DARCY OLSEN: My courage comes from knowing that somewhere upstairs in this hospital is a baby girl who right now has no one.

JOSE ROMERO: Next thing I know, I'm in Phoenix, Arizona.

My English is broken, and now I'm in a different country with different culture, and I'm alone.

KYLE MITCHELL: I was feeling disconnected, and I knew exactly what I needed.

I needed to go back to the land where I was born and raised on the Navajo Reservation.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "All Connected."

ANNOUNCER: This episode of Stories from the Stage was recorded at Arizona PBS.

The American Southwest may seem like a challenging place for humans to live, but if you look a little closer, you will see an incredible mix of interconnected cultures and communities and ways of living.

Tonight's storytellers are bringing their stories of living in the desert, creating those connections, and bringing themselves a renewed sense of love, and comfort, and even a new home.

♪ ♪ OLSEN: My name is Darcy Olsen.

I was born in Bennington, Vermont.

I live in Phoenix, Arizona.

I'm the mother of four and the founder of the Center for the Rights of Abused Children.

How does storytelling impact and influence the work that you do?

Storytelling is how people connect to these children and what they need.

I mean, you could talk about 20,000 children aging out, but if you talk about the 17-year-old named John who went into care at three, lived in 47 homes, it's a different story.

And it just breathes a whole new meaning, a tangible meaning, into the work, so storytelling is really critical to what we do.

How did you get into telling your own story?

I've gotten into telling my story because my story is integral to the founding of the Center for the Rights of Abused Children.

- Mm.

- What I saw and experienced is really what drove me to this work, and what keeps me going when I read these horrible stories.

You have to have hope.

You have to believe that the work matters.

And so, that's how I, I became part of the storytelling world.

It's my first day as a licensed foster mom, when I get a call to go to the hospital and pick up a baby girl.

So I race over to the hospital, and I make my way through this huge labyrinth of a medical center, but I'm early, and to my relief, over to the right is a small chapel.

So I go in, and I fall to my knees, and I start praying and crying, really sobbing, because I'm absolutely terrified.

The only thing I know about this baby girl is that she has spent the first two weeks of her life on a morphine drip.

So I'm praying for her future, and I'm praying that I will be enough.

I'd always wanted children, but I was going to do everything in order: an engagement, and a wedding, and a baby.

And in fact, in my 30s, I was so confident that this was my plan, that I went out and bought an S.U.V.

to fill it with my future children.

(laughter) And while I still believe in positive thinking, that S.U.V.

didn't end up manifesting any of those things.

So I'm praying that I'll be enough, because it's just me.

And in that moment in the chapel, my courage comes from knowing that somewhere upstairs in this hospital is a baby girl who, right now, has no one.

And I have to be enough because I'm who there is.

I make my way up to the NICU, I see this beautiful, beautiful baby, but she can't be five pounds wet, and I'm about to tell the nurse that there is no way this baby is ready to go home.

But the nurse is so calm and collected, and she just diapers this baby, and changes her, and swaddles her up tightly, and she hands her to me.

I mean, it was like she was part of a NASCAR pit crew.

She was so confident with this baby.

And I take her, and I say, "Okay, like, now what?"

(chuckling): And she says, "You take her home."

Now, if I seem a little surprised by all of this, it's because I really was.

Like I said, I'd always really wanted a family, but by this point, I thought that that window had closed.

And it wasn't just that I was almost 40.

I was a workaholic C.E.O.

of a multimillion-dollar organization, and I was still single.

But some months before this, I had been praying, and I felt inspired to become a foster parent.

And I have no other way to describe the feeling I had to turn my life completely on its head and open my home to a child.

But I know that when the spirit speaks to your heart, you listen.

And so I thought, okay, I can, like, take in teenagers, because my mom had had one of those surprise babies who I'd helped as a teenager.

So I had a new plan, and I went into the foster care agency, the orientation, and they said, "You can't foster a teen.

"Your loft doesn't have the right kind of door, "but we would be so grateful if you would put a crib at the foot of your bed."

And I was, like, "A crib for, like, a baby?"

(laughter) And she said, "Yeah," and I said, "Don't you have any, like, like, married couples?

"Like, two-parent families, who can take care of these babies better?"

And that's when I learned that the number of infants entering foster care was at an all-time high, largely due to the opioid epidemic, and a lot of would-be foster or even adopt parents were not open to taking these infants.

And there were so many going into the system, she said, that they were sleeping overnight in shelters and government office buildings downtown.

And I pictured a newborn under the glare of those horrible red exit signs, crying, and crying, and no one coming.

