♪ MARVIN WELLS: I spent all my money, but, man, I put together two outfits that were so sharp, you could cut cheese with them.

RILDA KISSEL: So the babies were just crawling around with their onesies hanging, and it made me so sad.

CHANDREYEE LAHIRI: And then we blew up my water wings.

We pulled them on nice and tight to keep me safe.

I just skipped happy circles around the living room.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "All Dressed Up."

♪ ANNOUNCER: This program is made possible in part by contributions from viewers like you-- thank you.

HAZARD: Whenever I hear the term, "all dressed up," it's sort of accompanied with a sense of disappointment, because of course, the second half of that phrase that we're all familiar with is, "All dressed up and nowhere to go."

You've taken the time to get prepped, getting decked out in your finest finery, because you're expecting an important phone call or an exciting date, or you're going to be called up onstage to get some great award-- and then for whatever reason, it doesn't happen.

You're supposed to feel let down.

But I say forget all that.

You look good, and you know it.

What's better than that?

That's the reward already.

That sense of confidence, that sense of self, and that's a lot like storytelling-- when you share a part of your true self up in front of people, and they just go, (clicks tongue): "All right, I got you."

And that's what you're going to be feeling a lot tonight.

♪ WELLS: My name is Marvin Wells.

I'm a stand-up comic.

I've been doing comedy for 23 years.

Been promoting concerts for the past 30 years.

So entertainment and performing arts is something that I've always been involved with, and it's something I truly love.

And so you've been a comedian for over two decades now, and I'm just wondering what about that specific performance medium really appeals to you?

What do you love about comedy?

WELLS: Man, comedy is phenomenal.

The thing that I love the most about it is people really, truly depend on comics to ease their pain, you know?

They depend on us to do that for them.

That's what makes me take it serious, and that's why I love it so much.

HAZARD: Would you say there's a big difference between you as a comic and you as a storyteller?

If I was going to go watch you do both, would there be a lot of similarities or would, would it be more different than...

I would say different, because onstage as a comic, I'm very animated, you know?

Lot of energy.

But as a storyteller, I step back from the animation, you know, it's, it's natural, so I have to control myself.

You know, I want to wheel my arms and make faces and things like that.

But it's just a matter of slowing things down and telling the story.

Now, the difference between comedy, they don't want to hear a long story, they want you to get right to the punch line.

So this is interesting in the sense that these people want to hear all the intricate details of how you got on the roof or whatever the case is.

I graduated high school in 1981.

I grew up in Boston.

And right out of high school, I was fortunate enough to get a job working for Don Law Concerts at the Boston Garden.

Don Law is one of the largest promoters in the country.

So he promoted huge stars.

Stars like AC/DC, Van Halen, J. Geils, and that's just to name a few.

We did a show with the group Journey, and Don Law gave all the members of the band these long, white boxes.

And I remember Stephen Perry opening his box like a kid on Christmas morning.

Then he pulls out a telescope, he goes, "Whoa!"

I mean, it was like the greatest thing he's ever seen.

He starts joking about being able to look in one of the other band member's window.

It was phenomenal.

After one concert, they got us all together, and they say, "Guys, listen.

"Next month, we have two shows coming up with Diana Ross.

We need everyone in suits and ties that night."

Now, when I heard "Diana Ross," I got excited.

I grew up listening to Diana Ross.

My mother loved Diana Ross, I love Diana Ross, I have every single album she's ever made.

So I spent the next month, and all my money, but, man, I put together two outfits that were so sharp, you could cut cheese with them.

(laughter) So the day of the first concert, I'm dressed, and, man, I am sharp.

I was so proud of the way I looked.

My tie matched my handkerchief and my socks.

(laughter) And to be honest, you know, this is Diana Ross.

I wanted to be prepared for whatever.

I had on a matching pair of boxers too.

(laughter) So I get to the Garden, all the guys are there.

You know, we're complimenting each other on how sharp we look.

Then we go backstage, and we're in position.

There were all sorts of media personnel there, people from radio stations, television stations-- but no Diana.

We didn't know where she was.

And then all of a sudden, some guy comes from behind a curtain and says, "All right, guys, she's getting ready to go onstage, we need everyone out of here."

So we cleared the backstage area.

He comes back a few minutes later, eyes wide open, and he screams, "Guys!

I said I need everyone out of here."

And we said, "Everyone is out of here.

We're security."

He says, "If she comes out of that room and sees one face, "this show is canceled.

I need you guys out of here."

Now, it was our boss that told us where to stand, so only he could tell us to leave.

