(light music) - Welcome to "Stories From the Stage" produced by WORLD Channel and WGBH Boston in partnership with Massmouth.

Each episode, ordinary people stand up in front of a live studio audience and tell a story based on a theme.

I'm Liz Cheng.

- And I am Patricia Alvarado Nunez and we helped create "Stories from the Stage."

(light music) It is the stories about coming to America that most resonate with people.

- The girl who was the inspiration for the DREAM Act - The teenager from Congo fleeing after witnessing the political murder of his father.

- Or that young man from Mexico who arrived in an oil drum.

- And the Filipino girl who discovered she was undocumented on a trip to Canada.

- While the tellers and their circumstances certainly illustrate vast differences, the stories really discover what we ultimately have in common.

You come away asking what if that had happened to me?

Would I have still come to this country?

Welcome to part one of something we're calling Coming to America, Making a Connection.

- Kids today know that this land was not discovered by Europeans.

- But many calendars still celebrate Columbus Day and not Indigenous Peoples Day.

- So the first Western records of immigration were actually the European settlements you know, Jamestown colonies, and they Mayflower pilgrims.

- And back then people came mostly 'cause they wanted to.

And increasingly, large numbers of Africans were also kidnapped and brought here as slaves.

- It was not the land of opportunity for everybody.

- Despite this mixed history, waves of people continue to arrive because of the promise of a better life, and for familiar reasons.

- To find work.

- To raise a family.

- To escape oppression and violence.

- Or because they were forced to come.

Patricia, as an immigrant, why did you come to Boston?

- I came to Boston from Panama to attend grad school and to find opportunity.

And you know, it has been quite a journey.

(laughing) How about you?

- Well, my parents emigrated from what was known back then as mainland China, to pursue graduate degrees and chose not to return because of communism.

So I guess you could say they came for opportunity but ended up staying for political reasons.

- So what have changed over 500 years?

- The countries of origin, and if they are welcomed or not.

- Well, you know that once we get here (laughing) each new wave of immigrants suffer resentment, discrimination and even violence from more established groups.

- And I'm always surprised by the number of people including Chinese Americans who don't know about Chinese Exclusion Act, the first US law to exclude an entire people from immigrating.

- America has a love/hate relationship with most immigrants.

- Oh yeah.

Storyteller Roxy Azari discovers the bad and the good, ironically during a ferry ride to Ellis Island.

AZARI: I'm working three demanding jobs, and tomorrow is Sunday, the one day I have all to myself.

As an important aside, I'm Iranian, and I was raised to do a few things really well.

To know how to get guests to never stop eating, to always be humble, to be very family-oriented, and to always respect my elders.

Thus, when my great-uncle, who's 85 years old, asked me if I can show around his friend New York City for the first time, who's visiting America for the first time, saying no is not only not in my vocabulary, it's not even a thought that crosses my mind.

And it's forecast to rain this day, and I just keep thinking, "What will I do with this 76-year-old man on this cloudy day?"

And my great-uncle keeps telling me, "He's a historian.

"Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty "are all he can talk about.

Take him there."

So, I meet him and he speaks with these eager five-year-old eyes.

And for a split second, it feels like I'm meeting myself if I were a 76-year-old man.

It's just because he's so excited about everything.

The air, public transportation, New York City magnets.

I kid you not, he spoke to me about pigeons, and I was like, "If you like our pigeons, wait till you see our rats."

(laughter) And so he doesn't speak English.

So the whole time, we're conversing in Farsi.

And he tells me that it has taken him years to get his tourist visa, and that it has been his lifelong dream to see America.

And every two minutes, like clockwork, He keeps telling me, "You are so lucky to be born here, to live here."

And at one point he brings up the pigeons again, and he's like, "Even your pigeons look more free."

(laughter) And so we stopped to buy this I Heart New York magnet, and his face is harboring the smile that feels way too impossibly large to be cradled by the square footage of his wrinkles.

"I am so lucky," he tells me, "to be able to visit America."

So we get on this boat to go to Ellis Island.

The clouds are looming over us.

There's a couple in bright yellow ponchos sitting in front of us.

And yet somehow everything still feels so beautiful because his joy is just so contagious.

And at one point on the ferry ride, he turns to me and says, (speaking Farsi)-- "I have fallen in love with America."

