PAUL BROUILLETTE: And out of the blue one day, she offered to introduce me to a gay man.

"Who are you and what did you do with my mother?"

(crowd laughs) BETSY KOMJATHY: Maybe she hadn't told her husband and children about the adoption.

I should have given more thought before sending that message.

♪ ♪ DAN DAHARI: Now, as a 12-year-old boy sitting in my kitchen table, I'm like, "That's crazy."

♪ ♪ THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Finding Family."

♪ ♪ ♪ ♪ KOMJATHY: My name is Betsy Komjathy, and I live in a suburb of Boston.

I work at a local college, Babson College, in their speech resource center, and I work with students and graduate students in helping them prepare for pitches and presentations.

What is it like for you to prepare this story of your own to tell?

It's different, this is my first time telling a story.

I've been an audience member a number of times, and my husband encouraged me to, to sign up for a storytelling workshop.

I like trying new things and so I'm excited to try this and just have some fun with it.

So if there were other audience members of Stories from the Stage that were thinking about telling a story, what advice would you give them?

I would give them the advice just to go for it.

You know, I think one of the messages I hope people take from my story tonight is not to overthink things.

And sometimes, if there's an opportunity, just take it and enjoy it, and there, it could have a very fruitful result.

♪ ♪ It's Christmas morning, and I wake up in a panic.

I've forgotten to do something really important for one of our kids.

Minutes later, while our sons are still asleep-- thank goodness they're teenagers and they sleep late, even on Christmas-- and my husband is groggily filling the stockings, I'm in my office on my laptop, desperately Googling the name of our son Teddy's birth mother.

Why had I left this to the last minute?

Teddy is 16, and recently has been asking questions about his birth history.

He knows that his birth mother, who herself had been 16 at the time, had been too young to raise him.

But it's as though he's starting to feel kind of a gap in his identity.

Over dinner a month or so ago, I offered to do some research so that when he was ready, he might have a way to reach out.

And rather than make a general promise, I said I would try to have information for him by Christmas.

Amidst all the busyness, this had completely slipped my mind.

And now, I'm realizing it's going to be a lot harder than I had thought.

The adoption agency we used went out of business, and they had been our only conduit for communication and connection.

We had met his birth mother and her family ahead of time, and we had been at the hospital when Teddy was born.

But ours was what was called a "partially open adoption," meaning we knew her full name, but she only knew us as Betsy and Andrew from Boston.

Each year, we would send a letter and photos to the agency, and they would forward them onto his birth mother, and she would often send letters to them that they would send to us.

The letters!

Yes, they had stopped when the agency closed, but we still had a bunch of them up until Teddy was about age ten.

An adoption counselor had suggested we put them away until he was older.

I rush down to the basement and there, high up on a shelf, is a box marked "Save."

I pull it down, my heart's racing.

I flip through all the folders, and there they are.

I run upstairs and show my husband, and together we write out a cover note, explaining what these are.

We wrap the cover note and the folder of letters in Christmas paper and tuck it under the tree.

It's not contact information, but it is something, and I feel like it'll buy us some time to do the sleuthing that I had promised.

After the other presents had been opened, we hand this gift to Teddy, and he slowly unwraps it and silently reads our note.

He looks a little confused at first, but then, as though it's dawning on him what these are, he asks if he can go upstairs and read the letters there.

A little while later, I stand at his bedroom door and I see that he has spread the letters out in a big arc on his floor, in order of dates.

They're all neatly written on school notebook paper, many with colorful hearts and rainbows.

It was clear that a lot of love and care had gone into them.

I take in the scene of Teddy absorbing all that's in the letters.

And since my older son and husband are absorbed in exploring their new gifts, I decide to go back to my laptop and continue searching.

The problem is, she has a fairly common name, and there are so many results all over the country.

Eventually, Teddy comes into the office and I show him all the results.

And he says, "Wait a minute.

"In some of the letters, "she talks about a person she's dating.

"Maybe they got married?

I think she mentions his name."

And he hurries from the room.

He comes back with one of the letters, stands beside me as I open up the Facebook search bar.

I type in her first name, the second name that we know, and this possible third name and hit enter.

One result.

Just one.

I click on the name.

Many people have private Facebook profiles where you can't see much at all.

Not her, everything was visible.

Lots of posts.

Beautiful pictures of her husband and young children, including a boy who looks a lot like Teddy.

Deep breaths, tears in my eyes.

