♪ MARK LAMB: I'm going to be honest with you.

I was nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers about going back there.

JEAN APPOLON: Suddenly, I heard music and drums.

I'm like, "There is something happening here."

SANDI MARX: And I'm thinking, "Okay, somebody up there, just watch me.

Some angel in the outfield, let me sing."

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Last Dance."

A rush of memories come to me when I hear those two words-- last dance.

I start to think about asking out boys to the Sadie Hawkins dance, which is what they called it at my high school when they, on purpose, had a dance when the girls were asking the boys.

It makes me think of moments when I wish I had known that I was having my last chance.

That I was having my last dance.

We're going to hear all kinds of interpretations of that theme, of "last dance," tonight from our wonderful storytellers, who are going to be opening up their hearts, opening up their lives and sharing their stories with you tonight.

Storytelling came naturally to you like country ham on a biscuit.

You know, I grew up in Sturgis, Kentucky.

It's a town of 2,000.

And I come from this long line of storytellers, but they're not necessarily stage performers.

They're front porch storytellers, you know?

Yeah.

Kitchen-table storytellers.

So, when I actually listen to my aunts and uncles and folks back home, boy, they can just weave these amazing stories, and I'm continually blown away at just how natural it is.

I love the storytellers there that have such great humor.

And then, when you least expect it, they drive a point home that is so powerful and they're not afraid to let a tear roll.

They're not afraid to take a breath and let you feel that kind of space, that enormity.

Mm-hmm.

I know if I'm telling a story and it makes me pause to think, then I'm onto something.

It was 1984.

I was a senior in high school.

Now please don't do the math.

And I'm sitting in Miss Edmundson's creative writing class, trying to come up with a poem so that I can graduate.

It was a hot Kentucky May day that made the senioritis really kick in.

So, I go over to the window hoping for a cool breeze and some inspiration.

And there, walking across the lawn was my inspiration.

Jeff Scheffer.

(audience laughs softly) He tips me the wink, and I sit down and I wrote my first love poem.

Now, I'm going to spare you the love poem right now, but I'd like to tell you a little bit about Jeff.

He was a tough guy with a heart of gold.

Good-looking hunk that would flirt with anybody, including me.

Oh, now don't get me wrong.

I think Jeff was completely straight... ...for the most part.

And I know that I was desperately trying to stay in the closet.

But I think that Jeff understood who I was before I did.

And for that, I'll always love him.

I also loved him because, when other people picked on me for being a dancer, Jeff stuck up for me.

I mean, to most guys in high school, I was a pariah.

But to Jeff, I was his friend.

I mean, seriously, we used to go riding around together.

The Dairy Maid, and then the park, and then The Dairy Maid, and maybe score some beer.

Inevitably, he'd pick up some girl.

And she snuggled up to him in the front seat, and I'd be relegated to the back.

But if things got heated in the front seat, off came his letter jacket.

And he'd throw it to me.

And then I...

I snuggled up with it.

(laughter) That is, until he busted me in the rearview mirror.

We locked eyes and he had this devilish grin and those baby blues, so I just...

I threw down his jacket because I didn't know what to do with those feelings.

I didn't know what to do with a lot of feelings that I had in high school.

So, when I graduated, I didn't look back.

I didn't keep in touch with anybody.

Decades pass and I end up in New York City, living the dream with my own dance company.

And then I get this phone call from back home.

It's a curriculum specialist and she wants me to come teach some dance workshops in the schools.

And it seemed like a perfect fit.

But I'm going to be honest with you.

I was nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockers about going back there.

(laughter) I didn't know what kind of painful memories might be unearthed, and trust me, I had buried them way down.

But I'm a freelance artist in America.

I needed the gig.

And I wanted to spend time with family.

And I thought maybe I just might run into Jeff.

Well, some painful memories did sprout up when some of the little kids started spitting out old familiar phrases.

Things like, "I ain't dancing," "This is for sissies."

"This is gay."

(scoffs lightly) But I had enough experience as a teacher to know you never let them see you sweat.

And I had enough teaching techniques to get those little boogers dancing, and they did.

And guess what.

They loved it.

