♪ ♪ MARTHA MOYER: And then she hauls off with all of her weight, and she punches really hard and she screams, "I've got babies, now you get out of here!"

KHALILAH JONES: I looked down at my beat-up Nikes, and at that tattered duffel bag I brought, and I kicked it under my bunk.

AJAY GALLEWALLE: I was in the fifth grade.

I had a crush on a girl.

I have decided she's my soulmate and I'm going to marry her.

Of course, she had no idea about that.

(laughter) THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Summertime."

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

OKOKON: I, like most people, I love the summer.

It's this time of year where you get to kick back and relax, maybe spend some time along the water, you get to bask in the sunlight, go on adventures wandering.

For many of us, the summertime is when we create our favorite memories with our friends and family.

Tonight's tellers are going to bring you some of their favorite memories of those days that are warm, balmy nights where it feels like anything is possible.

♪ MOYER: My name's Martha Moyer.

I live in Somerville, Massachusetts, and I used to be a math teacher.

And two years ago, I retired from teaching math so that I could pursue my dream, which is to become a graphic artist and writer.

I'm writing a graphic memoir.

OKOKON: How does teaching math to children relate to storytelling?

MOYER: Not every child that takes math is all that interested in math.

And so I would just let the math incubate, and I would launch into a story, and it really just became a part of my teaching repertoire.

OKOKON: Mm.

MOYER: And it was fun.

OKOKON: Who were the storytellers in your family or amongst your friends?

MOYER: Well, I think my mom was, like, a big-time storyteller.

She made up stories as bedtime stories, and we sat around the kitchen table for dinner-- it was back in the olden days-- and my dad would always tell stories about what happened at work.

OKOKON: So, Martha, I understand that this story is about your mother.

MOYER: It is, definitely.

OKOKON: And is she going to be here this evening in the audience?

MOYER: Yes, she is.

I think they've reserved a seat for her in the front row, too.

OKOKON: What do you think it will be like to tell this story on stage, with her in the audience?

MOYER: I don't think I can look at her.

(both laughing) You know, I think it'll be great.

I think it'll be good for her.

I think she will feel good hearing this story.

I think it'll be a great experience.

I'm looking forward to having her there.

♪ It's 1966, and I'm five years old, and our family's going on a summer vacation to Yellowstone Park.

My brothers are nine and ten, and they're in the back seat of the station wagon with me, and it's pulling a camper, trailer tent, and my mom, she's the passenger in the front seat, and my dad, he's a colonel in the Army, and he's driving.

(laughter) We enter the park.

I look around, and I'm confused.

I don't see any yellow stones.

(laughter) There are signs all along the road, and I'm too young to read, but they have pictures, so I can tell what they're saying.

The first one is a bison goring a child.

(laughter) Next: a snake, and I know it's going to bite me.

Then a bear, and I know it's going to eat me.

I don't think I'm gonna like this vacation.

So we get to the campsite, and my dad and my brothers are putting up the tent, and I run to Mom, and I beg and I plead, "Can we just go home?

This is gonna be horrible."

And she says, "No, this is gonna be a wonderful vacation.

Camping is fun."

(laughter) So if I'd asked my Dad that question, he would have ordered me to just be quiet and not complain, and I would have said, "Yes, sir," because that's what we say to Dad.

"Yes, sir," "No, sir," or "No excuse, sir."

Even when he's at home and he's not in his Army uniform, he's always the colonel.

So that's the way we speak to him.

Now, Mom, she's really soft-spoken, and she's a stay-at-home mom, an officer's wife.

And she takes care of us, and my favorite time of day is when Dad's about to come home, and she gets ready by putting on a pretty dress and taking her curlers out, and putting it up in a beehive and putting lipstick on.

Then she greets Dad with a hug and a kiss, and she gets dinner on the table for the family.

But just when Dad wants it.

So now the tent is up, and we're fed and she puts us to bed, we're in our sleeping bags, and we sleep soundly.

Then we're awakened by the sound of screams.

My brothers are pushing behind me, and my mom is in front of me, and she's yelling for my dad, and it gets louder, and my brothers are pushing and screaming, and my mom says, "Be quiet, be quiet.

Everyone, just shut up!"

(quietly): So we get very quiet.

Now, on the wall of the tent, I could see a shadow.

First it's a mound.

And it rises.

And then ears sprout.

It rises more.

And then it has paws with claws.

It rises more.

It's the bear, the same bear that was on the sign that was going to eat me.

(laughter) And it pokes through the flap of the tent, and my Mom, she lunges toward it, and she punches it and screams, "I've got babies.

You've got babies.

Now, you leave my babies alone!"

