← Selected Shorts
Selected Shorts
Stories from the City of Immigrants with Waterwell
01:22:59
In this program, created in collaboration with W…
Loading summary
Transcript103 lines
- [00:00]
A
Hi, it's Meg Wolitzer, host of selected Shorts. Well, usually this week I'm handing the mic to the gifted actor Ariane Moyed, who will be introducing a special program, Stories from the City of Immigrants, a collaboration with Waterwell, a New York City production company.
- [00:54]
B
Wow.
- [00:55]
A
Wow, wow. Let's go, immigrants. Let's do it. Hello. How amazing was that? Let's go, New York. Hello, everyone, and welcome. My name is Arian Moyed and I will be your host for this very special collaboration between Waterwell Symphony Spaces own selected shorts. Thank you all for being here today. For two decades, Waterwell has cared about two things, people and stories. These are the two core ingredients in all of the artistic projects that Waterwell makes. The next ingredient is wrestling with a complicated civic question. And the next ingredient is gathering people for cultural events that provoke, inspire and build community. Tonight, the people are immigrants and the stories are their own. Immigration is clearly a topic that's important to this stellar cast of actors who are here with us today. And we like to applaud their solidari and support of immigrants in this moment. Actually, several in our cast are first and second generation immigrants. I am an immigrant myself from Iran. Came to this country at the age of six. There we go. And I am so honored to be highlighting these incredible actors who will be reading these incredible stories as we come together to collectively ask, what does this city mean to immigrants? And what do they mean to our city? We are honored to be performing tonight at the esteemed Symphony Space. We're here because of collaborations with our partners at the New York Immigration Coalition and the Independent Newsroom Documented, which has a booth in the back and the New York City's Mayor's Office of Immigration affairs and you. So welcome to the Stories from the City of Immigrants. I am a longtime reader of selected shorts and Waterwell has collaborated with Symphony Space on productions in the past. This project felt like a crossover that fans of either Waterwell or Schwartz would appreciate.
- [03:21]
C
What?
- [03:21]
A
We are thrilled to share this performance with the audience in this room with us right now as it is being recorded for the radio to share with people around this country. That's right. If you are a Shorts regular, just know that this show will be unlike selected shorts in one significant way. All the stories you hear tonight are the lived experiences described by immigrants captured in conversations and oral histories. As part of that, you will hear UMS verbal stumbles and glitches, as we all have in everyday conversation. Waterwell first assembled these narratives for an event that launched in launched the 2025 New York Proud campaign. Tonight, as with every other selected shorts, we have an incredible cast of actors to perform excerpts from these surprising, poignant stories about immigrants who have made New York City their home. What you'll hear is not a chronology. You'll hear stories that span 125 years. Curated and edited by Liza Zapal in a thematic associative arrangement capturing the beautiful, complex and interconnected stories that make up this city, our city of immigrants. Shall we hear some stories, friends? All right. This first one is a short prologue to the stage. As you see Camila Canoflavia, Mikayla diamond and Laith Natley.
- [05:09]
D
I think about my old days. Golden days.
- [05:12]
E
It must be 1000% change already. We had farms, we owned some land and we leased it out. They paid in rice.
- [05:20]
D
I had five ways to climb to the top of my house. I was also smart. I felt like the king of my school.
- [05:25]
E
My parents were illiterate. They were born in.
- [05:28]
F
Born in a war. I looked at where I was born. It's a small room the size of like 10ft by 10ft. Me, my father, my mother were all living in there. Born in 1957 in Bayt Hanina, I
- [05:44]
E
was born in Jamshedpur in India.
- [05:46]
D
We come from Kamton, Southern part of September 2012. 15-11-1970.
- [05:52]
E
I came here in 1975. I was 18.
- [05:55]
F
On the street, people would grab me, insult me.
- [05:58]
D
I tried to escape so many times.
- [06:00]
B
Just in time.
- [06:01]
E
He got me out.
- [06:02]
F
Less than a day to leave.
- [06:04]
E
Suddenly, all of a sudden, I was no longer sleeping in my own bed.
- [06:08]
D
I was seven years old.
- [06:09]
F
I traveled by plane. I threw up.
- [06:11]
D
He had to pay people to.
- [06:13]
E
It took us 12 days to cross the sea.
- [06:15]
D
It was not the wonderful sunny beach that I imagined.
- [06:17]
E
You usually don't show emotions. I was struggling with my words.
- [06:21]
F
I have.
- [06:22]
D
I got a little scared.
- [06:23]
C
Sh.
- [06:26]
B
The window is open.
- [06:29]
F
You're no more under the radar.
- [06:31]
A
Now they know I was walking through
- [06:34]
E
a very dense forest at night with no moonlight.
- [06:37]
D
I am a guide. I guide them when they have to go, what they have to see.
- [06:42]
E
Never forget it. First taxi ride from the airport to Flatbush, Brooklyn. A strange place. My God, this is New York.
- [06:55]
A
Thank you very much. Now, the first story is from someone who immigrated to Queens from County Kilkenny, Ireland, in 1950. This piece was adapted from an oral history that's part of the Queen's Irish Oral History Project, reading the story of Mary Toomey as an actor known for the TV series Only Murders in the Building and with whom I have had the pleasure of sharing a Broadway stage in her Tony winning performance in the Humans. Jane Houdyshell reading the Story of Mary Toomey.
