♪ DON FRANK: And I turn around and I see there is a wall of water coming right at me behind me down the street.

ROXANNA AZARI: And I just keep thinking, what will I do with this 76-year-old man on this cloudy day?

KRISTEN CHIN: As soon as I realize this, I was so mad.

I drove through the rain for you.

We had plans.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Rain or Shine."

ANNOUNCER: This program is made possible in part by contributions from viewers like you-- thank you.

What happens when the forecast looks bleak, but you know that the show simply must go on?

We can all make plans, but what we can't do is predict the weather.

And sometimes, the only option is to weather it.

To keep forging ahead, to face the cloudy gray skies, to hope that the sun will come back out.

Tonight's stories might just help to prove to you that with some courage, conviction, and a little bit of humor, you can get through just about any storm.

♪ AZARI: My name is Roxanna Azari.

I'm Iranian American.

I'm a poet, performer, and educator.

I lead poetry and intersectionality workshops with youth in middle schools, high schools, and colleges, and I currently teach at Hunter College.

What is it that draws you into poetry?

How did you kind of get started in it?

My grandmother was a poet, so I sort of like grew up in the lap of poetry.

A lot of the times, like when my mom was at work or my... like, my parents were both at work, my grandparents were the ones that were with me all day.

And so I was growing up in poetry.

And she didn't speak English, so most of her poems were in Farsi.

And so, by the time that I was seven, I would like go into my closet and start writing my own poems.

OKOKON: Mmm.

(both laugh) That's great.

(laughing): Yeah.

OKOKON: So, where do your ideas for your poems come from?

Where do you draw inspiration from?

So, where I draw inspiration from in my poetry, a lot of the times, is through injustices that I see.

So, a lot of my poetry is focused on gender or racial or class discrimination, sort of looking at the kind of world that I wish we did live in.

Why is it important to you that you pass this love of poetry on to other people, maybe especially on to women?

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 how... what a powerful tool it was for me in my life... OKOKON: Mm-hmm.

...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.

Yeah, absolutely.

And also there's just so many stories we don't hear, because of what a canon is considered and what it looks like.

OKOKON: Mm-hmm.

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.

Thank you.

(applause) A lot of my poetry, a lot of my work is around youth organizing and social justice-oriented work.

And so that day was very complex for me, because as I was here trying to do grassroot work about, like, the change that America needs to see, here's this man who was telling me how amazing and lucky we are to be born here.

And so it was this very weird moment for me, where it was like, "Yes, I'm grateful to be born here, "but let's not put America on a pedestal, There's still so much work that needs to be done."

♪ CHIN: My name is Kristen Chin, and I'm a writer.

I've come to that conclusion after what feels like a very long journey.

I started out graduating with a degree in environmental policy.

After college, I went to work at a technology startup, realized I was very unhappy.

And because I love food and cooking, I went to work at a bakery.

And then after working at the bakery, I realized that the lifestyle of a baker maybe it wasn't one that aligned with my ideal lifestyle.

What have you found that you've learned about yourself in your writing?

I start out with a first draft, and then someone will look at it and ask me questions, and they bring out all these other emotions that are angles to the story that I'd never considered before.

So, it made me realize how complex I can be, just as a human.

OKOKON: Mm-hmm.

- And how it takes time to unravel the story.

So what was it like when you told your family that you wanted to be a writer?

It was hard.

(laughs) My dad is a doctor.

My mom, she passed away a couple years ago, but she was a financial consultant.

And I have two siblings who both want to be doctors as well.

And the hardest part about wanting to be a writer in my family-- I love my family, by the way... - (laughs) ...is that there was no language to describe a creative career or how to get there.

OKOKON: Right.

So I've really been figuring it out as I go along.

And even admitting to myself that I wanted to be a writer was very difficult.

Because when there is no language in that environment to describe the career choice, it's hard to even recognize that that's within you.

I understand that your dad is here to see your story tonight.

Has he ever come to your shows before?

And what's, what are you feeling?

He has been to a show.

It did not go over well.

(both chuckle) But I'm really excited to have him at tonight's show, because I love this story and he's part of it, and I really want to perform it for him, and for him to enjoy it.

Last summer, I went to Germany for the first time.

I went to visit a friend and, oddly enough, to go on a date.

My date's name was Maxi, and we met because I'd been to Thailand earlier that year and we were in the same tour group.

