EL SANCHEZ: You're already a queer Mexican.

Why would you choose anything else to make your life even harder?

SARAH SHARPE: And the questions start rolling in.

"So your family's from Brazil?

Did they come here legally?"

♪ NESTOR GOMEZ: I cannot see her face because of the mask she's wearing, but I can see her eyes.

I want to help her so badly, but I know I can't.

THERESA OKOKON: Tonight's theme is "Mi Familia."

Across Latinx communities, there are many diverse cultures, but at the center of all of them is "la familia"-- the family.

Tonight's storytellers are bringing their stories of family at its best, its quirkiest, and its closest.

We hope that for you, it feels like a reflection into your own home, or a window into some place new.

♪ SANCHEZ: My name is El Sanchez.

I live in Olympia, Washington, and I've been a stand-up comedian for the past 11 years.

And I also work for a nonprofit organization that runs support groups for queer and trans youth.

So you're a comedian and a storyteller.

What made you decide to start telling stories?

SANCHEZ: I think one of the most difficult things of being comedian is trying to figure out what your voice is, and what you want to say, and how that's gonna be different from the eight million other people that are telling jokes.

So I kind of started off trying to do observational stuff, or current events, and I was terrible at, like, quick punch lines.

And so, I thought, the reason people I know think I'm funny is my stories, like, about my life.

And if I tell personal stories, I mean, no one can steal those and use them so you won't have the situation where two comedians are saying the same thing.

So, I'm curious, El, if you can talk to me a bit about the role that humor plays in your life-- both your life on stage and your life off stage.

My form of coping isn't to say things that are to be shocking.

I want to find light in the dark in a way that isn't like trying to go how far can I take this, but relate to other people.

And I do that by joking about it, being sarcastic and, and cynical on some level.

I definitely learned that from my dad.

Most of the time he's ever shared any kind of serious feelings with me it was in the form of a joke.

It's how, you know, how we interact with each other.

I mean, I...

I've come out to my parents in a joke.

I mean, that's that's... that's how... that's how I communicate, really.

When you consider all of the different intersections that you have in your identity, what does it mean for you to identify as Latinx?

SANCHEZ: It means so much to me.

I mean it's... especially when I was growing up and... and a large part of my life in mostly white communities who definitely tried to convince me that the things that stood out about me, that my identities that I had, were bad.

You know, were bad things.

I've also lived in communities of primarily like Indigenous and Latinx folks.

Like I don't speak...

I don't speak Spanish, but I absolutely have an accent that people can read as like Latinx and Indigenous, you know, from just living on the rez and being around my dad, and it's-it's everything to me.

And it's hard to describe, clearly.

♪ In the summer of 2016, I did something a lot of young people were doing at the time-- although I think I was, like, 35.

But I posted on my Facebook status update that I was transgender, that I was changing my name to El, that I was nonbinary, and that I wanted everyone to use they/them pronouns for me from now on.

I figured this was the most efficient way to disseminate this information amongst, like, everyone I knew.

Did I tell my parents before I posted this?

No.

(laughs) But I have a lot of siblings, so they found out pretty quickly, and they weren't happy about it.

But I should say I feel really lucky to the fact that I have, like, pretty progressive parents.

My dad is a Mexican immigrant.

He moved to the States at a really young age.

But, you know, he fasted with Cesar Chavez in the '60s and was part of the United Farm Workers Movement.

My mom is a white lady from Oklahoma.

That's another story.

But my parents are pretty progressive in their thoughts and politics and everything, so I feel pretty lucky about that.

But after this post, we had fairly tense conversations when we did talk, and we talk pretty often.

But, you know, we avoided talking about it, to be honest, and that's kind of like our move.

That's what we do.

So we kind of just didn't talk about it.

And then around Christmas that year, my parents invited me to come stay with them in a hotel in Seattle, and I thought that would be awesome other than this awkward thing we hadn't talked about, we'll see.

So, the first day, it's actually fine.

We hung out, we had drinks, we watched murder mysteries, which is my mom's thing, and we went through photos, which is my dad's thing.

It was great.

The second day we were having dinner in the restaurant in the hotel, and I'm sitting at the table with my dad, and he's having a conversation with the server and he's saying, "Oh my gosh, you have to see my daughter.

"She is so funny.

"She's one of the best comedians in Seattle.

You would love her comedy."

If you didn't know, my dad is talking about me.

And this is difficult, because for one, my dad is sitting there saying really flowery, sweet, amazing complimentary things about me, even though I hadn't had a real job in several years at that point, and that's a win.

