JOHN P. SMITH JR,: I made this long list of over 50 things that I needed to do as part of my bucket list.

Well, one of them was to go on a family cruise.

KIM CHINH: And I go to seek adventure on an international volunteer program.

But I call my therapist before to let her know.

(audience laughter) ROBIN REIF: Our next stop was the police station.

We are sent up and down and back and forth, and I'm getting anxious, I'm getting hot.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "On the Road Again."

Tonight, we honor those stories that are not just about moving through physical distance, but stories that carry us from who we are to who we are becoming.

To be on the road is to say, "I'm still learning, "I'm still feeling.

I'm still healing."

Tonight, we share stories of movement; people before and after.

Stories about challenge, longing, and transformation.

♪ ♪ CHINH: My name is Kim Chinh, I live in Brooklyn, New York, and I grew up in Houston, Texas.

I work primarily as a graphic designer, a photographer, professional organizer, and actor.

I understand that you've also recently started to pursue acting more seriously.

And I'm just wondering, what have you learned about yourself in that practice that maybe you wouldn't have known otherwise?

Doing this type of work, it's like you really see, like, some of your, the patterns that you have with people, like the ways that you deflect, the ways that you don't, um, engage, the ways that you don't want to confront either saying what you really want to say or covering up your feelings because you don't want to show any weakness.

You have stage experience.

You know, you've done acting, you've performed before.

I'm wondering what's going through your head as you prepared for tonight.

You know, this is a specific kind of performance, and what has been different, what has been challenging in your prep for coming to Stories from the Stage?

So I would spend time at home just kind of going over my lines.

But then the real trick is going out and, like, getting to different open mics.

One night, you might do really great and feel really good, and then another night, you know, you mess up some lines or the audience is just completely quiet.

Nobody laughs, and you're like, "Oh, I have to keep going."

My mom is from Buffalo, New York.

She's white.

My dad is from Vietnam.

And I got a lot of conflicting advice growing up from my parents about how to get by in the world.

For example, my dad in junior high, he said, "You will never get less than a 98.

Ever."

(audience laughter) But my mom, she was a little more cavalier about these things.

She said out of earshot of my dad, of course, "Come on, live a little.

I dare you to get a C." (audience laughter) My dad would say things like, "Listen to instructions and don't ask questions."

But my mom was like, "It's just as important to learn how to break the rules as it is to follow them."

(audience laughter) Anyway, I didn't give a lot of thought to being biracial when I was growing up.

But people would call attention to it.

"What are you?"

I got that question a lot.

"Where are you from?"

But I ignored it.

I pretended that I wasn't Vietnamese at all.

I grew up in a mostly white neighborhood.

There was only one other Asian family in my school.

Most of my friends were white.

My favorite dolls were blond and blue-eyed.

I wished that I looked more like my mom and less like my dad.

It was also maybe that I was embarrassed by my Vietnamese refugee cousins who arrived after the Vietnam War.

They came to live with us.

They had to escape without their parents.

They lived with us for several years.

And they didn't speak the language.

They had strange accents.

They wore clothes that were way too small for them.

As they learned the language, they told me the horror stories of their escape.

That their boats had been attacked by pirates, that they ran out of food and water, and had to drink their own urine to stay alive.

I learned what it had been like for them growing up in a war zone.

And when we would play in the sandbox, they taught me how to dig a deep hole and place sharpened sticks upright at the bottom of the hole.

We would lay long twigs over the top and then large flat leaves over the twigs.

And then sprinkle just enough sand to cover the leaves.

Then we would go over to the other side of the sandbox... ...and wait.

Look, no one ever really fell in that we know of, but.

(audience laughter) There wasn't a lot of supervision in those days either.

(audience laughter) When I go to college, I get to study abroad in Paris, France.

I have a really good French accent, and I want nothing more than to immerse myself into French culture.

But I am stopped all the time.

"Where are you from?"

I tell them, the United States.

They ask, "No, but what's your nationality?"

I tell them, "I'm American."

They say, "No, but where's your father from?"

I say, "Vietnam."

And they say, "Well, then you're Vietnamese.

Have you been there?"

(sighs): I say, "No, I haven't been there, I'm not Vietnamese."

I hate that I don't look American.

I'm constantly reminded that I don't belong.

Years later, I'm living in New York City.

