CHERYL GRAU: Middle school.

(laughter) It's a once-in-a-lifetime spectacular journey full of adventure.

SUSAN KURALT: I decided to go to Tokyo, Japan, a place about as far away and different from my rural American hometown as possible.

SONYA VAI: So when my best friend asked me to be his plus one at a lavish wedding in India, I jumped at the opportunity.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "On a Journey."

♪ ♪ There are roads that we walk to leave, and others that we walk to return.

Stories shaped by both memories and miles.

Tonight we invite you in to a collection of stories that traverse everything from recollections to the vast interior space of new belonging.

♪ ♪ GRAU: My name is Cheryl Grau, and I live in Brooklyn, New York.

Originally from Michigan.

I am a teacher, and I'm a storyteller, and I'm a singer-songwriter.

Do you feel there's any relation between those two practices?

You know, do you-- do you bring anything from your other artistic practice into what you're doing tonight?

I'm just so curious about that.

When I write music, I'm writing a story, for sure.

I'm-- I've always been attracted to lyrics.

When I listen to music, and I'm, and I'm looking for the story, it's trying to connect to these moments in life and make meaning out of the moments that might otherwise be... forgotten, or just fall to the side, you know, like I, I'm always looking for that kernel of... of, of meaning.

When our audience hears your story tonight, what would you hope stays with them?

A lot goes into the life of a middle school student and a middle school teacher that is not measurable.

And it's 99% of the journey.

Middle school.

(laughter) It's a once-in-a-lifetime spectacular journey full of adventure.

Students come in as children, and if all goes well, they leave with their own identity.

A lot goes into that task of forming an identity.

And how do you even measure that with learning targets?

Clear statements about what students should be able to do through our time together.

So, it's September.

I'm back in my classroom after a long Covid shutdown, wishing I was still at home, teaching on Zoom in my PJ bottoms with my presentable top.

(laughter) I put the chairs in a circle for a warm-up activity.

The learning target: students will be able to categorize facts into meaningful subgroups.

We're just getting to know each other.

I notice one kid comes in, he goes to the back of the room and starts playing games on a computer.

So I walk over, welcome him, I ask his name.

His face is barely visible under the hood of his big puffy coat.

"My name's Kenneth," he says.

"Hey, Kenneth, we're gonna have a pretty chill day today.

"Just get to know each other.

Can you join us in the circle?"

"I don't want to know my classmates."

I say, "You know, "I'd rather be on the beach.

Where would you rather be?"

"It's hard to come back to school.

Would you like me to leave this classroom right now?"

There's a target.

Students will be able to construct questions to facilitate the decision-making process.

(laughter) You know, Zoom has some features that are like teacher superpowers.

Disable the chat.

Mute all participants.

Return participant to the waiting room.

(laughter) But I'm here now, face-to-face.

So I sit down next to Kenneth, I say, "You know, a lot of kids feel like you do today."

Kenneth slams that computer closed.

He grabs his little space-themed lunchbox and starts slamming it into the table.

(sighs) Return participant to the waiting room.

(laughter) You see, this is post Covid.

This kid has been on a computer unsupervised for more than a year.

A year!

And everyone-- teachers, students, custodial staff, lunch staff-- we are all anxious and irritable.

We all have special needs.

We're all in the throes of digital detox.

So a few months go by, and one day, I gingerly say to Kenneth, "Hey, we're going on an off-site trip today.

Can you put that computer away and get ready to go?"

These days, Kenneth's wearing his jacket open with his hood down.

Kenneth slams that computer closed, he grabs his little space-themed lunchbox, and he comes right up to me.

And I'm thinking, "Where is that mute button?"

In a private growl, he says, "I'd really like to hit you with my lunchbox, but I know I'd get in trouble."

There's a target.

Students will be able to use rules to predict an outcome.

(laughter) I wonder if he learned that I'm the wrestling coach here at school and that's why he changed his mind.

Who knows?

So several more months go by, and, one day, I'm sitting in my classroom eating lunch, grading papers, whatever.

Kenneth comes in from the hallway.

The first thing I notice, he's not wearing his jacket.

He's carrying it nearby.

He's also replaced his little space-themed lunchbox with this sophisticated stainless steel bento box.

As he gets a little closer, I notice some peach fuzz over his lip.

He says, "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

In his most earnest voice... "Are you... male-to-female or female-to-male?"