But on the other end, my dad is talking about me, but not actually seeing me as I'm sitting next to him.

And that is really difficult.

You know, as a transgender person, I get misgendered every day all the time.

But it's particularly really hard when it comes from your family.

You know, a lot of trans folks describing misgendered as death by a thousand papercuts.

And that is a brutally honest description.

because it feels like you're being kind of slowly erased a little bit each time until you just don't exist anymore.

And to have that happen from my parents is really rough, particularly my dad, because we're very, very close.

And, if anything, I feel like my dad knows me better than anyone.

That I'm most myself around my dad.

So, to be right next to him, and have him not see me is very painful.

So, I did what I taught... you know, my dad taught me, which is I had a couple whiskies, and I was like, "Let's talk about it."

So we go up to the hotel room, and I say, "I have something to say," because I'm dramatic.

And I say to them, "I feel like you and Mom think of me as a woman "that uses gender neutral pronouns, "as opposed to a nonbinary person who is not, in fact a woman."

And that was too much, too much realness.

My dad got very angry.

My dad said really kind of solemnly to me in his angry dad voice, he was like, "Listen, first I had to accept you were a lesbian, "that was hard enough.

"And then I had to accept this pan-no limits crap, "whatever that is.

"And then I had to accept this 'I'm not a man.

"'I'm not a woman.

"I'm a person,' or whatever that is.

And then..." (laughing): And I'm like, "'And then?!'

Where is he going?"

Like, first of all, he talked about my pansexuality.

He meant it as a put down, but it was actually a very accurate description, so thank you.

But then I figured the nonbinary thing was going to be the top of his, like, false disappointment pyramid that he was building for himself.

But then he says, "And then."

And so I'm sitting there, like bated breath, "What?"

And he's like, "And then I had to accept you were a freaking vegetarian."

(laughs) He did not say freaking.

That's important to note.

And we all just had to laugh for a couple reasons.

One: at that point, I had literally not been a vegetarian for like over a decade.

(laughing): Like ten years ago I was a vegetarian for maybe, like, a year and a half, and he was still so salty about it so much time later.

My dad never forgave me for that.

Like, as far as I could tell, he thinks the most offensive thing I've done to Mexican culture is be a vegetarian for a year and a half.

Even though I have "taco time" literally tattooed to my knuckles.

like that's the thing that he feels like I did that was so disrespectful.

(sighing) But, you know, after we stopped laughing, I say to my dad seriously, I'm like, "Dad, why does this bother you so much, you know?"

And he says, "Mija, you're already a queer Mexican.

"Why would you choose anything else to make your life even harder?"

And I say, "Dad, "I think this is gonna make my life easier in some ways, "because I think part of the reason it was so hard "for so long was because I didn't know who I am.

And now that I know, it's gonna be a little bit easier."

And he said... (exhales) "Well, why didn't you just say that?

How come when you talk to me about it it's so annoying?"

Now... this might sound harsh, but there's a lot of times in my life I've had to translate for my dad to other people.

And not at all because English was a second language, because I actually don't speak Spanish at all, so I couldn't even do that.

But because my dad's love language is to put me down and to make fun of me.

That's when I know everything's okay after a fight.

So, for him to say that, I knew what he really meant was, "I'm trying and I love you," and that's all I need.

♪ SHARPE: My name is Sarah Sharpe and I currently reside in Franklin, Massachusetts.

And I recently graduated from Brandeis University, and now I'm pursuing my degree in public administration at Northeastern University.

Can you tell me, are there other storytellers in your family?

SHARPE: I feel like every family has that one member that's just, you know, has that personality where they, you know, they're vibrant in the room, and when they tell the story, everyone stops to listen.

But I think I can confidently say I'm the first actual storyteller in my family.

Why did you choose the stage, which is now a virtual stage, as your medium for storytelling?

I think a lot of times it's hard depending on where you're coming from for your voice to be heard.

But I think by being on a stage you're given that opportunity to really express yourself how you want to be.

I mean, the spotlight is on you.

And so every time I'm there, "I'm like, okay, wait, "this is my moment.

"I have a mic.

I can speak what I have in my mind."

And I think that's why the stage is... is the best medium for me.

What does the theme "mi familia" mean to you?

Hmm, "mi familia"...

The first thing that comes to mind always when I think of my family is... support For me, family is just having someone to always count on, to always be there, and to be there when you don't want them there, but they'll be there.

And that to me is family.

Just someone to always turn to and someone to always have there consistently to have your back.