- [07:38]
C
For whatever reason, I wasn't nervous. I was never lonely after I came, which is really surprising because my aunt took an awful chance, really, in bringing me here. I had never met her. I'd never met my uncle. I don't know whether it was brave or not, but I was. Yeah, I suppose I was a little bit. I was that kind of a child who did not mind leaving home. I mean, we were on a small farm and nine little children without a mother. I came in January 1950. I traveled by plane. I got on the plane, I had all new clothes, and I remember to this day exactly what I had, because you didn't get new clothes much. So I had all new clothes on me and a coat and a hat. And I got on the plane by myself and we stopped in Newfoundland and I had pineapple juice because I thought it was lemonade. And I got deathly ill and I went back on the plane and threw up. And they put me lying down in the back of the plane. And I got off of the plane with all my clothes on exactly the same as I got on the plane. I still remember getting into a car. I don't think I had been in a car three times in Ireland. There were no cars in my country, not in the country. And I was from the real country, so I was. I remember coming in and seeing all, you know, the cars, the backup there was, even traffic jams then. And I can remember seeing all of these terrific, like, lights. And what were these lights? I didn't even know, you know. And I remember sitting in the back of the car looking at that. My first impression of Woodside. So when I got home to my aunt and uncle's apartment, she started taking off all my clothes because she wanted to give me a bath. I had never had a bath. I had a coat and a sweater and a dress. The girls wore what we call shifts. And I don't know, did I have a petticoat on top of that. So I was like an onion. She peeled, peeled, peeled and peeled all these clothes off me. I was 11. And after my aunt's bathing me and I got into bed, I was a bit of a. I suppose a wild little thing. My aunt put me sitting up in bed, and I stood up and I ran down and I toppled the whole bed. And my poor uncle, you know, they'd never had children, so I'm sure he nearly Dropped dead. What are we getting into? And then when I would go to bed at night, I would sing an Irish song.
- [11:26]
A
Next, a story from Sarah M. Who arrived in New York city from Mexico 26 years ago. She shared her story as part of the 2024 New York Proud campaign. Reading Sarah's story tonight is a performer known from TV's A League of Their Own and Vida. Now Roberta Calendres reading the story of Sarah.
- [11:56]
G
My mother told my sister and I that we were going to Staten Island. Right away I thought about a beach with sand, palm trees, dolphins, whales. I'm like, yes, I'm going to the most wonderful place on earth. I'm so excited. I was seven years old. We crossed the border through the Arizona desert. And we, you know, we took a day to cross the border and it was very difficult. We traveled all the way to New York and once we arrived, it was not the wonderful sunny beach that I imagined. It was a concrete city. And we arrived in November. So it was very cold. I'd never experienced something so cold. Why was it so cold? We arrived to where my father lived in his apartment he shared with his seven brothers. Three women shared a one bedroom with my uncles, my seven uncles. We slept on the floor right near the entryway for many months until my father and mother got a little bit on their feet. When I started school, there wasn't anyone that spoke Spanish. I recall having to go to the bathroom early in the morning and not go again until I got home because I didn't know how to say I need to go to the bathroom. And also the food was strange too. And my mother and my father were working day and night to be able to afford a place for us. My father used to work as a busboy for 10 years at Applebee's. At that time and this part of Richmond, there really weren't any Mexican businesses. And so we wanted to create something where people can come get fresh fruits, fresh food. There are many migrants, men that come here and they want a nice home cooked meal. So we started as a deli. Then growing and growing little by little, we decided that we wanted to open up a bigger space where families come and celebrate their baptisms, their birthday parties. So this is a restaurant that I own with my father. We make authentic dishes using some spices that my grandma ships over. We've been here in Port Richmond for the last 16 years. This is now almost like Little Mexico.
- [14:16]
H
Thank you, robert khan.
- [14:24]
A
We're now bringing two actors to the stage to read two stories side by side. One is from an Iraqi immigrant, Siad Ramadan, who came to the US from Kuwait in 1971. His robust leadership in this community includes serving as board chair of the Northern Manhattan Arts Alliance. We found his story in the New York Public Library's oral history collection. Ramadan's story will be performed by an actor who has recently been seen on TV in Daredevil, Born Again and the Old Man. The second story is from Chinese immigrant Andy Eng, who took a circuitous route from Canton, China, to Flatbush, Brooklyn in the late 1940s. We found his story at the Museum of Chinese in America, and it will be read tonight by an actor you'll know from Barbie and his title role in Marvel's Shang Chi. Ladies and gentlemen, Pej Mahdat reading the story of Ziad Ramadan and Simu Liu reading the story of Andy Eng.
- [15:40]
I
One thing that I remember from Kuwait, because I remember so little, is that my father worked in a bakery. And whenever we walked in, the smell of fresh bread was so intense and so delightful it would just drive me nuts.
- [15:56]
J
I left China when I was almost 10 years old. I still remember how some of the villages looked in my memory. It must be like a thousand percent change already. We had farms, we owned some land and we leased it out. They paid you in rice, they didn't pay you in money. We come from Canton, Guangdong, southern part of China.
- [16:17]
I
I'll never forget as a child walking through the airport. I was a little four and a half year old and I thought the airport was the biggest thing I had ever seen. A couple months later, the World Trade center opened. So all of a sudden we had the tallest building in the world casting shadows on my borough.
- [16:36]
J
Just before the revolution, my cousin in Hong Kong sent for me and he got me out just in time. In Hong Kong, people in the streets are gambling, but they use kids to do it. Three Card Monty. It's like those games in Times Square. When you're an 1112 year old kid, certain people are more streetwise than you and they use you. It was a gangster setup, but you're a kid and you do it to survive. We used to do the dirty work.
- [17:01]
I
We lived in Kuwait. My dad was a baker, he had eight children and my mom was a homemaker. We were shocked to get approved to come to the United States in 1971. So we ended up in Washington Heights and we were one of the, I think, few Arabs that actually lived in this entire community. At the time it was predominantly Cuban, Puerto Rican and Dominican.
