♪ ANNEMARIE WHILTON: When the kindergarten bus pulled up, my daughter took a giant step up into the bus.

She loudly proclaimed, "We may never see our mothers again."

JOSE PALMA: He started doing what many people will do.

We'd run to the car, asking the officer, "Can you arrest us and send us back to El Salvador?

We really want to go."

And my father leans over the fire pit, and in that moment, an explosion licks up to the heavens.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "No Matter What."

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

OKOKON: Sometimes it can be really hard to step out on a limb, because none of us are that brave or courageous every day of the week.

Sometimes taking a risk just feels a little bit too risky.

What tonight's stories are likely to remind you is that the rewards for those risks are often truly worth it.

♪ SCHMIDT: I'm Susanne Schmidt, and I grew up in New York to a very large Italian family.

And I now live in Burlington, Vermont, with my two sons, and I work as a therapist.

OKOKON: And are there storytellers in your family?

SCHMIDT: I can remember as a kid, dinner would finish, and we would just sit around the table and everyone would tell stories for a couple of hours until my grandfather would decide when the best story had been told.

He'd pull his napkin out of his shirt, throw it on the table, and it was, like, "Okay, I guess we're done."

OKOKON: And do you feel like your stories are a way for you to honor your family?

SCHMIDT: That's a really important piece for me.

You know, we can go low or we can go high, and I feel like storytelling is just always an opportunity to honor people and to speak some good into the world, so... OKOKON: When you consider your life now, can you see your life without storytelling?

SCHMIDT: No, I can't.

Being a therapist, it's this kind of weird blend.

I... You know, for many years, I sat in a room with people where they told their stories and... with the door closed, and we promised not to tell any of that information.

And I think about it now, and I think if I'm really doing good work with people, then my job is to actually empower them to open the door and say their stories out to the world.

And so it really...

It really does fit into the work that I do, and I just look at the work really differently now.

♪ In the summer of 1972, my family and my best friend's family took an extreme camping trip on the shores of Long Island.

And it takes us an entire day to get to our campsite, and by the end of that day, we were completely set up.

And for the next two weeks, it was like "Swiss Family Robinson" meets "Lord of the Flies."

(laughter) Now, my father and my Uncle Bill chose not to go to the designated camping area, because there was no adventure in that.

And so we were in a camping area where there were no rules.

At night, we would fall into our smelly tents, and we would just gently fall asleep to the sound of our parents talking around the campfire, punctuated with these bursts of hysterical laughter.

It was the kind of laughter you only hear when you're with people that you truly love, and they're kind of drunk.

(laughter) So the thing that we didn't know was that right around the corner from this remote peninsula was a bar.

And so every night before the campfire, the fathers would look at the mothers and say, "We're going to go blow the gas out of the lines."

And they would jump in the boats and take off.

And they'd come back an hour later really happy to see us.

So on this one particular night, the mothers looked at the fathers and said, "We are going to go blow the gas out of the lines.

You will be in charge of the children."

Now, I will tell you that all six of the children are still alive, and that our fathers were wonderful fathers.

And like most fathers in the '60s and '70s, they had this little voice in their head when they were left alone with the children that said, "Don't do this, it could end badly."

But when you left my father and my Uncle Bill together in charge of the children, that sentence changed to the question, "What's the worst that could happen?"

(laughter) And so the mothers go off to blow the gas out of the lines, and they look at the children and say, "You will collect the wood."

And we say, "Yes, fathers," because we know something incredible is going to happen.

And we scurry off down the beach, and we come back with the two kinds of wood that children can collect, which are tiny little twigs that burn in 11 seconds and giant water-soaked tree trunks.

And we throw them into the fire pit, and the fathers look at them and they say, "That is wonderful."

Because they don't want to shame or judge us-- that was really the mothers' territory, and they left that to them.

(laughter) And so my father goes to light a match.

And of course, this wood won't light.

And at some point, my brother says, "Why don't we dump some gas on it?"

And my father starts to say, "I don't think that's a good..." And my uncle says, "That's a great idea!

What's the worst that could happen?"

So we dump a couple of gallons of fuel into the fire pit.

My father lights a match, he throws it in, nothing happens.

My brother starts to say, "I think we need more," and my father leans over the fire pit, and in that moment, an explosion licks up to the heavens.

There are flames 30 feet in the air.

There's a mushroom cloud that forms that blows him back and singes off his eyebrows.

My Uncle Bill runs over and says, "That was close."

My father says, "I know, right?"

And when they compose themselves and they look up, and they look to the children to see if we're all right, and the children are screaming at this point, "This is great!

We love the fathers!"

