IRENE SMALLS: I looked around and I said to the kindergarten teacher, "I'm smart enough already."

At five years old, I knew everything there was to know.

VOJISLAV DJORDJIC: And when you come to United States as a refugee, your dreams can get really big really fast.

ALEXIS NICOLE: I had to follow the rules, do what they said, and did you even know, I had to go into work day in, day out, for only $20 a week.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Against the Odds."

♪ ♪ Even if something seems possible that doesn't guarantee that it's going to happen.

And sometimes things seem completely implausible and you can still achieve them, sometimes against the greatest of odds.

Tonight's storytellers are going to be giving their stories about the moments when they defied the odds against extraordinary circumstances with humongous efforts, oftentimes with unexpected outcomes.

♪ ♪ SMALLS: My name is Irene Smalls.

I'm a storyteller, an author, a grandmother, a fashionista.

I grew up in Harlem, New York, in the 1950s, and it's my fond remembrances of Harlem that I want to share with the world.

OKOKON: I understand that your writing has taken you to the White House twice.

SMALLS: Oh yes, yes.

Can you talk a bit about the impact that storytelling has had on your life?

Well, I think storytelling is a way for us to get in touch with ourselves and to share ourselves authentically.

I mean, one of the things-- my favorite group, and the group I write for, are four- to seven-year-olds, and kindergarten is my favorite age group, because what you see is what you get.

Kindergarteners don't have an agenda.

They tell you what they think, they tell you what they like, they tell you what they don't like.

Why do you think that it's important to share authentic parts of yourself?

Why are personal stories important?

I think personal stories are important because we need to liberate ourselves from all of the strictures and, you know, kinds of background things that affect and impact us all.

Mm-hmm.

And for you to be... to stand in your truth, to really be all that you are, good, bad, and indifferent, because it's all of that in there, I think you have to be able to share your story.

♪ ♪ I grew up in Harlem, New York, in the 1950s.

Harlem was segregated.

And in Harlem, you never questioned being Black because there were a million people who looked just like you.

Harlem was absolutely heaven.

There was no crime, and the streets were so clean and so clear that you could eat off the sidewalk.

I know because every Saturday morning, my grandmother and the grandmothers from every single building on the block got down on their knees, and with buckets of bleach water-- hot, soapy bleach water-- scrubbed the foyers, scrubbed the sidewalks in front of our tenement buildings.

And we played hide-and-seek in the apartments because nobody locked their doors.

So you'd find a kid under your kitchen table, or a kid in your kitchen closet.

It was the best time of all.

Harlem was a community that loved its children.

Back in 1955, for reasons that were beyond my understanding, my mother decided to take me to school.

Now, I had run by the school building.

It had steep, gray granite steps with silver slivers in them.

And I would play tag, up and down, up and down.

You have never played tag until you're trying to catch somebody up and down steep granite steps, okay?

And so for one day, my mother takes me by the hand and leads me up those stairs, into that courtyard and into a classroom.

That school had nothing to do with me.

I looked around and I said to the kindergarten teacher, "I'm smart enough already."

(audience laughter) At five years old, I knew everything there was to know.

I said, "I don't want to learn how to read, "and I don't need to learn how to write.

My mother always said I was very smart."

And so my kindergarten teacher said, "Uh, you know, you are very smart, and we play games."

I was like, "Games?

You play games here?

I love games, I really like games."

And she goes, "Then after games, we have snacks."

I was like, "Snacks?

Oh, my goodness, I love snacks."

And I said... (sighs) "Well, I'm going to stay "in kindergarten for a little while.

"I'm going to play a few games.

"I'm going to eat lots and lots of snacks, and then I'm going home."

And I looked at my mother, and she's edging away.

And I said, "Well, I guess she could manage without me for a little while."

And my kindergarten teacher said, "Of course."

So I said, "Well, what game are we going to play first and where are the snacks?"

She said, "First, let's do this."

And she opened up a book and she read, "Little brown baby with the sparkling eyes "who's Daddy's partner and Mama's joy.

Little brown baby with the sparkling eyes."

And I-- (gasps) laughed.

I was a little brown baby.

That was what my Great Uncle Clarence called me.

I had only been in kindergarten one day and they had already written a book about me.

(audience laughter) Wow, hot diggity.

I decided right then and there, yes, I did, I said, "I'm going to stay in this kindergarten for the whole day!"