- [17:26]
J
On the plane, we don't Know what steak was a lot of meat. They ask you, how do you like it done? I said, I don't know. They cook it rare. A lot of blood. We are Chinese. We don't cook like that. We cook well done. I didn't eat it. From Hong Kong, I went to Formosa, Taipei, to one of the islands in Japan. I came to Tokyo. I stayed there for a day. Then I went to Anchorage, Alaska, to Seattle. From Seattle I came to New York. Nowadays it takes about 20 hours. It took me almost four and a half days. Finally I came, clear immigration and everything else. First taxi ride from the airport to Flatbush, Brooklyn. A strange place. My God, this is New York, you know?
- [18:23]
I
Then going to school for the first day. I wouldn't stop crying and crying and crying and crying. Until the teacher said, you know what? It's okay if he comes back tomorrow.
- [18:40]
J
I immediately go to ninth grade. For slow learners. I'm like a nut. When I went to school, I don't know anything in English. I have a hard time. But I was very good at math.
- [18:54]
I
There was lots of kids from the Dominican Republic and other places, Europe or a Polish kid. None of us knew how to speak English. So we just got along together.
- [19:06]
J
When I was in PS246, there's only about four Chinese kids. And they were born here. They speak Chinese like my kids nowadays they have broken Chinese.
- [19:18]
I
My parents were illiterate. They were born in a war. They were born in a time of British mandate in Palestine. Before they immigrated to Kuwait. They were brilliant and wise, but they just weren't schooled, let's say. And so I already knew how to fill out my forms. I filled out their forms. I was kind of making my own decisions.
- [19:43]
J
My father came over here in the 30s. I helped him in the laundry business. That was the worst business there was. It's a lot of work. There's no money. Very, very low price. We used to work 24 hours a day in two shifts to survive, make a living.
- [20:01]
I
The sensation I got through education was like I was walking through a very dense forest at night with no moonlight. I didn't know what direction I was going in.
- [20:12]
J
My father came to America as a seaman working on a boat. Then he had to pay people to get out of the boat. In the 50s he got his green card. And then the government said he could become a citizen. He says, I'm a resident. That's it. Until the day he died, he never became an American citizen.
- [20:34]
I
When I opened up the cafe, I needed a license for licensing. You had to go to the community board. I was like, what's a community board? It's your local congress. 50 people chosen by elected officials to make decisions and recommendations to the city about the betterment of the community. When I went there, they asked me questions about my outdoor cafe. They said, so the drawings here show that you're going to be this far off the sidewalk? And I said, as required by law. And they said, but whether it's the law or not, we have the right to pass an opinion whether an outdoor cafe at that space is good for the community. And I said, so how do I get on this community board?
- [21:25]
J
My father is an old timer. He worked so hard and very reserved. Keep to himself rather than explore. I imagine he was thinking one day things would be better for the family. The ultimate thing.
- [21:41]
I
A couple years later, I was on the community board. Three years after that, I was the president. I was representing over 200,000 people in Washington Heights and Inwood, many committees. I chaired the Upper Manhattan Empowerment Zone board, even ran for office. All of those things I did because of my love for the Washington Heights community. That gave my family, In October of 1971, the opportunity to land here. Opportunities that our parents could not have dreamed of.
- [22:33]
A
Now the story of a woman who emigrated from Peru in the late 1990s. Monica Carrillo's story came to us through the Nueva York Chronicles as a part of the current Historias initiative at the Clemente. Monica is a member of the crochet embroidery collective Bordeando, which calls the Queen's Museum home. Reading Monica's story is an actor from the original cast of Dance Nation and was recently on Broadway in Punch and a Waterwell drama alum. Now Camila Canoflavia reading the story of Monica Carrillo.
- [23:18]
E
In my family, my mother has always been a weaver. Our native cotton came in green, blue and brown shades, but it was replaced by Pima cotton, the type grown on slave plantations where my entire family has always worked. So I always saw my mother weaving constantly. She had a difficult relationship with my father, and weaving was her form of resilience. I was forced to leave Peru after denouncing a blackface performance on television. I was heavily harassed for my activism on the street. People would grab me, insult me, spit on me, and that's why I came to the United States. When I arrived here, one of the things I did was crochet. I would spend six, seven, even eight hours a day crocheting. And that helped my brain reconnect because I had actually suffered some kind of brain damage. I couldn't read more than five lines and in Peru they almost had to induce a coma because my body had collapsed. And through crochet I recovered my own existence. I spent about a year just crocheting. Crocheting. My first full time job after completing my master's and undergoing that process of internal healing was at the Queen's Museum. There I heard many difficult stories from migrants, but I also saw that many of the women had incredible talent in embroidery. I remember that during a Dia de los Muertos celebration I saw the embroidered pieces they were making and thought this is the way. The first project we undertook was in collaboration with the Department of Transportation. Most immigrant women were confined to their homes. Some didn't even know how to ride a bike or they were limited in going out because they were caring for their children. The pieces we created were bike related seat covers, water bottle holders for running hats, gloves. The idea was to help them step out of the domestic space, enter a public space and within that new space generate a new identity, an expanded one that could go beyond being a housewife or always thinking about your husband's this isn't about just boosting self esteem, it's about the fact that they have rights. And I think there is a reticence in feeling like a citizen, in claiming one's rights as a citizen, because the word here is so often reduced to paperwork. And that's not the whole story.
- [26:06]
A
Thank you Camilla. Next, the unforgettable story of a trans man born in Jamshedpur, India, who arrived in the United States at the age of 14 in 1989 and made his way to New York as a young adult. This piece was featured as a part of the Elders Project from the Insight Institute at Columbia University. Reading the Story of Sebilo Narasimhan is a dancer and actor whose many credits include the Roses and the upcoming his and Hers. And Now Sunita Mani reading the Story of Sevillo Narasimhan.