It held up the concert 20 minutes while he ran around looking for our boss, who came backstage with a very reluctant look on his face and asked us to leave the backstage area so Diana Ross could go onstage.

And we left.

Now, I'm thinking, "You know, maybe she's like that, you know, "the beginning of the show, she wants to concentrate.

I get it."

At the end of the concert, it was the same thing.

We had to leave the backstage area so Diana Ross could get offstage.

So the next day, I show up at the Garden, I didn't want anything to do with any of that backstage fiasco.

So I said to my-my supervisor, I said, "Do you mind if I just work the entrance to the backstage?"

He says, "Sure, no problem."

And I remember standing there, all dressed up for nothing.

I mean, I'm not even going to lay eyes on this woman.

And then I looked up.

And coming down the hall was the great middleweight champion of the world, Marvelous Marvin Hagler.

(laughter) And he was looking sharp, he was in a suit and tie.

So as he got closer to me, he started smiling.

And I could tell by the look on his face, he was saying, "Man, look at this sharp young man right here."

(laughter) He put his hand out to shake my hand when he was still 20 feet away from me.

I've got Marvin Hagler coming at me like this, smiling.

When I shook his hand, the only thing I could muster up enough strength to say: "My name's Marvin too."

(laughter) He said, "All Marvins are marvelous."

And hearing that from him made my day, absolutely.

Now, here's the sweetest part of the whole story.

Three, maybe four years later, a couple of buddies and myself were hanging out at the Marriot Long Wharf, having some drinks, and I heard someone say, "Hey, Marvin Hagler's at the bar."

When I heard that, I pushed through that crowd like my long-lost brother was at the bar.

I get to the bar, I don't know what gave me the confidence to do this, but I did.

I threw myself in front of him, and I said, "Hey, do you remember me?"

He looks me up and down...

"Marvin!"

(laughter) Thank you, guys.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ HAZARD: Marvin Wells!

My passion for storytelling began as, if you will, a story listener.

Growing up in the South, and my grandfather, whenever he went hunting, he'd come back with these phenomenal stories, and I would sit there and listen to every word.

I'm the type of person, anytime someone has a story to share, I'm game, I'll listen.

♪ KISSEL: My name is Rilda Kissel, and I live in Melrose, Massachusetts, with my husband Alex.

And I have two kids that are four and seven.

And I work in higher-education administration as an academic adviser at the Harvard Graduate School of Education.

And I am a runner, and I'm training for my first marathon.

How many times have you done live storytelling onstage before?

Counting today?

HAZARD: Mm-hmm.

This is my third.

Oh, wow, okay.

KISSEL: Yeah.

HAZARD: Early on in the career.

KISSEL: Right.

Very exciting.

I'm just curious, do you see yourself doing this in the long term?

Do you want to keep coming back and evolving new stories, and... What I've learned is that your story doesn't have to be this big, monumental event or tragedy, that there's stories in the everyday.

And so sometimes, when I have time to think, I think, like, "That's a story, and this is a story, and this is a story."

And I-I-I can't wait to have the time to kind of finesse that and work with it and see what else I can come up with.

So I'm just interested, why are you telling this particular story tonight?

I think there's a lot of different themes in my story that might resonate with different people-- um, themes about loss and big decisions and grief and adulthood.

And so I feel like it could be helpful to others, and I feel like writing it and telling it is helpful to me.

So, selfishly, it's part therapy.

But I've told it before, and people have come up to me and said, you know, "That line" or "that piece of it really struck me."

And to me, that makes it all worth it.

The minute I walked in, I was overwhelmed.

The sights, the sounds, I was hot.

It was the blazer.

I'm wearing a blazer, because blazers are what adults wear when they're doing things that are big and important.

And I had no idea what I was doing.

The staff member started the tour.

"This building has been recently renovated," she was saying.

But I wasn't listening.

I was scanning the room.

There were snacks in one corner, crafts in another, bright art on the walls.

It looked like naptime for some.

Then I was scanning their faces.

"Do they look happy?

Loved?"

Shoot, there's a pause.

I should ask a question.

"Tell me about your staff ratios."

What am I even doing here?

If I didn't have to work, I could be home with her.

Shoot, another pause.

"And how long have you been here?"

And what does this all cost?

Is it by the day?

The week?

I am a jerk for even thinking about that.

The tour goes on forever, but finally we're by the door.

She's saying something about a musician who comes on Tuesdays.

I take one final scan.

Does this place get good light?

Check.

"Well, this has been so helpful.

Thank you so much."

And I'm out.