All except for this one kid.

He's standing there with this blond Justin Bieber bang hanging in his eyes, and I try every trick in the book, but he won't budge.

Finally, I say to him, "Jesse, if you're not going to dance, then you need to take a time-out and think abou..." and this other teacher pulls me aside and she says, "Um, Mr. Lamb, you might want to give Jesse some space.

"He's just been having a real hard time lately.

"He lost his daddy in a car wreck."

And I said, "Oh, well, I'm sorry-- who was his dad?"

(voice cracking): And she says, "Jeff Scheffer."

And I hear poetry and I smell letter jackets, and I feel like, "Oh god, I'm about to cry."

But I knew, as an experienced teacher, you never let them see you sweat.

So, I said, "Um, do you think that I could meet with Jesse?"

And she agreed.

So, I sit down with him.

And he's got that blond bang hanging in his eyes.

And I say, "Jesse, um, I want you to know that I knew your father, "and he was an awful good man.

"In fact, when other people picked on me for dancing, "your daddy stuck up for me, and, um... "I think he'd want you to dance.

Do you understand me, son?"

And he brushed that blond bang out of his eyes, and we connected.

I don't think we connected over dance.

I think we both understood in that moment how much that Jeff had meant to us.

Now, Jesse came back to class and he did a good job.

I had him run sound.

And he enjoyed it, and I was grateful for that.

And I was also grateful to his father, for helping me in so many ways to graduate, by inspiring my first love poem.

And it goes like this.

Walking in the sunshine, sandy brown hair, wavy and gold.

Blue eyes that melt your soul.

Tears in my eyes, wanting to touch, reach out and hold.

Only a dream, now out of sight, only the hope and memory of love keeps my heart alive.

Thank you so much.

(cheers and applause) MARX: I'm a little different than the average storyteller in that I'm older than many, and I also do a lot of comedy, so it's not just stories that are gut-wrenching.

A lot of them are stories that make other people feel better about themselves.

Can you tell me about a time that just bombed?

MARX: Yes.

Oh my god, I still talk about it because it was so traumatic.

I was booked to be at the Black Cat in Washington DC.

And they brought in the top storytellers of each state to battle it out.

Now, I show up at the venue representing New York.

Okay, here we go.

And it's filled with folks that all look like they were there on a Tinder date.

And I felt like I was about 100 years old when I got out there.

And then, I heard someone in the front row of the audience start to giggle.

And I assumed that she was laughing, that, "Why is, like, my Aunt Myrna up on the stage when all the other storytellers were like in their 30s and 20s?"

And I became so embarrassed and insecure.

I could tell right away the audience wasn't really with me.

You can pre... you know this.

You can tell within, pretty much, 30 seconds.

So I do a classic storyteller mistake where I speak louder and faster.

So I'm so intent on getting the audience on my side that I'm basically shouting and pointing, very fast, all the words.

By the third minute, I have the flop sweats and I can feel the sweat under here.

And I knew, "Just get off the stage."

So, I finished the story.

And you know you're in trouble when your peers who are competing against you tell you, "Oh, that was a great job."

And you know, it's like, "Don't patronize me.

I was terrible."

But I never made that mistake again.

So, I am standing-- it's probably 1980, 1981-- and I am standing in front of Shubert Alley's stage door for A Chorus Line.

Because I'm about to audition to be in that Broadway show.

And I have wanted to be in this show ever since I was in high school, sitting in the last row of the balcony, sobbing through the entire thing, and now, finally, my ship has sailed in.

And the only other work I ever got as a dancer wasn't dancing.

I basically would make my living spraying people on the ground floor of Sak's Fifth Avenue with Poison.

Now, when I say "poison," it was by Christian Dior.

It was a fragrance, and I was that annoying person that would chase you, and they would make us move constantly.

They never let us stand still.

They used to say, "Pretend you're at a polo match and you're just being casu..." There's nothing casual about spraying people with Poison.

But, finally, I got the call from my agent that they're going to be replacing the leads in A Chorus Line, "and you have an audition."

And I am ready.

I had been preparing all my life for this.