(laughter and applause) Meanwhile, my dad has escaped through the back of the tent and climbed over the camper and gone to the station wagon, and he calls for my mom from the car.

"Mary, Mary, come to the car!"

And she screams back, "But the kids, the kids!"

And my dad yells... (laughing): "Oh, yeah, kids, yeah."

(laughter) My brothers, they push and they shove, and they just stay behind me.

But I watched as my mom, she kicks the bear, she punches the bear.

I'm only five years old and I watch.

Usually it's my brothers who are protecting me.

And she kicks it again.

I can't believe it.

I cover my mouth, I want to scream.

It's like watching a game.

And then she hauls off and she punches it really hard.

The bear, it doesn't even budge.

She takes two fists and she comes down really hard on its nose.

It doesn't even growl.

Then she kicks it and punches.

I know she's never gonna quit, and then she hauls off with all of her weight and she punches really hard and she screams, "I've got babies, I've got babies.

Now you get out of here!"

And the bear backs away, as if to say, "I don't want to mess with you.

(laughter) I'll just go to the next tent to get dinner."

(laughter) And Mom, she turns and she hugs my brothers and me, and cradles us.

My brothers are crying.

I'm not crying.

And that's weird, because I'm the youngest.

I usually cry.

And my mom, she doesn't usually hit and kick and punch and yell, and my dad doesn't usually hide in the car.

(laughter) I just want to...

I just want to get up and scream.

I feel so strange.

I feel happy.

I want to jump for joy and dance.

My mom beat up a bear!

My mom beat up a bear!

(laughter) She was right, camping is fun.

(laughter and applause) But she rocks us and cuddles us.

And I realize there's so much more to her than... than food, and curlers, and looking pretty.

She's a fighter, and she'd fight to the death.

And my dad... (laughter) He gives orders, and he orders us to never mention this Yellowstone Park incident ever again, as long as we live.

(laughter) (cheers and applause) None of us said, "Yes, sir," to that order.

(laughs) Thank you so much.

(cheers and applause) It changed my perspective about what a woman could be.

I...

I had seen her as just really thin and delicate and beautiful.

And when I saw her fight, I wanted to fight, and I became a stronger person.

And of the three kids-- and I think it might be because of this incident, because I watched it-- um, I do things that are challenging more than my brothers do.

♪ JONES: I'm Khalilah Jones.

I'm from Boston, Massachusetts, born and raised.

I work at a local hospital doing employee training and community engagement.

OKOKON: So I understand that you're new to storytelling.

JONES: Yeah, I was at a storytelling event at a local shop, and the night had run out of tellers who kind of put their names in the hat to tell.

So I put my name in, and I told my story just to keep the night going, because I didn't want that energy to stop.

OKOKON: How has storytelling impacted your life so far?

JONES: Storytelling has given me a chance just to connect with more people.

I've had a chance to reflect on who I am and the message I want to bring across.

But also, I started as a listener, so just having a chance to go after work, or whatever else was happening in my life, and listen to other people share made that connection just instant.

OKOKON: Mm-hmm.

And tonight, we have stories all about the summertime.

And why is the story that you're telling us tonight an important one for you to tell?

JONES: My story tonight's really important to me because it came at a time when I was at a very different place in my life.

I was still learning a lot about who I am and the things that are important to me, and I had a chance to really find a community.

♪ It was my first summer as a camp counselor, and I was so nervous.

I was assigned a cabin of 14-year-old girls, and I was just 15 myself, so I knew being a disciplinarian was off the table.

(laughter) I figured being a trusted friend and ally would be my best bet.

As campers and their families started to arrive, one girl stood out.

Her name was Ekin, and her family was visiting the U.S. for the summer from Turkey.

They decided to send her to camp to work on her English and gain a bit more confidence.

When her family left, Ekin cried so hard.

That first day, she was really quiet.

She hovered on the edge of the group.

To me, it looked like she was just trying to fade into the background, disappear, and she reminded me so much of myself.

When I was 12 years old, I received a scholarship to go to summer camp in Connecticut for two weeks.

See, where I'm from in Boston, most kids are lucky if their families can afford to send them to the YMCA camp down the street, let alone Connecticut.

Summers were spent playing Double Dutch at the playground and sharing 25-cent popsicles from the corner store and racing home before the streetlights came on.

So of course, my family jumped at the opportunity for me to have a new experience, and I had no idea what to expect.

I was driven down to Connecticut by a volunteer from my afterschool program, and when we arrived, it was a blur of kids everywhere, and so many trees and this beautiful blue lake, and picturesque wooden cabins.

And I found my cabin and laid my stuff down on my bunk and watched as other campers started to arrive.