I make it to my car, I lose the blazer, I throw the pamphlets on the seat, and I let out a deep breath.

And then the déjà vu, the last time I felt overwhelmed by a big, important decision.

It was when I was choosing a day care for my son.

I was pregnant, and I toured the place, and all I remember is that infant room.

See, you know how onesies have those three little snaps in the crotch?

You snap them up for the baby.

Well, this place, to make the diaper changes faster, they didn't snap those snaps.

So the babies were just crawling around with their onesies hanging, and it made me so sad.

(laughter) "This has been so helpful.

I will be in touch," and I left.

And here I am again, having to find care for someone that I love.

But today, I have toured a nursing home for my mom.

I don't know how we got to the tour.

I know there were too many Post-It notes around their house.

I know she took a bike ride that ended in a police search.

I know she was diagnosed at 67 years old.

I know I found my picture in their house with the words, "This is my daughter" scribbled on the back.

I know she took a walk in the middle of the night-- second police search.

I know I had to talk to Dad about getting more help.

I do not know the last time I talked with my mom, just she and I, without the disease, because I didn't know it was the last time.

Because it's Alzheimer's, and Alzheimer's is like the sunset.

You lose the light so gradually you don't notice until it is dark.

I am losing her like a sunset.

And I have no idea how to navigate any of this.

I have nothing to go on, except for one conversation.

I was in college, and we were at a bagel shop.

This woman walked by, clearly unwell.

Mom said, "Ril, if I ever get like that, you put me somewhere."

"Sure, Mom."

"No, I mean it.

"I don't want to wander around, and I don't want to be a burden, "so you put me somewhere.

As long as it's bright, you know, "with good light, I'll be fine."

"Okay, Mom."

A few years ago, I passed on the hanging-onesie day care, and I put my baby boy in a home day care, because the woman who ran it wore the same perfume as my aunt.

(laughter) It turned out fine.

I guess I thought when it was time to make the big, important, adult decisions, I would feel big and important and adult.

But what I am learning is that none of us know what we're doing.

Adult decision-making, it's all about the blazer and the onesies and the perfume.

And the cataloged conversations from a bagel shop.

So I will do it.

I will find her the right nursing home, and she will be safe, and she will be loved, and she will be surrounded in good light.

(applause) ♪ My mom is still sick.

And I'm still dealing with all this.

So on some days it's hard to tell and hard to think about, um.... but I think it's also cathartic.

And just now, like, I was walking out of the studio, and a woman grabbed my hand and said, "My mom has Alzheimer's."

And we kind of had a moment where we were kind of like, "I feel you."

And that makes it all worthwhile, because I connected with somebody.

♪ LAHIRI: My name is Chandreyee Lahiri.

I was born in Kolkata, India.

And I currently live in Waltham, in Massachusetts.

I'm an environmental professional, a working mom, and now, I guess, a storyteller.

And I'm wondering, how has your culture and your experience as a child of moving among so many different locations... how has that affected your storytelling?

Identity is not a very fixed concept in my mind.

Every time we moved, uh, it was about figuring out who I was and how I fit into the new community that I'd gone to, the new culture.

So I think I've always seen stories everywhere.

Nothing is what it seems, and nobody has to be one thing.

What's your process like when you're crafting your stories?

I think it's when I feel a compulsion.

I think it's when something happens, or I realize something.

This particular story I'm telling today came about because I had a memory, something triggered me in my day-to-day life and made me feel isolated, and it made me flash back to this random incident.

And I thought about it a little bit, and it helped me realize how it worked then and how it relates to me as I am now, where I am now.

So I like to write it all out, or say it all out.

And then I'll pick and choose and usually within one piece, there will be five different stories.

And I try and pick out an arc and say, "This is the story I'm going to focus on now."

And then I tell it, and I try and think of what I'm trying to say, and then I move on to the next story.

I was six years old when we moved to the city of Doha in the Middle East.

There were a few weeks of summer left before I was to start school, and I spent them mostly by myself, playing in the apartment that we rented.

I was really looking forward to school.

Really, I was looking forward to making friends, because until then, I hadn't had any.

There were no kids my age in the apartment building in Nairobi, where we had moved from.

Truth be told, I was also a little bit nervous, because I was going to a British school, and, frankly, English for me was a problem.

I spoke fluent Bengali, from my part of India.

I even had a little broken Swahili from my time in Kenya.

But then my mother got to work in the few weeks, gave me this crash course on the language, and we hoped I'd be okay.

Right towards the end of summer, one day, my mom and I bumped into these two girls in my building.

Their names were Linda and Hannah.