(laughter) My kindergarten teacher, she made everything we did a game.

She never said "No," she never said "Don't," and she never said "Stop," and she never said "Sit down."

We had a hat we wore for math, and then we had a little skirt we wore for spelling, and all of which we made ourselves-- yes, we did.

And then we had this crazy dance.

Oh, yes, for reading, oh, my goodness.

She had us moving and grooving all over that classroom.

And then, she would open up her mouth and out would come these musical sounds.

♪ Onomatopoeia ♪ And 20 wiggly, giggly bodies, and brown eyes and full mouths opened up and said ♪ Onomatopoeia ♪ It was many years before I knew what onomatopoeia meant.

(laughter) But I knew one thing, I was little, but I knew a big word.

Yes, I did.

Now, back in 1955, the reading text for the entire United States was "Fun with Dick and Jane."

And Dick and Jane were two white children with blonde hair and blue eyes.

And they lived in a white house with a white picket fence in the suburbs.

And they had a sister named Sally, and a dog named Spot.

Poor Dick... (laughter) Poor Sally, poor Jane-- they never played the games we played.

Being loved at PS90 and in the tenements of top floor to bottom floor relatives with the easy drawls of Charleston, South Carolina, was an experience that Dick and Jane never had.

Poor Dick, Poor Jane, poor Sally.

In the forbidden stories that my kindergarten teacher told us, Paul Laurence Dunbar, James Weldon Johnson, Countee Cullen.

In those forbidden Black children's stories was a counternarrative that we were Black and we mattered.

She was a teacher, and it is said that a teacher affects all eternity.

It was only nine months.

Nine months can make a person.

Nine months changed the rest of my life.

Once, when I was in high school, I saw my kindergarten teacher, Miss Loretta Abbott, on channel Two, PBS.

She was one of the original Alvin Ailey dancers, and she was dancing next to Alvin Ailey and one of the early versions of Revelations, his signature work.

And I said, "That's why she choreographed "the entire curriculum, because she was a dancer."

But in the lessons that she gave us... they have lasted me for a lifetime.

In feeling good about being brown, in feeling good about South Carolina, Charleston, the easy drawls and love of the people, and always remembering ♪ Onomatopoeia ♪ Thank you, Ms. Abbott.

(applause) ♪ ♪ DJORDJIC: My name is Vojislav Djordjic, everybody calls me Voja.

I was born in Sarajevo, in Yugoslavia, 50 years ago, and I immigrated to the United States as a refugee in 1998.

So I understand that this is your second time telling a story on stage.

I told one story before-- it was recorded event, virtual event, it wasn't with the audience in front of you.

And I know that you've been working on this story for some time.

Can you talk about your process and if you feel ready?

It was very difficult.

I struggled.

- Mm.

Falling apart in the middle of it was always a challenging part because it becomes so emotional that I had to take a step back and kind of leave it alone for a little bit, then go back to it again, so-- (chuckles) I'm hoping this time it's going to be better.

Fingers crossed, right?

- Fingers crossed.

- What are you hoping that the audience takes away from your story today?

One, to spend the time with people we love.

And the other may be that... no matter what the odds are, you should always dream big.

♪ ♪ My wife Daniela and her sister Alex were always very close-- not just as sisters, but as best friends.

And the news that they were pregnant just two weeks apart was very exciting for all of us.

We were looking forward to welcome two souls into our world.

My son Yeoven and my niece Katrina were born in the summer of 2000, exactly two years after we immigrated as Bosnian refugees in United States.

And when you come to United States as a refugee, your dreams can get really big really fast.

And the fact that you can't speak English and that you work entry-level jobs doesn't mean much.

What means a lot is that you are here, and that you exist.

And if you exist, you can do anything.

We were a young couple, happy, dreaming about new opportunities and the things we'll do and places we'll go.

But the life was about to take a turn for us.

When our son was about three months old, one morning he started to cry.

And as he was crying, he was losing his breath.

And at some point he just stopped breathing.

His eyes were closed, his skin was pale.

And for the first time in my life, I panicked.

I didn't know what to do.

Fear of losing a child was the worst fear I ever felt.

I called 9-1-1 and an ambulance took him shortly after.

When we arrived at the hospital, he was alive.

But something was wrong with our son.

Numerous tests followed, several surgeries, and after four months at the intensive care unit, he was completely ventilator dependent with a progressive illness that is going to leave him completely paralyzed.