(laughter) Now, you couldn't actually see this blast from space, but you could see it from the shores of Connecticut, because the Bridgeport police contact the Harbor Patrol, and dispatch every Coast Guard boat in the Long Island Sound toward the peninsula.

The other place you could see this blast was the bar.

(laughter) Where the mothers were blowing the gas out of the lines.

And so simultaneously, the Coast Guard and the mothers are now charging towards the beachhead, and I can see my mother's face.

And it's that look that's very familiar for mothers in the '60s and '70s, which on one hand is that deep, deep concern for your children, and on the other side is just this unbelievable rage.

I looked at my father and I said, "I have always loved you, and I'm going to miss you so much."

The Coast Guard get to the beach, they set up a perimeter-- the mothers break through.

Instantly, the mothers banish us to our smelly tent.

We shuffle off, once again saying, "We love the fathers."

We can hear the negotiation from the tent.

The Coast Guard agrees to let us spend the night if we promise to move to the designated camping area the next day.

The mothers agree that they won't kill the fathers in their sleep.

And the fathers agree that the fatal flaw in their plan was allowing the children to collect the wood.

(laughter) So the next morning, two mothers, two fathers, and six children load 4,000 pounds of camping gear back into the boats, and we head to the designated camping area.

And we spend the rest of our vacation waiting on the shore with the other children a half an hour to go in and swim after lunch, and at night, sitting around the tiniest of fires, encased in a Coast Guard- approved metal ring... (laughter) ...looking longingly at the fathers thinking, "Will the mothers ever get desperate enough to leave us alone with you again?"

The last adventure that we had together with the fathers was ten years ago.

My uncle had passed away after a very long struggle with lung cancer.

And seven weeks later, when my father passed away completely unexpectedly, the children determined that his cause of death was likely a broken heart.

We had my Uncle Bill cremated in Florida, where he had gone to live with my best friend.

My father was cremated in Vermont, where he had come to live with me.

And we brought their ashes back to Long Island.

We placed them together in a box, and we brought them down to the Long Island Sound.

We doused it with lighter fluid.

(laughter) We set them on fire, and we sent them out.

We hadn't really accounted for the tide or the wind.

And so as the flaming box of our fathers picked up speed, it made its way past the Coast Guard station.

(laughter) As the Coast Guard went to jump in their boats to investigate, on the second pass around, the box got swamped.

And as they started to sink slowly down before the Coast Guard could get to it, I swear I could hear my father say, "That was close!"

(laughter) And my Uncle Bill say, "I know, right?"

(laughter) And for that one brief moment, our grief just parted, because we knew whatever the adventure was, they were going to be there together.

And I know that no one could hear that.

But if you were in a mile of the shoreline that day, you could absolutely hear the triumphant cries of the six children on the shore screaming, "We love the fathers!"

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ PALMA: My name is Jose Palma.

I'm originally from El Salvador.

I came to Massachusetts 20 years ago.

Right now, I'm working as the coordinator of the National TPS Alliance.

TPS is a program that has been protecting people that come from places that suffer natural disaster, or are in the middle of a civil war, or their country's not safe.

OKOKON: So why is this story an important one for you to tell tonight?

PALMA: I think sometimes, especially nowadays, with so much debate about immigrants and everything, you know, there are different ways that people think about it, and sharing stories, I think, is a way to help others to understand how it is to come to the United States.

OKOKON: Jose, I understand you have four kids.

PALMA: Yeah.

OKOKON: And is this a story that you've shared with your kids before?

PALMA: Yeah, for a few reason.

One, for them to learn how I got here, and, you know, feel proud of what, you know, their mother and myself has done here in the United States, but also because the four of them are born here.

One is actually 17, applying to college right now.

And I think it's important for them to understand that the opportunities they are having are opportunities that, you know...

There have been some sacrifice.

And I think it's something that they should never forget.

It's about 2:00 in the morning in Puebla, Mexico.

And a coyote, who is a person who help people to come to the United States, said "Get in that tank.

We're going to get in a trip for 22 hours."

I'm coming from El Salvador, trying to get to the United States, looking for opportunity to achieve a dream of higher education and raising a family here.

We were about 125 people, and we thought, "That tank doesn't look big enough."

You are in the middle of nowhere.

You don't know anyone, more than in that case, my friend who actually left El Salvador to join me on that trip, when he knew I was coming.

We went in the tank.

And the tank was prepared, with, like, four different rows of, like, two by four, for 125 people.

Sit right next to each other, in four different lines.

That was going to be the place for us to be for the next 22 hours.

And my friend, who left El Salvador with me, he started feeling a little dizzy, and he started getting sick, and asking, "Can I get to that window?"

There was a little window where we went into the tank, where the coyote was stand up and breathing.