"That's her, Teddy.

What would you like to do?"

"Let's send her a message," he says.

So I open up the chat box and I start typing.

"Sorry for this out-of-the-blue message.

"Teddy's been asking about his birth history.

"And lo and behold, we found you.

"We gave him all the letters that you had sent "and saw your married name.

"Sorry if this is creepy.

"He is an amazing young man.

"The adoption agency closed, which you probably already know, "so we haven't had a way of writing to you.

"We hope you are well, "and we wish you a very merry Christmas.

And I signed all four of our names.

My husband's, our older son's, Teddy's, and mine.

I look at Teddy for confirmation.

"Should we send it?"

"Yes," he nods.

"But what if she wants you back?"

"Mom, you're my mom!"

Like I've said something crazy.

So I hit send.

I know that at age 16, he can't legally be taken from us.

But there is this connection, a biological connection, that they share that I don't have with him.

All afternoon and evening, we wait for a response.

That night, when I say goodnight to Teddy, I hold him tight, wondering if I've made a huge mistake.

If she doesn't respond, maybe he'll feel rejected twice by his birth mother.

And then I start worrying about how she might feel, getting this out-of-the-blue message.

Maybe she hadn't told her husband and children about the adoption.

Maybe it was something that she had tried to put behind her, and I was opening up something really painful.

I should have given more thought before sending that message.

I get more and more anxious thinking about the maybes, the should haves, the shouldn't haves.

The next morning, still no response.

Then later, we're in the car and I hear that Facebook alert.

"Teddy, a message."

It's a long message that begins with "Oh, my.

I am so overjoyed that you found me."

She wrote how heartbreaking it had been getting her letters returned from the closed agency, and that she was starting to lose hope of ever connecting with us again.

There is so much love for Teddy in her message.

Several times, she wrote, "You have no idea how much this means to me."

And I don't know if she realizes how much her words mean to me and, of course, to Teddy.

The next few days, we pore over her Facebook posts, getting to know her life, her family, her spirit.

We learn that she has a charm bracelet with each of her children's names, including Teddy's.

There's a new calmness and confidence that I see in Teddy.

She was the one person who could help him understand his birth story, who could fill in that gap he was feeling.

It's as though he now knows a love that was unseen, but still so strong.

This feels to me like one more gift, one more precious gift, she's given our son.

(applause) ♪ ♪ OKOKON: Is it second nature for you to be on stage?

Is it second nature for you to tell stories?

I think it's second nature for me to tell stories because that's what I always used to do.

Every story that I've ever told on stage is a story that I've told to my friends at parties, or friends-- you know, in a much like more relaxed setting.

And that's sort of what I try to do when I... when I tell stories on stage is I try to make the audience my friends at a party.

So why is this an important story for you to tell?

Is there particular special meaning behind it?

The first time I told this story, I didn't know what it meant.

And I thought it was like a funny little anecdote.

And then in the course of telling the story over and over again, the meaning has certainly changed and it's certainly changed in light of sort of like the whole political climate too.

I think the idea of, you know, a Mexican immigrant story is... has, has taken on new meaning, at least for me.

♪ ♪ When people ask me where I'm from I usually say I'm from a lot of places.

Like based on my appearance, I usually make white people uncomfortable, but they're not like quite sure why.

So let me try to explain.

My mother was a white American overbearing Jew who grew up in Newton, Massachusetts.

And my father was an Israeli immigrant who came to the United States in the early '60s, just out of the army, and became one of the first people in New York City to sell falafel.

So to anyone where who's ever enjoyed a tasty falafel sandwich in America, on behalf of my father, you're welcome.

(laughter) And I know, like, okay, but like he looks brown, but I didn't think he was that kind of brown.

Well, that's because I'm Mexican, and I'm also part Native, so it's like all real confusing.

You don't understand what's happening.

He's... what is he?

I'm a college admissions director's wet dream is what I am.

(laughter) And I know you guys are asking like, well, like how did this crazy confluence of events like conspire to bring forth this beautiful specimen of a man you see standing here before you today.

So I'm going to try to explain it a little bit.

I'm adopted, and I was born in Mexico City.

And growing up in the suburbs of Massachusetts with my mom, I thought I had the single-- I was a pretty obnoxious child.

And I thought I had the single best retort when I got in trouble ever, which was, "Ha ha, I'm adopted, you picked me, you can't complain."

(laughter) And, for the most part, it worked.