- [26:57]
K
I was born in Jamshedpur in India and I identify as a, quote, queer, trans immigrant, South Asian Indian. I identify as an immigrant. I could say it twice. I think it's worth repeating. And yes, I was definitely an immigrant to New York. I'm not sure if I'm at the place where I can identify as a New Yorker. When I'm in other countries. If people ask me where I'm from in certain times and places, I might say India. In Tahrir Square. During everything that was going on, I definitely was from India. But when people ask me where I live. I don't usually say the U.S. i usually say New York because New York is like its own country. New York has such a character, bigger than life for the whole world. I had a really amazing childhood because we didn't really have tv. We had like one channel and it sucked. So I climbed trees, I rode my bike, I played in empty fields. We played soccer with little cans as the goal posts. I had five ways to climb to the top of my house. I was also smart. So like, with that and also being the fastest kid in my class, the teacher's pet, but somehow always in trouble, I felt like the king of my school. Then it all crashed because I came to a country where I was just really an oddball out. We moved across the world for my sister's health, but I saw it as an adventure. In 89, the Berlin Wall came down and I moved to the U.S. i was 14. High school for me was like major shock. I didn't come out until I was 20. And you know, I didn't think I was a lesbian in high school because I was like, lesbians hate men. And that was the limitation of my knowledge about queer people. This was before gay straight alliances and stuff. I was terrified of American teens. I couldn't connect with them. I didn't know any of their reference points. My hair was like a decade out of style. I had a thick Indian accent. And people would be like, wow, you came here a year ago, your English is so good. And I would explain colonialism to them instead of just. Instead of just being like, oh, I took a three week course.
- [29:42]
B
Of course.
- [29:47]
K
I had my first big breakup when I went through my Saturn return. My two friends took pity on me and they said, we have an extra room, come stay. I came for what I thought was a year with like two suitcases and two boxes and moved into an apartment with three roommates, which I think is definitely two roommates too many. It was so amazing to like come to New York and find this group of people who didn't mind being silly, who are always hungry and horny and liked making fools, but, like, were also doing serious work and interested in real things. I think that's what sucked me into New York. And, you know, there's all the hard stuff. But I think that's what really made me stay. What's really strange is now most people, whether they're Indians in India or Indians here or anyone else, there's no like, recognition of me as an immigrant because my accent is mostly gone. I feel like it's so funny that such a pivotal part of who I am changed. Like it's changed because it's not visible to most people. And I feel like the same thing is kind of happening with gender. I just had top surgery three years ago in February. I went to Mexico by myself and it was my first trip since top surgery and I started being ID'd as a straight man to be alone in another country where I had to come out as being trans and I was like, this is so weird. I think there's something to be said about having these foundational parts of myself that are sometimes seen and sometimes unseen. I guess it's all about belonging and finding home. And that's why I sometimes say I'm a gender immigrant because I feel like migration can happen in so many directions and doesn't have to be from point A to point B.
- [32:19]
A
The next piece is from a Polish woman we pulled this story, get this, from a 1906 book by Hamilton Holt called the Life Stories of Undistinguished Americans as Told by Themselves Reading the Story of Sadie Frown is a Tony nominated actress who was recently seen brilliantly in the Broadway revival of Parade and could be seen on in the series Elsbeth Michaela Diamond Reading the Story of Sadie Froud
- [32:59]
D
My mother was a tall, handsome, dark complexioned woman with red cheeks, large brown eyes and jet black wavy hair. She kept a little grocer's shop in the little village where we lived that was in Poland. The shop was one story high and had one window. By the time I was six I was able to wash dishes and scrub floors and by the time I was eight I attended to the shop. When I was ten my father died. We never knew what it was to be hungry while he lived. After he died troubles began, we fell behind on the rent and mother kept thinking more and more that we should have to go across the sea to America. We came by steerage on a steamship in a very dark place that stood smelled dreadfully. There were hundreds of other people packed in with us, men, women and children, and almost all of them were sick. It took us 12 days to cross the sea and we thought we should die. But at last we saw the beautiful bay and the big woman with the spikes on her head and the lamp in her hand. Aunt Fanny and her husband met us at the gate of this country and were very good to us and soon I had a place to live out as a domestic servant while my mother got work in a factory. Mother liked to go around and see everything. Friends took her about New York at night. And she caught a bad cold and coughed and coughed. She really had hasty consumption, but she didn't know it and I didn't know it. Two doctors could do nothing and she died. I had saved money, but Mother, sickness and funeral swept it all away. And now I had to begin all over again. I went to work in Allen street in what they call a sweatshop, making skirts. I was new at the work and the foreman scolded me a great deal. I made many mistakes with the sewing, so I was often called a stupid animal. But I made $4 a week by working six days in the week. For there are two Sabbaths here. Our own Sabbath that comes on a Saturday, and the Christian Sabbath that comes on Sunday. So we work on their Sabbath. Two years ago I came to Brownsville. In our factory there are 14 machines. The operators are all men except for me and the daughter of the people I live with. At first, a few of the young men were rude. They would touch my hair, talk about my eyes and my red cheeks and make jokes. I cried and said that if they did not stop, I would leave the place. The boss said that no one must annoy me. Some of the other men stood up for me too, especially Henry, who said two times that he wanted to fight. Henry is tall and dark and he has a small mustache. He has seen me home every night for a long time and makes love to me. He wants me to marry him, but I am not 17 yet. He is only 19 and I think that is too young. I have been to the fortune teller's three times and she always tells me that though I have had such a lot of trouble, I am to be very rich and happy. I believe her because she has told me so many things that have come true. I will keep on working in the factory for a time. Of course it is hard, but I would have to work hard even if I was married.
- [36:17]
A
Next we'll hear a story from Gulnahar Alam, who came to the United States in 1993 from Bangladesh. This story comes from an original interview conducted by oral historian Liza Zapol earlier this year, reading the story of Gulnahar Alam, an actor who was known for roles in Blackbird and the Pit. Now Sepideh Muafi reading the story of Gulnahar Ala.
