ALFRED VAUTOUR: My brother Roger comes over.

He says, "Is it going to be all right?"

And I look at him and I say, "They think we're going to be all right."

I'm just hoping that I haven't lied to my brother.

SHANITA JEFFERSON: My earliest memories of my mom would have to be with my siblings as we drive from Boston to Framingham state prison.

LLOYD SHELDON JOHNSON: I look at him.

He has tears streaming down his face, and he said, "Your father called.

Your sister was murdered."

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Turning Point."

Turning points arrive in many different ways.

Sometimes, it's many small, little things slowly pushing you to make a choice.

Sometimes, it's one avalanche moment that completely turns your life around.

No matter how you arrive at those turning points, though, you are forced to face your fears and be the best version of yourself.

♪ ♪ JEFFERSON: My name is Shanita Jefferson, I'm from Dorchester, Massachusetts, and I'm the mother of a seven-year-old.

Currently, I work as assistant to the executive director at New Beginnings Re-Entry Services, located in Boston, Massachusetts.

We offer resources for women who are being released from prison, everything from educational supportive services, family reintegration, mental health therapy.

And I'm curious, what led you to want to share your story?

And have you done this sort of storytelling before?

I've never done this type of storytelling.

This is my absolute first time.

But I wanted to share.

I am a child of an incarcerated person, and I also have a parent who was murdered.

So I have a unique perspective.

And now I'm at a point in my life where I'm able to talk about it without getting so emotional.

I'm still working through it.

There's a lot of things that I'm learning about myself, but I feel like I've been put on this path for a reason.

♪ ♪ My earliest memories of my mom would have to be our weekly Wednesday night meetings.

I'm six years old, riding on the van with my siblings and other children from the neighborhood as we drive from Boston to Framingham state prison, which is about a 45-minute drive.

There, my mother is serving a life without parole sentence.

Once we arrive, the security guards, they search our small bodies and lead us into the family visiting room.

There's a small glass window where you can see a little bit of the outside, a couple of toy boxes filled with games, puzzles, coloring books, crayons-- most of them broken-- and this big, huge mural of a colorful parrot on the back wall.

Most of our family photos include that parrot.

I see my mom.

She smiles and hugs me and kisses me and says, "Hey, baby girl.

Those are some of my favorite hugs.

For the next two hours, we sing, talk, dance, play.

We do everything that we can't do with her on the outside.

Eventually, the guards come and they say that it's time to go home.

I immediately start to cry.

We're back on the van heading to Boston, and we always pass this little white house that's about a mile away from the prison.

And I say to myself, "When I get older, I'm going to live in that house because it's close to my mom."

Years go by, and now we're teenagers.

And instead of traveling on the van, we're traveling on the train, making the walk, 20 minutes down to the prison.

And even on those days where I don't have enough money for cab fare, I make sure to save a couple of dollars to buy her Swedish Fish, because those were her favorite.

And instead of being in that family room, we're back on the other side, where the adults visit, and I'm sitting across from her.

We talk, we laugh, we play, we joke.

I notice that our conversations are very limited.

I don't share too many happy things because she can't participate.

I don't share too many sad or bad things because she's not there to support.

Time goes on, and I become a young woman.

I find out, too, that I'm going to be a mother.

I'm excited and nervous at the same time.

I want to be the type of mother that I had-- loving, caring, beautiful-- but also the type of mother that I didn't have-- active and present every day in my child's life.

Our conversations naturally open up.

We talk about everything: hair, clothes, family, my living situation, and even my personal relationship.

I no longer felt scared or ashamed or like I had to hide anything.

Naturally, I was able to communicate with my mother.

We even discussed her case.

She said one day, she was in an abusive relationship, and an argument escalated, got out of control.

She stabbed her boyfriend.

I still remember the first day she met my daughter Crisai.

She was two weeks old, and we had traveled again on the train down to Framingham, pushed her in the stroller, and we were back in that family room.

Everything was the same.

Everything.

Except for my mother.

I could tell that she was weaker-- her eyes, her hands, her feet.

But I also knew that she was stronger.

She was a licensed cosmetologist, she graduated from B.U.

in liberal arts, and she was a mentor and a peer to so many women on the inside.

I remember, one day, her friend connected me to an organization that supports incarcerated women and their family members.

Through that organization, it led me to the district attorney's office, and then to a brand-new lawyer, and then to the Integrity Unit, whose job is to investigate old cases and how they were handled.

I remember sitting down with her lawyer as she discussed so many issues with the case: racism, sexism, ineffective counsel, the lack of mental health.

So many different things, it frustrated me, because I understood, if all those things were taken into consideration, she would have and could have been home ten, 20 years ago.

Eventually, the support kept coming for my mother.

This led us to the decision that the Integrity Unit decided.

They changed her case from first-degree murder, life without parole, to second-degree, which made her immediately eligible for parole.

This was exciting to my whole family.

We now envision a future where my mother could come home and be with us.

So instead of me thinking that she would never come home and be free, I envision one day where I can ride to Framingham with my daughter in the back, pick up my mother, and ride away from Framingham, that little white house, and all of the difficult memories.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ ♪ VAUTOUR: My name is Alfred Vautour, and I grew up in this area, in Everett, and now live in Salem.

