♪ JOHN SMITH-HORN: And then it's a few days after Thanksgiving, and I'm in the dressing room, putting on the costume, and I suddenly realize I have no idea what to do.

(laughter) MELAN ÉE ADDISON: When I pulled my turkey from the oven, it had a beautiful golden brown skin that would rival my mother's.

ANDREA KAMENS: Jewish holidays don't just have food and traditions.

We have rules and opinions.

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Holidays: The Good, The Bad."

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

Our theme tonight is "Holidays: The Good, The Bad," which is a particularly appropriate way of thinking about this time of year, where everything seems to be both tranquil and frenzied, when you're relaxed, but worried.

That duality just really makes a lot of sense given the circumstances of the holidays.

Let's look at that, right?

You're often with your family, which can be good-- and bad.

You're often thinking about the year that you just had, which can be good and bad.

And it doesn't help the fact that you are surrounded constantly by ads, TV shows, movies, magazine covers constantly telling you that you should be having the most fun of your life right now, and that is what tonight is all about.

No matter what happens during that season, you are going to come away with a worthwhile story.

ADDISON: My name is Melanée Addison, I'm originally from New York City, from the Bronx.

I'm a recently published author.

And I also am really big in herbalism, in wellness, so that's another passion of mine.

And, of course, I love telling stories.

And you've also journaled for 30 years... ADDISON: Mm-hmm.

HAZARD: And I'm just really interested, how did that become such a big part of your life?

Well, I think it was making up for lost time.

I always had things that I wanted to say, but had a fear of keeping a journal, because I was like, "Oh, I don't want anyone "to see it, don't want anything to happen and someone find out my innermost thoughts," but at the time that I really did start to pick up a journal, it became such a place of self-discovery for me.

It opened up my self to myself, you know, and that's just a very different perspective, when you're able to read your thoughts on a daily basis.

Is this your first time telling a story on stage?

My own story.

I've been in theater before, so I've done monologues and told other people's stories, but this is my first time telling a personal story in front of people.

And what have you learned while crafting the story that you're about to share with us tonight?

It's very much like journaling.

I'm able to tell a story that I was experiencing at one point, real time, but definitely from a different vantage point.

I can go back and feel the experiences and relive them, but now I have this different perspective that I'm looking at it from, and seeing things from, and even that speaks to different things that I might be, you know, looking for answers in my life in a different way.

So, storytelling is just, it's just a window of discovery to help you understand yourself and the world around you at whatever stage you happen to find yourself in.

This is a sweet victory after a long, hard-fought battle.

You see, I'm the youngest of four children by ten years, otherwise known as "whoops."

(laughter) But more commonly referred to as the baby of the family.

And after about 30 straight years of doing so, about the time I hit puberty, it was becoming really obvious to me that my mother was quickly tiring of this child-raising gig.

And throughout my adolescence, I would often hear the familiar sound bite: "I can't wait until you get grown "and get a place of your own.

Then you'll know what it feels like."

Now, granted, she would often be saying this while picking up my items carelessly strewn about the house or opening up the refrigerator to find the milk and juice containers empty...

But most definitely every time there was an unexpected spike in our phone bill.

Nevertheless, in my mind, the expectation was set.

As my siblings had all left the house at 18, to either join the service or get married, at 18, I too would be on my own.

And so, when that time arrived, I had gotten a decent job, built up some savings, and approached my mother with an ad for an apartment.

Now, to my surprise, she completely does an about face and tries to convince me that I really am not just quite ready to face the world on my own.

Well, not only is this a challenge to my young adult ego, but she had been unwittingly sowing these seeds of independence in me for so long that they had already sprouted, and I was determined to continue my quest for freedom.

My own promised land.

A place where I no longer had to hear how money didn't grow on trees.

Or hide in the closet late at night to have secret phone conversations with my boyfriend.

But, best of all, with my own place, I could come and go as I pleased, no curfew.

So, I would find these adorable apartments and excitedly bring my mother to see them, only to have her go at it with these landlords-- "slumlords," she would call them-- with a slew of complaints.