- [36:57]
B
I have to go back 35 years. I grew up in a Muslim family, very conservative. I was very young, running around, had a happy life. But suddenly a 13 year old girl has a proposal from a 35 year old police officer. To get married. And the proposal was a normal thing. The police officer arrested my brother. I didn't know at that time. He told my father he gonna release my brother if I married him. The deal was with my father. I don't exactly right now too much remember those things. I tried to take my life a few times. I had taken a rat killer medicine, it's called andine. I was, you know, a few days in the hospital. And I couldn't complain to anybody because he was very powerful there. And my father was that time my father wasn't able to protect me. So I was in my parents home and he took me sometimes out and in a hotel, kind of raped me. It was normal those days. Then I came to know he had a wife and four children. He had to live with them. And his older wife, the first wife, which is normal. She tried to kill me also putting poison in my tea. But the servant didn't give me the poison. I tried to go to school. I studied at home. When I was 18 years. I feel like I was like 38 year old woman. I tried to escape so many times. And once when I did, he arrested my brother, my young brother and put the gun on his head. My brother was young. So he told him what where I was. My friend's husband was a freedom fighter. And they have a magazine and I wrote there. I wrote from my heart, my feelings, my life. One man visited my home and he was a poem writer. And he said, oh my God, you wrote a very good thing. So I got some encouragement in my mind. So finally, when I was 29 in 1993, a friend of mine's auntie come to America often. She said, I don't see your life is here in Bangladesh. You should go to school, you can go to America. Her husband was owner of travel agency. He fill up the form for me to apply for visa. I got scared. I said, I don't have anybody there. And Munir who work with him, he said, okay, you can go to my wife's auntie's home in Brooklyn. I got a visa with a passport to the police officer, my husband. I say I go to Dhaka to see a doctor. That's how I left the country. Those Air Singapore hostesses were very helpful. Even though I was so scared. Like where am I going? Because America, I never dreamed before then when I see in the window trees and buildings. I said, there are buildings in trees in my country too. So I went there and I started. I sublet a room from a family. They had a young Girl Ruma, she had a job and I was asking can I study here and also work? She said no, it's very hard. It's going to be so tough for you to pay your rent. Then I started going to the Ditmas Boulevard library. I volunteer there, I study, I sit down and I don't go home until late night. One thing they teach me to say, I'm looking for a job. There is a woman's garments factory there in Astoria. I went inside because I had confidence that I can sew 15 days. I worked for only $35 because my speed wasn't that much because the machine is so huge. So I left the job. I know I cannot survive there. I have another job, $75 a month, three kids to take care of. I was good with the kids and being with the kids, it's beautiful. But then the husband was a little bit fishy and I told his wife and she fired me. And then another job, phone bill was the issue. I paid and they said I didn't pay. I left that job for Long island one winter time. I was happy because it was the first time I saw snow. I was in basement sleeping and there wasn't any heat. She put me there. My body shaking. I got a high fever. He asked me to clean the snow in the driveway and I can't get up. She got mad and fired me. Then I got the job in Brooklyn, taking care of Jamil, who is my best child. He was only 15 days old when I started taking care of him. And at the same time I go to Hunter College. I go with baby to the school, drop in. And I found other babysitters there. Chinese, Indian, Bangladeshi. They don't say like they are suffering from first visit. But then slowly we talk. I found they have issue too. Like their employer threatening the calling. Police gonna arrest them. We started connecting and then we started the program called Domestic Worker Project in Sakhi. So that project became an organization called Andolan. People like us domestic workers have no one here. I had courage because I knew inside of the domestic worker community. I interview with Channel nine. They came to that home to interview me. I was on a tv. I thought at that time, America has a law, I can talk freely. And I'm the one who first time a South Asian spoke about a domestic violence case in a newspaper. I found hope in starting a nonprofit. And if I can do that, I can do anything. And if I can talk myself, I can let other women talk. And if we are together, we can make a change. Some People advised me to talk to a lawyer to get asylum and I say I never did politics. I spoke with a lawyer. I said I don't know what could be, but this is my situation. I only can tell the truth. He is the one who decided to go ahead for asylum. At that time I didn't want to put my real name because the police officer came to America once already to look for me. But then later on I decided, yes, put my name, it is me. And I was one of the first three cases to win gender based asylum. My green card came within a few weeks and my citizenship. Finally it took 12, 13 years. Still, I have a hope the change is going to come. It's not going to be stable. We survive from there. We will. Insha' Allah.
- [46:15]
A
Oh Go Nahar. We now pivot to a Korean folk song that was included in a UNESCO program titled the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. This is a popular folk song, unique because it is the outcome of collective contributions made by ordinary Koreans throughout generations. Tonight you will hear Nu Arirang, sung by a performer who recently starred in City Center's revival of A Light of the Piazza and won a Tony Award for the King and I and starred in Waterwell's the Courtroom. Ladies and gentlemen, Ruthie Ann Miles singing New Arirang.
- [48:28]
H
Ha.
- [49:44]
G
Sa.
- [50:10]
A
Sam. Wow, beautiful. The next story is of a Jewish man who remembers key details of his family's quick departure from Germany in 1939, when he was a child. This one isn't an oral history, it's an excerpt from Fred Amram's memoir, but he's such a vivid storyteller that we had to include it. Reading his story is an actor known for her solo show Unexpected Third, which is coming to New York Theater Workshop and the hit podcast she hosts with her husband, Mandy Patinkin, Don't Listen to Us. And also a little side little nugget here, Water well's first advisory board member in 2002. Thank you, Katherine. Katherine Grody Reading the Story of Fred Amron.
- [51:49]
H
The birds whistled songs and Moody whistled back at them. I ran ahead and when I reached my bench and I jumped up and sat as if I'd been waiting there for hours. Oh, you're here finally. Thank you for waiting for me, moody said with a big smile and then her face changed, her mouth opened and her eyes darted around nervously. We have to go now.
