ANNIE TAN: So I knew something was wrong, and he just told us, "I'm about to go to the hospital, and I'm not sure when I'm coming back."

ELENA YURENEVA: And I arrived to U.S., bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with a $500 in my pocket.

MICHELLE LaPOETICA RICHARDSON: I get in my car, and I take a deep breath, (exhales) And my reality hits me like a ton of bricks.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Defining Moments."

♪ ♪ Usually, what we mean by defining moments are times that test our character and show us who we really are or who we can become.

And no matter how brief those moments are, the lessons that we learn are profound and impacting.

Tonight, our extremely talented tellers are going to share their own personal stories of defining moments and how they changed their futures.

♪ ♪ TAN: My name is Annie Tan.

I am from Chinatown, in Manhattan in New York City, and I am an educator, activist, and writer who's working on her first memoir.

Fantastic.

And, you know, obviously, New York City's Chinatown, an iconic place.

What was that like growing up there?

Did that give you a lot of stories?

Chinatown is such a special place because you get to be with all kinds of different Chinese Americans, and Asian Americans.

At the same time, I also got to witness so many different languages being spoken, and not just Chinese.

You know, I grew up kitty-corner from a Chinese Hispanic grocery store, and a synagogue across the street.

And it was just amazing to be able to be ourselves as Chinese Americans, but also be part of a larger whole in the Lower East Side, which has so many different communities.

What led you to begin sharing your own personal stories on stage?

TAN: So when I started teaching, I knew that we needed resources that were first-person narratives.

I didn't see so many of those narratives from Chinatown kids like me.

That's why I'm so excited to tell this story today, because it's a universal experience of needing to feel like you have a place in this world where you're safe.

♪ ♪ The day I turned 18, I walked a helium balloon up my fifth floor apartment in Chinatown, Manhattan, and I walked in to see my dad.

My dad's usually working six days a week as a construction worker, and he shouldn't have been home at that time.

And he saw my balloon and was like, "Oh... (speaking Cantonese) Oh, it is your birthday," and he looks so sad.

And I didn't know why but I also knew he always remembered my birthday, so I knew something was wrong.

And the next day, it was proven when he pulled me and my two brothers into the living room, and he just told us... (speaking Cantonese) "I'm about to go to the hospital, and I'm not sure when I'm coming back."

And it turned out he had throat cancer.

They cut open a hole in his throat, and he could no longer work, and he's disabled.

He's okay now, he's in remission.

But at the time, it was very, very scary.

And I knew at that moment that I was my family's retirement plan.

And I think I had known this all my life because I had worked really, really hard translating.

And, you know, when I went to my high school, Brooklyn Tech, I worked really hard for a 96 average.

I got really great S.A.T.

scores, and I saw all of our financial aid documents, right, that showed us that we could get any kinds of scholarships because we were so low income.

And I got into Columbia, which gave us a full ride.

(applause) And not only was it a full ride, I also got dorming for free.

And so, when it came the day to move out, I got a one-day MetroCard.

and me and my brothers took turns taking all of my stuff in big suitcases and bags up to Colombia and back to Chinatown.

For four years we did that.

When I would work the campus jobs, I found that I was making more money per hour than my mom was in her full-time job.

So I knew even more that we had to really succeed, me and my brothers.

And all I wanted to do since I was six years old was be a teacher.

But I graduated in 2011, right after the 2008 recession, and there was a hiring freeze in New York City.

So I figured maybe there will be a job that's even more stable, that at least I think is stable, that less people want, but will make a bigger impact, which is being a special education teacher.

And that job was in Chicago, so, my older brother couldn't get a job in New York City either, so he was moving to Philadelphia.

And the week before I and my brother were about to move out, we went up to Fordham Road in the Bronx to the Housing Authority, and signed my parents up for the housing lottery, because that was literally the only way, if we didn't succeed, for my parents to be able to have a home in retirement.

And so I moved to Chicago, and I'm really excited, but I have a really hard job.

I'm teaching five grade levels in one classroom.

I have kindergartners first graders, second graders, third graders, and fourth graders all in the same classroom, which I found out was illegal later.

(audience members chuckling) But, first year teacher, I tried my best.

But by the end of the year, my principal pulled me into her office and said, "Annie, you're not cut out for this.

I'm not renewing your contract."

I held my tears in till I got to the train station and I sobbed.

And I knew the next thing I had to do was call my dad.

I knew he was going to be so disappointed.

And so I call and I say, (speaking Cantonese) "They're going to kick me out."