After his last surgery, he was transferred to Franciscan's Children's Hospital and it became our home for a very long time.

Prognosis was not good.

Kids in his condition usually don't live long.

A couple of years in most cases, we were told.

But we didn't want to give up.

Even if we can't win, we wanted him to be happy, to get the best care he can get, and to go home as quickly as we can.

But going home meant around-the-clock care, significant nursing help, and numerous home adaptations.

And we didn't have any of it.

So it took some time to figure it out.

When he was about four years old, we bought our first house in Peabody.

It was small, but nice, and adapted to his needs.

It's a house full of love and music, but death is also present, sitting in our living room chair as an invisible guest that became part of our family a long time ago.

Alex and Katrina would visit us every night, and she would lay next to him, put her head on a pillow, read books to him, and they would watch movies and goof around.

He couldn't talk to her, but his facial expressions were enough for them to understand each other.

We had our routines, and his favorite routine was to go around for a walk-- once during the day, and once before the bedtime.

It's difficult to carry around a quadriplegic ventilator-dependent kid, but we had a system in place.

Daniela would disconnect him from the vent, she would put the Ambu bag-- it's a football-shaped device that you squeeze to mechanically push the air into his lungs.

I would pick him up with both hands, put his head on my shoulder, support his body with my right hand, and then take the Ambu bag in my left.

So we're like hugging each other.

All geared up, ready to experience the world from a different perspective.

We would run through the house, play hide-and-seek, dance to the music, even go for a neighborhood walk when it's a nice day.

So one day we go for a neighborhood walk and a couple of houses down, the Ambu bag gets disconnected, so we have to make an emergency landing.

I put him down on the neighbor's lawn and I connect the Ambu bag back.

And he's laughing so hard for the fact that his first time laying on the grass.

So we can't get back without Daniela's help.

So we are laughing and patiently waiting for someone to walk by and get Daniela to the rescue.

And I told him, "Dude, when she comes, we are grounded."

(laughter) That was our time to bond.

Walking disconnected from the vent... Where there was no limits that he usually experienced throughout his day.

I couldn't teach him how to ride a bike or ski, but I could take some limits away for an hour at a time and do our walk.

But that couldn't last forever.

He was growing and I was getting older, and by the time he was 12, I couldn't carry him safely around anymore.

And we started to lose our bonding time.

As he was growing, his needs were growing, too.

I ran a small business, construction company, and I started to take on bigger jobs, traveling out of state sometimes, being away for months, coming home for weekends only.

So we are losing, slowly, we are losing our connection.

And I wasn't part of his life as much.

With the exception of the time of crisis, when all of my projects mean nothing anymore, and his daily routines are replaced with... struggle to stay alive.

Yeoven is 22, and against all the odds, he's still alive.

He's using communication device that tracks his eyes.

He loves school, and he attends classes remotely.

Katrina is almost graduating college.

She helps with his care, and she's a beautiful young lady that's easy to love.

I'm not working as much anymore.

I spend more time with him, and we have our quality time together.

I cherish every day that we spend together.

He taught me more about life than I could ever teach him.

He taught me how to be patient and fearless.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ ♪ NICOLE: My name is Alexis Nicole.

I currently reside in East Hartford, Connecticut.

I'm a mom of five, and I work with the mentally disabled.

OKOKON: And our theme for this evening is "Against the Odds."

Why does this theme matter to you?

What does it mean for you?

This theme means so much to me because against the odds, I mean, that sounds impossible, right?

But you're looking at someone who did, and so I just thought that this would be such an amazing way for me to give back and share and hopefully touch someone else's life as well.

Have you shared these parts of your life with your children?

Well, my oldest, yes, because she's 20.

But my younger kids, they're too young to have known what happened in the past, so they don't know.

What impact do you think that it will have for your children to learn about your story?

I think it will give them a newfound respect for me, just knowing that they can kind of, like, tie it all together between where we were to where we are, and realize, like, wow, Mommy went through a lot, but she definitely was able to pull through.

♪ ♪ Look to the left of you, and then look to the right.

Only one percent of you will remain sober.

Well, that's what my drug counselor told me, as I sat in a room of a hundred of my peers.

One percent?

You've got to be kidding me.

What's the point of all this?

I mean, isn't it a waste of time?

See, this is Angel's fault.

It seems as if she always gets me into something.

Angel dust, that is.

You see, when I was a kid, a teenager at that, I tried weed, it was harmless.

