♪ ♪ MICHAEL SARGENT: I heard the click of a seatbelt being released to my right, my head swiveled, and I saw him on his feet rushing into the aisle.

COURTNEY ALLEN: I just remember telling myself, "Next time, Courtney.

Next time you're going to leave her."

DAN DAHARI: As a 12-year-old boy sitting in my kitchen table, I'm like, "That's crazy!"

♪ THERESA OKOKON: Our theme for tonight is: tickets, please.

I've definitely been known to collect a couple of tickets in my time.

The plane ticket that took me to visit my family back home in Africa for the first time, the plane ticket that I still have that took me to Ecuador when I joined the Peace Corps.

There's all kinds of tickets that I've held onto.

But over time, and also with the changing time of, like, technology and, like, the tendency to not actually have a physical printed ticket anymore, I've certainly lost a whole lot of tickets.

And I was thinking earlier today about that, and I was thinking does it really matter that you have the physical ticket in your hand?

Or is what matters is the memory that is underneath that ticket or connected to that ticket?

Our first storyteller for this evening is Michael Sargent.

He's originally from Arkansas, but he has lived in Maine for about the last two decades, where he works at Bates College as a psychology professor.

Michael Sargent once said that storytelling is what you do when you're not good enough for stand-up comedy.

(laughter) He now regrets that since he now considers himself to officially be a storyteller.

Help me in welcoming to the stage Michael Sargent.

(cheers and applause) OKOKON: When you think about the stories that you tell in general, where do they come from?

Is there a feeling behind your stories that tends to drive them?

SARGENT: When I tell stories, I'm trying to evoke feelings in the audience.

I know that different storytellers have different approaches.

Many storytellers are very emotionally expressive when they tell, with big gestures, and big expression, and wide variation in voice inflection.

I aim for a more understated approach.

In the same way that if you were reading a novel or reading poetry, you wouldn't have the author there to express emotions.

You would be dependent upon the words, and the imagery in those words to transport you to a place where you feel something.

And that's what I try to do on the stage.

It sounds like you have a very specific style when it comes to your storytelling.

I do have a very specific style in my storytelling.

As my friends, and as my family, and certainly as my students would say, I care about details, and so I have a specific approach to pretty much everything.

(chuckling) Nice.

Nice.

SARGENT: I could see outside...

This is outside.

I could see outside, and I could see that the morning sky was this clear, deep, striking blue.

But I was inside, and I wasn't struck so much by the blue of the sky as by the fact that I had never seen an airport look quite like this.

I had driven down from Maine, where I live, in order to fly out of Boston because the flights out of Logan Airport were cheaper than the flights out of Portland.

I was traveling to the Midwest to go to a wedding.

It should have felt like a routine travel day.

On most any weekend prior to this it would have felt like a routine travel day, but on this day, it felt anything but.

I was traveling in late September, 2001.

The attacks had happened less than two weeks prior to this travel date, and I was afraid.

The night before traveling I had called a dear friend.

And instead of ending the call by saying "Goodbye," or "Talk to you later," I told her that I loved her as if we might never speak to each other again.

By the time I arrived at the airport it was clear that other potential travelers were also afraid because the airport parking lot shuttle driver had no trouble dropping me off at the curb because there were no other cars.

And I got through security in record time because there were essentially no other travelers.

Logan was a ghost town.

Now, in truth, there were a few other travelers there, but for each of us, there seemed to be not one, not two, but three security officers, each one with a rifle, each one with an index finger near the trigger, each one with a face locked in a severe and vigilant expression.

I went to my gate, and waited to board, and eventually we did board.

And as we went onto the plane I saw that it was a Boeing 737, which, depending on how it's configured, can hold as many as 200 people.

On this flight, there were three passengers.

I sat on the left side in an exit row aisle seat, and I noticed that one other passenger was in the same row and on the right side of the plane.

And as you walked up the aisle, I noticed the crisply pressed white dress shirt, and the dark-- I think it was black-- neck tie, and the perfectly maintained mustache.

But then I noticed, above all, his olive skin.

In truth, he could have been Pakistani, he could have been Indian.

But through the fog of my overactive, post-9/11 imagination, I saw him as Middle Eastern-- whatever that means.

Or Arab-- not Arab American-- Arab.

And I'm ashamed to say that I saw him immediately as a threat.

I watched him carefully as he put his roller board suitcase in the overhead bin, and then put a brown shopping bag, whose contents I tried to see, but could not see, in the bin, closed the door, and he sat down in the window seat and closed his eyes, perhaps to escape my piercing gaze.