He asked if it's okay for us to take a photo to remember the moment, and I'm like, "Yeah, sure, just do it fast," because it really looks like it's about to pour.

And so he's like, "Let me ask, I think I know how to ask in English."

And so he leans into the couple in front of us.

He has an accent, but it's very clear what he's trying to say.

"Es-queeze me."

No response.

"Es-queeze me."

No response.

He lightly taps them.

"Es-queeze me."

And I'm sitting there thinking maybe they don't understand him, or maybe they can't hear him.

And so I'm like, "Let me help, let me chime in with my American tongue."

And I'm like, "Excuse me, would you mind just taking a photo..." and the woman's neck twitches, and she slightly turns right, as if to almost acknowledge us.

But she's intercepted by her husband snatching her arm, warning her, "Don't help them."

The silence that takes over my body is deafening.

My heart is somehow both shattered and numb all in the same moment.

And at this point, it's raining, which is, ironically, really convenient, because it helps me in successfully hiding that there are tears falling down my face.

And all I keep thinking about is how do I translate this moment to this man who literally just spent the last two hours telling me how he is in love with America?

How do I tell him that the same America that he loves doesn't love him back?

And I'm trying to pretend like everything is okay, but he knows that it isn't.

He asks me what they said, and another tear falls.

And he knows.

Without me saying a single word, he knows.

Hatred doesn't need a translation.

He looks like the wind is knocked out of him for a split second, and then he puts his head down and he looks back up, and he's like, "Look, there it is, "the Statue of Liberty.

Come, come, let's just take a selfie," and he literally uses the word "selfie."

He's like, (speaking Farsi) And it was the sweetest thing.

And as we're trying to take this selfie, another couple sees us, and asked if we need a hand with that.

And before I can say anything, he's already on it.

Like, "Yes, photo, please.

Thank you."

And then he motions with his hands if he can take-- do the same for them.

And they understand.

Without him saying a single word, they understand.

It turns out love also doesn't need translation.

And as he's taking their photo, he turns to me and says, "You mustn't let people like that get to you.

There's still beauty in this world."

I smile, wipe away any evidence of tears, and we continue on our ride into Ellis Island.

- So Liz, we both had this experience of people turning away because we are different.

- Absolutely.

Patricia.

It's funny, at a recent high school reunion, a friend reminded me that I had theorized about people's reactions to me.

I said, "One third would love me.

One third would be entirely indifferent.

And one third would hate me."

(laughing) - So perhaps like Roxy, we should concentrate on those who want to know and connect with us.

- And Roxy also said it was important to encourage others to speak up and make a difference.

- So the reason why it's really important to me to pass on this passion of writing and using your voice is because I know what a powerful tool it was for me in my life.

And especially with so much hate going on in the world.

I feel like more voices need to be heard in order for action and change to come.

- Thank goodness, many of our storytellers describe at least one person or organization that made a difference for them.

- In the case of Tereza, who became the inspiration for the DREAM Act, it was three people and the US government.

When I was seven years old, my dad called my brothers and me into the living room for a very important family meeting.

He said, "I have a very serious secret to tell you kids.

"You cannot discuss this outside of the family.

"We are undocumented.

"There's this thing called a green card and a citizenship, "and we have neither.

"We're not technically supposed to be staying here.

"We're supposed to go to Brazil," where I was born, "or South Korea.

"It's complicated.

"You cannot tell anyone outside of this family about our status.

"We might get separated.

That is why you cannot tell anyone."

The kind of fear that you grow up with as an undocumented child is all pervasive.

It's...

I've had many discussions with my friends who share the same... similar stories of recurring nightmares, of paramilitary police raids, of our families being taken away, or worse.

And with that fear comes a sense of isolation.

Like many undocumented kids, I also grew up very poor.

Um... our basement flooded every time it rained.

We didn't have furniture or beds.

There was no heat or hot water.

Some days we went without food.

And I remember my mom teaching me how to squash the bugs with my fingernails so that my hands wouldn't get too dirty.

But what I did have was the piano.

At that time, I started learning how to play the piano at my dad's church.

And my dad was a pastor who was unable to gather a large enough congregation to apply for a religious worker's visa.

But there was a parishioner who, after seeing how poorly we were living, she donated brand new furniture, including a piano for me.