But as I got into my mid-20s, I started to do the hard stuff, and PCP became my drug of choice.

And you see, with PCP, it's like, you're in Never Never Land.

Well, that's what I call it.

It's a place where you never have to remember, never need to think, never need to care.

And the most important thing of all, is never need to stop.

And see, with Angel, I could be anything.

I was invincible, I was strong, I was powerful, and I was mighty.

But the funny thing about her is that she used to always get me into trouble.

Every time I turned around, there I am.

Trouble presents, in my way.

I remember this one time, I was running from the police.

One shoe on, one shoe off, and I'm running for my life.

I didn't even care that the police were chasing after me.

And I had to ask myself, how could I get there?

I mean, I grew up in a good neighborhood.

I had the nicer things.

I was an A student, I was a ballerina, and I was on the swim team.

My parents used to be so proud of me.

Maybe it was because of the games I used to play with my family member that seemed a little bit too touchy-feely.

Or how about the fact that I became a mother at 16?

Do you know my mom was so upset, she even told me to probably take an abortion, And I said no.

I'd already been five months.

I had hid the pregnancy for most of the term.

I was so in love.

I have to admit it.

I loved my boyfriend, I loved the fast life, and most importantly, I loved drugs.

You see, when you're on drugs, it's like a spiritual connection.

Angel, of course.

See, she was always with me, no matter what.

Even when my boyfriend ditched me, even when my mom wasn't around, even when I lost my kids, she was always there.

It was like she was my best friend.

One time, I was on my last binge, and my son came to me and said, "Mommy, Mommy, "why is it that every time you go into the bathroom and you come back out, you act a little different?"

And then it hit me.

He knew.

See, I used to go in the bathroom, and I thought I was only in there for five minutes.

But little did I know, it was over an hour.

I couldn't hide it anymore.

Not for my kids, and not for myself.

But it was just so hard to quit.

I had to do something.

But see, I still kept going, because there she was.

She showed up every time.

And then here we go, I lost my apartment.

I couldn't even get high anymore.

I couldn't do it around my children and I had no place to go.

So it was raining one time.

And I was going to meet some friends at a soup kitchen.

So then I decided, okay, let's go get something to eat.

Of course, my friend didn't show up, but I still went anyway.

And there we were, getting some food, making a few friends.

And then I decided, after I ate, hmm, maybe I'll go ask the pastor if maybe he would give me a few dollars, so I could score, right?

So I go up to the pastor and I ask him, "Hey, do you have a few bucks?"

And he says, "Well, where do you live?"

And I said, "Well, I live around the corner."

And instantly he knew I was lying.

It was just that obvious.

Shamefully convicted, I had to tell him the truth.

"Sir... "I have been couch surfing for the last few months.

"I have nowhere to go, and my kids are with their dad."

He said, "I think I know a place."

He went into his office, he made a few calls, and then he comes back out and he says, "Alexis, I can get you in somewhere, "but you have to admit that you have a drug or alcohol problem."

"Anywhere but the rain, sir."

So I went.

It just seemed like it was a short amount of time, but it really was a long one.

Ten months of agonizing, excruciating pain-- for me.

I had to follow the rules, do what they said.

And did you even know, I had to go into work day in, day out, for only $20 a week.

And then we'd go to NA, then we would go to therapy.

And that was my life.

Three months, six months, ten months.

I'm still here.

I don't even know why I stayed.

Something in me was, "Just stay.

You have to do it, you have to keep going."

And so I did.

Where else was I going to go?

So I made the commitment.

I stuck it out, and then, I was able to get my kids back.

You would think life would be great after that, right?

But it wasn't, of course.

I still had to deal with life on life's term.

I still had to be able to pay my bills.

So, I did what most people do.

Go to work, do your job.

And that was that.

I finally was able to get my kids and talk to them about what was going on.

And they were so excited to see the new me.

Now I'm a mom, now I'm doing what I'm supposed to do.

But it just seemed like I still had this thing.

And even though I didn't see Angel anymore, I still had to be truthful.

Life can suck.

But when you're staying positive with it, things get better.

And so what did I do?

I never saw Never Never Land again.

I was able to be able to cope with life.

I was able to find my happy place.

And you know what?

I'm a mother, I'm a wife, I'm a businesswoman.

But you know what's the most important thing?

I'm the one percent.

I'm 100% clean.

(applause) Thank you.

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