(audience reacts) "What?!"

I say.

(laughter) "Well, you are trans, right?"

"No, Kenneth, actually, I am not trans."

"What?

So what are you?"

(laughter) Students will be able to construct questions to discern the sex assignment of a teacher.

(laughter) Okay, I made that one up.

(laughter) Ugh.

This is a familiar gut punch.

I'm over 60 years old; I must have been called "sir" hundreds of times, and I find it so aggravating!

So I say, "Well, Kenneth, "I was born a female.

"I lived my whole life a female, and I'm still a female."

"What?"

he says.

"So, you're a large person, "and you have a very low voice, "and your hair!

"And your clothes.

And what about those shoes?"

(laughter) Students will be able to present an argument either for or against an emotionally charged topic.

(laughter) It's true, I have never won a fashion award in my entire life.

It's also true that I love everything that is woman about me.

I love my big, strong body.

I love my rich alto voice, and I love the freedom to express myself on my own terms in this world.

"Well, Kenneth, this is the way I do female."

He pauses for a minute to take it in.

"Hm.

"So, you're female.

That's cool."

(laughter) Kenneth turns to leave.

He seems happy with his new information.

"Bye," he says.

"Wait, Kenneth, one more thing.

Come back here."

"If you're going to ask that question to anyone else, "promise me it's going to be "someone you really know you're safe with, someone you really trust."

He looks me right in the eye, big smile.

"Oh, I know that."

(audience says "aw") Kenneth, he's exactly where he's supposed to be.

And so am I.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ ♪ KURALT: My name is Susan Kuralt.

I'm from Brooklyn, New York.

I work as a paralegal for an employment discrimination firm by day, and I'm also an actress and a playwright, and I've just recently started exploring storytelling in the New York City storytelling circuit.

Wonderful.

And I, I believe you described your situation as sort of living a double life.

Paralegal by day, artist by night.

- Mm.

What is it like to make that transition back and forth and to come back to the arts after maybe being away from them for a little while?

It's a joy, actually, to come back to it with a little perspective, a little life perspective.

And I have a daughter who's now grown, 21 years old.

So, I have, you know, the empty nest and the freedom to spend evenings where I want to.

So, I'm curious: what kind of stories do you usually like to share?

I like to share stories that contain... irreconcilable points of view.

Because I feel like... we're always trying to... make things all-or-nothing, one thing or another.

And so many times we're looking living in the gray, and how do we be accountable for things that we can't fix?

I like talking about those things, because I think they're hard to talk about, and they're complicated, and it's a piece of truth that I feel like people avoid.

Growing up, my family had its problems, like many families, but we always kept up appearances.

My grandfather appeared in my bedroom night after night, and the rest of the family appeared not to notice.

So, I grew up trying to look good on the outside, but carrying around a lot of secret shame on the inside.

I wanted to disappear and become someone else.

Well, when I was 20 years old, I had an opportunity to study abroad for a year through a college program.

I decided to go to Tokyo, Japan, a place about as far away and different from my rural American hometown as possible.

I always thought of Japan as a place that had a deep understanding of shame.

So I thought maybe somehow I'm going to fit in there.

Well, I arrive at Narita Airport, and I'm looking out over a sea of black hair.

I'm 5'9", and this is a country where the average height is 5'7" for a man.

Navigating in the narrow, crowded streets of Tokyo, I feel like a mattress tiptoeing around trying to go unnoticed.

I learned just how subjective the notion of personal space could be.

As part of my mission to assimilate, I moved in with a Japanese family that spoke very little English.

I had studied the language before coming, but I was a long way from fluent, and it's not an easy language to get right.

There are all these levels of politeness, and different modes of speaking, depending if you're a man or a woman.

For example, if you want to say something's amazing in Japanese, the word is sugoi.

Well, if you're a man, you can say "Suge na."

But if you're a woman, you have to say it more like (high-pitched): "Sugoi wa, ne?"

Well, I didn't feel all that comfortable talking to my hand that way, but I wanted to be as Japanese as possible, so, (high-pitched): I tried.

(laughter) I also studied the Japanese tea ceremony, a slow, precise ritual for making a cup of green tea.

I learned that if you perform it just right, you disappear and only the form remains-- this being exactly what I was after.

I earnestly applied myself to the lessons.