Until one day when I was like 11 or 12, and particularly obnoxious, my mom sat me down, and I, you know, threw the thing back in her face, and said "Nah nah."

And she sat me down and said, "You know what, you're right, and I'm going to tell you how I picked you."

So I was born into a Catholic orphanage in Mexico City in 1977.

And my adopted mother had come from New York City to get... to adopt me, and got me when I was about five days old.

And we stayed with our... her family, and then now my family in Mexico City for about three or four weeks until my mom thought I was ready to travel, and we were going to go back to Queens and start our life.

And so we get to the airport, and we get to the gate, and we get... you know, they're ready to board.

And me and my mom go up to the, you know, the gangplank, and the lady says, "Tickets, please."

My mom hands over the tickets, and they say, "Oh no, I'm sorry, we-we can't let you on the plane."

You see, there's a law in Mexico at the time that makes sense that says, you know, a child cannot travel without written permission from the birth mother until they're one years old.

Which makes sense because you don't want like, you know, a bunch of babies just going wherever they choose.

(laughter) So like my mom understood it, so but she said, "No, but I... you don't understand, "there's a misunderstanding.

"I have adopted him, I have these adoption papers.

"So they supersede that rule because he's my son.

I'm his mother."

And they said, "No, I'm sorry, like that doesn't fly, we need that paper."

She said, "No, no, no, no, he's my son.

"I'm his mother.

"Like it's... this is like I'm his birth mother, these papers say that."

So they say no, they argue till they're blue in the face, and we don't get on the plane.

We don't know what to do, so my mom comes back to the family in Mexico City where she's staying, the next day she calls the orphanage, explains the situation and says, "We just need this paper signed by his birth mother."

They say, "No, I'm sorry, it's a closed adoption.

There's no contact between the birth parents and the adoptive parents once the adoption is finalized."

My mom says, "No, no, no, you don't understand, "like we don't need to see her, I just need this form signed so we can leave."

And they say, "No, no, no."

She argues with them until she's blue in the face.

So not knowing what else to do, she hires a private detective to find a Mexican woman in the city of Mexico City in the 1970s.

As you can imagine, that's not the easiest task.

After another two months, having exhausted every possibility, they're unable to locate her.

My mom is faced with the decision of spending a year in Mexico, or taking drastic measures.

She chose drastic measures.

My mom, the private detective, went down to the streets of Mexico, found a homeless woman, brought her in, cleaned her up, forged documents saying that she was my birth mother, brought her in to a Mexican court, and had her sign the document saying that we could go home.

That's crazy!

(laughter) Now, as a 12-year-old boy sitting in my kitchen table, I'm like, "That's crazy!

Wait, does that make me illegal?"

(laughter) It makes me American.

But, thinking back on that story now, however many years later, the part that I always remember that replays in my mind is when my mother is at the gate with me trying to get on that plane and she's saying, "No, he's my son, I'm his mother," over and over again.

Because in her mind, I've always been her son.

And when I think about it, I don't know my other parents, she's always been my mother.

So that's how I know that's where I'm from.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ BROUILLETTE: My name is Paul Brouillette.

I grew up in north central Mass., in a small town called Winchendon.

I now live in Arlington, Mass., with my son Joel and our cat, Barnaby.

In my spare time, in addition to storytelling, I like to sing in a large chorale and I like hosting dinner parties.

What kind of stories do you tell now?

And how has that changed over time?

So, the stories prior to now or prior to sort of the last couple of years were just more about events and things that happened that might have been exciting or scary or sad.

Now the stories are more about growth and personal growth, and they go more deep into vulnerabilities and places where I want to go in my future.

And so the stories kind of help me figure out where I want to go in the future.

What do you think your life would be like without storytelling?

I don't know.

I, I've often wondered about that, too.

I think there's something about a processing thing that I do.

Somebody did my astrology chart for me as a birthday present when I was in my late 20s, and I never met the woman who did this, so she knew nothing about me, and it said in there that, "You have no air signs in your chart, "and because you have no air signs, "your stories are stuck in your head "and you need to get them out.

"So you need to talk, talk, talk "to process and to figure out the, the solution or the problem, or you know, where you're going."

So, that's what I have come to believe now, that it's a good thing for me to do this, because it helps me get, you know, it helps me learn things about myself.

♪ ♪ My fantasy mother, when I was a child, was June Cleaver.

(laughter) She always spoke in a loving tone, and she never hit Wally or Beaver.