Eventually, I turned to the left and looked out the window, and watched the tarmac slide in the wrong direction as we slowly pushed back from the gate, and then slide in the right direction after a bit of engine revving as we began to move forward on a not very crowded tarmac.

The flight attendants went through their pre-flight instructions and then took up their positions in the jump seats.

And we had just a bit more taxiing to go before we were preparing to take off.

And then I heard the click of a seatbelt being released to my right, and my head swiveled, and I saw him on his feet rushing into the aisle.

Now this behavior, even before 9/11, would have been a little bit disconcerting, certainly confusing.

But on this day, done by this man, it was utterly alarming.

I wished that those security officers we'd left behind were there because by their training and by their temperament they were ready to deal with this.

I am a college professor.

By temperament and by training, I'm ready to analyze data, but not-- but not to deal with a potentially dangerous man, or so I thought.

Nevertheless, I put my hand on the seatbelt and was prepared to, if necessary, unbuckle and launch myself forward and tackle him if I saw a threat.

And I watched him reach into the bag and bring out a small eight-by-eight box, expertly wrapped in shiny green paper, with a bow on top, and ribbon, and he closed the bin, and he sat back down, and set the present down in the middle seat next to him, and closed his eyes, and began to go to sleep, content that this gift-- perhaps for a child, perhaps for a spouse-- was not going to be damaged in mid-air by his suitcase.

We took off and we ascended for an uneventful flight.

And I went through the stages of relief, and then embarrassment, and then ultimately shame at my reaction to him.

We landed, went our separate ways.

I enjoyed a wonderful wedding weekend, and then I returned on an uneventful flight.

And soon I was back in the classroom with my students, teaching them social psychology, teaching my class on prejudice and stereotyping.

(audience laughter) And in that class, I have always emphasized studies about the ways in which white people often stereotype black people.

And I've justified that emphasis by pointing out that, indeed, much of the research-- a disproportionate amount of the research in the field-- has been focused on that.

But I also have my selfish reasons for focusing on that topic, because I inhabit skin that marks me as an African American and makes me a target for those very stereotypes.

And I don't want to be reduced to that stereotype, even though I know I could be.

Yes, I'm big, and, yes, I'm black but I'm not very good at basketball.

(laughter) And you might think, "Oh, I bet he's got rhythm."

But I'm the same man who was salsa dancing, and my girlfriend looked up and asked, "Michael, "do you want me to dance to the beat of the music or the beat that you're dancing to?"

(laughter) So, no, I don't fit that stereotype.

And I don't want that stereotype to blind my students to seeing who I am.

But in focusing on that, I've run the risk of missing the ways in which my own stereotypes can blind me to seeing all of who they are.

And the other people who I encounter in the world.

Including a man just trying to get home to bring a present to his loved ones.

So if stereotypes are an affliction then, yes, I should do my part to try to ensure that my students are healed.

But I should never forget that dictum: physician, heal thyself.

And I haven't yet done that, but I'm trying.

Thanks.

(cheers and applause) Stereotypes do sometimes have some usefulness.

My stereotype of librarians is that they are smart and helpful.

And that's an accurate stereotype, so relying on that stereotype is helpful.

But a lot of stereotypes are obviously often wrong, and wrongly negative.

And that's been the case for a long time for as long as people have been forming impressions of one another.

Stereotypes can be quite consequential in tragic ways.

And I'm lucky that in my case, even though I misjudged someone, I didn't act on it in a way that could have made for an awkward or even dangerous situation.

But not everyone manages in every situation to stop themselves before wrongly acting upon a stereotype.

♪ OKOKON: Can you tell me a bit about what kinds of stories you like to tell the best.

I like to tell stories that are funny, first off.

And then I also like to tell stories about really unique things that happen, or experiences that were really painful and terrible at the time, but with time, I've been able to reflect on and either make them funny, or make them something that will be new for a lot of people to hear about.

I'm very new to storytelling.

What I like about storytelling is you never know who's in the audience.

And all sorts of different people come and you never know who's going to hear your story, and who's going to need to hear it.

I celebrated my birthday with new friends on the roof of a fancy hotel in Cuba.

At some point during the night I remember looking out over the city of Havana and just reflecting on all of the madness that had brought me there.

Two years earlier I had my first kiss, and I thought she was so cool.

It didn't matter to me that she was straight and didn't date women, I knew we had to be together.

(laughter) Five months after our first kiss, we had our first date.

We rented ATVs and went off-roading.