I fell in love with the piano.

And it brought me joy, and a sense of purpose, and even a respite from the harsher realities of life.

I started accompanying my church services, and my high school choir.

I won some local piano competitions.

I also got a scholarship, full scholarship to Merit School of Music to study with world-class teachers, and also made friends there with other students that are passionate about music.

And soon I won a very big and important competition, which led me to perform the Tchaikovsky "Piano Concerto" with the world-famous Chicago Symphony Orchestra.

And I was the first inner-city kid in Chicago's history to have won.

(cheers and applause) The artistic director of Merit School of Music, Ann Monaco, called me up to her office and said... asked what colleges I was planning on applying to.

And as an undocumented kid, I didn't think that college was a possibility for me.

And even if I did get in college and got a scholarship, there were no DREAM teams at that time.

There were no undocumented activists, there were no support groups or public sympathy.

There was just me, a frightened 17-year-old girl and her confused teacher, who I told, I said, "I'm not going to college," and I left it at that.

And Ann Monaco, she kept her composure, and proceeded to print out ten college application forms, handed them to me, and said, "Fill them out as much as you can and bring them back to me tomorrow."

I did as I was told, I brought them back to her the next day, and she immediately noticed the missing social security number.

And I burst into tears, I confessed to her that I was undocumented, and, please, don't report me to the police because I cannot responsible for separating my family.

Instead of reporting me to the police, what she did instead was to help me, and which led her... which led us to Senator Dick Durbin's office.

Senator Dick Durbin's office looked into my case, and he saw that there was a broken and outdated unjust system, and he decided to write a bill.

And other undocumented students heard about this bill, and started coming forward to share their stories.

And Senator Durbin realized that he needed to redraft the bill into a larger bill.

And that bill, that bill became known as the DREAM Act.

(cheers and applause) In 2001, I was able to go to college.

I got a full scholarship into Manhattan School of Music, in New York City.

And on September 11th of that year, I was getting ready to fly to Washington D.C. for a hearing on the DREAM Act.

When all flights were canceled due to the terrorist attacks, the mood of our country changed that day.

Aside from all of the horrors that we all felt, what it meant for the DREAM Act was that any immigrant-friendly legislation was out of the question.

But what happened after that since then, over the years, DREAMers started coming out of the shadows to tell their stories, to march, and to demonstrate, and to support one another.

And, most importantly, to win public support.

A lot of us in the movement are starting to realize that the DREAM Act was just a seed that was growing, and growing into a larger movement that is needed for a broader comprehensive immigration reform.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) Thank you.

(audience applauding) (light music) - So, Patricia, do you have someone who made a difference for you?

- Actually, Liz, I think many people along the way made the difference for me.

People who didn't judge me because of my accent, or my looks, people who saw beyond all these things and gave me opportunities to work or became my friend, and also told me that I had a place at the table, even when I didn't know I had one.

And because of all these human connections and the importance of these human connections I love Rosanna Salcedo's story so much.

- Me too.

Both of my parents immigrated from the Dominican Republic to New York City in the 1960s after the Trujillo dictatorship, when they were in their teens.

They came independently of each other, neither of them having received much formal education.

My mother became a factory worker in a sweatshop on Delancey Street.

My father was a physical laborer.

Eventually they met and married, and they had this sweet girl two years later.

When I was three, and my father was 25, my family got its first big break.

My father knew someone who knew someone who knew a landlord who needed a superintendent for his building on 187th Street and Cabrini Boulevard in Washington Heights, New York City.

My father went to talk to the landlord.

The landlord explained that the superintendent would be responsible for making sure that the building always had heat and hot water, for fixing things when they were broken, for removing trash from the building several times a week, and keeping the building clean.

In return, the super and his family would be allowed to live in a windowless two-bedroom apartment in the basement, rent-free, and would receive a modest salary.

My father was thrilled.

He eagerly accepted the position.

This would allow us to live in a more affluent neighborhood than we could afford, it would allow me and my brothers to attend a better public school, and it would allow my mother to be a stay-at-home mom.

To subsidize my father's salary, my mother would often clean apartments in the building after he came home from work.

One of the women for whom she cleaned was Edith Masabav.