We asked the coyote, "Can we bring my friend to that window?"

And he said no.

After a little bit of fight internally, we were able to bring my friend, and he was able to breathe a little bit more and relax for a little bit.

The trip continue.

We made it to the place.

But some people, when we were going out of the tank, were not able to walk well.

You know, we were inside that tank without moving that much.

But with the support of each other, we ended up in getting to the place where we were going to sleep that night.

But what we didn't know was that that was actually the last... Let's say the last push to really get to the United States.

And coyote said, "Get ready, "we're going to start walking this, tonight, "and we're going to cross the border, and you guys going to be finally getting to the United States."

So we walked for the next ten hours that night, crossing the border.

We were happy, we made it to the highway.

We went into some van-- like, 15, 20 people in that van.

But we were caught, crossing.

We were sent back the same night to Mexico.

The next night, we try it again, we were not successful.

But the third time, walking again those ten hours, we were happy again, because we made it to the highway, and we went into a van.

We were going for a few blocks, and the van broke down.

Here we go again.

Coyote said, "Go back to the desert."

We walked to the desert to hide from the highway.

"And you stay there.

Somebody will come to pick you up."

What happened is that, after three nights, three days in that place, we're just drinking some dirty water that was in the desert, with no food, people started getting, again, very weak, and worried about.

We were told, "Somebody will come to pick you up," and it didn't happen.

So my friend was getting sick again.

And he said, "You know what?

"I'm not going to die in this place.

"I know we have dreams, but I will walk to the highway, "I'm going to ask for ride.

"I just don't care.

I want to go back to El Salvador."

This is my friend who left the country to join me in this effort.

And I was, like, "What I will do, "what I will tell his family, "what I will tell my friends if something were to happen to him?"

And I said, "You know what?

Let's walk together."

We walk to the highway, asking for ride.

There was an old lady who decided to stop her car, gave us ride to Tucson, Arizona.

And she was telling us something.

But she was speaking English, and we spoke Spanish, so we didn't understood each other.

She ended up doing it like... We understood that that was, "Get out, get out."

So we get out of the car and walk.

Suddenly we saw an Immigration and Custom Enforcement car, parked somewhere.

Instead of doing what many people will do, we'd run to the car, asking the officer, "Can you arrest us and send us back to El Salvador?

We really want to go."

(laughter) I mean, you are in a place without having food for the last three days, with no money in your pocket, in a place that you don't know, and talking with people that you don't understand.

So we ask the officer to take us and send us back to El Salvador, and he said, "I will arrest you, "but you're not going back to El Salvador that quick.

You're going to stay for sometimes."

My friend said, "Are we going to get some food?

I mean, we haven't eaten."

And he, and he said, "Yes, you will get some food."

So we ended up getting arrested.

We went to the Immigration Detention Center.

When we were inside, somebody said to me, "Jose, you can apply for political asylum."

And I said, "Well, okay."

I ended up applying for political asylum.

25 days later, I was released, and I came to Massachusetts in 1998.

So with that, I was here, working.

I lost my political asylum case, but I was protected by TPS, Temporary Protected Status.

So with that, I have been living in the United States for the last 20 years.

I have achieved a few of my dreams.

I graduate from college with an associate degree, I'm raising my family of four kids, and I am supporting my family in El Salvador.

There is the big dream that I still have.

That's the dream that I would become an attorney, because I really want to help people like myself, because I know the feeling.

And I know that many people comes with dreams.

And I hope one day I will become an attorney to support people to achieve their dreams in this country.

Thank you.

(cheering and applause) ♪ WHILTON: My name is Annemarie Whilton.

I'm a mother of three.

And I'm an artist, primarily a painter, but also a printmaker, and I teach art.

OKOKON: So you've been telling stories in different ways through art and printmaking.

But I understand that you're new to storytelling.

So what has this transition been like for you?

WHILTON: I think the big difference is, when I'm making a piece of art, it's more coming from my subconscious.

But with storytelling, it's the complete opposite.

I mean, you have to be present, because it's going to be read, right?

It's going to be understood, so there's no grey area, I feel.

I can paint something and people can take whatever they want from it.

But with this, it's a little more delicate.

I feel like, it's almost like poetry-- like, you have to pick your words just so.

OKOKON: The story that you're going to tell tonight is personal, and it gets raw.

It can be difficult to hear at parts.

So what is it that you're hoping that the audience walks away with after the story?

WHILTON: I'm hoping to connect to people who maybe are not fully aware of... the full person that this addiction occurs to.

I think when someone is addicted, you only see the addiction, because that is the front.

But the story's deeper.

There's a person beneath that, and that person's a very real person.