It was a lesbian dream date.

(laughter) And things just got better from there.

She was the first person I ever dated who was a grown-up.

She had a job, she definitely didn't need me to take care of her, and we would do wild things like schedule a date night, and then go through with it.

(laughter) I was finally feeling like I was getting the hang of being the whole, like, happy, functional adult.

The first night that she hit me was in July, almost a year after our first kiss.

I went over to her house after work, and she had been drinking all night.

And I don't remember what we fought about, but after the first time she hit me, she didn't stop for over three hours.

The next morning, she was so sorry.

She blamed it on alcohol and told me she had never hit anyone else in her previous relationships.

It was probably because I was a woman.

But she promised that it wouldn't happen again.

And I believed her.

But, just in case, I said, "If you ever hit me again, I'm going to leave you."

And I believed me, too.

Unfortunately, this became our pattern.

The apologies got shorter, the bruises got darker.

A few months later, I found myself in the makeup aisle, and, being a butch lesbian, I had zero experience with makeup.

But I had to go to work, and when you work in a kitchen, they don't really let you wear scarves.

The night before, she had given me a black eye, and I woke up with red marks around my neck from where she had tried to choke me.

I remember grabbing a bottle that I think was concealer, and kind of matched my skin tone, and heading to check out.

While I was standing in line, I just remember telling myself, "Next time.

"Next time, Courtney.

Next time you're going to leave her."

But leaving an abusive relationship is incredibly hard.

I had a hundred reasons to leave her, but I had 101 reasons to stay.

I also really loved her, and I didn't want to break up with her.

I just wanted her to stop hurting me.

One morning, as I was driving to school, I was listening to NPR, and there was this story on about studying abroad.

And I was kind of only half listening.

But all of a sudden I just got this feeling over my whole body, and I knew that I had to study abroad.

I needed to get away, and I needed to do it as soon as possible.

I found a five-week program in Cuba, where I would be studying the history of social revolutions in Latin America.

I applied almost immediately.

Everything about Cuba was appealing to me.

It was far away, they have beautiful beaches there, and people from the U.S. aren't allowed to go unless they had a really official reason to.

Most people don't think of Cuba as a place that you go to gain your freedom.

For me, studying abroad in Cuba was my ticket to freedom.

While I was there I made wonderful new friends, I explored a beautiful country, and I smoked some really disgusting cigars.

(laughter) Being away helped me realize all of the things that she had been taking from me.

The happiness, and the joy that I felt in Cuba reminded me that I was going to be okay.

I also realized that I deserve to be loved by someone that doesn't hurt me.

In Cuba, I found the strength to leave when I got home.

And much like our relationship, our breakup was messy, we fought, there were angry text messages, but I was free.

And last month I silently celebrated four years since the last time that she hit me.

(cheers and applause) I think that the story went really well.

From the audience reactions that I could see, everyone seemed to be listening.

I got some "aww"s and some laughs at the right times.

And when I was practicing this story, I almost cried, and I didn't cry this time.

So it was a win for me.

Telling the story over and over again is free therapy for me.

So it's actually great.

I don't find it hard to tell anymore.

It's been four years.

So for me that's, like, enough time to be able to tell it in a way that I hope is meaningful for other people, but isn't a sad train wreck for the audience.

♪ OKOKON: Is it second nature for you to be on stage?

Is it second nature for you to tell stories?

I think it's second nature for me to tell stories because that's what I always used to do.

Every story that I've ever told on stage is a story that I've told to my friends at parties, or friends-- you know, in a much like more relaxed setting.

And that's sort of what I try to do when I... when I tell stories on stage is I try to make the audience my friends at a party.

The theme for tonight is "Tickets, please."

What does that theme mean for you?

The theme "Tickets, please," in my story it's pretty literal, it's the idea of... it's the moment of being at the gate at the airport with my mom with the flight attendant woman asking for our literal tickets to, you know, start our family.

The first time I told this story, I didn't know what it meant.

And I thought it was like a funny little anecdote.

And then in the course of telling the story over and over again, the meaning has certainly changed and it's certainly changed in light of sort of like the whole political climate too.

I think the idea of, you know, a Mexican immigrant story is... has taken on new meaning, at least for me.

♪ So, when people ask me where I'm from I usually say I'm from a lot of places.

Like based on my appearance, I usually make white people uncomfortable, but they're not like quite sure why.

So let me try to explain.

My mother was a white American overbearing Jew who grew up in Newton, Massachusetts.

And my father was an Israeli immigrant who came to the United States in the early '60s, just out of the army, and became one of the first people in New York City to sell falafel.