- [52:16]
C
Why?
- [52:17]
H
We just arrived. I want to play with the birds. I caught her looking past my head turned so I turned around to see some letters printed on the bench I'd never been to school because Jewish children weren't allowed to attend school. Nevertheless, I could read pretty well. N U R F U R J U D E N I said slowly. Nur for Juden, Only for Jews. Oh, I was so excited. I jumped up and down on the bench. Moody looked to see if we were being observed. No, no one was near. I loved the bench and the new sign. Moody wasn't happy at all. She was even paler than usual and she was leaning against a tree. Perhaps she would faint. When we arrived home, Moody went to her bedroom and closed the door. Suddenly, I was no longer sleeping in my own bed. In Hanover, grownups talked about being refugees from the Holocaust. Here in Free Amsterdam, we saw no Gestapo, no Bern synagogues, no Star of David armbands, and no food shortages. But I missed our apartment. We were visiting Moody's youngest sister, Kaita, her husband, Isaac Worms, and their new baby, my only cousin, Anjali. I can't explain how we got there. Events happened so quickly and no one trusted me with information. I do remember some packing, however. Having never taken a trip anywhere, packing had no significance for me. Early one morning, I was told to dress in my lederhosen and a white shirt. I watched Muti and Tanta Keta cry a lot. Moody dropped a teacup. Shards slid all over the kitchen. After a round of hugs, Moody, Papa and I left the Worms household with our three little brown suitcases. I remember a train and lots of walking. In a few days, we were at a dock in Belgium. It seemed that after every train ride, one had to learn a new language. In Antwerp, Moody, Papa and I crowded into a small cabin on the Penland. The Penland was not a luxury cruise ship. Everything seemed cramped. Papa lifted me onto the top bunk of a double Decker. Papa slept on the bottom bed, and Moody had her own little bed. We shared a tiny bathroom down the hall with the other adults. I didn't see any other children. Our little room had one round window about the size of my face. Huge waves splashed against the window. I never saw anything but angry water. I became the crew's mascot, a healthy little boy who was always hungry. When all the other passengers were sick, I ate in the galleys with the sailors. Papa and Moody had an argument as we entered New York harbor, the first of many disagreements in our new homeland. We passed the Statue of Liberty at 4am on the 15th of November, 1939. Papa insisted that he wake me to see the lady that welcomes all refugees. Mama said, no, no, the boy needs his sleep. Their quarrel woke me, and Papa took me on the deck, held me up to see the statue, the symbol of liberty. With tears in his eyes, he whispered some words in Hebrew that I recognized from the Passover Seder. As we step off the boat in New York harbor, uniformed shepherds herd us in a cavernous warehouse, frightened immigrants everywhere, confused and speaking their diverse European languages. A uniformed immigration official calls us to his desk. Name?
- [57:00]
C
Manfred Amram, I whisper.
- [57:03]
H
He asks again. Manfred, I squeak in terror. Fred, announces the official. He writes my new name in his record book, and then he prints my American name on my immigration papers. The officer doesn't seem to know that I need a name beginning with M. It's my birthright, but I don't complain. My frequent contact with the Gestapo has taught me never to disagree with a uniform. Name? Asks the uniformed man looking at Papa. Meinhardt, answers my father. Milton, says the official
- [57:47]
J
name?
- [57:48]
H
Asks the unified man, pointing at Muti. Sita, answers my mother, Sarah. Mooty rants and cries the official, a minor bureaucrat with no intent to do harm, writes Sitta in his book and on Moody's immigration papers. And so Sita, the most anti German in the family, the one who argued for years that we should escape, the one who most wants to be American and who already speaks a little English, Sita retains her German identity. Years later, when my maternal grandmother Maomi, joins us for her first theater in the States, she cries throughout the evening, mourning the many who will never again experience a holy day. She grieves for the dead, and she is unable to celebrate this moment of life, this holiday of hope. But tonight, Papa feels festive and positive. He talks about our escape in my embarrassed, childish voice. Chanting in Hebrew, I recite the four questions asked by the young participant at every seder. I begin. Why is this night different from all other nights? Papa? A small, wiry man with a huge baritone voice, sings the prayers in Hebrew with all the energy he can muster. 5ft 1 inch tall, not a millimeter more thin and muscular from slave labor, enforced road construction, no more than a fourth grade education, 39 years old, this small man sings with a mighty voice. Shh, shh, says my mother.
- [59:59]
A
Shh.
- [60:00]
H
The window is open. The neighbors will hear. My father rises from his chair and stretches to his full height. I'll sing as loud as I like, he says in German. Let them hear.
- [60:21]
A
We're in America now. Just a few more stories. This one from a Palestinian man who came to Brooklyn in 1975 as a teenager. His story is part of Muslims in Brooklyn from the Brooklyn Public Library and the center for Brooklyn History. Reading the Story of Mahmoud Widi is an actor whose series credits include Rami and the upcoming feature, you, Mother, you, Mother, you, Mother.
- [61:03]
C
Now.
- [61:04]
A
Leith Naqli Reading the Story of Mahmoud.