My dad paused and he said, (speaking Cantonese) "Annie, we'll be okay.

"Because you and your brothers "got scholarships for college, "we have some savings.

"If you want to finish off, "get your master's degree in Chicago, you can.

"If you want to move home to New York, you can.

It's going to be okay, okay?"

(inhales) Okay.

And I finished my master's in Chicago.

I found a school that didn't do so many illegal special education things.

And spoiler alert, I just finished my tenth year teaching.

Uh, yeah.

(cheers and applause) But after five years in Chicago, I realized I wanted to help my family and be home in person, and so I moved home to New York.

And it was okay for a little bit.

But then my dad would call me at 8:00 p.m. and be like, "Where are you?"

(laughter) They're like, "You shouldn't be going on dates," even though they were also saying, "You should already be married and have kids."

(laughter) I was just starting to argue with my dad every day.

And I had moved home to help my parents with rent.

But if I stayed home, I would kill my parents.

And so I told my parents I was going to move out, and my mom pulled me aside and said, (speaking Cantonese) "Annie, how are we going to pay rent?"

They had some savings.

My mom was about to retire the next month, and that plus Social Security was going to run out at some point.

And even if my brothers and I could pay for rent for them, it was a fifth floor walk-up, and my dad's knees were already starting to tremble and, when they got older, we couldn't do it anymore.

And I felt so guilty every single day for months for moving out.

I still saw my parents every week, but... you know, I just felt like the bad, bad daughter, and I didn't know what was going to happen.

And then one day, six months later, my mom sent me a text message to translate.

It's a piece of mail, and it's from the Housing Authority.

And I got to translate something I never thought would happen.

It took them 25 years of being in this, like, housing lottery.

And I say... (speaking Cantonese) "You won the housing lottery."

And we spent the next few months, like, packing up, signing the lease, getting the keys.

I have my seven-day MetroCard now as a teacher, and I am helping my parents get all their stuff on the subway.

And my mom pulled me aside, and she said three things to me.

(speaking Cantonese) "Annie, we are going to be okay now.

(speaking Cantonese) "Annie, we can save money for you now."

(crying, speaking Cantonese) "Annie, I can be your mom now."

And that's when I knew I no longer needed to hustle.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ ♪ RICHARDSON: My name is Michelle LaPoetica Richardson.

I am a mother and a grandmother and a poet, and I live in Lynn, Massachusetts.

Can you tell us a little bit about how you came to poetry in the first place?

RICHARDSON: My father, he had this anthology of poetry book.

It was in Spanish, antología poética, he would make me stand in front of him and read out loud.

So I would recite Antonio Machado, Pablo Neruda.

These were my first poets.

Do you consider poetry and performance to be a catalyst for change?

With a poem, you could move somebody without laying a hand on them.

With a poem, you can make somebody feel without tact.

You know, sometimes you could take a room full of people of one race.

If the poet that speaks, speaks about their pain, somebody in that group, not identifying with the race, somebody in that group will feel the feeling.

Because all these feelings-- love, hate, pain, sadness, joy-- it doesn't have color.

Tonight, when our audience hears your story, what would you hope that they most take away?

That the last thing you lose is hope, and you always need to believe in yourself and trust the process.

♪ ♪ I'm a Dominican poet and spoken word artist, writing poetry my whole life in both English and Spanish.

Poetry has always been a way for me to express my innermost feelings in a way that allows others to feel what I'm feeling.

Shortly after I started getting into performances, I realized that there were no platforms that were bilingual.

So in the spirit of Field of Dreams-- "If you build it, they will come"-- I created an open mic, a bilingual one, for artists like me.

The open mic gave me an opportunity to create a space for people to find themselves, to find healing, to find their magic, to transform.

A quiet little wallflower could become an extraordinary poet, or a singer with the voice of an angel.

And I fell in love with that process.

After a while, the open mic gained a little momentum and I built a little reputation for myself, and that resulted in me getting a phone call by... from a woman named Laura Smith.

Laura was teaching a group of artists, young artists, that identified as women.

And these young girls were tasked with finding women in our community that were uplifting and empowering and doing positive things for our community.

I just so happen to make it onto this list, right.

So Laura tells me she wants me to come in to interview with the girls.

And I was like, "Great."

I was honored and I... Day of the interview comes, I roll up into this interview and I meet these babies.

I mean, I call them babies, but they're teenagers, you know.

So, they ask me all sorts of questions.

You know, "How did you get started?

What inspires you?

What keeps you going?"