Like for instance, the lone hairline crack in the misaligned tile behind the bathroom door.

(laughter) Or the insufficient water pressure, and let's not forget the mysterious drafts due to lack of insulation that no one else felt.

And, needless to say, my mother and I would be promptly sent on our way with my fully returned deposit.

But after a while I began to catch on and the last place I showed her was with a signed lease already in hand.

So now I'm on my own and I am determined to prove to my mother that I truly am a competent and capable adult.

So that year, I insist on making the Thanksgiving turkey.

Now, in our family, Thanksgiving is my mother's full domain, and God forbid anybody try to encroach on that territory.

But, after a few moments of hesitation, to my surprise, she agreed, and then proceeded to bombard me with phone calls, asking do I know the right-sized turkey to get?

Am I using all the correct spices and seasonings?

Am I allowing enough time for the turkey to thaw before cooking?

And finally, frustrated, I say to her, "Mom, enough, I'm an adult now, I'm not a child.

I know how to make a turkey."

I mean, I'd spent years watching her make the Thanksgiving turkey, and even on some occasions, unwillingly recruited to help.

So I knew what I was doing.

And, as expected, when I pulled my turkey from the oven, it had a beautiful golden brown skin that would rival my mother's.

And so, on Thanksgiving day, I walk into her apartment proudly, regally cradling my beautiful creation as if a newborn and purposely ignoring all the nervous glances being cast in my direction.

I, with great fanfare, ceremoniously placed my beautiful bird in the center of the table.

So now we're all gathered around the table, and after grace, my brother proceeds to carve the turkey.

And as I proudly look on as he delves the knife deep into my masterpiece, red bloody juices... (laughter) ...start to flop.

And everyone stares, stunned, as their Thanksgiving feast is now an array of sides and some cornbread.

(laughter) And as I'm watching the bloody juices pool into the bottom of the platter, I can't help but feel betrayed by my bird.

My beautiful bird, that I spent hours massaging, caressing, cajoling with-with visions of Thanksgiving victory.

I can't even bear to look at my mother, and so instead I just fixate on the ever-growing pool of blood.

Eventually my mother gets up, and she goes into the kitchen and she returns back into the dining area with a beautiful brown bird of her own.

(laughter) Like, where did she get this?

Like, out of nowhere!

And, to spite me, everyone breaks out in loud cheers and applause.

(laughter) And as I'm sitting there quietly, watching my undone bloody bird being unceremoniously ousted from its place of honor, two things hit me.

Number one, my mother's words from adolescence echo back to me.

And for the first time, I think I really do know what it feels like.

But secondly, and most importantly, I am humbled by the very adult realization that sometimes independence means knowing how and when to be dependent.

Thank you.

(applause) What a good way to start off on my journey of independence-- to know that my mother was still there for me, that I could still explore, I could still take risks.

And I appreciated her from a different way.

SMITH-HORN: I'm John Smith-Horn, and I live in Ellington, Connecticut.

I'm a teacher for 30 years; I've been working in the same South Windsor public school system, a nearby town.

And for the last three or four years, I'm actually a middle school teacher, having moved up from the elementary school, and I'm the coordinator of the gifted and talented program.

When you're picking a story to tell, what do you look for?

What qualities really excite you?

I think it's something that, that was meaningful to me, a moment in my life that other people might have missed, that other people might have said, "Well, that wasn't an important milestone in your life, it wasn't those, you know, big moments."

I think it's a little moment that just kind of sticks with you and even when I'm talking to people, it's been my experience, a couple times, where I've gotten in contact with other folks that are in stories with me from years ago, they have very little recollection of the details of the story and I'm telling them all kinds of pieces.

And it's kind of fascinating.

And I understand that you've taken some storytelling classes.

And I wonder, what has been the most valuable lesson that you've learned in them?

I think it's the idea of, in a class, being able to be yourself, I think that's the first piece of it.

Like anybody would tell you, like any good teacher would tell you is "be yourself," and then... and then really kind of bring, "How did you feel?"