- [61:12]
F
I was born in 1957 in Beit Hanina, the old section. Now they have two. Two, an old Beit Hanina and the new Beit Hanina. But they're separated. Separated by a wall, unfortunately. When I went back, I looked at where I was born. It's a small room, 10ft by 10ft, something like that. Me, my father, my mother were all living in there, okay? My dad was ambitious, you know, he wanted to emigrate for a better life, okay? So he traveled to America, and he didn't have enough education, so he was a street vendor. He established himself and opened up a club. It was like a coffee shop for the Palestinian and Middle Eastern people on State Street, Brooklyn Heights. The immigrants were always single guys. They left their families and a lot of them used to come straight to the club because they had no relatives to go to. And they knew that Subh Widdi was the owner then. He was the first Palestinian, maybe Arab, Muslim, to open up a full supermarket with a meat department and a produce department. It was at that time called Metfood on Fulton street. Still exists. We call it the mother of the family. I came here in 1957. I was 18. The neighborhood was rough at the time. Now the neighborhood has changed and we helped change it. As a matter of fact, what you find in really poor neighborhoods, liquor store, barn shop, candy store with junk food, you don't find a good supermarket with the good foods, fresh fruits and vegetables and all that. We always provided that. When he died in 2012, the people in the neighborhood, or at least a few of them, got together and they said, this man was good to us. All these years, they went around the neighborhood and got this petition done for him. We as his children didn't know that we could do something like go name a street after him. Then me and my brothers and my sisters, we were active and we went to every community board meeting, and sure enough, it was signed into law. I mean, on your way back, if you're going that way, you can look at it. The corner of 56th and 6th Avenue, Sunset Park. It says Subhai Widdi Way. It's where the catering hall is that opened, which was actually very, very beneficial to the community. They had nowhere to go for funerals, for condolences. They had no places for engagements, for weddings, for Meetings and he used to give the hall to the church for free. Some schools, they wanted to hold graduations, they got it for free. He didn't just do it for the Muslim community, he did it for everybody. He didn't care whether you were Jewish or Christian, you were Muslim. We had like four days of memorial for him, for people to gather and give condolences. He died on a Friday. We did Friday night, we did Saturday, and then on Sunday. Okay. Somebody from St. Nicholas Home for the Age, he raised his hand and he came to the podium and he said, when I heard about the passing of Mr. Whitby, I canceled all my appointments and I had to come and share this with you. He says St Nicholas Home was about to be shut down because it owed taxes and the government wanted to take the building. 30 beds would have been gone. My dad said, only one person we can go to that can help us. He says he and his dad came to my dad and told him about their dilemma. He said it like. He said it like telling a story. It was like a dramatic thing. And everybody was so quiet. The hall was filled with mourners. He said Mr. Widdie reached into his pocket, took his checkbook, signed one check, ripped it out and gave it to my dad. He gave it to my dad and told him to fill in the amount. He wanted a blank check. Who would do that?
- [66:46]
A
Now, once again, we have a duet. Two actors reading two stories side by side. One story is from Tien Johnny Nia, whose long and arduous journey from Vietnam landed him in Connecticut in 1979 before making his home in New York City. This story is part of a book, Green Card Stories by Sondra Amrine, who and will be read by an actor known for a title role in the film After Yang and the series Beef. The second story is from Kofi who came to New York City from Ghana. We found his story thanks to the new Sanctuary Coalition Testimony Project and it will be read by an actor who just won an Emmy for his role in On Severance. Justin H. Min reading the story of Tien Janinia and Tramel Tillman reading the story of Kofi.
- [67:53]
L
Tian Ye. Crouched inside a bamboo basket on a crowded boat. In the distance, he heard policemen yell his name. Please God, just go, go, go. The 18 year old prayed, willing the boat to leave the coast of Vietnam. That day in 1978, I lost my
- [68:16]
M
job and my apartment all in one week. I'm currently about to file for an asylum so I can stay permanently in the U.S. i'm from the west of Africa and the stigma and the stereotype just attached to being gay is just. It could be very brutal and it's mostly life threatening.
- [68:40]
L
Tien knew he might never see his family again. He hadn't even said goodbye to his father. His father was a successful businessman selling farm equipment outside of Saigon. Tian enjoyed a carefree childhood, roaming on his bicycle, oblivious to the war. In the 1960s, I lived with my
- [69:02]
M
cousin for a little bit. When he discovered that this is who I am, he just became very hostile, and eventually I had to move out, and he had to call my mother, who was all the way 5,000, 6,000 miles away to let her know that this is who your son is. This is who your son is. If this is even coming from a family member, can you even imagine the community when I go back home that puts my life in danger and my mother's life as well? I cannot afford to do that.
- [69:45]
L
In 1975, the communist north vanquished South Vietnam. Tien's father became a target, but he convinced officials to let him start a textile company to provide jobs. Tien was conscripted to build aqueducts with bare hands and shovels. Some workers died of pneumonia, malaria, and snake bites.
- [70:07]
M
May of this year, I discovered that I had hiv. So I'm living with HIV at the moment. And that's the main. That's now one of the critical reasons why I can't even go back home, because I cannot get that kind of care. I cannot afford the medications there, so that's going to slow the quality of care that I'm supposed to get. And I might even die from not being able to afford it. So that's how I started researching for organizations that could help me get asylum.
- [70:42]
L
In 1978, Tien told some young people that he was leaving and that they should too. They would soon be forced to fight. At the border with Cambodia, he warned he wanted to slip out of the country. But as he hid in the bamboo basket on the boat, Tien heard someone tell the police, he's over there. He feared he was a dead man
- [71:06]
M
after September 2012, by not going back, I haven't had any federal offense, any criminal offense. Haven't gotten myself into trouble with the law, anything. I've just been under the radar, always hoping that I can have access to just being a regular permanent resident and eventually becoming a U.S. citizen.
- [71:28]
L
Tien served eight months on a chain gang. A released prisoner told Tien's father where he was. To get him out of jail, his father paid more than $15,000 in gold, four tractors and four boat engines. Officials gave Tien less than a day to leave Vietnam or he would be shot dead. His father paid another $8,400 in gold for Tian's spot and another boat leaving the country. Tian and his father cried at the dock. His mother slipped a tube of toothpaste into his pocket stuffed with a hundred dollar bill. Then he crowded onto the boat with several hundred people. When they got to Malaysia, the government turned the boat away. But passengers pulled the planks apart, forcing everyone to swim for shore. About 20 people drowned. Tien, exhausted, lunge through the water for land.