I will always remember his Atlantic Ocean green eyes and his short blond hair and a crew cut, and I really liked the warmth of his arm pressed against mine when we sat side by side.

After returning to Boston, we kept in touch over Facebook, and I started to learn a little bit more about Maxi.

For example: he not only rode a dirt bike, but also did yoga.

And I thought, I haven't found anyone I wanted to date in a really long time, but I would totally date Maxi-- except that he lives in Germany.

Luckily, in March, I got a call from a friend who lives in Berlin telling me to come visit her.

And excited, I told Maxi, and without me saying anything about visiting him specifically, he applied for a week of vacation at work, sent me all these beautiful photos of hikes that we could take together.

And when I asked him where I should stay, he said, (German accent): "Oh, no problem.

Stay the week with me."

(laughter) April and May pass by very quickly as we planned our trip.

He offered to bring all the camping gear so that I could save space in my luggage.

I offered to drive, because he didn't have a car, and we both created a list of hikes that we wanted to do, and we agreed to meet on a Saturday afternoon in June in his hometown called Prien am Chiemsee.

Before I knew it, it was the Friday before we were supposed to meet, and I was in the Black Forest, packing my things and preparing for the six-hour drive to get to Munich.

I filled up my tank and got on the way, and as I started to enter the highway, my car gurgled before grinding to a halt.

As it turns out, putting the wrong fuel in your car... (audience groans) ...will kill your car.

And I had to learn this lesson on a public holiday in Germany.

Every car shop was closed, but I was determined.

So I waited the five hours to get a new car.

And then I drove an additional five hours-- through a rainstorm, mind you-- to get to Munich, where I stayed overnight to wait out the rain.

The following day, I finished my drive to Prien am Chiemsee.

And when I got there, I was so excited.

I texted Maxi immediately, and he didn't respond.

For a while.

So I pulled out my phone and I started looking at more hikes when I got a read receipt.

And for those of you who don't know, a read receipt is a notification saying that someone's seen your message.

And I'm so confused.

I mean, it's getting so late.

Why hasn't texted me?

So I texted him again.

Got another read receipt.

Give him a call.

I was sent a voicemail.

Called him again.

I was sent to voicemail again.

Maxi stood me up.

(audience reacts) As soon as I realized this, I was so mad, I wanted to run to his place and scream, "You (mimics beep sound)!"

(laughter) "I drove through the rain for you.

"I suffered a car breakdown for you.

We had plans!"

But I didn't.

Because I needed food and a place to stay quick.

So I booked myself into a nearby hotel, crammed dinner into my mouth, and then locked myself into my room.

And here is when I started to go a little bit crazy.

Most of you don't know me that well, but my greatest weakness is that I'm an overthinker.

And that night my brain was on overdrive trying to solve the mystery of the disappearing Maxi.

Did he find something on my Facebook wall that he didn't like?

Maybe that embarrassing but hilarious photo of me at Thanksgiving, knife in one hand, fork in the other, leering over the Thanksgiving turkey?

What did I do?

I was so hurt and confused.

But most of all, I was deeply, deeply ashamed because this great guy that I had told all my friends and family about?

Well, turns out he's not so great after all.

At 3:00 in the morning, I call my dad.

I love my dad.

He's one of those people who just grounds me.

And he said, "Kristen, "there are a million reasons why he didn't show up.

"But I know you.

"You did everything right.

"Do not for a second believe that you are one of those reasons."

And after hearing that, I fell asleep.

You're all probably wondering, did I ever hear from Maxi again?

(laughter) No.

(audience "aww"s) And it's okay, because I learned a very special lesson instead, which was to never, ever question myself, especially amidst maximum disappointment.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ FRANK: My name is Don Frank.

I'm from Northampton, Massachusetts.

I work in Springfield, Massachusetts, about 20 miles down the road.

I'm a criminal defense lawyer, and I've been telling stories for about three or four years.

And has being a lawyer helped you in terms of telling stories on stage?

I think so.

I mean, it's a different kind of storytelling.

First of all, it's about me, it's not about other people.

One of the things I'm required to do professionally is take a set of facts and work it into a narrative that is as true as possibly can be while still advocating for my client.

So, it allows me to remember narratives on a regular basis as part of my job.

I may not remember a client's name, but if they give me a part of their arrest report and the incident, I'll remember from decades ago.

