I live in the city of Lowell, Massachusetts, with my husband and two children and two dogs.

I'm currently a state representative representing the 17th Middlesex district.

And I understand that you're originally from Cambodia, but you've lived most of your life here in the States, so I'm interested in how your cultural background has kind of influenced your personal and professional life.

Yes, so I resettled to the United States when I was eleven years old.

I arrived here in the United States as a refugee, and I didn't speak a word of English, and so I had to learn to speak the English language at the age of eleven.

OKOKON: Wow.

And so it took years for me to, you know, get a full grasp of the English language, but also learning the culture.

I mean, you've spent so much of your life kind of being forced to be silent about your own story.

So I'm wondering about what it feels like for you to move from being silent to speaking up.

Shortly after I was elected, I knew that representation matters, but also speaking up is very important.

And my job, now that I am a public official, a public servant, speaking up and speaking out is very important on important issues.

In 2012, I'm in downtown Lowell, Massachusetts, campaigning for the re-election of Congresswoman Niki Tsongas and for Elizabeth Warren for the U.S. Senate.

Suddenly, this former intern, a young man from Lowell, casually suggests I should run for state representative.

I immediately say no.

I said to him, "Public speaking scares me."

(laughter) And my English is not perfect.

I don't tell him the whole truth, though.

I was worried people will learn about my past.

I am a Cambodian refugee.

From 1975 to 1979, Cambodia was under the Khmer Rouge regime.

I lost nearly all of my family members during that war, including my father, three youngest of my siblings and both of my maternal grandparents.

At one point, my mother even disappeared.

And I... find myself at eight years old, all alone.

I remember I was crawling under barbed wire, searching for any food to keep me alive.

I was so relieved after months later, my mom returned from being forced to work in a camp so far away.

My refugee background was not why I was worried about running for office.

My bigger fear was that people would find out about my experience with domestic violence.

Before we fled Cambodia to the refugee camp in Thailand, my mom remarried.

And after we resettled to the U.S., my new father was very abusive to me and my mom.

I watched him beat her often.

And later, when I grew older, the whole entire four years in high school, it was a daily interrogation, a daily inspection.

He would check my backpack, my notebooks, inspect my clothes.

He would check my closet in my bedroom.

I was not allowed to have friends.

The only time I was allowed to go anywhere was just to go to school and with him.

If he caught any boys talk to me, either on the street or down the street at a laundromat, he would hit me right then and there.

And people just watched.

Nobody did a thing.

And so one night, I left home and moved in with a nice woman I come to know in the neighborhood.

And eventually, I met a man and fell in love.

And I thought he was my escape from the abuse.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

He turned out to be just as horrific.

For years, he abused me.

Even when I managed to escape with our daughter... ...he stalked me, harassed me, threatened me.

He would show up at my work.

And I had to keep switching jobs, many jobs.

And even when I managed to escape the abuse, he followed me for the next 25 years at all my various jobs.

And on the worst day, he broke into my friend's house where my daughter and I were staying and hid in a closet.

And when she left, he burst out from the closet and beat me so hard, I ended up in the emergency room.

Eventually, I met a kind, loving man.

It took me four months to say yes to him on a first date.

My colleagues at work teased me that I brought my daughter on a first date.

(laughter) But he was so kind and loving to her.

Eventually, we married.

Throughout the years, the memories of Cambodia and my childhood and years of abuse haunted me.

I tried to escape the pain by volunteering as many hours a week in the community, serving on nonprofit boards, commissions, to river cleanups, to park and street cleanups to delivering diapers.

I was always very comfortable being behind the scenes and out of the spotlight.

But then the pandemic began, and I started to get calls from people urging me to run for office, just like that intern had.

As I was out and about in the community delivering food and diapers, I witnessed and heard story after story of people struggling with food, with housing, with safety.

I was resistant at first, again, and so I called my advisors.

Ironically, it was a conversation with a man I consider a friend who changed my mind.

He told me I shouldn't run.

He said to me, "Don't waste your time."

I was a woman and Asian.

While people... was talking about wanting change, but they don't really want it.

But I realized I wanted change, and so I ran and eventually won.

(cheers and applause) It's been two years since that night, and quite a journey with many challenges.

But there was one moment that I will never forget.

It was when I was standing inside Lowell City Hall at a white ribbon ceremony to raise awareness about domestic violence, telling my story for the first time to people who had known me for years.

I was scared I would be judged if people knew my past.

But this hasn't been the case.

Instead, I have only expanded my community and now focus mostly on the future and hope that our children today will understand that our pasts don't have to be our future.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) BAILEY: My name is Jacqueline Bailey.

I am from Youngstown, Ohio.