And after they finish with all of their questions, one of the little girls asked me, "Would it be okay if we took a picture?

"A few pictures of you in different poses for our project?"

I was like, "Sure."

And I get up, and the first one I give them, I put my hand down like this, and I look at them and I say, "My father always taught me "that if you're ever going to look down at somebody, "let it only be to help them up."

And we all took pictures and it was amazing.

I walk out of there on Cloud 19,000, right?

I get in my car and I take a deep breath.

(inhales) (exhales) And my reality hits me like a ton of bricks.

What I didn't tell those girls was that I was about to lose my apartment.

I was about to lose my home because I had to pay money that I didn't have.

I was working with Lyft.

I got Lyft because I needed a car and it was a way to make money, but it was more like a Catch-22.

Whenever I had enough money for gas, I didn't have enough money to pay for the rental.

Whenever the rental fees were covered, I didn't have enough money for gas.

Being a struggling single, single mother... (exhales) It wasn't the first time that we lost a home.

(exhales) But this time felt different.

This time the despair was like a mammoth on my chest.

I couldn't breathe.

I felt like a failure.

To see my two boys in the back seat falling asleep, surrounded by backpacks and trash bags, and bags filled with clothes, while I rode around town waiting for somebody to pick up the phone and say "Yes, you can stay over here."

And say yes in a way that wouldn't make me feel like I was burdening them, or being an inconvenience.

The rest of the world didn't know what I was going through.

Chalk it up to shame.

Chalk it up to pride.

I wear a good poker face.

If I don't want you to know, you won't know.

Fast forward a couple of weeks.

I'm grinding, I'm cleaning houses.

My son got a job, I'm taking him to work, right?

We're on our way to his job, and we're at a red light.

And as we're at this red light, my son looks over at me.

He says, "Mom, you're on a wall."

"What you mean, I'm on a wall?"

And I look to my left, it was a beautiful version of me.

I was standing on what seemed like a cloud of vibrant flowers and hummingbirds, and butterflies and bumblebees.

And not just that, but these babies got my Afro on point, and my hoops was shining, honey.

(laughter) But that wasn't the best of it.

The best was that, out of all of the poses that I gave them, they chose the very first one, the one about my dad.

My dad is everything to me.

My dad was always there.

He was always present.

He could fix everything, he could fix anything.

He gave great advice.

And this was one of the greatest lessons my father ever taught me, and now it was here on this wall.

And as I saw this vision of myself, I couldn't help but wonder, if these babies knew what I was going through, would they still have chosen me?

But then I got back to it, and I remembered, that's my dad.

So I called my dad on video phone.

I called him on video chat, I said, "Papi, I'm on a wall!"

He's like, "What, you, you on a wall?"

I said, "Yes, look!"

And I told him the story about everything.

He's like, "Oh, my God, mija.

Estoy tan orgulloso de ti."

Making him proud made me proud.

It was them seeing me, past all of my struggles, past all of my hardships.

They saw me, and they chose me, and that was magical.

I didn't see those girls again until September 24th, 2018.

I remember the date vividly because I had just buried my father three days prior.

So when I met with those girls there, I told them all about how important their work was.

I told them that my father had passed, and that because of what they did, because they chose me, I was able to give my father the gift of his legacy before he passed.

And I told these girls, I said, "What you've done for me, "you gave me strength at a time where I didn't have it.

"You gave me hope at a time that I didn't have it."

So all I could tell you is that when life happens-- because it will-- don't give up.

Believe in yourself.

Trust the process.

And in your darkest moments, remember, you are light.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ YURENEVA: My name is Elena Yureneva.

I was born and raised in Moscow, Russia.

I'm a physician, and I do research at company called Alnylam.

What role did storytelling play in your family?

And do any particular stories come to mind?

My dad was very lucky.

He was allowed to travel during Soviet Union time.

Dad would come from those different places and he would tell stories about what, what he saw there.

And it was amazing because barely anyone got to travel.

And Dad would come and open his suitcase, and the suitcase was always full of most amazing things-- there are toys, and clothes and, and candy and gum.

And all this-- the smell out of suitcase, we actually called it, "a smell of foreign lands."

Why is telling your personal story so important to you?

There's so many stereotypes right now about Russian people, and I felt that this time would be particularly very important to tell your story.

So when people listen to those stories, they, they see that it's just people, and they have different backgrounds, and they have their happy moments and sad moments.

And it breaks this stereotypical picture of what, for example, Russian people are like.

♪ ♪ It is 2001 in Moscow.

I finished medical school, and I work at American Hospital, and I love my job.