And their families would unload these big, shiny trunks.

And then I realized I was the only kid who didn't get dropped off by her parents, and the only one who didn't have a big, shiny trunk.

And I took in the other campers as they arrived.

They were all white, all from different towns and suburbs and they were wearing the cool brands like Hollister and Abercrombie.

And they were talking about if they packed their iPods and what bikinis they decided to bring.

And I looked down at my beat-up Nikes and my hand-me-down Goodwill clothes, and the ugly one-piece underneath, and at that tattered duffel bag I brought.

And I kicked it under my bunk, hoping nobody would notice.

And I felt so alone and out of place.

I did not belong there, and I had no idea how I would possibly survive two weeks here.

Well, the thing about camp is that you are fully scheduled from sunrise to lights-out, so I didn't have much time to wallow.

In archery, I met Emily, who liked the same music I did and did not wear Hollister or Abercrombie.

In canoeing, I met Eric, who was a city kid just like me, and had no idea how to navigate a canoe.

And in arts and crafts, I met Greg, who played the trombone and didn't really feel like he fit in, either.

We all became fast friends, and even though there weren't any other campers or counselors who looked like me, I kept finding more things in common with people, and soon I had tons of friends.

And I knew all of the songs.

And I was helping my cabin win the games.

And in no time, I loved it.

I couldn't imagine that girl that first day who was alone and out of place because I was filled with the camp spirit.

After my two weeks at camp, I wanted to go back the next summer, and thankfully, I could keep my scholarship.

Over the year, I stayed in touch with all my camp friends, exchanging instant messages and emails debating which games were the best and which cabins had the cutest boys.

I told my friends all the stories, I taught my family the songs.

And I went back for two more summers as a camper.

And then I was too old to be a camper, so I decided to become a counselor.

A few of my friends would be counselors, as well, and we would all keep the camp spirit going.

As a counselor, I stuck by Ekin's side.

I felt for her.

She was homesick, dropped off alone in this foreign country in this strange alternate reality, where she didn't really understand the language.

I coached her on the tricky rhyming songs and helped her practice the different games.

But I couldn't be with her at all hours of the day, so I had to trust that the other campers and counselors and the camp spirit would take care of her, just as it had for me.

And one day, it was care package day in the cabin, so there were packages of hot Cheetos and Sour Patch Kids and Twizzlers flying across the cabin.

And Ekin held a package of Turkish delight sent from her mom.

And a camper in the bunk next to her asked her what it was.

And Ekin started to share, and soon, all the other campers were surrounding her bunk, peppering her with questions about her life at home and her family and school.

And she stumbled over her words, but slowly, she opened up.

And for the first time, I saw that there was a place for her at camp, that this could be a happy place for her.

And I spent that summer with kids like Ekin, who couldn't see themselves in anybody else at camp, who felt like they didn't have a place.

And I got to see other outsiders, just like me, make their way in.

I'm not sure what happened to Ekin after that summer.

She didn't go back to camp, and neither did I. I had to get a job that paid more than three meals a day, plus snacks and ice cream.

(laughter) Not every kid has an amazing time at camp.

It's not always a positive experience.

But I got to spend my summers at the most beautiful place by the lake, where who you are at home and where you come from doesn't matter.

What matters is how loud you can sing the camp songs, and coming up with the most creative costumes for your cabin, and being there for your camp family when they need you.

And I will always carry that spirit with me.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) Knowing what I know now, I would tell 12-year-old me that it's okay to feel what I'm feeling and to feel afraid and scared and out of place, but just open up to it and try it.

Talk to people, listen to what they have to say, and it'll all click.

♪ GALLEWALLE: I'm a Ajay Gallewalle.

I came to United States from India in 1994 as a software engineer.

OKOKON: So I understand that you have a Marathi-language website.

GALLEWALLE: The name of the website is Maayboli, which means "mother tongue."

OKOKON: Hmm.

GALLEWALLE: When I came to United States, I'm very active in the local New England Marathi community, but there wasn't any resources available, so I basically created a platform where all people who speak Marathi will be able to communicate and converse and write, publish in Marathi language.

So I started about 22 years ago, 1996.

So it was sort of like a Facebook for Marathi people.

OKOKON: Mmm.

GALLEWALLE: And so it continues to grow.

Currently, it reaches about 1.8 million people in 27 countries.

OKOKON: That's wonderful.

Tell me about how you got into storytelling.

How did you become a storyteller?

GALLEWALLE: I'm new to storytelling.

I just got into this just a year ago.

OKOKON: And when you first got started, did storytelling come naturally for you, or was it difficult?

GALLEWALLE: It came, actually, very naturally.