So I said, "Sure, I can take a baby."

Back at the hospital, I put this little baby in the car seat, and they insist on wheeling us out in a wheelchair, which is really weird, because I didn't just have a baby.

(laughter) This kid isn't even mine.

(laughs) But that's how me and this baby girl started our journey and our wild ride in life together.

About six months later, I learned that she can't go home, and I'm asked if I would like to adopt her.

And I should tell you that I really thought hard about this decision.

I was absolutely exhausted.

I was going to work, and then I would come home and do the night shift with the baby, and then the midnight feed, the 3:00 a.m. feed, the 6:00 a.m. feed, and I wake up and do it all again.

Not to mention the extra medical appointments, the court appointments, the social workers coming in, and I was just exhausted.

So I should tell you that I really thought about what to do with this baby.

But the truth is, she was the easiest decision I've ever made.

She was my calling, and I was the only mother she'd ever known.

So I did what any mother would do, and I kept her.

I named her Ophelia, I changed my work around a lot, and we moved into a house with a lot of doors.

(laughter) A year later, I fostered again, and the social worker was over at the house, doing a routine visit.

And she looked at me, and she put her phone down.

And had my attention and said, "I have a baby boy on my docket "who's going to be going up for adoption, and I would really like him to be part of your family."

And I got chills down my spine, but I said the same thing I'd said a year before: "Don't you have any two-parent families who can do this job better?"

And she said, "We do have some families, "but I know the future that he'll have here with you and Ophelia, and I want him here."

And I started to cry, because she has seen what I have not yet until this moment seen, which is that we are already the perfect family.

So Ophelia and I, a few weeks later, welcome home baby brother Luke.

And all told, at this time, I have now fostered ten infants.

I've adopted four.

I am a long way away from that younger woman in the chapel, but I am so, so proud of her.

And today, my life and my heart are overflowing, just like our giant S.U.V.

(laughter) Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ ROMERO: My name is Jose Romero.

I'm from Cancun, Mexico.

I am a Spanish teacher at a high school, I coach football, and I moved here to Arizona when I was 15.

So between Cancun and here in Arizona, is there a place where you feel more at home?

Uh, I would say that I feel more at home with the people that I love.

- Mm-hmm.

- My parents, my friends, teammates, that's for sure.

Whether they're my friends from Mexico or the friends that I made here in Arizona.

And I understand that you're a high school Spanish teacher.

Can you tell me about why you teach?

Growing up in Mexico, obviously, Spanish is my first language.

When I moved here, and I went to college for that degree, I just knew that I wanted to be part of young teenagers' lives, to kind of help them pursue their dreams, and just wanted to be a part of the most important years of their life, which is, in my opinion, their teenage years before they go into college and they grow up.

What did you learn about yourself in the process of telling this story?

I learned that there was a lot of bottled-up emotions that I put to the side in order to continue, and I thought it was very important to me to go back and really assess what was happening.

So I'm ten years old, sitting at home in Cancun, Mexico, with my mom and dad, and we're watching TV.

We're watching football.

But this isn't the World Cup, this isn't soccer, this is American football: teams like the 49ers, the Cowboys, the Cardinals.

And I love what I see: the intensity, the speed, the hitting.

And I can feel the crowd's emotion through the TV, but I have no idea what's been said.

I don't speak English.

My dad is next to me, explaining to me every play, translating for me.

You see, he had played in Mexico when he was a teenager, and he played college football in the U.S.

I knew that I wanted to follow in my dad's footsteps and maybe one day make it to the NFL.

Now I'm 15 years old.

My dad sits me down and he goes, "If you're really serious about this, you got to leave Mexico."

Next thing I know, I'm in Phoenix, Arizona, moving in with my mom's best friend and her husband, and it was hard.

They're nice people; they're not my parents.

It feels even worse when my parents fly back home.

My English is broken, it's not very good.

I've been taking classes in Mexico, but not good enough.

And now I'm in a different country, with different culture, and I'm alone.

My first day of practice, and I go, "Coach, I'm ready to go."

And he goes, "Soccer practice?"

And I go, "No, Coach, football."

And he goes, "Like, American football?"

And I go, "Yes, Coach, American football."

He kind of stared at me for a second, and he was, like, "Well, then, get out there."

And as I walked on that field, it finally felt like home for a few hours.

For the most part, I didn't understand everything that was happening that day.

Coach was talking about up-downs, and sprinting ten yards, and high knees, and I had to wait for my teammates to do it first before I would jump into the drill and do it myself, but it felt great.