I was a firefighter for 30 years, and now I work as an expressive therapist at the Artful Life Counseling Center in Salem.

Can you please tell us a little bit about your work as a therapist?

What exactly is an expressive therapist, and how did you get into that line of work?

So I'm a drama therapist, and so that is using theater techniques as a means of engaging clients with a lot of the issues that they'll bring into a session.

But before that, I was a social worker, and I was also a firefighter at the same time.

Well, one thing, you know, that I believe firefighting, social work, expressive therapy would all have in common is that they would produce a great amount of stories.

Have you, you know, been able to draw on your various careers in your own practice of storytelling?

I think initially, I was drawn to storytelling because of my relatives, who all...

They were from the Maritime Provinces in Canada, and they told a whole sorts of stories.

But then at the fire station, too, you hear such amazing stories: a lot of funny ones, a lot of serious ones, a lot of scary ones, too.

♪ ♪ In the year 2012, I am standing in front of a group of students for a Juvenile Fire Setters course in the Winchester Public Library.

Juvenile Fire Setting is a program sponsored by the State of Massachusetts for kids who have been caught lighting fires.

In exchange for having to spend a day in court, agree to do a ten-week fire safety course.

I've been teaching this for five years with a group of educators, and I have never heard this question before.

A 12-year-old looks at me and says, "This must be why you teach this course."

And I have no idea what he's talking about.

So I ask him what he means, and he says, "Well, you told us "it was one of hardest fires you ever fought, and both your brothers were directly affected by this."

And I start tumbling back into time at this point, to that November evening in 1991.

I'd been a firefighter for five years at that time, and I'd recently been assigned as permanent pump operator for Everett Engine One.

The first thing I remember thinking that night was, "How do the fire gods know that I'm eating?"

(audience laughs softly) It was an affectionate term for dispatch.

(chuckles) Box 4212 had rung in, and it was a place, a location, that we knew really well.

We'd been there many times, and almost nothing ever happened there.

As we pull out of Central Station, Engine One and Ladder One, we get a little bit more information.

The restaurant owner has called and said that he smells smoke.

My first thought is, "Yeah, it's, it's food on the stove."

But my gut's not buying this at all.

That's not how these fires come in.

As we pull up to the location, I can see the restaurant owner waiting outside the restaurant.

And right next to his restaurant is my brother's indoor miniature golf course.

As my crew goes over and talks to the owner of the restaurant, I busy myself getting ready, going through my rotations of what to do if this is a fire.

I have not even finished up with this when my crew comes back, and they're not getting on the pump to return to station.

They are grabbing their air tanks and asking me to give them hose lines that they can drag into the basement.

I help them a bit with that, then come back and wait for their signal to give them tank water.

And after that, I have to connect to a hydrant to make sure that they still keep getting a continuous flow of water.

And then I take deliberate time with the crank that opens up the pump.

Because at the last fire, I forgot to do this, and I'm never going to do that again.

As I look up, I can see on the sidewalk a crowd has gathered from both the restaurant and my brother's business.

And I can see my two brothers, standing at the side.

When the action subsides, my brother Roger comes over, he says, "Al, Al, is it going to be all right?"

And I look at him and I say, "Well, we got here early.

"The best I know right now, there's a smoke condition, but I think we're going to be all right."

I'm just hoping that I haven't lied to my brother.

When I look up again, I can see that our crew is coming back, and they are saucer-eyed.

They all come, they grab additional tanks to exchange with theirs, except one-- my captain.

My captain goes and grabs the oxygen tank from our emergency kit for medical aids, puts it to his face, and then begins to full-body hyperventilate into that mask.

We're not supposed to react like that on a fire.

I find out later that while they were in the fire, and they were trying to make their way out because they were running out of air, they got turned around and started going further into the fire.

They realized this enough time to make their way out, but they only have wisps of air when they get there.

I don't even have time to process this as a second and third alarm ring out to call for other communities to help us with this fire.

And the deputy gives his first report, saying that they can't find the seat of the fire, and for some reason, they can't open up the walls and the ceilings because they know the fire is there.

I don't even know what to make of this.

This, we're going to be here a good long time.

(sighs heavily) As the companies show up from out of town, I have to give them additional hose lines, but I can't do it until I get more supply lines.

And while I'm figuring this out, a third and fourth alarm come in because it's discovered that this fire has extended to another building around the corner.

It turns out that they were connected by an underground tunnel.

It's at this point that the decision is made to evacuate the building from all personnel, and we're going to fight it from the outside.

We call it "surround and drowned."

It was a total loss.

The only thing remains from that fire are two vacant parking lots, to this day.

My brothers never open up again.

It's discovered that a young boy, 13 years old, has set this fire.

He was in my brother's shop, and he was trying to get a free game by sneaking in, and they threw him out.

And he went right into the basement, lit a couch on fire, and left.

When the guys at the station hear about this, they are pissed.

We almost lost eight guys that night.

I'm angry at this, too, and I'm angry that my brothers lost their business.