But after a long 24-hour shift, I am tired.

My hair is a complete mess.

I'm finishing my medical records and I just want to go home.

I see a new patient walking in with a nurse, and a very strange and quite unusual thought crosses my mind.

I just wish it was a better hair day.

He is cute.

(laughter) The patient was American exchange student who had appendicitis, and after surgery was transferred to our hospital.

I admitted him, and I went home.

Getting ready for my next shift at home, I passed by the TV as I'm getting ready, and I see one of the Twin Towers on fire.

I first thought it was a bad movie, but as I was turning the sound up, the second tower got attacked right in front of my eyes.

In complete shock, I started calling for my mom to come from the kitchen quickly.

And I picked up the phone, I called the hospital, and I said, "We have an American patient.

"Someone needs to go there and tell him what happened.

Someone has to turn on the news and translate."

The American embassy was taking precautionary measures, putting American facilities on lockdown.

For the next two days, all of us in the hospital-- doctors, nurses, patients-- we're sitting all together and watching the news over and over, still in complete disbelief and grief over what happened.

And this was very much of a bonding experience.

The lockdown was lifted.

We have discharged our American patient.

Three days later, he came back and asked me out.

(scattered cheering) I said "yes."

(laughter) Fast forward two-and-a-half years later, we are married, living in Arizona.

(applause) My husband found it hard to fit in in Russia, so I left my career, my friends, and everything I knew back home, and I arrived to U.S., bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with a $500 in my pocket.

I had no work authorization, and he was working at youth-at-risk shelter, making eight dollars an hour.

We had to find the means to survive.

So I got my first job as a vacuum cleaner sales girl.

I got fired.

(laughter) A week later.

Because not only I didn't sell a single vacuum cleaner, I also convinced a customer not to buy one, because they were very expensive.

(laughter) I got my driver's license and I worked as a part-time truck driver.

I was teaching piano and kickboxing, and we were barely making our ends meet.

I remember standing in the middle of Walmart with a calculator in my hand, counting if I could afford a pair of two dollar underwear that month, and I could not.

But it was okay.

I was in love, and I kept telling myself, it is an adventure.

But aside from that, it was difficult to connect to people around me.

Making friends was hard.

I quickly learned all the basic stereotypes when it comes to Russian people.

"Do you drink vodka?"

"Do you like Putin?"

At one of the job interviews I was asked if I was a mail-order bride.

Aside from that, people constantly commented on my accent, at best calling it cute when I was trying to be serious.

Meanwhile, social media didn't exist, and I lost touch with most of my friends back home.

But I wasn't ready to quit and go back, perhaps because the lack of belonging wasn't entirely new feeling for me, as I never quite felt that I belong in Moscow either.

My skin is too dark for Russian.

My eyes and my hair, too.

And even in my own family, my older sister is a blonde with the blue eyes.

When I was a child, an afterschool teacher told me that I cannot play with other kids.

She said "Blacks shouldn't play with normal children."

In my early 20s, I was arrested on the street multiple times simply for not carrying a passport on me, to prove that I was indeed a Russian citizen.

What didn't help with fitting in here was that, my husband happened to be a jealous and controlling person.

We fell in love quickly, but getting to know each other over the years made me realize how different we really were.

And I started feeling that perhaps I don't belong in my marriage either.

But things definitely got better in time.

I finally got permission to work and I found a research job at Georgetown.

I also got accepted to start schooling at Georgetown.

And I was very proud with my first paycheck, standing in the middle of a grocery store, understanding that within reason I could buy what I wanted, was an amazing feeling.

I also left my marriage, but that cut my social circle to one person outside of work.

I longed for the familiarity of places and people I left back home.

I used to have a really large social circle, and even in a 12 million people city, I would often bump into people I knew unexpectedly.

And here, everything was new, and everything was foreign.

Until one day, I remember standing in my office and looking out of the window, and I saw a person, and I realized that I knew her.

She was no one special and yet I got completely overwhelmed with joy because for the first time since I left home, I recognized somebody on the street.

And, for the first time, I got a hint of belonging.

Years went by.

I eventually met the love of my life and we are married now.

I have moved 18 times in 20 years.

But everywhere I go I just try to be a person that makes you feel like you belong.

Because you just never know how much it can mean to someone to just recognize you on the street.

Thank you.

(applause) THERESA OKOKON: The Stories from the Stage podcast with extraordinary true stories wherever you listen to podcasts.

Consider supporting more great storytelling at give.worldchannel.org/stories.

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