So, what is it that you enjoy the most about storytelling?

I actually love the process.

I love the taking a story or an incident, I love putting it down on paper, and then whittling it down to figure out what it is.

When the story works, it's great telling it.

But when telling the story doesn't work, it's not so much fun.

But I can say that going back and looking at the story again and editing and editing, I like that whole process.

OKOKON: Mm-hmm.

I like the writing part of it.

Everybody in western Massachusetts, the real New Englanders, were really excited about the tornado that was winding its way towards Springfield.

And I am on a ninth-floor office building, and I can see in my Springfield office that the tornado has appeared over the Berkshires, 15 miles away, and it is a huge pillar of looks like smoke.

It's very exciting because, frankly, it looks like a tornado.

(laughter) Just like in the movies.

And, and... and, you know, we're all atwitter and-and, I'm thinking to myself, however, that this tornado could be a problem, because I live 20 miles north and it might ruin the highway.

And I realize I don't want to get stuck in Springfield.

So I decide to go home.

And my office mate, Petra, she only lives a couple blocks away.

She decides she's going to go home, too.

And, being a gentleman, I offer her a ride.

So we step out of the building and we step into the air, and it is gorgeous.

It's electric.

We drive out of the parking lot, and as we're driving out of the parking lot, we can see little gusts of wind picking up the leaves that are sort of in the corners, and they're creating a, a funnel shape.

This is so interesting.

(laughter) We drive down the street and I turn around and I see that there is a wall of water coming right at me, behind me down the street, and I come into the intersection and had I gone left-- north, to my own home-- I would have watched the tornado disappear in my rearview mirror.

But I had to drive Petra home, and she lived to the right, so I took a right.

And so did the tornado.

(laughter) And the tornado came on us and it was pitch black.

I could barely see my hands at 2:00 in the afternoon.

There's a wall of water washing over the car.

I pull over, and my car is starting to get hit with stuff from the city.

It's getting hit with trash, it's getting hit with leaves, it's getting hit with sticks.

It's getting hit with rocks.

I can hear them hitting the various parts of my car.

They're hitting the windows of my car, they're coming up behind us, and now they're coming up in front of us.

But now the strength of the tornado is carrying bricks.

There are bricks hitting my car.

There are bricks hitting my windows.

There are bricks hitting my windshield.

Petra-- small-- slides down below the console.

(laughter) I don't even think about it.

(chuckles) After all, what's the worst that could happen?

Suddenly-- pow!

The back window of my station wagon explodes, and stuff from the city starts piling into the way back of my station wagon with a roar, and it's coming in.

It fills up the way back.

It fills up the back seat, and then it fills up and it's starting to hit my own chair, my own car seat and my headrest, and it's whacking me and it's loud, and I hold my breath and I close my eyes.

And then, as suddenly as it started, it stopped.

It was silent.

There are car horns.

There were alarms.

There's a woman crying someplace on the street, but I'd say that it was the most quiet that I have ever heard.

Petra unfolds herself from down below, opens the car door, slips out, doesn't say a word.

I eventually collect myself and I step outside the car.

And I've lived around the Springfield area my whole life.

I do not recognize this city street.

I feel like I'm on Mars.

Four car lengths ahead of me, there is a cigar store where I used to, as a child, buy my Mad magazines.

It was made of brick.

It was gone.

In its place, there was a huge steel girder that had fallen and twisted itself onto a car.

And behind that girder, there was a beam, and that beam had somehow entered the back of the car and was poking out the windshield of that same car.

And it was from that car that I could hear the woman crying.

And I made my way over to the car, worried that I was going to see something I was going to regret the rest of my life.

And I looked in the car, and they missed her.

It was a miracle.

She was fine.

I couldn't open up the car door, and I waited with her for I don't know how long, but some time, surveying the scene.

And finally the police and fire came for rescue.

Thank goodness.

And I got to use the word "Jaws of Life" for the first and hopefully the last time in a sentence.

I eventually made my way back to my own car, damaged on all sides.

Turn the ignition.

It started, another miracle.

I drove home.

The highway was fine.

I made my way to my house.

I went upstairs.

The moment I hit my bed, I had to pull the blankets up over me, curl up into a ball, and I laid there for a very long time.

Thank you very much.

(cheers and applause) ANNOUNCER: This program is made possible in part by contributions from viewers like you-- thank you.

♪