♪ I'm in an apartment on Roosevelt Island, New York City, and I'm about to meet my boyfriend's parents for the first time.

Now, we had only been dating for about two months or so, but after our first date, that short period of time didn't come too much of a surprise because our first date was something different.

I had just returned from Brazil and I received this message on Instagram.

And I recognize it as someone who I shared a class with him last semester and he's asking now to grab a bite to eat.

And so I'm looking through his photos...

He's cute.

Racially ambiguous... At the very least, I can ask him where he's from.

And so I agree, and we go to a nice French restaurant.

And I knew he was a keeper when, one, he doesn't Venmo request me to pay for half or all of the bill.

And, two, he is still in good spirit even after we find a $100 fine on his windshield, because we had parked on a bus stop, which neither of us had noticed.

And after this evening, we spend almost every day and every night together.

So after only two short months, it didn't come to a surprise that he felt comfortable enough to invite me to his home, where I would meet his parents for the first time.

And now we're in New York, and I'm falling absolutely in love with this boy, and with the city.

And I'm feeling really good, really confident, especially because his mother is the first person I meet.

Now his mother, I had already gathered, is a very sweet and kind woman, just based on the phone calls she would have with her son, because during these phone calls he would have it on speakerphone.

And I was sitting in the corner like this because I don't want him to know that I'm listening and she would ask questions like, "How's Sarah?

Are you going to miss her when she goes abroad?"

And then my head pops up because she remembered my name.

And now we're at her home and it's this beautiful apartment and she's baking homemade cookies and she's preparing meals for what would be my first Shabbat dinner.

Now, I eventually learned that, like me, my boyfriend was born in the U.S., but his parents were born in a different country.

His parents were from Morocco.

And so now I'm feeling extra good because I'm learning new things and tasting new things, making the right impression.

However, I didn't think to prepare myself with what I had gathered about the father.

Now his phone calls were a bit different.

He certainly loved his son, but his phone calls reminded me of business transaction, or an interview, as he would often toss out questions after questions like, "How's your GPA?"

"You need to do this to get it there.

"Have you done that yet?

Have you read that book I gave you?"

It was just a little intense.

And now we're at the dinner table and he's sitting right across from me.

And the mother also sits across from me and my boyfriend sits beside me, and I would like to say there was a fifth party here to kind of balance the attention and maybe add, you know, at least a comic relief.

Now there was a grandmother, but she spoke more French than English.

She might have been hard of hearing, and she was the sweetest thing.

But she cannot rescue me once the questions begin, which now are directed towards me.

And my boyfriend, well, he decides to go mute.

He's very quiet-- but that's okay.

That's okay, because I came here ready.

I am determined.

I need to make a good impression.

And it's as if everyone fades away.

And it's just me and this father at the dinner table, and the questions start rolling in.

"What are you studying?"

"Got it."

"Why are you studying this?"

"Well, let me tell you..." "Where do you plan on taking these studies?"

"Well, I'll do a little bit of this, maybe a little bit of that."

"So your family's from Brazil?

Did they come here illegally?"

And my mind goes blank because my mother came here on a visa, but she overstayed because she followed my grandmother, who came here through Mexico.

And so I'm wondering what's appropriate to say.

What do I say now?

And so I say, "Well, my mother came here on a visa.

"She followed my grandmother-- they're both legal now," is what I keep saying, "they're both legal."

Until he asks, "Well, why did your grandma come here?

For more opportunity?"

And judging by his tone, I don't think he wants to hear that yes, she did come here for more opportunity, but I don't say that.

I say, "I'm not sure.

I never asked that part of the story-- I don't, I don't know."

To which he responds, "Well, stories are important.

They're important to know."

And now the mother's pouring me my second glass of wine, but not in a suspicious kind of way.

More like an "Okay, I'll take it from here."

And she goes off about how she knows Judge Judy.

And my boyfriend, well, he's still pretty quiet.

But later that evening, later that evening, he tells me, "You did a really good job "balancing all those questions, especially the one about your major."

To which I respond, "Well, thank you.

"Your father also asked if my family came here legally," to which he responds, "Well, I'm sorry.

Did that offend you?"

A bit of time has passed between now and then, and I realized that, yes, I was offended by that question, but I was more offended about what I didn't say, because I regret not saying that the women in my family are some of the most hardest working, most strongest women I have ever met.

And I regret not saying my mom just got promoted.

She runs an entire Alzheimer's patient care unit.

Did you know it takes two to replace her when she goes on vacation?