You know, bring some emotion to it, because it's not just reciting a series of facts or events, it's not a police report.

It's-it's your story, and so really make it yours.

So, the holidays are coming, and I need a job.

But I'm a college student with no discernable skills.

So when I'm offered a position as a shopping mall Santa, I take it.

(laughter) How hard can it be?

You have to wear a costume, you sit, and you get your picture taken.

The company's providing the costume.

I can sit.

I've been sitting for years.

(laughter) And picture-taking?

That's the heavy load that the photographer has to deal with.

So I'm good with this.

And then it's a few days after Thanksgiving, and I'm in the dressing room, putting on the costume.

And I suddenly realize I have no idea what to do.

And I realize I have another skill: sweating.

(laughter) Profusely.

And I'm adding padding and a heavy red suit lined with fur and trimmed with fur.

And it only intensifies the sweating.

So as I squish my way to center court and take my seat at Santa's throne, I'm worried.

And there is a huge line of children waiting to see me.

And the first little boy gets the nod to go, and he races toward me, and I flinch.

(laughter) He is on my lap before I know it and has started his monologue.

He knows what to do.

Thank goodness one of us does.

And before I know it, he's off my lap, apparently a picture was taken, and the next child is ready to come up, and I still don't know what's going on.

And this goes on all day.

And days later, I start to get a little bit of confidence, a little, tiny bit of confidence-- I think I know what I can do now-- until a little girl is placed on my lap, and she looks up at her mom, and then she looks back at me, and screams.

(laughter) It's as if she's auditioning for a horror film.

She screams so long and so loud I lose hearing in my right ear.

And so for the rest of the shift, I have to put every child on my left knee so I can hear them.

Every time a small child is placed on my lap after that, I sort of cringe and shake a little bit.

But it's fine, and now we're getting closer to Christmas, and I'm kind of getting a little rhythm going.

And I'm actually at a shift at one point in time, and I'm not sweating, and I come out after the break and the first child sits on my lap and it's a wonderful moment.

And then the second child comes and sits on my lap and proceeds to pee on me.

(laughter) The photo was beautiful.

He was so happy, smiling, his bladder was empty... (laughter) and I didn't know what was going on yet.

And after that, yes, they're buying the photo.

And I have to wave down the elves and tell them we're having a little wardrobe malfunction up here and Santa needs another break.

And, mercifully, Christmas comes and I'm done.

Until ten months later, when my boss calls and says, "Do you want to be Santa again?"

And what I can only describe, and I would swear to this in court, it was temporary insanity, I say yes.

And in the second season, I start to get a little bit more confident.

And I also start to notice there's a lot of college women who come to sit on Santa's lap.

(laughter) But I find out that portraying Santa and dating Santa is a seasonal job.

(laughter) And I continue to do this for the next couple years, and I'm good with the kids.

I'm really getting a nice rhythm going.

The only time that it ever stops me is whenever a child sits on my lap and says, "Santa, can you bring Dad home?

He's in the military overseas."

Or even, "Dad... Can you bring him home?

He's in prison."

Or "Mom.

Can you make Mom better?

She's been really sick."

And it brings a tear to my eye.

And, eventually, it takes years, but I start to figure it out, there's a little puzzle that's there.

And one of them is, as the mom starts to say, "Jimmy, it's your turn, come on up," I got it.

Jimmy sits on my lap and I look at him and say, "Jimmy, have you been a good boy this year?"

And he is in awe that I know his name.

And it's wonderful.

What's even more wonderful is the moment where I realize it's not just about the kids sitting on my lap, because I listen to every child that sits down and wants to tell me what they want for Christmas, but I also look up at the parents.

Because the parents are there, and they're leaning in, and they're listening, and they've got that twinkle in their eye.

They got that little bit of Christmas magic, and they know, and that's what I learned: that when their child is happy at Christmastime, then they're happy at Christmastime.

And if their child is really, really having a great Christmas, they're a great parent.

And years later, when I become a parent, I don't need the suit.

I got it figured out.