I currently live in Hyde Park, Massachusetts.

And I work with Children's Services of Roxbury, where I provide wraparound services.

And I understand that you're a retired police officer, is that right?

That's right, I retired from law enforcement some years back.

How well are women represented in law enforcement?

In my experience, they weren't represented well.

I was the very first Black female officer and the only female officer in that town.

We had female detectives, too, but I was the only female officer.

So what are you hoping that the audience tonight takes away from your story?

I'm hoping the audience take away that just because you're in law enforcement, male, female, Black, white, doesn't give you power over people.

It gives you that opportunity to be heard.

In my 30s, I worked at the Lawrence County Detention Center in Lawrence, South Carolina.

My role was to make sure the inmates were following protocol and that their needs were met.

Out of the few women, I was the one that would walk down that corridor when they would say to us they had a headache.

I took that time.

I walked down that corridor, and I gave them some Tylenol.

When they said they were cold, I took that time.

I walked down that corridor and I gave them a blanket.

Not only that, on the other side of this cell, because I wasn't allowed to go inside, I was on the other side of that cell.

Every trip I made, I stopped and I talked.

We had chats.

We talked about better decision making.

We talked about different type of jobs, possibilities, opportunities.

At night, other type of officers came in.

These guys, they were called deputy sheriffs.

They had guns.

They had badges, they looked different than mine.

These guys had been to and graduated from the police academy.

And when they would come in at night, they would walk down that same hallway, shoulders high.

They went inside the cell.

See, they were sworn-in officers.

They've been to the police academy-- they graduated.

They would go inside, check for safety, make sure the inmates are all doing okay, and face-to-face, have conversations with these inmates.

And I said, that's what I want to do.

That's my purpose.

I pitched that idea to my sheriff.

He thought that was a great idea.

Off to the police academy I went, that's right.

Hm, that was very overwhelming, (audience laughter) Very challenging.

Look, at any given moment, you could be sent home, never to come back.

If you held a gun wrong, you were sent home.

If you got a low grade on your test, you were sent home.

We had 310 classmates in my class.

Seven of them were women.

Five of us graduated.

I returned to my county as the very first Black female officer in that county, (cheers and applause) And I was the only female officer.

But I got to do what I wanted to do.

I patrolled in my car, I rolled down them streets.

I stopped, I got out.

I went on porches and talked to the residents.

I talked to the store owners.

My favorite was to talk to the children on the corners.

You know, school-- why ain't you in school?

Talk about change-- different opportunities for them, life-changing ideas; you know, this is what we did.

So one day, I'm patrolling the city, and I receive a call from dispatch requesting that I report to the station.

I get there, he's waiting outside.

He says to me, "I have this "eight-year-old boy that I need you to transport to the youth detention center."

He goes on to tell me that this boy is dangerous.

He said, "I recommend that you put him in the back seat and handcuff him-- click, click."

And all of a sudden, this little, tiny, timid-looking little boy comes out, this little Black boy.

He comes out, and I say "Hi."

And he doesn't even say anything, like, he don't know what he's say... he don't know what's going on.

But what I did was, I said, "You know what?"

I said "I took Taekwondo, mm-hm, whoop, whoop, whoop!"

I said, so when I'm in the community, I'm out there, I can defend myself.

So I made a conscious decision while we're walking to that car, I said, you know what?

I'm gonna put him in the front seat.

I'm not gonna handcuff him.

I can handle him.

And what is that gonna do to him?

What if this was my little boy?

In the car we go, we're driving, and I say to him, I say, "Why am I taking you to the detention center?"

He says, "Because I'm bad."

(sighs) That broke my heart-- that broke my heart because I'm looking at this little eight-year-old boy.

He's eight, he's Black, he's scared.

He's not sure what's going on with him.

Is this his end?

Is this what he think his life is?

He has no hope?

There's no chance?

This is it for me?

I said, no, I gotta be a part of this change.

I gotta talk to this kid.

And I said to him, I said, "Listen, you're not bad.

Nah, I said, "You made a bad decision."

And I said, "What you're doing," I said, "that's why I'm taking you to the detention center, but you're not bad."

And I said I wonder if they even thought about feeding him.

So I'm riding down the street.

I say let's go in the store.

And I bought him some food, I bought him a meal deal-- two chili dogs, chips, and a soda.

He looked at me like, "Wow!

This is for me?"

I thought, well, if I am the first to do something like this, I'm grateful to be a part of that.

But because of him, I was inspired to do the work that I do today.

I work with children that struggle with emotional and behavioral needs.

Some of my children lack effective social functioning skills.

We put together treatment plans, we install goals.

We help them reach those goals.

This is what I do.

This is my passion.

It's what I love.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause)