LUCIANA NALDI: "You have alopecia," she says.

"I'm going to give you some Rogaine.

Put it on your bald spot, it'll all come back."

All I heard was, "You're not going to be the weird girl with the bald spot anymore."

SU JOUN: And I started to pace back and forth, back and forth.

back and forth, figuring out, what do I do?

I gave my word to this lady.

ROBIN SCHOENTHALER: And I think about what a miracle this really is, that this radical invisible change has taken place in my lifetime.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Changemakers."

Anyone, young or old, has the ability to write a new chapter in their life, but how does that change come?

Sometimes you seize it yourself.

Other times, you need a little or maybe a whole lot of help from people in your life.

No matter the case, though, we all have that ability, and tonight, that's exactly what our storytellers are going to share.

♪ NALDI: My name is Luciana Naldi.

I'm from the Central Valley of California.

I am an educator and a basketball coach, and I am a mom of twins.

So I understand that, you know, you, you are a basketball coach.

You played collegiate basketball, basketball obviously very important in your life.

What was your first intro into basketball?

My father was a basketball coach, so my earliest memories are going to the gym with my dad or staying after the games that he would coach.

So, like, the smell of a gym, the smell of a locker room, the sounds are very ingrained in me and very comforting to me.

How do you use storytelling in your work as a coach?

I use a lot of my previous experiences as an athlete, as a person to connect to my athletes in what they're going through, and help them realize that, that this is one small part of their story, but it's going to build on the next one.

So every moment they spend with me, they're building a story of themselves as an athlete and as a person together within our team.

And so it really flows through everything that we do as coaches, I think, and as teachers.

♪ I was 19 the first time hair started falling off my head in circular chunks.

I was in college, excited to be playing basketball, stepped out of the shower one night after a game, and was horrified to see a growing bald spot in the middle of my head.

I tried to cover it with beanies and headbands and baseball caps, but it didn't work.

So I frantically got myself a doctor's appointment, and I didn't tell anyone where I was going or what I was doing.

I didn't want anyone to know-- not my family, not potential friends.

Future dates.

Who was going to date the girl with the bald spot?

A few weeks later, I find myself sitting in a doctor's office, beanie pulled down low, huddled in a corner.

Anxious, but very much hoping for answers and solutions.

The door opens, and a small, 80-year-old woman holding a bright pink blown-up balloon motions me to follow her.

Curious, I do.

As I enter the room, she asks me to take my beanie off and she takes that bright pink balloon and she rubs it all over my head.

(audience laughs) Um...

I can feel both hair and goosebumps stand straight up on my scalp, as I begin to question both her intelligence and her credentials as a medical professional.

"I'm checking for new growth," she says.

I'm, like, "Am I getting pranked?

Where's the camera?"

"You have alopecia," she says.

"I'm going to give you some Rogaine.

Put it on your bald spot, it'll all come back."

(exhales) Instant relief.

All I heard was, "If you do this, it's going to come back.

"You're not going to be the weird girl with the bald spot anymore."

She gave me the Rogaine.

I applied it religiously and vigorously, and poof, all my hair came back.

Problem solved.

For approximately the next 16 years, I carried on with my life-- I got married.

I had children, at which point my hair was thick and glorious.

Thank you, pregnancy hormones.

(audience laughs) And right around the time my oldest children entered kindergarten, my hair started to fall out again.

Except this time, the Rogaine didn't work.

And more was falling out than before.

At first, I attributed this to an increase in stress, both physically and mentally.

I'd been through having two sets of twins, two-and-a-half years apart, transitioned from working full-time outside my house to working full-time inside my house as a mom.

And that was a lot of changes in a short amount of time that, because of the frantic pace of parenting multiple multiples, I didn't really have the opportunity to deal with.

But it kept falling out, so I sought medical advice for the second time.

The merry-go-round of treatments that I tried were all intended to get my hair to grow back, but they had no guarantee it would stay.

This was both frustrating and exhausting.

While beauty had never been the currency that I used to move through the world, it was absolutely something I associated with long, luxurious hair, much in the same way I used to associate it with big boobs and a small nose.

Those were the things I was teased pretty relentlessly for either having or not having through most of middle school and high school.

That had made me hyper-aware of my appearance and what others were judging me on.

Now, I never had the boobs.

(laughs) Um, and this Italian nose is not small.

But to take away my chance at the hair, I was, like, "Come on!"

(audience laughs) My very sweet husband, in an attempt to be supportive, bought me wigs, which I honestly tried.

They were very hot, itchy, they freaked my kids out.

And my paranoia at the idea that it could fly off while I was running or lifting weights, and somebody would be, like, "Whose cat is that?"...