And that person is fully worthy of our attention, so...

I'm here to share the shine.

When the kindergarten bus pulled up, we were ready.

My daughter had her blonde hair in two little pigtails, and she had on a brand-new plaid dress, and she grabbed the hand of our next-door neighbor, and she took a giant step up into the bus.

And with her back to me, she loudly proclaimed, "We may never see our mothers again."

(laughter) And then the doors shut, and I thought, "What?"

And I watched her as she took her seat, and her chin was defiantly raised, and she was facing forward.

And all the other little kids had their noses and their faces pressed up against the glass.

And they were crying and they were waving.

But my daughter never looked back as that bus pulled away.

And I had to smile.

(laughs): Because she's daring, she's dramatic, and she's independent.

These are difficult things to parent, but they led to some real moments of pride.

Like in middle school.

She had to choose an instrument for band.

And all the girls in our small town picked flutes and clarinets.

But she took one look at the trumpet, and it was big and brass and shiny, and she said, "Yeah, that's it."

And she had to play it in the back with the boys, and she was as loud as they were.

(exhales softly) But this sense of audacious zest, it didn't always lead to admirable behavior.

At around the age of 14, she started secretly drinking, and by 15, the boys took a real interest in her.

And they started supplying her with pills, older boys, and it was Adderall and Suboxone and OxyContin.

And by 16, she was crushing and snorting these things.

And by 17, she was injecting heroin.

And I was desperate to save her.

We had three different schools in three years.

We had family therapists, individual therapists, A.A., we had rehab, we had detox.

We had D.Y.S., we had DCF, we had probation officers, and we had jail.

And I couldn't seem to bring her back to me.

And around age 18, she went missing for over a week.

And I thought, "This is it."

And one evening, I got a text on my phone.

And I flipped it over, and it was a picture of my daughter.

It was her state I.D.

And below it, it said, "Is this your daughter?"

And my breath stopped.

And then the next line, dot-dot-dot, quickly came across, and it said, "Hurry.

Someone overdosed in this building last night."

And it left an address.

And I flew down to New Bedford.

And I don't even remember driving there.

But I do know that someone else's life can pass before your eyes.

When I got there, I went straight to the courthouse, and I petitioned the judge to have her forcibly committed for drug treatment.

And the judge agreed, and a warrant was issued for her arrest.

And I sat and I waited.

And I waited, and I waited, and the police didn't bring her in.

So with two hours remaining, I jumped up.

I drove to the police station, and I said, "I'm going to go get her myself."

And they advised me against it.

They said, "If you knock on the door of a drug den, no one's going to answer."

And I said, "If I knock and she hears my voice, she will answer, and I'm going."

So they accompanied me.

And we needed two cruisers, not one, because that's how bad the neighborhood was.

And when we pulled up, everything was just grim.

It was grey.

The buildings, the chain link fence, the sidewalk, the sky, the trash.

The people morphed into these shadows.

And we ran around this building, and we could not gain entrance.

Things were boarded up, there were staircases missing.

As we turned the last corner, we were met by this really powerfully built woman.

And she took a look at me, and she pointed to the third story, and I nodded.

And wordlessly, she turned her attention to this large brass key ring on her hip, and she started flipping through the keys, and she selected just the right one, and she opened it.

And we were up those stairs, and we knocked, and my daughter answered.

And she didn't look good.

She was impossibly thin, and her beautiful blond hair was stuck to the sides of her head, and her pale skin was scratched.

And I just felt an incredible amount of sadness, because... she was asking for permission to put on her dirty flip-flops.

My daughter asking for permission.

And as she bent over, I could count the knobs on her spine.

And when she straightened up, they put her in handcuffs, and they led her down the flights of stair.

And I watched the officer in charge, and he very gently tucked her head into the back of the cruiser.

And it reminded me of when she was a little girl, and she would tuck her little head into the corner of my body, and we would read her favorite book.

And her favorite book was-- there's no surprise here-- "Runaway Bunny" by Margaret Wise Brown.

And in that story, the bunny says to his mother, "I will leave you."

And the mother says, "If you run away from me, "I will come and find you, because you are my little bunny."

The story doesn't end there.

The bunny leads his mom on a real chase.

And he becomes a rock high up on a mountaintop, so she becomes a mountain climber.

He becomes a bird, so she becomes a tree.

He becomes a sailboat, so she becomes the wind.

And I never realized how much that story would mirror our journey.

And sometimes I wonder what our life would be like if she had chosen "Madeline in Paris."

(laughter) But this is where we are.

This is our story.

And the thing with addiction is, I don't get to decide the ending.

But I have faith, because I know her, and she is still my brave little bunny.

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

♪