SHWETA BHATT: For the past 13 years, no other girl in my class had a mustache.

Who am I going to be without one?

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."

TAE CHONG: I'm an Asian immigrant living in Maine and you want me to pay the flute?

Haven't I suffered long enough?

(laughter) ♪ ♪ ♪ 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.

Did your parents tend to share a lot of stories with you?

I'm only now starting to learn stories about my family that I didn't get to learn when I was a kid because of the language barrier.

Because we didn't speak so much Chinese at home, I didn't really learn Chinese.

And that's why I became a teacher with students who are either immigrants themselves or are kids of immigrants so that I could be that person to be like, "Su Español es bueno."

"Puede hablar Español en clase, en el salón," right?

Or, like, in Mandarin, I'm... be like, (speaking Mandarin) In Cantonese, (speaking Cantonese) It is so important for not just language access to happen, but language liberation and joy in speaking those languages.

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

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) ♪ CHONG: My name is Tae Chong, and I live in Portland, Maine.

My family moved there in 1976 from Korea.

Portland back then, in 1976, was fairly white.

I was the only kid of color, and I ended up wanting to get out, but Portland was really popular, is really popular now, and so I stuck around.

I wanted to help people, and so that's what I've been doing really for the past 25 years.

I've been an advocate for immigrants and refugee, and people of color in Portland, Maine.

You talked about your family.

Do you have storytellers in your family?

My mother's a great storyteller, but it's not so much the stories she tells, it's how she tells the stories.

So in Korean, a lot of the stories are about inflection.

So she might say, like, you know, she might say, "Oh, that water is delicious."

But the inflection changes the whole story.

So in Korean she might say... (speaking Korean) Or-- (speaking Korean with stronger inflection) So like that kind of inflection changes everything.

As a kid, trying to figure out who you are, I was always listening and trying to figure out what the stories are about, and how that has an impact on me.

So for tonight's story, what do you hope that the audience takes away from it after you've shared it?

I hope that people realize that the immigrant experience isn't any different than anyone else's experience.

We're all trying to go through life, trying to figure out who we are as a family, what our identities are, and how we fit into this whole continuum of family and community.

And I think that story has a lot of layers where people can see bits and pieces of themselves in it.

♪ ♪ I remember the night I picked out my musical instrument.

I was in the third grade.

My parents, my older brothers, and I, we went to the local elementary school gym to listen to the music salesman talk about the benefits of your child playing a musical instrument.

Ever since the airplane touched down in the U.S., my mother leaned over and said, "We sacrificed everything so you three can get an education."

(audience laughs) No pressure.

(laughter) My parents only made it to the third and sixth grade, so they didn't know about the U.S. education system, but they had heard of Harvard and Yale.

(laughter) So their ears picked up when the music salesman said, "Having your child play a musical instrument can help them get into Harvard and Yale."

(laughter) My mother leaned over and said loudly enough for us to hear, "Oh.

"Harvard and Yale.

(laughter) "That is in line with our child and our goals.

Where do we sign up?"

My parents were blue-collar working people.

My father smelt of burnt leather, and he was still dusty from the boat yard where he worked.

My mother was yawning.

It was only 7:00 p.m. She had to get up at 4:00 to do the laundry, to make and pack lunch for her family, before she headed out for a ten-hour shift at a local clothing manufacturing company in Portland.

I was ten years old.

I was oblivious to all this.

All I knew was, ever since I heard Chuck Mangione play "Give It All You Got" at the 1980 Winter Olympics... (laughter) ...the trumpet was for me.

I fell in love with the trumpet.

For a week, I walked around the house playing air trumpet.

(laughter) The music salesman finished his pitch and gave everyone a packet full of pamphlets and a sign-up sheet.

That night, my family, we had a meeting.

This was a big deal.

My father and mother sat in their seats next to the wood stove, and my brothers sat on the couch, and I sat on the floor.

My father turned to me and asked me which instrument I wanted to play.

This, this had never happened before.

My father never asked me for my opinion.

This was my chance... ...to be Chuck Mangione.

(laughter) He was still popular, and his music was on the radio, and in every dentist's office across the country.

(laughter) If I played the trumpet, and I played in the Olympics, I would achieve the dream of every immigrant parent-- a Harvard Olympian.

(laughter) What self-respecting immigrant parent would deny their child this dream, let alone an Asian immigrant parent?

I sat up straight and I said, "Trumpet."

I just let that hang in the air.

I said, "Dad, I want to play the trumpet."

No hesitation.

Done.

My father looked at the sign-up sheet and my oldest brother interpreted that it would cost $30 a month.

A little steep.

But worth paying, if your son could be the next Chuck Mangione.

My father looked at the prices of the other instruments and he picked the most reasonable and affordable one.

The flute.

(laughter) My father said, "You'll have to play the flute.

I don't think your little lungs can take playing the trumpet."

Little lungs?

(laughter) Too hard?

I'm an Asian immigrant living in Maine and you want me to play the flute?

(laughter) Haven't I suffered long enough?

(laughter) My dreams of being Chuck Mangione were dashed, and I envisioned all the kids ridiculing me at school.

They all thought I was Chinese, and now they'll think I'm girly-- and Chinese.

(laughter) I pictured all the bullying and teasing I would get, and I started to cry.

My mother, she hugged me.

My oldest brother said, "Maybe, maybe we can pick something else."

My parents and older brother went into the kitchen and I sat there dumbfounded in the living room.

My middle brother, he held my hand.

A few minutes later, they all came back, and my father said, "Son, we can't afford to pay for the trumpet.

But maybe you can play the clarinet."

I was ten years old.

I just wanted to be cool.