Unlike June, my mother was angry and critical, and I got hit a lot.

When I suggested it might be nice to get some positive feedback, she said, "You're just like your father.

"You always want to be told how good you are.

"My job is to tell you when you're doing something wrong, so you don't do it again."

When I was a teenager, I asked her why she never said she loved me.

And she said, should be obvious she loved me, and 'cause her mother never said it to her.

Whenever my father commended me about something, my mother would invalidate it, sometimes reducing me to tears.

My father would always comfort me and tell me not to listen to her, because she didn't know any better.

Going to college was liberating, but my relationship with my mother continued to erode as I struggled to come out.

My mother said that being gay was the kind of thing that got in the newspapers and ruined a family's reputation, and she implored me not to tell my father.

Six weeks after I graduated from college, my father had a massive coronary, and five weeks later, he died.

After the funeral, my mother told me that she was glad that my father never found out that I was gay, because if he hadn't died of a heart attack, that would have killed him for sure.

(audience murmurs) To numb the pain, I went shopping... (laughter) ...for six years.

(laughter) But it only made things worse, so I got help.

As I began to heal, I learned a lot about myself and who I wanted to be.

I also learned that my mother's anger and abuse were not my fault.

We still had our challenges, but I knew things were getting better when, out of the blue one day, she told me how impressed she was that I had cleaned up my shopping debt, and another time, she offered to introduce me to a gay man.

In my hometown.

(laughter) I kept thinking, "Who are you, and what did you do with my mother?"

When my cousins had kids, my mother started dropping hints about wanting grandchildren.

But my siblings showed no signs of granting her wish.

I had always been deeply moved by stories of abandoned orphans, and it bothered me that I had a decent home and a family-- imperfect as it was-- but the orphans had neither.

It felt like the universe was calling me to be a parent, and I couldn't help thinking that a grandchild might help continue to heal the relationship between my mother and me.

When I told my mother that I was going to adopt a baby, her reaction was tepid.

But when the first two pictures of Joel arrived and the date was set for me to go to Vietnam, she went straight to obsessed, doting grandmother-to-be.

(laughter) She begged me to take her shopping-- it was a family trait.

(laughter) And although I was leery about buying things before I got Joel, something told me it was really important to her.

A few weeks after our last shopping excursion, my mother went to Florida for a month, and two weeks later, I went to Vietnam to get Joel.

I came back from Vietnam on a Friday, and my mother got back from Florida the following Wednesday.

She called me Wednesday afternoon and said that she was home, and I said I'll bring Joel to meet her the next morning, as we had originally planned.

We chatted for a while, and then she stopped suddenly and said that she didn't feel well.

So, I got my brother-in-law to go to her house, since he was a mile away and I was an hour away.

He called the ambulance, but she went into cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital, and they couldn't save her.

When I arrived at her house the next day with Joel in a carrier, I found a cute baby outfit next to her suitcase.

On the front, it had a papa bear and a baby bear, and it said, "Daddy and Me."

It was especially heartbreaking because that's what I used to call my father.

In the first few years after my mother died, I was flooded with anger and grief.

But I was grateful to have Joel, because he gave me such a sense of purpose and focus.

At the same time, I often felt completely incapable of meeting his emotional needs.

And in stressful moments, I verbally lashed out at him, which filled me with shame and guilt.

That's when I knew I needed to get help again, so I hired a parenting coach.

In my sessions with the coach, I recounted the stories of my childhood, followed by the stories of continued healing, validation, and forgiveness that I had been robbed of by my mother's untimely death.

In the process, the coach helped me realize that those were all just stories, and I now had the choice to create a new story about the loving and nurturing parent I had promised myself I would be.

Over the last 17 years, I've endeavored to create that story, and although nowhere near perfect, it includes telling Joel every day that I love him and saying I'm sorry when I don't speak in my loving June Cleaver tone.

(laughter) The story also includes surrounding him with doting mothers and grandmothers who shower him with affection and empathizing with him when he longs for a mother who is not physically present.

As my parenting story unfolded, I came to believe that my mother's spirit was helping me write it to make amends for what she did or was unable to do when I was a kid.

And recently, I've also started to believe that whenever somebody tells me that I'm a great dad or that Joel's a great kid, that it's my mother who's telling me that through them, and that she's also saying, "You're just like your father, and that's a good thing."

(laughter) Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ ♪ ♪ ♪