So, there I am, I show up at the stage door, I walk inside, thinking I have a really good shot at this.

There are about 250 other girls who are thinking the exact same thing.

Now, this is the way it works.

When you audition for a Broadway show, they herd you in like cattle in groups of ten.

They put a number on you with pins, and then they line you up, and they teach you some choreography.

And the two words you do not want to hear from the choreographer, in this case, the director, who is Michael Bennett, is "Thank you."

"Thank you" means "You're not so good.

It's time to go home."

And somehow-- I don't know how-- but I was there for hours and hours, learning more choreography and more steps.

And I hadn't been thanked.

I was still in the running.

And I'm thinking, "Oh my god, this is it.

"I'm going to get this job.

"Girls are being sent home.

I'm still here."

Okay so, now, six hours pass.

And then the stage manager passes around sheet music, and he says, "You have to sing for the role of Morales, 'What I Did for Love.'"

Now, if you haven't seen this show, this is a very important song.

And it is originally sung by a beautiful actress named Priscilla Lopez.

Now, I'm a Jew from Queens in New York.

I'm not exactly right for the part.

But I'm thinking, "I have a lot of strong feelings about being wonderful.

I'm just going to make them believe my magical thinking that I could be just like Priscilla Lopez."

But there's one small problem.

I can't sing... at all.

I mean, I'm really not a good singer.

And I don't know what I'm thinking.

I figured I'd worry about it when I got to it.

But I've got to it.

I'm there.

Now, they tell me, "You must sing this song in the key of C, "the way Marvin Hamlisch wrote it.

You cannot adjust it for the piano player."

So, I skulk over there, get to the piano, and I'm thinking, "Okay, somebody up there, just watch me.

Some angel in the outfield, let me sing."

So, I'm pretending, while Michael Bennett's sitting there, that I'm going to do this.

And I begin.

♪ Kiss today goodbye "Thank you."

(laughter) And that's it, those two words.

I'm devastated because you don't get a second chance.

If you fail the first time, you're gone.

Okay, so I pack up my dance bag and my character shoes and my tap shoes and my pictures and resumes, and they're very nice about it, but it's time to go.

So, now I'm leaving, after all those hours.

And when I'm pushing the stage door now, it's like 1,000 pounds of just rage and bitter disappointment and failure.

I am a failure.

And I walk outside of Shubert Alley, the bright sunlight, with all these people... You know, tourists are always walking around the Broadway area so it's really crowded with tourists.

And I am just weak with upset, but I've got to get to another job at a dance studio, where I'm the receptionist, and I haven't eaten all day.

And I only have $5, which has to last me for the rest of the week.

So, I dig into my pocket and I pull out the money because I'm going to have a nutritious meal, which would be like a Milky Way or something.

So, I get into my pocket and I get the money, and the next thing I see is the money is coasting down 46th Street.

My money.

But it gets worse.

Because I see a young... what I would call in the olden days, a hooligan, a young guy.

And he's got like a bike chain on his neck, and the slouchy pants, and dirty hair, and he just, without breaking his stride... Like, think John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, okay?

He just kind of like, lifts the money, and he keeps walking.

Okay... no, no, no.

(stammering) I am so angry, and I feel so powerless.

I just didn't get the job of my life.

I am not letting this punk take my money.

So, I scream and point, "Give me back my $5.

"I had to sell a lot of Poison for that money, and you're not going to get away with this."

And he's looking at me like, "Lady, you're crazy-- it's not your money."

But it's tourist town, so there are people everywhere, with their Cats buttons, and their fanny packs, and they're like, "Oh my god, there's something exciting... something happening here."

And this was before we had our phone cameras.

They all had their instamatics.

And they start taking pictures.

And they start chanting, "Give her back her money.

Give her back her money."

And I'm chanting.

Now, if you guys have ever seen Young Frankenstein, that movie.

You know when they're all in the middle of the town square with their torches to get the... it was like that.

There were hundreds of people, just surrounding him, and the kid is starting to freak out.

He knows he's not going anywhere.

When all of the sudden, I hear the clomping of four hooves.

Because we had horses to control traffic and crime.

So, I'm all of the sudden becoming like Billy Jack.