Right around my age, maybe a year older.

Best of all, they went to the same school as me, so it was pretty perfect.

I mean, my mom came and brokered introductions amongst all three of us, and (snaps fingers) like that, I had friends.

Technically potential friends, but I didn't care.

That night, I went to bed just dreaming of tea parties and cops and robbers and all these cool games that I couldn't play by myself all these years.

Now, in those days, I used to also have a designated time-out spot, you know, for my bratty moments.

Because like all other six year olds, I had them.

Mine was the doormat outside our apartment on the little landing there.

And on the day that I'm talking about, I was occupying it for dumping out my milk.

Now, I don't know why this is, but at that time, the only milk we got in Doha, in Qatar, came from this disgusting powder.

It was vile.

And I was forced to drink it every day, and I had no idea what strong bones meant.

And so I looked for chance every single day to sneak into the bathroom, and I did what had to be done.

You know, and it was a brilliant plan, it worked every single time until the day it did not.

And I was sent to my doormat in time out.

And so I was standing there.

I was told to think about what I had done, so I was thinking about what I had done and how I could do it better and not get busted the next time.

(laughter) So I was standing there, and I heard this giggling, and I looked.

And on the landing just below me were Hannah and Linda, my friends.

They were whispering amongst themselves, and then one of them marched up... Linda, I'm pretty sure it was Linda.

And she goes, "Hey!

"You want to go swimming with us up on the roof?

There's a pool up there."

Did I want to...

I forgot about staying on my mat, and I ran inside to go ask my mom.

I didn't even get into trouble for breaking time out, because she was so excited, she canceled it.

She ran out, and she set it all up.

3:00 p.m. sharp, the girls would come and get me, my friends.

They left, and we got me all dressed up.

My brand-new, bright red bathing suit with the matching flip-flops with the teeny-tiny plastic cherries on the toes that I loved so much I wanted to eat them.

But I didn't.

And then we blew up my water wings.

We pulled them on nice and tight to keep me safe.

Ma went back to her cooking in the kitchen, all her motherly chores, and I just skipped happy circles round the living room, wishing I could speed up time somehow.

Around 2:30 I stationed myself at the door.

Because I was not going to let my friends Linda and Hannah ring more than one time.

One doorbell, I was going to get it.

But then I found out that waiting can be kind of boring, especially when you're six years old.

And so I pulled my little toy piano over to me.

It was blue and red and had a picture of a white bunny painted on top.

There was this song that I was trying to learn on it, "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina."

(laughter) My parents would sing it all the time round the house, and I was dying to play along with them, you know, like the real musician that I was, in my head, at least.

And I sat there, plunking away on it, waiting for the doorbell to ring.

3:00 came, no doorbell.

3:30 came, no doorbell.

4:00 p.m. By now I'd given up on the piano, and I stood there with my ear, like, glued to the door.

If I head one footstep, I was going to... And I heard footsteps.

I heard the sound of running feet and giggling and laughing going right past my door.

And by the time I'd opened it and poked my head out, the stairwell was empty.

I heard the sound of the giggling receding and getting farther and the metal door to the roof clanged.

And then there was silence.

I stood there for a minute, trying to figure out what had happened and soaking it in.

And then I went to the kitchen where my mom was, and I pulled off those water wings, and I flung them at her, hurled them.

Now, in an Indian household, when you disrespect a parent, the consequences are severe, we'll say.

I don't know what she would do to me for actually throwing something at her.

My mom took one hard look at my face, she turned off the stove, came up to me, and then she kneeled down, and she pulled me into a hug.

My ma carried me into the living room and sat me down on the floor.

We sat with my toys scattered all around me.

And I sobbed into her soft cotton sari.

And...

I don't know if she cried along with me and for me, but I don't even know how long it was before I noticed that she'd pulled that little toy piano towards her and she'd started picking out a tune.

The keys were so tiny, she had to use the tips of her finger, and she kept plunking out that tune over and over again while I watched from her lap, exhausted and hiccupping on that last wave of tears.

And she wouldn't give up.

She kept playing it over and over until I had quieted down the whole way.

And then she peered into my face, and she said, "Would you like to try now?"

And that was how I learned how to play "Don't Cry for Me, Argentina."

(laughter) Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ The one thing I hope people can take away from my story tonight is when people behave in unpredictable and unexpected ways, pausing for just a second to imagine what they may be going through is sometimes worth it for you.

But it almost always benefits the other person.

I think it's a way to break down the barriers between us and understand each other.

ANNOUNCER: This program is made possible in part by contributions from viewers like you-- thank you.

♪