(audience laughs) ...um, brought that experiment to a very abrupt end.

While all these things are happening, I'm very much beginning to wonder how my children are experiencing this and how they're going to remember this time.

Were they becoming fearful they would lose their hair?

Were they starting to scrutinize their own appearance and compare it to others'?

I did not want them to ever think that their appearance was more important than who they were or how they moved through the world.

So I shaved my head.

And I did it while my normally boisterous children stood behind me, silent and wide-eyed, in our old, small, cramped bathroom.

As a parent, you get used to-- or maybe just as a mother, you get used to having an audience in the bathroom.

(audience laughs) This was much different.

I had one eye on my head and one eye on the faces of my children in our large full-length mirror as the last scraggly, patchy, slightly dark and frizzy locks of hair fell on and around them.

And a flood of differing emotions went through me.

Fierce empowerment, rebelliousness.

Sadness.

Fear at what might be said to them because of that.

And an old, insecure, 15-year-old me yelling, "Oh, my God!

People are going to see so much more of your face now!"

Shaving my head was like making the first shot of a one-on-one in basketball.

It feels really good 'cause you nailed that first hard thing that you had to do.

But in order for it to really count, you got to make that second shot.

And for me, that second shot was going in public with my head shaved.

And the first time I went to take my kids to school with my head shaved, my oldest daughter stopped me at the door and she said, "Mom, you can't go to school like that."

Perplexed, I was, like, "Why not?

", as I'm trying to put shoes on the little twins as they're ping-ponging all around me.

"Because you don't look like the other moms."

Everybody stopped, I turned to look at her.

I said, "Sweetheart, I'm not trying to.

"And I hope you never feel like you have to change, "shrink, conform, or adjust who you are "or what you look like so someone else is comfortable.

"This is what works for Mom right now.

"It may, it may last, it may not.

"But I will do what feels right for me, regardless of what other people think about it."

She stood just staring at me, visibly uncomfortable, squirming.

And I felt for her, my heart broke for her.

She was fearful and uncertain at what would happen when we stepped outside the door.

And I understood that-- I was, too.

But the bigger part of me knew we had to go on.

So, gathered them up and we went to school.

We had that conversation many times.

We had it when kids at school pointed and stared.

We had it when people approached, asking if I was protesting something or trying to make a political statement of some kind.

We had it when people saw us as a safe space to share their own stories of cancer, loss, or physical hardship.

And we had it when an old couple in a motorized vehicle chased us through the grocery store yelling, "Women aren't meant to be bald!"

(audience laughs) Yes.

I came to see these conversations as opportunities to nurture compassion and curiosity about the world around us and the incredibly diverse people in it.

To encourage awareness about the things we think or assume about others without ever asking.

These days, people still bring me notes, doctors, oils, the latest cure to get it all to grow back, not really, really understanding that I'm truly indifferent to whether it does or not.

(exhales) I belong to my idea of who I am more than I have at any other point in my life, and a large reason why is because of my experience having alopecia.

The thing I thought would define me actually freed me.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ JOUN: My name is Su Joun.

My pronouns are she, her, and hers.

I'm an immigrant from South Korea, came here when I was a child, and I'm a parent and I am a diversity, equity, and inclusion consultant.

So I'm curious, what do you do as a diversity, equity, and inclusion consultant?

So we work with various organizations within different industries and, and sizes.

And what we-- basically, in a nutshell, we go in, we help diversify their workforce, and we create equitable and inclusive practices, policies, and norms.

I'm wondering if you could share with us how you became interested in storytelling.

As a child, when I immigrated to the United States, I didn't speak any English.

And so, at the time, the school system in Arizona-- and specifically that particular school-- didn't know what to do with someone who didn't speak English.

So they actually put me in a classroom of speech- and hearing-impaired children.

So my second language was actually sign language, not English.

And I remember telling myself that, "I will figure out a way to master this language, "and when I do, I will never miss an opportunity to speak and to speak for others who may not be able to speak."

♪ It was a Thursday night, and I was at a local church, volunteering to serve free meals to those who needed it and came.

This was no different than any other Thursday night.

My mother and I went there every week to volunteer.

Now, I was only 11, and so I really had no business being there.

All the other volunteers were adults.

But having immigrated from South Korea, my mother was not fluent in English, so I got to come along as a translator.

I didn't mind because I kind of got used to being in places I had no business being there to interpret for my mother.

I went with her to her doctor's appointments and translated her aches and pains.

I even went to my own parent- teacher conference at my school to translate from my teacher on how I was doing to my mother.

(audience laughs) And I have just come to accept this as my role.

Now, this Thursday night, the church was packed because we were serving spaghetti and meatballs, and that was the most popular meal.

And once everyone knew that that's what we were serving, everyone came out.

This Thursday night was a little different.

One of the guests, a lady who was eating dinner there, gestured at me.

Now, this was very unusual, because normally, no one paid any attention to me.

Everyone sort of, kind of ignore the kid that just sort of walked around.

So I hesitated, but she just kept gesturing at me.

In fact, beckoned me to come to her.

So I went.

And when I went to her, she pulled me aside and asked if she could bring some meatballs home to her children.

Now, as a grown-up and as a parent myself, I could only imagine how vulnerable she must have felt to ask a kid for help.

Now, the rules were, you couldn't take food out.

You came, you enjoyed your meal, but you left with no food.

And far as I can see, only adults were allowed to come.

I never saw a kid there in all the weeks that I volunteered.

And I knew this rule.

And yet, I found my head nodding up and down in agreement to her request, and then I walked away.

And I walked to the kitchen.

And I walked to this sort of secluded area where they also used for storage.

And I started to pace back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, figuring out, what do I do?

I gave my word to this lady that she could take meatballs out of the church tonight.

But on the other hand, it was breaking a rule.

And I remember my mother's words just echoing in my head with something she used to tell me over and over and over again.

She said to me, "Su, don't embarrass yourself, "don't embarrass your family, "and don't embarrass everyone that you represent.

"Because as an immigrant, you never want to make this country regret letting you in."

But her kids are going to go hungry if I don't pull through.

And I know what it feels like to not have things.

But on the other hand, I also remember my mother telling me once that coming here was very important to her.

That as an immigrant and as someone who didn't speak English very well, that it was one of the few places where people were happy to see her.

People welcomed her, she felt useful and can contribute.

And I didn't want to be the one responsible for putting an end to that.

So I continued to pace back and forth, back and forth, trying to figure out, what do I do?

What do I do?

And I spotted some paper coffee cups.

And I had an idea.

I went over to the stove, over to the big pot of meatballs.

It was huge, just bubbling up of meatballs.

It felt like it was so big that it would never run out.

And I took that paper coffee cup and I put in meatballs.

In fact, I remember smashing it down so I could fit as much as I possibly could.

I put a lid on it and I walked over to the lady.

And when the lady saw me coming, she stood up, and she knew exactly what was in those coffee cups.

Now, it could have been the, the spaghetti sauce stain on the side of the coffee cup, perhaps, but she knew.

And when she and I met, she just gently took the coffee cup from me.

No words were exchanged.

She turned one way and I turned the other.

Now, I have no idea how the word got around.

But many a guest approached me that night.

Rather, it was a look or a glance.

I knew exactly what they wanted.

And every time someone approached me, I went into the kitchen, quickly looked around to make sure that no one saw me, and I put some meatballs in there, put a lid on it, and passed it out.

And every time I did that, no one really thanked me.

Some would just sort of nod in acknowledgment, maybe it was thanks, but we didn't say anything, probably because we didn't want to draw any attention.

The other volunteers were sort of at that other side of the room, and we didn't want to draw any attention to what was happening here.

But let's just say many a paper coffee cups left the church that night.

It turns out even as a kid, I knew, or maybe because I was a kid, I just knew.

To do the right thing, you never need permission.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) ♪ SCHOENTHALER: My name is Robin Schoenthaler.

I live in Boston.

I'm a physician, a cancer doctor.

I have two young adult sons.

I've been a writer, and more recently a storyteller.

You are not only a doctor, but specifically, a cancer doctor, so I would imagine that quite often, you are present at people's worst day.

Yep.

How do you use storytelling and writing to process that?

Because that seems very heavy, and, you know, I would just love some insight about how exactly it does help you.

In many ways, I find myself wanting to represent the patient, as well as what the patient has me now going through.

It's been really important to me to tell stories about what it's like seeing, seeing the valor and the grace that you can see in a, in a cancer clinic.

I'm wondering, what would you hope that our audience who hears your story tonight takes away from it?

I hope people take away a little bit of hope.

You know, it's, it's, sometimes...

Right now, it, it feels like we're going backwards in many directions, but this is a story of how we went forwards.

I do hope it gives people some hope.

♪ One night in late December 1982, my dispatcher at Acme Ambulance Company in West Oakland, California, announced to me that my partner for New Year's Eve was going to be Julia.

I was genuinely confused and said to him, "But girls can't work with girls."

And he said, "What's the matter, ain't you ever heard of the women's lib movement?"

(audience chuckles) I had in fact heard of the women's lib movement.

Women's lib is what had enabled me to get this job in the first place three years previously.

Women's lib and the four trailblazing women who came in front of me.

All of us were still working at Acme, and another handful, as well, but we never worked together.

We always had male partners-- always.

I'd never even thought about working with a woman.

First off, I loved my guy partners.

They were like my big brothers.

And second off, they were big, and they were wannabe firemen and, and ex-tow truck drivers, and their size and their gender helped me feel safe on the streets of Oakland, which was no small thing.

Julia, on the other hand, was very small.

"Little Miss Matchstick" we called her.

And all week long before the shift, instead of thinking about the fact that she was smart and capable-- she was this 25-year-old Black woman who'd grown up in Oakland.

She knew her way around, but I didn't think about all that, I'm embarrassed to say, I just thought about the fact that she was so teeny and I couldn't imagine being safe with her on the streets.

The shift arrives, it's the overnight shift in West Oakland on New Year's Eve, and it isn't even 12:04 and we already have a call that is an Oakland classic for New Year's Eve-- gunshot wound to the foot.

(audience chuckles) Because every year, many people gather to celebrate New Year's by shooting their guns in the air.

But there's always some drunk guy, usually named Big Joe... (audience laughs) ...who's so drunk that he forgets to lift up his hand, and with his arm by his side, he accidentally shoots himself at the stroke of midnight into his own foot.

So this is exactly what's happened.

We screech up to the scene, and it's easy to spot Big Joe in the middle of the big crowd.

And we've divided up the duties.

I'm, I'm bent over Joe.

I'm establishing that he's stable, and I'm looking around very anxiously for how Julia is doing in this big, very upset crowd.

Well, I needn't have worried, because Julia is there with the gurney and the gear, and she's got the crowd in the, in the palm of her hand.

As she gets closer to us, I can see she's actually gotten bigger, and by the time she's next to me, she's as tall as the tall, upset, mostly armed guys that are milling around us.

And she completely organizes them.

She gets them to help us get Big Joe on the gurney and into the rig, and they even direct traffic so we can whisk Joe down to the hospital.

Joe does fine, it's a through- and-through flesh wound.

All I can think about was wanting to talk to Julie about, how do you do that?

And I ask her as soon as we get in the rig, and she laughs and she says, "You know, I grew up "with two younger brothers in the projects, "and I learned how to get large and in charge "from the time I was 12 when I was, started doing it basically on the daily."

And we get call after call after call, and she does this.

It's a wonder to watch.

Finally, it's two minutes till end of shift.

We get the last call, and it's what's called a sunrise code.

We have nicknames for all the terrible things that we see in Oakland.

A "sunrise code" is when someone has died in the middle of the night, but nobody finds their body until dawn.

So we know it's this kind of call because as soon as we screech up to the house, this 15-year-old girl comes running down the stairs screaming that her grandfather is dead.

Terrible moment in this girl's life.

She takes one look at Julia and throws herself into Julia's arms with such velocity that I honestly think for a minute they're going to tumble into the street.

But Julia is already large and in charge, and she rightens them up, and waves me off and I go into the house and confirm with the police in examining the guy.

He's definitely been dead for a number of hours.

He doesn't need an ambulance, he needs a coroner.

And I go back outside and Julia's still holding on to this girl.

She's rocking her and she never lets go until the mom arrives.

We get back in the rig on the way back to the station, and I'm totally smitten.

I'm, like, "Julia, I want to work with you for the rest of my life."

We do work together a few more times as it becomes more routine.

And on each shift, I learn more about what she does.

And it mostly has to do with finding the leaders, walking tall, lots of eye contact, and something that she calls talking while chest-proud.

(audience laughs) But then in May, an astonishing thing happens.

I get accepted at the age of 29 to medical school and I leave Oakland behind.

But when I get to, to medical school at U.C.L.A., I find out that women are less than 20% of the class.

And for the next four years, I still need to apply Julia's lessons about being large and in charge in a sometimes hostile environment on a regular basis.

On the daily.

I also spend the next ten years eating cheap food in hospital cafeterias where the ambulance drivers like to eat.

And increasingly often, I see that the crews are made up of two women, and it becomes routine and commonplace to everybody except me.

I still gaze at every one of these women, and I think to myself... (exhales) "Look at you.

"So gorgeous and so confident and so young "and so absolutely certain that you belong in this crazy job working with a woman."

And I think about what a miracle this really is, that this change, this radical, astonishing, invisible change, has taken place in my lifetime.

And I always feel better and I always go back to my cancer clinic with a little more hope and a little more feeling large and in charge.

Thank you.

(cheers and applause) OKOKON: The Stories From the Stage Podcast with extraordinary, true stories.

wherever you listen to podcasts.

Consider supporting more great storytelling at give.worldchannel.org/stories ♪ ♪