By the end of the course, the instructor commented that I seemed more Japanese than her own daughter.

(chuckles) What do you know?

Origami Barbie.

(laughter) But despite my efforts to fit in, I was mostly seen as an outsider there.

The word for "outsider" in Japanese is gaijin, and that's a word that was used interchangeably with my name, Susan.

Some things felt familiar, though.

I still got a lot of unwanted attention from men.

I remember once the father of a friend asked me, "So, do you have to wear a fur-lined bra to keep those big American breasts warm?"

Or there was the man who approached me and asked me if he could have a single strand of my blonde hair.

Really?

No.

Or the time I went back to the laundromat to get my clothes out of the dryer, and discovered that every single pair of my underwear was missing.

Or the men with the blank faces standing next to me on the packed subway train who would sometimes sneak a finger into the crotch of my pants, front or back.

And to think I went halfway across the world to get away from all this.

But as time went on, and as I became more fluent in the language and culture, I happened to meet and fall in love with a Japanese man.

He was several years older than I was.

He was reserved and elegant.

He had traveled internationally.

So, to him, I was a person, not gaijin.

I felt seen for the first time.

We spent the next few months swept up in our love affair, walking through exquisite gardens, holding hands in secret in the shadowy backseat of a cab, I once literally bowed at his feet in my devotion to him.

And speaking of mattresses, we found our own little corner of heaven on his.

I felt totally in his debt for loving me, and I wanted to be perfect for him.

I remember once confessing to him about another mistake I'd made in navigating in his world, And he said to me, "Susan, kesshite kawaranai de."

"Never change."

(audience reacts) But everything came to a sudden stop when I got pregnant.

I didn't realize it at first, but reality had just dropped into my body like a stone.

The relentless unbelonging wore on me day after day.

And our relationship was all on his terms.

His language, his culture.

He proposed marriage, and for a little while we moved forward with a plan to spend our lives together.

But after all that time I had spent trying to erase myself and become someone else, something in me had suddenly woken up.

And this little spark of life inside of me brought me home to myself so unexpectedly, almost against my own will.

I guess you could say there already was a little girl inside of me that needed my care.

So after the most agonizing deliberation of my life...

I decided to have an abortion.

I remember the exact moment of my decision.

It was like walking through an invisible doorway.

And on the other side, the decision was made by a part of me I didn't even know existed.

I was 20 years old.

What did I know about regret?

So, he signed the permission slip.

I underwent a very lonely procedure, and then I came home to the U.S., to start the slow and real and necessary journey of finding out who I really was.

I looked up the word "mattress" in the dictionary.

Mattress.

"A large, thick pad "filled with resilient material, often incorporating coiled springs."

"Large, thick."

(chuckles) Okay.

"Resilient?"

Yeah.

"Coiled to spring?"

Definitely.

I was one pissed-off survivor.

Mm, that's as good a place to start as any.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ ♪ VAI: I'm Sonya Vai, and I'm from New York City, and I'm a comedian.

For you, I'm wondering, how does storytelling differ from stand-up, and do you find your practice of each influencing the other?

So this is actually my first time doing a storytelling event, and I'm so happy to do this.

Thank you so much for having me.

I, I do think they're different for me, because I think in comedy, the goal is to make people laugh.

And what I love about storytelling is it kind of gives me a much larger area to explore, and I can take...

I can take the audience on a journey.

Great.

And, you know, you've talked about growing up as, you know, an Indian American in a relatively conservative household.

I'm wondering, has that influenced your performing practice, and if so, how?

Not at all.

No, I'm kidding.

(both laugh) (laughing): Absolutely.

I mean, I talk in my comedy, I talk about my parents, I talk about my upbringing.

I talk about all the wild expectations they have.

And in storytelling, I'm hoping to talk more about some of the serious parts of that.

This summer, I got a chance to go to India after 20 years.

I would have gone sooner, but I'm an artist, and I live in a rented room with the bathtub in the kitchen.

(laughter) Now, to many people, a bathtub in the kitchen is crazy.

In New York City, trust me, it's a good deal.

(laughter) So when my best friend asked me to be his plus-one at a lavish wedding in India, I jumped at the opportunity.

Truth is, I've been to India many times, but it was always with my parents.

And going to India with my parents is like... going to the dentist.

Or worse, a New York Jets game.

(laughter) I was so excited.