But I realized my family loved me, and they did the best they could with what they had.

So for the next three years, I sat in the first row in band wearing a blue blazer and a white turtleneck, flanked by pubescent girls, squeaking and squawking my way through "Greensleeves" and "Heartlight" by Neil Diamond.

(laughter) What could be better than that?

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ BHATT: My name is Shweta Bhatt, and I'm from Burlington, Massachusetts.

Right now, I'm a freelance copywriter, business strategist, storyteller.

Can you talk to me about what role storytelling played in your family and in your culture growing up?

So I'm Indian, and I come from a culture that is rich in story.

A lot of what I learned about my culture was told to me through story.

Being in a country where you don't really look like everyone else, it's hard to understand, "Well, where do I come from?"

Mm.

When I asked why and where and how and what and all of the questions that come, that's what I was met with.

OKOKON: Mm.

- With story.

When you first started storytelling, what were you most nervous about?

When I was starting, it was always about, "Are my stories important enough?"

Mm.

And also, you know, can I tell a story from a place where I'm not judging myself about it either.

And that was really the hurdle that I had to cross.

- Yeah.

- Was your stories matter, and you're not any kind of person for having or wanting to share these stories.

So, what do you find the most challenging about storytelling?

"Can I tell this story from outside of it?"

Mm.

"Am I still in the story?

"Am I still feeling all of the emotions?

Am I able to really ground myself as I tell this story?"

♪ ♪ "This is where you need to take her" I hear this Indian auntie telling my mom in the kitchen.

And they're whispering, so I have my ear up against the wall.

Usually when my mom is whispering, it's because she's bragging about me and doesn't want it to get to my head.

But today, today it's different.

"This is where you need to take her to get rid of her upper lip hair."

And as I hear those words, I catch my reflection in the patio door and I see my face.

A face that for the past 13 years has been told I look like my dad.

And no, I don't think it's because we both have curly hair or long limbs or cheeky smiles.

My dad, he has a mustache.

I mean, the mustache.

Like, a "Tom Selleck step aside, bar above the handlebar" kind of mustache.

And so do I.

And in a world where I'm never going to look like Lizzie McGuire or Hannah Montana or Kristie in math or Julie in art, I look like my dad.

Kids made a lot a fun of me, and I got tired of it, and I thought I'd take this into my own hands.

So I remember, in the second grade, I waited for all the kids to go to recess.

I ran to the bathroom with a pair of scissors from my cubby.

I was going to make it all right, right there.

And I make a snip... and it looks worse.

And I get back from recess, and the kids, they're still laughing and pointing and making comments, and I realized I'm just going to be the girl with the mustache.

There's no way I'm going to get rid of it.

And so I learned how to work with it.

I never wore red lipstick at dance recitals because it would kind of accentuate it.

And all those lip glosses that I got at sleepovers?

Never wore those either.

They'd get stuck in it.

And I never wore black, either, because it would always cast a weird shade on my face.

What worked were V-necks and neutrals and wearing my hair pulled back.

For the past 13 years, no other girl in my class had a mustache.

Heck, no other guy had a mustache either.

And now, this auntie is telling my mom where to take me to get rid of it.

And I'm thinking, "Who am I going to be without one?

"Are girls gonna finally want to be my friend?

Are guys going to finally think I'm cute?"

I get in the car with my mom.

And my mom, she's beautiful.

She doesn't have a mustache, but I don't look like her.

And I don't think she really gets this.

But she's taking me to this auntie who threads.

Now, I've heard of threading once.

There was a girl in my dance class, and she talked about getting her top lip threaded.

She said it felt like knives.

And now I'm preparing for knives.

And we make our way to this auntie's house.

And even though I live in a town where there aren't that many Indians, all of the Indians from the surrounding towns, they go to this one auntie to get their upper lips threaded.

I walk upstairs, she opens the door and she smiles at me, the smile that says, "Mm, I've seen a lot of Indian girls who look like their father."

I sit down in her chair and she starts to fashion this contraption out of thread, and she shows me how to keep my upper lip pretty taut.

And she starts.

It doesn't feel that bad, and it's over pretty quick, and she hands me a mirror.

I lift up the mirror and I see my eyes, and I see my nose, and then I see a space.

A space between my nose and my top lip!

I mean, it looks like a second forehead, like a fivehead.

It looks really weird.

Did she do something wrong?

I look at my mom, "Mom, do I look weird?"

And she's just smiling.

This was supposed to make me look better, and I think I just look like a monkey.

I don't know who this person is.

But I take a deep breath, because I don't have time to figure this out right now.

Tonight is my middle school graduation, and I have to go on stage to get a medal.

On stage.

I make my way to the school, and I'm on my way to my homeroom, and I hear the comments, and I hear the snickers and the pointing.

"Mm, she looks weird.

Did she shave her face?"

"No, I got it threaded."

And I know I look weird.

And I walk up on stage and all I can think of is I still don't look like Lizzie McGuire.

And I don't think I look like my dad anymore.

And the teachers, they congratulate me and wish me well in high school.

And all the other parents of all the other students graduating, they give me hugs and tell me good luck for high school.

(soft chuckle) I make my way back home, and on the kitchen table there's this cake from a grocery store with my face printed on it.

My old face.

I eat some.

I make my way up to my room, and I'm looking in the mirror.

I don't know who she is.

All I can recognize is my ponytail and the medal around my neck.

But I know what I have to do, what I want to do.

I run to my mom's bathroom.

I fiddle around with her makeup and I find it: her black eyebrow pencil.

I run back to my room and I start to draw it back on.

And I have a mustache again.

I just need to be her for one more night.

♪