And I'm yelling, "No, no."

And I'm like six feet tall, and the cop gets the kid to give me back the money.

He probably just doesn't want to take a horse back to the station.

So, now, everybody's cheering and I'm so happy because I have power.

I might not have gotten A Chorus Line, but I have power, so I run to the dance studio.

I've got to tell everybody this story.

Okay, I get to the studio and I tell everybody, "Oh my god, I took back what was mine," and I dig into my pocket, after I'm describing this story.

And I pull out the money to illustrate... and I pull it out.

I have $10.

I mugged the kid.

(laughter) It wasn't my money.

Oh my god, I went from being a victim to a perp in, like, under a minute.

Oh my god, I was so embarrassed.

I couldn't believed that could've happened.

But something happened to me.

I became a different person.

So, I decided I was no longer going to be a dancer.

I had more power than that.

I need to be in charge.

So, I did the only thing that seemed right, since I really liked the idea of taking people's money, and I became a talent agent.

And I was a talent agent for, like, 20 years because it seemed right.

And I would love to have the opportunity one day to find that kid because I owe him so much more than $5.

I owe him my life.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) OKOKON: How long have you been storytelling?

APPOLON: Since I was a young boy.

Growing up in Haiti, pretty much that's the life in Haiti.

So, we all pretty much grew up around adults telling stories and kids telling stories.

And tonight's theme is "last dance."

Can you talk about why this story is important to you?

When I was living in Haiti, it was hard.

You know, being a male dancer, and trying to really get involved in dance, and it was very stigmatized.

I was strong enough to be loud when it comes to dance, but there were a lot of other young boys who feel like they are going to be called names and all this stuff, so to me, it is very important.

And it dance what you do for a living these days?

Yes.

OKOKON: Is that the day job?

The day job, the night job.

That sounds like a dream day job.

(laughing) A night job.

Weekend job.

Weekend job.

So pretty much, I teach at my own dance company here in Boston.

I teach for UMass Boston and I also teach for the Boston Ballet.

And I go around the world teaching master classes, but we also have a dance intensive every summer in Haiti, for kids from age 11 up to 25.

Can you talk about the process of creating a dance and does that in any way relate to the process of creating a story?

It's pretty much similar... it's pretty much similar.

Because, to me, creating a dance, you really have to understand the story that you have... you want to portray.

So, to me, I feel like dance is very much... there's a parallel between storytelling and dance.

Every Sunday, around maybe 12:30, 1:00... there was this beautiful woman in Haiti, teaching, but with a very heavy accent.

I'm like, "Wow, it's like a goddess."

Her name was Lavinia Williams.

She was one of the principal dancers at the Alvin Ailey, but she had a passion for Haiti.

And she came to Haiti to teach dance, to teach technique.

I was like, "Wow, one day, I would like to be just like her."

Years later, Miss Lavinia ended up dying in Haiti, from some disease or some complications.

So, I was maybe six years old when I saw her.

And by the age of 13, I went to school and suddenly, I see a bunch... a group of people coming, "Oh, who wants to dance?"

And I'm like... All the boys were like... And all the girls were like, "Yes!"

So, I was the only boy who went to audition for the school and some of the girls, but they didn't take the girls.

They only took me.

And my dad didn't know nothing about it.

(laughter) So, one day, I got to that school and dancing... finished dancing, sweating, and I'm walking out, my uncle just said, "Okay, let's go.

Come with me, I'm going to tell your dad that you're dancing."

So, my dad was like, "How dare you, dancing.

I told you to go to martial arts school."

I said, "Dad, this is my passion."

He said, "Quit that thing."

So, I was very much disciplined that night.

So, it was a Wednesday night.

On Friday night, I pick up my clothes, and put a bunch of volleyball clothes into my bags, and my father was like, "Where are you going?"

And I said, "To volleyball practice."

He said, "Are you sure?"

I said, "Yes."

So I went straight into that school and dancing.

I never knew anything about volleyball.

So... (laughter) 1991 came, and we had pretty much the worst day of our lives.

Because I woke up, pretty much, 8:00 in the morning because we were getting ready to go to school, me and my two brothers.