She was an elderly Jewish woman who lived directly above us on the first floor, and she got to know us really well.

The windows to Edith's apartment overlooked the front of the building.

And in good weather, when my brothers and I played on the sidewalk, Edith would sit by her kitchen window and watch us playing for hours.

Eventually she would reach out, wave, and call out, "Hi, Rosie, hi, Angel."

And we would stop what we were doing and smile and wave back, but we couldn't really communicate, because we didn't speak much English.

Edith told my mother that she would be willing to meet with me on a regular basis to help improve my English-language skills in preparation for school.

My mother gratefully accepted the offer.

I began to meet with Edith twice a week in her kitchen.

At first, the meetings were awkward.

Edith was so much older than me, and everything about Edith was different.

I was most struck by how utterly alone she lived.

In contrast, I lived with my parents and my siblings.

My abuela lived two or three blocks away, and I saw her every weekend.

And my tios and primos and tias also lived in the neighborhood.

My house was always full of people.

But I thought, "Edith must be somebody's abuela, "and she's sweet and kind and gentle, and always has cookies for me when we have our sessions."

By the time kindergarten came around, I was ready.

I was confident.

One holiday, Edith asked my mother if she could take me to the theater.

And my mother said yes.

I was so excited.

That Saturday, I put on my best Sunday clothes, my white tights and patent leather shoes.

and when Edith came to get me, I saw that she was also wearing her fancy clothes.

And she took me by the hand, and we walked down to the bus stop on Fort Washington Avenue to wait for the number four bus.

The number four bus travels from the northern tip of Manhattan all the way down to Midtown.

When the bus came and we boarded the bus, and I was able to get a window seat.

And from there I could see the neighborhood's transition from Washington Heights to Harlem.

And then at 110th Street, the bus turns and curls around the east side of Central Park, continuing its trajectory down Fifth Avenue.

By that point, I felt like I was in a different world.

I was most impressed by the structures-- buildings like the Guggenheim and the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

This was a part of New York I had not yet seen.

At some point during the bus ride, Edith asked, "Rosie, are you hungry?"

And I nodded yes.

She said, "Do you want a bagel?"

And I said, "What's a bagel?"

(laughter) And everyone erupted in laughter.

We got off on 54th Street and walked a couple of blocks to the Ziegfeld Theater.

The Ziegfeld is an old New York theater, all red velvet and shiny brass.

It was definitely the fanciest place I have ever been.

Edith bought exotic snacks for me called Raisinets.

(laughter) And we took our seats.

As it turns out, we were going to watch a viewing of Disney's "Fantasia."

You can imagine my childhood delight when I saw Mickey as big as life on the giant screen.

This was also my introduction to classical music.

It was one of the most memorable moments of my life.

As I got older and I progressed in school, and I made new friends, my friendship with Edith became less and less important.

We didn't have our regular sessions anymore.

It wasn't necessary.

I was actually excelling in school.

One day, when I came home from school-- I was in junior high school at the time-- I came home and my mother was really, really upset.

She told me that Edith had passed away.

My parents hadn't seen or heard her for a while, and when they went to check on her, they found her.

As it turns out, Edith did have a daughter, on the West Coast, and my father knew how to contact her.

When Edith's daughter came to take care of her mother's remains, my family and I went to pay our respects.

We went up to the apartment and knocked on the door.

When she opened the door, she looked at me and said, "You must be Rosie-- I know all about you."

She welcomed us inside, and we sat with her for a while.

At some point, she asked me to accompany her to Edith's bedroom, and she led me to Edith's dresser.

On top of Edith's dresser was a number of framed pictures of me at different stages in my life.

Me on a tricycle, my first-grade class picture with my front teeth missing, me during my first Holy Communion.

I always understood the impact that Edith had had on my life.

But until that moment, I had never really thought about the impact that I may have had on hers.

Thank you.

(applause) (mid tempo jazzy music) - That friendship changed both lives for the better.

That's one of my favorite stories.

Every time I listened to this story, I cry.

- Well, the next episode will feature stories of refugees coming here to escape political persecution violence, and pure chaos.

- So much more to talk about.

- Coming to America, yearning to breathe free.

I'm Liz Cheng.

- I'm Patricia Alvarado Nunez.

- And you can hear more "Stories from the Stage" at worldchannel.org.