But off the field, trying to go to class, not understanding what my teachers were saying, trying to make friends so I wouldn't be that alone, eating lunch alone, that language barrier was a problem, and I was sad.

I would call my parents every day.

(voice breaking): And I would cry.

(voice quivering): "I want to go back home."

And they'd tell me, "Don't quit yet."

And, somehow, I kept going.

I graduated from high school as a starter for the varsity team my senior year, but I'm still not big enough, I'm not strong enough, I'm not fast enough to play at a university level.

And so I enroll in a community college, and it felt like I was going backwards.

I felt like a failure.

There was people behind me that I couldn't let down, so I kept going.

Two years later, I'm at the University of Arizona walk-on tryouts, and you see, kids from high school going to a university, there's a two percent chance that you make a cut, and as a walk-on, it's even less.

There's 80 people on the field, they all want to make it, and I still feel like I don't fit in.

There's not one Latino on that field, and I don't know anybody.

To make matters worse, I'm trying out to be a long snapper, and most teams, they carry one, maybe two, and Arizona already had three.

I didn't know if I could do it.

Five days into tryouts, even the recruiting coordinator looked at me and was, like, "You're still here?"

(laughter) At the end of tryouts, Coach called me into the office and he said, "You're not going to be starting, but I think you can do good things for the team."

And I was very excited; I called my parents, and they were so proud that they cried.

We're eight games in, we're in California, about to play U.C.L.A., and Coach tells me, "You're starting today."

And I couldn't believe it.

It was about to be my first start in Division I football ever.

And not just anywhere, I'm at the Rose Bowl.

In this stadium, I've been watching it since I was a kid on TV with my parents.

It felt great.

I put on my cleats, put on my helmet, and I walked into that field, and I feel the grass underneath my cleats, and suddenly I hear this whistle.

And there's 85,000 people in the stadium.

But this whistle, I know it-- it's my dad.

(laughter) He was there with me, and he had no idea that I was going to be starting that game.

You see, my dad had been traveling, flying to Arizona to watch me practice, to our games, hoping that I would play one day.

And so I found him in the stands, and I smiled, and I waved.

It was a very special moment for all of us.

I graduated from Arizona, I earned a master's degree in education, I begin teaching Spanish in my old high school, coaching football, as well, because I wanted to give back to the community, the same community that helped me get to where I am today.

And I'm happy-- I love it, I feel fulfilled.

And one day, I'm driving back home from work, and I get this phone call.

And I look at the phone, and it says, "Rolando Cantu," a former Arizona Cardinals player.

You see, my dad and Rolando, they knew each other from back in the day when I first moved to Arizona.

He was always there for me: where to go to high school, how to train, who to talk to.

But it's been a while since I've talked to Rolando, so I thought it was weird.

I answer, and he says... (speaking Spanish) "How would you like to come interview for a Spanish broadcasting job with the Arizona Cardinals?"

I couldn't, I couldn't believe it.

I was confused, I don't have a broadcasting degree, I haven't talked to you in a while, I don't know anything about communication.

But I'm freaking out.

(laughter) So I pull over to the side of the road.

And I only remember saying... (speaking Spanish) (laughter) Four months later, I'm in Cincinnati, at the Bengals' stadium.

And I always wanted to be on the field playing for an NFL team, but now I'm in a press box, about to broadcast my first-ever NFL game.

And it gave me memories of being that kid in Cancun, watching TV, and not understanding what was going on and having my dad there to translate for me.

And now I get to do that, for kids, for adults, all around the nation, even internationally, to Mexico, and it was an unreal feeling.

So I took a moment, I called my parents, because that moment, just like this journey, felt unreal, and there was no one else that I wanted to share that moment with more than my parents.

And to this day, that same feeling, I get it every time when I turn on that microphone.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ MITCHELL: My name is Kyle Mitchell.

I am Diné, which is Navajo, I am an educator and a veteran.

And the one thing we do within our culture is always introduce ourselves, so I'll do that and I'll explain the translation.

(speaking Diné) So what I said there is, "Hello, my name is Kyle Mitchell.

"I'm born for Bitterwater.

"I'm born into the Mexican people.

"I'm born for the Towering House, and I come from the Mexican people."

And how did you find your way into storytelling?

So, I've been around storytelling my whole life, I just didn't know it.

Growing up on the reservation, my grandparents, who raised me, they would share stories about the land, the culture, the family.

And so just continuous family stories, cultural stories.

And so hearing those growing up, I always thought that that was a sacred place.

So when you think about the story that you're going to be telling tonight, why is that particular story an important one for you to share?

Because it gives insight to identifying and finding home away from home.