I decide to quit my marketing job and sublet my apartment, and I go to seek adventure on an international volunteer program.

But I call my therapist before to let her know.

Because in New York, you get an apartment, then you get a job and then you get a therapist.

(audience laughter) So I tell her I'm really excited.

I'm going to probably move to Central America to volunteer.

And she says, "Oh, that's interesting.

"Here you are, "ready to embrace a whole new language and a new culture when you don't have a clue about your own."

Vietnam is the part of me I don't want to face, the part I would wish away if I could.

Even though the war ended long ago, I am terrified of the scars left behind.

I don't want to see the people with missing limbs from landmines or deformities from Agent Orange.

I'm also worried that once I step off the plane, if they find out I'm American, people are just going to throw rocks at me.

A few nights later, as I'm researching on the computer, I come across yet another volunteer opportunity.

It says, "Work with orphaned children in the poorest parts of Central Vietnam."

(sighs) So I take a deep breath and I go there.

I buy my plane ticket.

And as soon as I step off the plane, the moment I set foot on Vietnamese soil, I feel voices speaking to me in my soul.

And they are saying something like... ..."Welcome.

"You're here.

You're finally here.

"We've been waiting a long time for you.

"Swim in our oceans, climb our mountains, "feel the balm of our warm breezes.

"You are loved.

Welcome back."

And I love it here!

The food is so good, and the people are kind and gracious.

The Vietnamese merchants, they give me the local rate instead of the Westerner's price, which is literally one-twentieth the cost.

They know I'm a foreigner, but the Vietnamese people, they recognize themselves in me, and they smile.

They ask if I like it here.

I do.

I ask them how it's been for them, the war, and how they feel about Americans.

And they tell me that it was very hard and they were devastated, but that they had to move on, so they had to let it go.

The kids who I work with at the orphanage are so curious about my father.

We have an interpreter because my Vietnamese is very bad.

And they ask, they want to know, where's my father from?

What village exactly?

And why did he leave?

These are questions I've never really asked.

I make a pledge to myself to find out.

There's a day where, during monsoon season, I'm walking down the street and it starts pouring rain, and I'm stuck without a poncho.

A shopkeeper runs out of her shop with a big, open umbrella and hands it to me.

(speaks Vietnamese) She insists; I take it.

This complete stranger is looking out for me.

It's different here.

It's like we're one big family and people really care about each other.

All my life, people have stopped me in grocery stores, on buses and elevators, and asked me, "What are you?"

It used to upset me, but now the conversation goes like this: "Hey, what are you?

I mean, what's your ethnicity?"

"I'm Vietnamese."

"Oh, cool, and have you been there?"

"Yes, yes, I have."

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ SMITH, JR.: My name is John P. Smith, Jr.

I'm originally from Arkansas, but now I live in Los Angeles.

I actually moved to Los Angeles right before Y2K happened.

So I've been out there for about 25 years.

I work as a corporate trainer, and I do stand up comedy now at night.

And where did your connection and love for humor come from?

Like, has that been something in your entire life?

Were you the funny person in your family or among your friend group?

I'm just wondering, what's that been like for you?

I was not the funniest person in my friend group.

I remember my mom's boyfriend.

He would say things and she would laugh.

And that made me want to do the same thing.

I wanted to figure out a way to make my mom laugh.

Tonight, when our audience hears your story, I'm wondering, what would you hope stays with them from that experience?

I feel that if there's something that was calling you, answer that phone, it's gonna keep calling.

And just give it a shot.

Do it.

Okay, okay.

I can't dance.

(audience laughter) And I say that because I grew up in the suburbs.

There was only five Black kids in my elementary school.

There was Greg, Yvette, me, myself, and I.

(audience laughter) And no one said we had to dance.

On Saturdays, we're cleaning up the house and Soul Train would come on, and my mom would start dancing in front of the TV.

Now, she said we had to clean up the house, but she never said that we had to dance.

And I'm glad she didn't.

Because I tried it.

(audience laughter) And it was bad.

(audience laughter) Pathetically bad.

I looked like... a malfunctioning robot.

(audience laughter) So I didn't dance.

And also because I didn't want to let down those people.

You know who those people are?

The entire Black community.

(audience laughter) Now, I grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood, and they expected me to be great at whatever Black people are supposed to be great at doing.

Picture this.