- [72:30]
M
My lawyer said, we just want you to know that this can go either way. When we file this and immigration gets your document, you are no more under the radar. Now they know who you are, where you live. So these are the risks. But on the brighter side, if this works out, you now have status.
- [72:54]
L
In early 1979, Tien was resettled with refugee status in Hartford, Connecticut, where he went by the name Johnny. He met Sister Vin from Catholic Charities. He got word that five of his siblings and a niece were in a refugee camp in Indonesia and pleaded with Sister Vin to help reunite them.
- [73:14]
M
April 23rd, I went to the interview and two of my attorneys were there with me. It was very nerve wracking, even though my asylum officer was very sweet, which is very odd because usually they don't show emotions. I was struggling for my words. I couldn't remember things, stories that I wanted to use. Like I got out of the room and thought, oh, shoot, I didn't say that. I felt like I flopped. I felt I was very upset.
- [73:47]
L
Through the sponsorship of three American families and their church, Tien's siblings and niece flew into New York in April 1980. Then his parents, two more siblings and a niece joined them.
- [74:02]
M
The day when we picked up my response, my attorney kept saying, you've been granted. You've been granted. I'm very happy that fast forward. May 13th. I have a legal status in the United States.
- [74:19]
L
At last, the entire family was together. His parents lived close by with his sister until his father died in 1994.
- [74:30]
M
For me, life is beginning at 30. This opportunity will forever be engraved in my heart. And no wonder I love New York so much.
- [74:47]
A
Beautiful. Our final story for the night is from a Pakistani immigrant, Hassan Iqbal, who came to Brooklyn at the age of 23. This story is part of the Brooklyn College Listening Project's We Are Immigrant Voices. And I have the honor of reading Hassan Iqbal's story for you now. When he was a teenager in Lahore, Pakistan. Hassan dreamed about becoming a doctor or an engineer. I mostly played cricket and celebrated Muslim holidays. I keep those days in mind as the golden days of my life. When I have no customers in my taxi, I think about my old days, golden days. But then I said, I have to make money for my siblings, my family. Hassan came to the United States when he was 23. I was making $35 for 12 hours at the gas station. So Hassan decided to drive a cab to make more money. It was the first time I had driven a car or even a bicycle or motorbike. He's been driving a cab for 25 years. He drives seven days a week. He and his wife have four children. I am a taxi driver, and I am a guide. I guide them where they have to go, what they have to see what things are best for them. Right now, I like to talk to my passengers, especially the old men and women, the people I pick up, Russian, Spanish, Japanese, they teach me. The African people teach me their language. I know this is a small thing, but when they come into the taxi, I can say hello in Chinese, Japanese, Russian, Korean, Spanish. After 9 11, Hassan noticed a shift in his passengers. A lot of people yelled at me. They screamed when they looked at my name and my face, oh, it's a Muslim guy. They spit at me. Once Hasan was driving and was stuck at a red light. A police officer honked at me, opened up his window and said, what are you looking at? I got a little scared. He said, don't look around. I said, no problem, sir. After 9 11, Hassan picked up a man from Colorado who was going to an Italian bakery in the East Village. The man saw that he was a Muslim, and they talked about what Muslims were going through. The man bought a couple of cakes and gave Hasan a small cake box and said, don't open until you get home. At home, Hassan opened it for his wife and children. The cake had written on it in icing. Thanks, Hassan, for coming to America. We appreciate it. Thank you very much. And that is our show. We want to thank the New York Immigration Coalition for their impetus to create this project, and the Independent Newsroom documented for their support. We'd love to personally thank Kambiz Shahbazi and Nazgul Saati, as well as Josh and Lily Brooks, and of course, Waterwell's board of directors for supporting this evening. We want to thank all of you for coming out to share this evening with us. And we want to thank all the immigrants who shared their stories and the oral historians and collections that have been a part of tonight's event. One final thing before we go. I'd like to invite all of these remarkable group of performers back on the stage for one final group bow. Jane Howdy Shell Simu Liu, Pej Vaghdat, Roberto Calendras, Camila Canoflavia, Sunita Many, Mikayla Diamond, Sebideh Moafi Ruth, Ruthie Ann Miles, Katherine Grody They Nakli Tramel Tillman and Justin H. Min. Thank you everyone for joining us this very special evening. Good night. Go Knicks. I'm Ariane Moayed. We hope you've enjoyed this journey through the many lives from many places that make up the rich community of New York City, a city of immigrants. Casting for this program was done by Rory Bergman and Carly Famelant. These stories were curated from the Queen's Irish Oral History Project at Queens College CUNY, the New York Proud 2024 Campaign, the Museum of Chinese in America, the New York Public Library, the Clementes Historias Project Insight Institute's Elders Project, an oral history conducted by Liza Zapol for Waterways, the UNESCO Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity Fred Amram's memoir We're in America now from the Holy Cow Press, the Muslims in Brooklyn Oral histories at the Brooklyn Public Library and the center for Brooklyn History the book Green Card Stories by Sandra Ian Ryan, New Sanctuary Coalition's Testimony Project and the Brooklyn College Listening Project. Selected Shorts is produced by Jennifer Brennan and Sarah Montague. Our mix engineer for this episode was Jennifer Nelson. Our theme music is David Peterson's that's the Deal, performed by the Deardorf Petersen Group. This program is also made possible with public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of Governor Kathy Hochul and the New York State Legislature. Selected Shorts is produced and distributed by Symphony Space, and the special program was created in collaboration with Waterwell. Waterwell is a production company co founded by Ariane Waid, who runs the company, in close partnership with Artistic Director Lee Sunday Evans and Managing Director Sarah Scafidi. For this program, we collaborated closely with Sue Patel at the New York Immigration Coalition, and the stories you heard today
- [82:24]
C
were curated and edited by Liza Zapala, Sam.