Did you know that she used to live in an apartment with two other strangers?

And now she has, she has her own home fit for a family of seven and her own little cul-de-sac.

And I regret not trying to explain why my grandmother came here.

Because when we get together, my grandmother cries when she sees us surrounding this table full of food that she herself provided, and when she sees us safe and secured and fulfilling that dream that she had for us.

♪ GOMEZ: My name is Nestor Gomez.

I was born and raised in Guatemala.

I came to the United States in the mid-1980s.

I worked as a quality control specialist at a manufacturing plant here in Chicago.

And I understand that now you've been telling stories for several years-- what is it about storytelling that keeps you engaged and keeps you coming back?

It gives a voice to underrepresented people, like, when I was growing up here in the United States, I never heard the stories of a person that was undocumented, of a person that was immigrant.

I never saw my reality on the stories that we read or on the... on the lessons that we would talk at school.

So it's an amazing way to have underrepresented voices and stories come through.

I understand that you're involved with the show that's called "80 Minutes Around the World."

Can you tell me more about this program?

"80 Minutes Around the World" is a storytelling show that I started because I wanted to tell more stories about the immigration experience, but also to give all the people a platform to tell their immigration stories.

Not only immigrants but refugees, their descendants and allies, and to be able to provide a platform for other people to share their stories is a blessing that I don't take lightly.

When I was ten years old, my parents immigrated to Chicago, leaving me and my siblings in Guatemala with our uncles and grandparents.

They had planned to work in Chicago for a couple of years to earn money and then come back to Guatemala.

But that turned out to be impossible.

With the civil war, it was too dangerous for them to return to Guatemala, or for us to stay in our country.

So our parents arranged for my siblings and I to join them in the United States when I was 15 years old.

Since then, my mother likes to celebrate all kinds of occasions by having the whole family at her house.

On the summertime, she likes to have barbecues, and she makes some of her delicious carne asada tacos, and some of her famous refried black beans.

Sadly, this year, the coronavirus has put all kind of celebrations and gatherings on pause.

I cannot visit my mother, but at least I can call her.

"I cooked some food for you," my mother says as soon as she answers the phone.

I am adult now, but my mother still cooks meals for me from time to time.

My mom shows her affection by cooking food.

I show my affection by eating her food.

"I wish I could come to your house and eat some of the food," I tell my mother over the phone.

"But the government has advised that due to the dangers "and probability of infection with the coronavirus, "young people like myself should stay away from old people like you."

I hear my mother laugh as soon as I say this.

Comedy relief tends to be a survival mechanism for communities at risk.

And since we are a low-income immigrant family, we often joke among our misery and dilemmas.

But not everything has been fun and games.

My siblings and I spent five years unable to see, hug, or kiss our mom.

Those years were no fun at all.

It has been years since something like that tear our family away.

But recently, the coronavirus situation has brought similar things.

"I'll drive to your house if you cannot come to my to my house," my mother said.

She hangs up before I can tell her that it's not safe for her to leave her house.

And a few minutes later, I hear a car.

I see my mom carrying a large bag full of Tupperware.

I can not see her face because of the mask she's wearing.

But I can see her eyes and I think she is smiling in spite of the two tears I see rolling down her face.

I want to hug her so badly, but I know I can't.

I remember the last time I felt this desperation to hug my mother.

We had just arrived in Chicago to be reunited with her.

My siblings and I stood on the hallway while my mother opened the door to her apartment.

As soon as we saw her, my older sister, me and my middle brother, run to her side and clung to her body.

Today, my mom is wearing a mask, but I recognize her.

She is no longer the young lady that immigrated to the United States.

She has spent decades working so hard to provide for me and my siblings-- and it shows.

"I cooked some of your favorite food," my mom says, keeping at least six feet away from me.

"It's nice to see you, but I wish that I could hug you," I told my mom, holding back tears.

"I wish I could hug you too," she replies, getting closer to me.

She extends her elbow.

I do the same.

We bumped elbows in this strange, COVID-19 greeting that we have been forced to adopt.

"Make sure to eat all your food," she says, waving at me.

"We will be together soon," she says.

"This is only for a little while."

I hear her say that, and I swear that I can remember my mom saying the same thing to me before she left Guatemala.

It took a while then, but in the end we managed to be together.

I might not be able to do it right now, but once this isolation period is finally over, I'm going to run to my mother's side and I'm going to give her the longest, biggest loving hug ever.

And then I will ask her, "How about some tacos, Mom?"

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