And my father was like, "Okay, we're going to go to school," because it's the month after winter break.

And so, the end of the street was like filthy with tire burning, houses burning, and all this chaos happening on the street.

And I'm like... (sighs) "What's going on, again?"

So, my father said, "Wait here.

"I'm going to go out on the street.

"I'm coming right back.

And I'm going to get you guys to school."

I'm like, "Dad, please don't go," because I see the street is very troubling because my father was very, very involved into politics.

So, suddenly, I didn't hear nothing.

And I hear people screaming.

"They're killing your dad!

They're killing your dad outside!"

I'm like... "What?

Not my dad."

I couldn't believe it because my brothers were crying.

And I'm trying to register, because I'm the oldest, so I'm trying to register, "What's going on?"

And my grandmother was like, "Let's get out of here because they're killing your dad right now, so let's go."

So, suddenly, maybe 30 minutes later, I've seen people coming in with dead body parts, pretty much, to my house.

And I'm like, "No way."

I still couldn't... even today, I'm talking about it, I cannot believe it.

Because my dad was so alive and he was so loving as a dad.

And I'm like, "Where is my dad?"

And everybody was like, "Okay, we're going to kill those three boys because we don't want them to come back to revenge..." And I'm like, "Oh my god."

So, we end up going into hiding, for like maybe six months.

And I'm like, "What I'm going to be doing?"

Because I was dancing, I was practicing.

So, the school, when I went back to school after six months, and this lady said to me, "You can be somebody or you can be nothing.

"I know the tragedy that you just suffered "is going to be messing up your mind, but you can definitely do it through dance."

I'm like... (sighs) She said, "Do whatever you want, but I think dance can save you."

So, I try, do my best everyday, coming to her school and learn.

And, suddenly, I feel better.

I'm like, "Wow, dance is really happening."

So, I keep on dancing, and my mother says, "No.

Haiti's not going to be for you any more."

And we came straight to Boston, and I'm like, "Yes, I'm going to be with my mom and I'm not going to see any chaos any more in Haiti."

And I'm like, "Okay, but I'm not going to dance any more," because my mom was like, "You supposed to be a pastor.

You cannot be dancing."

I'm like, "Mom, forget about pastor.

I really want to dance."

But I was in Cambridge.

And she said, "No, you're not going to be dancing.

"If you dance, I'm going to shred your passport, send you back to Haiti."

Like, "Okay..." No more my dad, but my mom is going to give me a challenge.

Suddenly, I heard music and drums.

I'm like, "There is something happening here."

Across the street from me was The Dance Complex.

(laughter) So, my mother... my mother walked me out and she said, "If you go to this building, you are out of my house."

And I'm like, "Oh, yeah, I'm not going to go.

Not gonna go there."

It was a Monday.

So, Wednesday came, and I'm like, "Yes, dancing!"

So, from then, my mother was like, "Okay, you're so persistent to dance, keep on dancing."

And I end up going to New York City with a scholarship to the Alvin Ailey.

I graduated with the Joffrey Ballet keep on dancing, and my mother, now... if I wake up one day, I don't go to dance class, she's like, "Are you sick?"

I'm like, "No, no, I'm not sick," but to really tell you the way dance really made me who I am today, and still like trying to reach out to other kids in Haiti too, to make sure that they're okay because a lot of kids, just like myself, are completely messed up with so much chaos.

Not only destruction from earthquakes, but so many wrongdoing are happening in Haiti, so we go to Haiti every summer for like two months, and teaching kids who like really want to dance, but they don't have no money to dance.

So, we give them free classes, free yoga, and keep them on their feet.

So, to me, dance really, really made me who I am today.

So, thank you again for listening.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) JILL BRAVERMAN: I started taking dance lessons when I was two years old and my sister was four years old.

We did our very last dance to the song "Last Dance."

And, afterwards, we went to hug each other because it was the last time we were going to be... excuse me... performing together onstage.

And we both started to cry and broke down and fell onto the floor, hugging each other.

Occasionally, we get a chance to dance together at a wedding or a party, but that was our last time dancing onstage together.

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