So to anyone where who's ever enjoyed a tasty falafel sandwich in America, on behalf of my father, you're welcome.

(laughter) And I know, like, okay, but like he looks brown, but I didn't think he was that kind of brown.

Well, that's because I'm Mexican, and I'm also part Native, so it's like all real confusing.

You don't understand what's happening.

He's... what is he?

I'm a college admissions director's wet dream is what I am.

(laughter) And I know you guys are asking like, well, like how did this crazy confluence of events like conspire to bring forth this beautiful specimen of a man you see standing here before you today.

So I'm going to try to explain it a little bit.

I'm adopted, and I was born in Mexico City.

And growing up in the suburbs of Massachusetts with my mom, I thought I had the single-- I was a pretty obnoxious child.

And I thought I had the single best retort when I got in trouble ever, which was, "Ha ha, I'm adopted, you picked me, you can't complain."

(laughter) And, for the most part, it worked.

Until one day when I was like 11 or 12, and particularly obnoxious, my mom sat me down, and I, you know, threw the thing back in her face, and said "Nah nah."

And she sat me down and said, "You know what, you're right, and I'm going to tell you how I picked you."

So I was born into a Catholic orphanage in Mexico City in 1977.

And my adopted mother had come from New York City to get... to adopt me, and got me when I was about five days old.

And we stayed with our... her family, and then now my family in Mexico City for about three or four weeks until my mom thought I was ready to travel, and we were going to go back to Queens and start our life.

And so we get to the airport, and we get to the gate, and we get... you know, they're ready to board.

And me and my mom go up to the, you know, the gangplank, and the lady says, "Tickets, please."

My mom hands over the tickets, and they say, "Oh no, I'm sorry, we-we can't let you on the plane."

You see, there's a law in Mexico at the time that makes sense that says, you know, a child cannot travel without written permission from the birth mother until they're one years old.

Which makes sense because you don't want like, you know, a bunch of babies just going wherever they choose.

(laughter) So like my mom understood it, so but she said, "No, but I... you don't understand, "there's a misunderstanding.

"I have adopted him, I have these adoption papers.

"So they supersede that rule because he's my son.

I'm his mother."

And they said, "No, I'm sorry, like that doesn't fly, we need that paper."

She said, "No, no, no, no, he's my son.

"I'm his mother.

"Like it's... this is like I'm his birth mother, these papers say that."

So they say no, they argue till they're blue in the face, and we don't get on the plane.

We don't know what to do, so my mom comes back to the family in Mexico City where she's staying, the next day she calls the orphanage, explains the situation and says, "We just need this paper signed by his birth mother."

They say, "No, I'm sorry, it's a closed adoption.

There's no contact between the birth parents and the adoptive parents once the adoption is finalized."

My mom says, "No, no, no, you don't understand, "like we don't need to see her, I just need this form signed so we can leave."

And they say, "No, no, no."

She argues with them until she's blue in the face.

So not knowing what else to do, she hires a private detective to find a Mexican woman in the city of Mexico City in the 1970s.

As you can imagine, that's not the easiest task.

After another two months, having exhausted every possibility, they're unable to locate her.

My mom is faced with the decision of spending a year in Mexico, or taking drastic measures.

She chose drastic measures.

My mom, the private detective, went down to the streets of Mexico, found a homeless woman, brought her in, cleaned her up, forged documents saying that she was my birth mother, brought her in to a Mexican court, and had her sign the document saying that we could go home.

That's crazy!

(laughter) Now, as a 12-year-old boy, sitting in my kitchen table, I'm like, "That's crazy!

Wait, does that make me illegal?"

(laughter) It makes me American.

But, thinking back on that story now, however many years later, the part that I always remember that replays in my mind is when my mother is at the gate with me trying to get on that plane and she's saying, "No, he's my son, I'm his mother," over and over again.

Because in her mind, I've always been her son.

And when I think about it, I don't know my other parents, she's always been my mother.

So that's how I know that's where I'm from.

(cheers and applause) ♪ OKOKON: Thank you so much, Dan, for that beautiful story.

Half the people I think I know in my life don't know that I'm adopted or don't know that I'm Mexican, or don't know that I'm Jewish.

So it's sort of like gives people a glimpse into something they don't know.

I also think it sort of touches upon the fact that, like, everything, everybody in America is like a melting pot, and we all have our individual, crazy stories about, like, how we got here or what makes us what or what makes us a family.

And I think that's really good to hear other perspectives in life.

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