Mm, and what are you hoping that the audience takes away from your story?

Hope-- there's always brighter days.

We've got to weather the storm.

The sun had just set when I arrived to Kiwanis Park here in Tempe, Arizona, in the middle of the hustling, bustling metropolitan area, a place with a lake, with little green rolling hills and trees sprinkled throughout.

As I parked my vehicle and got my longboard out, which is a little bit longer than a skateboard, and as I put it on the, on the pavement and began skating through the parking lot, I felt a weight not just on my shoulders, but within my heart.

I was feeling doubt, self-questioning-- feeling disconnected.

And I knew exactly what I needed.

I needed to go back to the land, to where I was born and raised, up in Northern Arizona on the Navajo Reservation, a place where I was raised by my grandparents, where they taught me how to work with my hands, the value of hard work in every context, and they showered me with stories every day: stories of our family, stories of the land, stories of the culture.

And my favorite thing to do growing up was climbing our mountain.

We have a mountain called Dzil Nóódoozí-- "The mountain with the streaks on it."

And if you climb to the top of that mountain, and you look to the west, you can see the San Francisco Peaks.

You turn, you look to the north, you can see the Mesas of the Hopi.

And if you look to the south, you can see the Little Painted Desert in its beautiful, majestic landscape.

Growing up on the reservation, I also learned what hard work really is, what communal work is.

You see, we still don't have running water to this day, and hauling water was a daily chore.

But it wasn't divvied to just anybody, it was for everyone.

And so whoever was able, they jumped in and they helped with that labor.

If something needed to be repaired, we helped with that.

If something needed to be built, we helped with that.

The sense of community and love, constant.

But...

I couldn't go back.

Because this was the time of masking, the time of social distancing, the time of literal lockdowns on the Navajo Reservation.

The Navajo Nation Police blocked off the roads at all entry points and did not allow anybody off the reservation onto the reservation, and we were very disconnected.

And me, just like everyone else who was off the reservation, tried to call home.

And I remember calling home one time for three hours straight and hitting a busy signal nonstop.

And, finally, I was able to get through.

And once I got through, I put my phone on speaker.

My wife, my son gathered around just to hear the voices of family.

We asked them how they were doing with water.

We asked them how they were doing with food.

And then they gave us updates on, here's how many people have tested positive so far on Navajo, and then they would move into the sad part: here's how many people we lost today to COVID.

I looked over at my wife, and no words need to be said.

This sense of disconnect, this sense of longing, she felt that, growing up on the Navajo Reservation, as well.

Away from her community, away from her family.

But... (sighs) if I'm being honest, even if I could go back, it still wouldn't be the same.

You see, a year before the pandemic, I lost my grandfather, my cheíí.

A cheíí is more than just a grandfather.

He's the human library.

He is that spiritual guide to let you know how to find light, but more intimately, he was my hero.

He was my role model.

And feeling the weight of the pandemic on me, and feeling the loss, all of these emotions flooded over my body.

And as I kicked and skated through the parking lot, and I hit the sidewalk, I began looking around.

Now, as I looked up, I saw the parting in the trees, and beyond the trees, I saw the moon.

It was beautiful and vibrant, luminescent, blanketing the trees, reflecting on the grass, shimmering along the lake.

And as I looked past the moon, I looked a little to the right, I found a star.

A star that everybody knows as the North Star, but we know that as 'Náhookos in Navajo.

And I remember the story that my cheíí and my grandma shared with me, that that star was put there for the first star in the sky.

They placed that there for us because that star symbolizes many things.

It symbolizes family, it symbolizes love, and it symbolizes hope.

And as I looked at that star, my eyes began getting a little watery.

But as I took a breath, and I let it out, I felt my shoulders not so heavy, I felt my heart not so heavy, the distance not so far away now.

And so what I decided to do was turn around, go back to my car, and go home.

Because when I got home, I talked to my wife and my son, and I said, "Hey, we're going skating right now."

My wife, she grabbed her roller skates.

My son, he grabbed his longboard, and the three of us went outside.

Once we hit the sidewalk, we began skating, and as we're moving, we got tired, and we settled down a little bit, and I told 'em, "Look up.

"Look up at the sky, how beautiful it is.

"Look at the moon and how wonderful it is right now.

"Look at the moonlight drape across the sidewalk "onto the street.

"But also, look a little to the right.

"Look at that bright star there.

That's the North Star."

And I told my wife and my son, "That's also Náhookòs, "and that was put there for a reason, "to remind us that the three of us are family, "that the three of us have love, and wherever we see that star, we will always have hope."

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ ♪