I'm a nervous little kid.

Skinny, nerdy-looking.

With a smile, an afro, and a violin.

(audience laughter) So I had to find something that I could be great at.

And I found that in computers.

I could take apart a Commodore 64, clean it out, put it back together again, and it worked perfectly.

Yes, so when my classmates were going to dance clubs, I was going to computer clubs.

They were out there jamming.

I stayed inside to learn programming.

The only rhythm I had were algorithms.

(audience laughter) I remember in the 12th grade, my girlfriend invited me to the prom, and I said no because I was scared to dance.

I went to barbecues and cookouts.

And I would take my board games.

And well into my 30s and 40s, and when a hit song came on, everyone jumped up to start dancing.

And they would leave me sitting there at the table playing Monopoly by myself.

(audience laughter) Now don't feel sorry for me.

Because I am a Marine Corps veteran.

(cheers and applause) That's right, oorah.

(cheers and applause continues) Thank you.

And I used to make my Marines take computers apart, clean them up, and put them back together again.

(audience laughter) Blindfolded.

(audience laughter) I also served in the Gulf War, and I realized that I would rather go back to the battlefield... ...than to get on the dance floor.

(audience laughter) When I turned 50, I made this long list of over 50 things that I needed to do as part of my bucket list.

Well, one of them was to go on a family cruise.

So 15 of us went on this seven-day adventure.

And my little nephew, Stevie Jr., he came along and he was so enthusiastic, so excited about life.

He signed up for the sexiest man dance contest.

(audience laughter) And I couldn't wait.

I only wish I had the courage that he had in his 20s.

Now they were promoting this dance contest all throughout the day.

So people were gathered around the deck and everything.

My family, we gathered near the pool, and we're waiting for this dance contest.

And we're waiting for Stevie Jr. No Stevie Jr.

So I go up to save his spot in line.

(audience laughter) And I asked the host, "Hey, is Stevie Jr. on the list?"

He's like, "Yeah, he signed up, he's on the list."

I'm like, cool.

All of a sudden I hear my family, "John, why don't you do it for him?

Go, John!

Go, John!

Go, John!"

I'm like, "Shh, shh!

I'm not on the list.

(audience laughter) I can't."

Then all of a sudden, about a thousand people started shouting, "Go, John!

Go, John, go, John!"

Now, I'm standing there in a tank top with "Marines" across the chest.

My arms are out, bulging.

I know I didn't look like that nervous little kid, who was skinny, nerdy-looking with the afro.

But man, at that moment, I felt just like him.

So the host looked at me and said, "Are you in?"

Took a deep breath, and I said, "Yeah."

(cheers and applause) So I did the first thing that came to mind.

The robot!

(grunting, audience laughter) And the crowd erupted.

(audience laughter) I don't know if they were laughing at me or cheering me on.

But at that point it was a blur.

Next thing I know, I'm on the ground, rolling underneath beach chairs.

I'm doing push-ups.

I'm straddling older ladies.

(audience laughter) And after they counted up all the votes, at 50 years old, I won the sexiest man dance contest.

(cheers and applause) Then Stevie Jr. comes around the corner.

(audience laughter) He missed the entire thing; he overslept.

Man, I felt so much lighter.

I felt skinny again.

(audience laughter) A few years later, I got married, and me and my wife had a choreographed first dance.

I had so much fun, I even danced with my wedding party.

Man, it was so exciting.

If I had a chance to go back and talk to that little skinny kid in the mirror, I would tell him to take the first step, find your own algorithm, and dance like everybody is watching.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ REIF: I'm Robin Reif, lifelong New Yorker, single mom.

And I'm a writer.

HAZARD: You've approached writing in many different modes.

What keeps you coming back to the page?

REIF: I think it's the sort of passionate... need to make the illegible legible.

There's so much in life that is unspoken and hard to... define.

And somehow, when I can find the words, it's enormously comforting.

So you've told stories on the stage and on the page, and I'm wondering, what does each form give you that the other might not?

REIF: So I think on the page, once it's published, it just gives me a sense of completion.

I've done my best to articulate something, and there it is.

On the stage, it changes all the time.

I think we can all agree that 7,000 miles is a long way to go for a little piece of paper.

But that paper was a note that I was told was pinned to my daughter's sweater when she was found on a bridge as an infant in China.