But I know something else.

I'd just begun a degree in social work at that time, and we just had a class.

And what was told to us is that kids who light revenge fires such as these only do it because they've experienced extreme trauma.

I look at the kids in front of me and realize, these are some of the very same kids, and this is my chance to make a difference.

I turn to the kid who's asked the question originally, and I said, "Yeah, that is why I teach this class."

(softly): Thanks.

(applause) ♪ ♪ JOHNSON: My name is Dr. Lloyd Sheldon Johnson.

I live in Cambridge, Massachusetts, currently.

From Detroit originally.

And I have four careers, essentially.

I'm a college professor, of English and psychology.

I also am a writer, a journalist, a professional union actor for many years, and I'm also a healer.

So I've had a healing spiritual practice for well over 30 years.

Can you please tell me, what originally sparked your interest in storytelling?

Looking around the neighborhood where I grew up inspired me to be able to record what I saw and to record the experiences of the people in the neighborhood.

And what kind of stories do you most enjoy telling?

Stories about people and their transformation.

What is inspiring you to share your story with us this evening, this specific story?

I want to enlighten people.

I want to sensitize them to these issues that are often ignored.

♪ ♪ It was one of those rare and special moments when the sun was shining, and I decided that I would treat myself to a nice stroll through the Boston Public Gardens and then on to the Boston Common.

When I arrived there, I looked to my left, and I recognized someone.

She looked a little disheveled, a little bit out of sorts.

And then she looked up at me, and she got up.

This was someone I knew.

She was a student from the community college where I teach.

She was effusive, she was talking a lot, telling me about her situation, what was going on with her.

She was homeless, she was trying to escape from an abusive relationship, and she was in a very, very bad state.

I told her, "Listen, no judgment from me.

"I've been there.

"I've fallen on hard times "where I had to piece jobs together "in order to make ends meet.

Where I was living from month to month."

And I told her I knew a lot of women who have been in abusive relationships.

Well, she opened up and continued to talk more and more.

And finally I told her, "Look, let me give you my card.

"I want you to be in touch with me.

"I want you to "make sure that you find a place to live, "find a safe living environment, and also, I want you to be sure to get back to school."

So she continued to chat it up, but then I had to leave.

So I go to my apartment.

And I get to my apartment, I have a friend who's crashing there.

And I open the door, I look at him, he has tears streaming down his face, and he is very, very nervous.

He looks at me and asks me to sit down and...

I, I didn't feel comfortable.

And I looked at him again, I said, "What's going on?"

And he said, "Your father called.

Your sister was murdered."

My body froze, my mind froze.

I couldn't right myself.

At that moment, I started thinking about the last time I had seen my sister.

It was about three months earlier.

She took a trip to Boston from Detroit to visit me, with me, to spend time together.

I really love my sister.

While she was there, we spent a lot of time together.

We went out to eat.

We laughed and joked.

We talked about things from the past.

She shared a lot with me.

She told me about how she had been in this abusive marriage for years, how her husband was beating her.

She found out that before she married him, he had been incarcerated, that he had been beating women before.

These were things she didn't know prior to marrying him.

So she told me that she was going to divorce him, that she had hooked up with her high school love, and that she was going to be moving out of Detroit, that she was going to reconnect with him and join him in Atlanta after divorce and after getting things together in Detroit.

This made me feel good.

This was the happiest I had seen her in years.

(voice trembles): After that, she, um... She started talking more about the future.

It made me very, very nervous as I listened to her, because I didn't feel right.

I said, "Something's not right here.

"You can't go back to Detroit.

I know he's going to murder you."

And I kept telling her this.

I got on the phone.

I called my father.

I said, "Please protect her.

"Please do something, because I know he is going to murder her."

I had this strange feeling that I could not let go of.

She assured me that she was going to be okay, that I had nothing to worry about, that she was going to be fine.

A few months later, while she was packing up, preparing to leave, tying up loose ends, and she's at her home doing all these things, and her husband appears at the door of her home.

After her murder, my depression turned to rage.

He was tried for second-degree murder.

He served six years in prison.

He should have gotten a longer sentence.

And he was released.

Six months or so after his release, he committed suicide.

So... My family never got any justice.

I never got any closure.

I never had an opportunity to go to him, to let him know how he had ruined my life, the life of my family and friends, how he had robbed me of the opportunity to get in his face, to yell, to scream, to rage.

I was robbed of that.

There has been some comfort for me helping women who have been in abusive situations.

And I felt kind of blessed that even though I had never had an opportunity to really, really help my sister, to save her from this situation, I was able, and I got some comfort in being able, to help other women who have been abused.

I think back now to that woman on the Commons, and I think that it brought me some comfort to see her walk across the stage to pick up her master's degree in social work-- with me knowing that she would be doing things to change the lives of many women.

Thank you.

(applause) I think justice has many different faces.

For some, they feel a sense of closure and resolve.

A lot of people don't.

Do you feel that you could ever forgive the man who murdered your sister?

I think that's a part of my journey.

Today, no.

But maybe tomorrow.

Hmm.

Maybe tomorrow.

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