I was finally going to be an independent woman, in my motherland, without my mother.

The wedding was in the city of Jaipur, and Jaipur is nicknamed the Paris of India.

So, just imagine: Emily in Paris without the hot sex or the white people.

(laughter) We arrive, and Jaipur is nothing like Paris.

Nobody speaks French, and the people here are friendly.

(laughter) Sometimes a little bit too friendly.

A man ran up to me, in my face.

I got scared.

I clutched onto my friend's arm.

He goes, "Where are you from?"

I think that's so ironic, because I get asked that same question in this country.

And in America, I'm told I'm Indian, but in India, he said, "Nope, you're American.

And rich."

Which is fascinating, because 24 hours before, I was washing my underwear in my bathtub/kitchen sink.

(laughter) But I go with it.

Hey, in India, people do things for me, even without me asking.

Doors are open, bags are carried.

Someone else is washing my underwear.

It felt like I had my own butler.

I was like, "Is this what it's like to be Oprah?"

Because if it is, I'm going to move here.

I mean, with this exchange rate, I could live like a queen.

The next morning, my friend is feeling ill, so I decide to go for a hike.

I ask the concierge for some recommendations, and he suggests that I go with a guide.

And I was like, "Oh, I can't go by myself?"

"I would not advise that."

Okay.

so I'm with the guide.

The second I leave the hotel, the smells of India punch me in the face.

It's kind of like New York in the summer, but it's smog and gasoline instead of sweat and garbage.

But I forget about that pretty soon.

As I see the sun rise over the Aravalli Mountains, and I see the sheer beauty and vastness that is India, I want more.

The next day, we decide to venture into the city.

I thought, "Hey, let's rent a car.

I'll drive."

Again, the concierge said, "I would not advise that."

(laughter) We get in the car, though, and there are no seat belts.

And I'm just like, I guess they don't use those in India?

Maybe they don't need them?

As the driver guns out of the hotel like he's Vin Diesel in The Fast and Furious 72.

And I'm holding onto the headrest for dear life.

And then he merges onto the highway with 85,000 people.

I mean, I see everything: cars, trucks, entire families on bicycles.

Elephants!

Elephants on bicycles.

(laughter) It was wild.

And then, for some reason, he's possessed to cross the highway divide.

And now we're going 50 miles an hour into oncoming traffic.

And as the truck zooms right to me, I'm like, "I guess I didn't need those six vaccinations from Costco."

(laughter) I'm not going to die of tuberculosis.

I just close my eyes, and... for the first time, I want my mother.

(audience chuckling) But we get home and everything's fine.

And then a few days later, we decide to go to the Taj Mahal.

Now, I don't know if you've been to the Taj Mahal, but it is spectacular.

It's like a life-changing experience.

You know, kind of like a Taylor Swift concert to a 14-year-old.

(laughter) It was built by this king in loving memory of his beloved queen.

And she actually asked for it on her deathbed.

And I think that's why it's one of the Seven Wonders of the World, because it's one of the few times a husband actually listened to his wife.

(laughter) But inside the rotunda, there are these two ornate caskets, and they're replicas of their actual caskets.

And on the king's casket, there's a pen box, and on the queen's, there's a slate.

I'm confused.

Why?

And the guide says, "It's a symbol.

It's because the man writes the destiny of the woman."

Here we are, hundreds of years later, not much has changed.

And a few days later, we're at a bazaar.

And I'm looking at this really pretty jewelry.

And then I turn around, and my friend's gone.

And I'm alone.

And I'm surrounded by these strange men, hollering, "Madam!

Madam!

Madam!"

And I freeze.

I can't even call out for help.

I'm just thinking, where's my friend?

Why would he leave me?

And why are they calling me madam?

Do I look old?

(laughter) Luckily, he comes back after a few minutes, and everything's fine, but I'm pissed.

I can't go anywhere by myself.

And my friend says, "You know what?

"I never even thought about it, "but this is just probably how it is for most women in the world."

Back in New York City, first thing I do, I go for a walk, all by myself, to the Hudson River.

I watch the sunset over the Freedom Tower and the Statue of Liberty.

Now I'm back in my apartment, in my bathtub, making eggs.

(laughter) And I'm grateful.

Because I may not be Oprah-- yet-- but as an artist, I'm putting my own pen on my own slate because I deserve to write my own destiny.

And so does every woman.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ ♪