And people started telling me that I'm a really natural storyteller, which, I didn't anticipate it, but that also helped me.

Now I'm, it is very tempting these days that maybe I should get into either politics or become a con artist.

OKOKON (laughs): One or the other.

♪ GALLEWALLE: Imagine you grew up in Foxborough, Massachusetts, famous for Gillette Stadium-- New England Patriots, everything with football-- but you grew up playing Ping-Pong.

(laughter) That's how I felt when I was...

I grew up in a small town called Aurangabad in India.

While the rest of the India is obsessed with the game of the cricket, I grew up playing baseball.

And nobody outside of my town knew anything about baseball.

There was no internet, there was no TV, there was no professional game, there was no books.

And still, kids in my town played baseball.

How?

No one knows how it began.

But a sixth-grader will teach a fifth-grader, a fifth-grader will teach a fourth-grader.

We had informal teams among kids, and if we find a space, we'll play baseball there.

And we still end up playing close to real rules.

I was in the fifth grade, and our team was about to face a very strong team.

And this game was very, very important to me.

I had a crush on a girl, and her brother was in the rival team.

I have decided she's my soulmate and I'm going to marry her.

(laughter) Of course, she had no idea about that.

But I knew, if I lose this game, I will be ridiculed by my in-laws forever.

(laughter) I can't let that happen.

So how to somehow figure out ways to-- some kind of thing-- to win this game?

I'm a Hindu, and according to scriptures, we Hindus have 3.3 billion gods.

There is a god of rain, there is a god of water, there is a god of everything.

So I thought there must be a god of baseball and we should appeal to him.

(laughter) But my idea was immediately shot down because no one has heard about god of baseball, and why a Hindu god will help baseball, which is a Western game.

(laughter) But I wouldn't give up.

I went in search of Rajiv.

Rajiv was in the sixth grade.

He had taught me baseball.

He was my mentor, guru, and answer to everything.

I had a lot of respect for him.

So I ask him about god of baseball, and he says there is no such thing.

(laughter) I was devastated, because I don't want to believe that.

And I lost complete respect for him forever.

(laughter) But I also saw an opening here.

If the god of baseball does not exist, why don't I create one?

But my first, biggest worry was, what if my mom finds out?

And what if there is some kind of a license fee?

Or if there is a tax on god creation?

But then my fifth-grader brain also thought, "If there are 3.3 billion gods, it will be a while until someone realizes there is a new god in town."

(laughter) So I could sneak in a new god under the radar, get him followers, and make him really powerful.

And because we are creating this god from scratch, so I'm just going to have a rule that this god only helps my team.

That's going to be our winning strategy.

So I went to the team, I lied to them and told, "Okay, we could create a new god of baseball."

And everybody become creative.

And so my friend Nitin said, "God of baseball likes new haircut."

Vikram said, "Hey, when we are hitting, "we need to sway our hips like that.

Because god of baseball likes that."

(laughter) Vinay said, "When we are pitching, "we need to look like that.

"Because that will make god of baseball happy, and he'll make the hitter strike out."

So the day of the game came, and we all came with a new haircut.

(laughter) We started swaying our hips and pitching with the looking in the eyes.

But nothing was working.

(laughter) At the bottom of sixth inning, we were down 0-4.

I was pitching, and it was not looking good.

I looked at the sky and said to god of baseball, "Hey, I created you and got you followers.

"Now you have to help me here.

(laughter) "Because if we stop believing you, you won't exist anymore.

"Do you realize this is... this is your life at stake here?

Do you understand?"

And suddenly, everything start working well, as we wanted.

We finally won that game, 5-4.

(cheers and applause) But god of baseball also had limitations.

Outside of the field, we needed a god of friendship, and there wasn't a divine intervention when our team broke apart.

Several years later, I moved to Boston, and one day, I went to Fenway Park.

What a day!

Fenway Park was so big!

It was way bigger than I thought.

And then I saw there is a whole religion of baseball here with its own followers and rituals.

(laughter) But when you see professional baseball players have the same superstitions and rituals and insecurities like we had when we were playing the game in fifth grade, thousands of miles away in India, you start wondering, "Is there a divine connection here?"

(laughter) Since that summer, I haven't created any new god.

I'm still a proud Hindu, but those adult talk I had with my parents really were more useful and practical for day-to-day life.

So these days, I rely more on my humanity than the divinity.

But if there is a god of baseball, I'm pretty sure he currently lives in Boston.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) It's a funny story, but more than just the fun, it talks about interplay between humanity and divinity, and how we are all, irrespective of wherever part of the world we are, we are the same, um... weaknesses and strength, and they somehow come closer together in strange ways.

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

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