And I had been looking for that note ever since Rosie was placed in my arms.

But the search got very real one day when she was around three, and she explained to me, "Mom, "you know babies don't come from moms.

They come from China!"

(audience laughter) "Oh, misunderstanding, sweetie.

"Yes, you come from China, we've always talked about that.

"But before that, "you came from a mom.

We have always said you were adopted."

"Oh!

I thought you said I was a doctor."

(audience laughter) Well, we had the conversation yet again.

It's not that we hadn't had it before, but this time she understood.

And it was... awful.

"Mom, Mommy... "...why did she throw me away?

"Did she not like me?

Mom, do you know her?

Can we call her?"

I mean, it made my heart hurt.

And I was more determined than ever to find that note, if only, to prove to Rosie that her worst fears were not true.

So, I wrote to her orphanage; I had done this before, but I did it again.

Wrote to her orphanage.

Nothing.

I wrote to the Central China Adoption Authority, the bureaucrats in Beijing who match you.

Silence.

I spoke to adoption officials here, who spoke to adoption officials there.

Got nothing.

So by the time we were able to get back to China to look ourselves, Rosie was 11.

And, um, she wasn't really talking a lot about her birth mother.

She was obsessed with the Hunger Games and begging me to get a dog.

I said, "We're going, no matter what."

And after a long ride, and I mean, three beers, pass out, panic attack, finish War and Peace long, we get to... ...Nanjing.

Next day, freezing January day, we take off for Yixing, the city where she was found.

Our first stop is Yuedi Bridge, the exact spot where she was found.

Now, I had always pictured a beautiful crescent bridge, like in the ancient Chinese paintings.

Yeah, well, Yuedi is a concrete slab over a polluted canal.

But it was our sacred spot.

So we stood there; again, it's a freezing day.

We're on the bridge.

It's very gray.

I look at Rosie.

She looks kind of teary.

"Oh, honey, I know this is, this is hard."

"Mommy, mom, this is so...

boring!"

(audience laughter) Well, our next stop-- I was so excited-- was the police station.

It was where she was taken after she was found.

And we had never been able to identify it.

But our translator found the precinct and it had to be there.

It was the only place it could be.

So we get there, we are sent up and down and back and forth, and I'm getting anxious, I'm getting hot.

Finally, we are sent to the office of the one person we're told can help.

And I pour out my tearful request.

And she smiles.

My heart lifts.

And she says, "Oh, all records before 2005 were lost in a fire."

(audience laughter) Oh, you... ...heartless witch!

You witch!

How can you smile?

Life was lost in that fire.

A part of my daughter was lost in that fire.

And I'm thinking, I have no tools here.

I can't ask for the manager.

I don't speak Mandarin.

I can't cry.

Because, yeah, who's going to be sorry for a white lady from New York?

I have nothing.

And Rosie is saying, "Mom, stop it.

"We're going to get arrested.

It's the police, they're going to put us in jail."

And our translator is saying, "Okay, we're going now."

And she has her foot in my back, and we are out the door.

And we have to show up at the orphanage where the note is not, as I know.

We have lunch with the new director, and as we're leaving, she hands me this file.

I'm telling you, it's the size of a suitcase-- it's enormous.

And I had to put it on the table in order to leaf through it.

And what I see were adoption papers that I had signed ten years ago.

So I'm thinking, "This is weird."

So I'm paging through and I see stuck between two pages is this ripped out, crumpled piece of paper with these sort of ballpoint marks.

And I take it out gingerly, because I don't want to rip it anymore.

And I see Mandarin characters and numbers, and I see... well, I'm able to make out Rosie's date of birth, which of course, I knew.

And then the exact time of her birth, which only her birth parents could possibly know.

(soft chuckle) It was the note.

I hand it to Rosie.

She looks at it, hands it back with this look like, "Yeah, Mom, but what I really, really want is a dog!"

(audience laughter) So we're in the car.

She's giving me grief.

"Mom.

The note said nothing.

So why did we even come?"

It's like, "Oh, honey, I know.

It's disappointing, but the truth is, I was not disappointed.

I got what I came for, because that note answered a question I never would have dared ask out loud.

That note was proof.

It was evidence... that Rosie was not trafficked and so was not someone's stolen daughter.

Rosie was not left to die, as had been so many girls, during the one-child policy years.

Rosie was left to be found.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