I really know that if I can make a great Christmas for my kids, then it really, truly is a very merry Christmas.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ KAMENS: I'm Andrea Kamens, I've been in Boston longer than anywhere else, but I was born in Pittsburgh, raised in Cleveland.

I am a mom, I've got five kids.

And I'm a storyteller, and I do some teaching and some writing and a lot of volunteering.

Our theme tonight is holidays, and that means so many, you know, different things to different people.

Could you just share a little bit about what that means to you?

How it inspires you?

Well, I'm Jewish, so we have a lot of holidays.

So we have a calendar full of holidays and often they're holidays that no one else is celebrating, so, you're off-sync, living in a calendar that's your own.

But also, I think of the word, coming from "holy days," that holidays are creating this sacred space in this sacred time when we can do things differently.

What do you hope that the audience tonight gets out of the story that you're going to share with us?

A lot of the Jewish religion is thought of as being a lot about technicalities and about laws, and I'm actually really into that, and I think it's true, but I think it's also really important, especially right now, that people understand that you don't have to shut off your compassion to follow laws or to have laws.

That law can bring light, that law can lead us to treating each other the way we should be treating each other, and I think that there's something in a lot of our traditions, in a lot of our holidays, that are trying to get at that-- that you do these rituals, but the goal is not to accomplish the ritual.

The goal is what you're bringing to people and what you're creating as a community.

Jewish holidays don't just have food and traditions.

We have rules and opinions.

There's a Jewish joke that if we had invented Halloween, y'all would be giving out candy to legal specifications on what type, what size, to whom, how late, and which members of your household may do it, must do it, or absolutely aren't allowed to do it.

Plus, a handy chart for your size, shape, and color for your kosher jack-o'-lanterns.

(laughter) The most famous of contrary Jewish opinions in the Talmud comes from Rabbi Hillel and Rabbi Shammai.

Hillel got to be popular, became associated with inclusiveness and love, and Shammai more with being technical and legal, high standards.

These guys argued about everything, and the principle was they were both right, but that we practiced according to the opinions of Hillel.

What?

Jewish practice is the embodiment of Jewish law and law is supposed to care about what's right.

And, for me, Shammai was even more often right.

Especially when I was a kid.

Especially for the holiday of Hanukkah.

On Hanukkah, we light candles-- one the first night, two the second night, all the way up to eight-- to recall a little cruse of oil that lasted for eight days when we miraculously reclaimed our holy temple from the Syrian Greeks in ancient Israel.

"No," says Shammai.

"The oil decreased every day.

It should be like a countdown: eight, seven, six."

(laughter) Blast off.

Hillel said, "Yeah, but more light equals more happiness "and every day should be happier and brighter and more holy than the day before."

See what I'm talking about?

That is not law.

When I first heard this when I was growing up in Cleveland, Ohio, I told my parents I was lighting according to sensible Shammai, and for three years I lit backwards.

First night, eight candles.

It's the last night of Hanukkah and all our menorahs are set out, my-my parents', my brother's, my sister's on the glass-topped coffee table in the living room by the big front window.

We had sheer white curtains that we even drew back so passerbys could see all that light.

They had eight candles in each menorah and the extra one, the shamash, the helper candle right in the middle and there was mine.

I had a helper, and one defiant candle.

One minority report, one dissenting opinion.

(laughter) This past Shabbas, Saturday morning, I walked an hour in the rain to a family friend's bar mitzvah.

As Orthodox Jews, we don't drive or ride or do electronics on Shabbat.

I was a little late but I got there in time to hear him read the Torah and give his talk on, of all things, Hillel and Shammai, and what it really means to be generous and expansive with our hospitality and how to meet the other-- 13-year-old-kid.

He was called Giggles and Sunshine and his dad gave him this blessing from a famous Jewish saying that you should receive every person with an open face-- a smile.

And he credited the source, and it was logical Rabbi Shammai.

After Shabbat, we found out that the largest anti-Semitic massacre in American history had happened minutes before I arrived at synagogue in Boston.

Eleven Jews were killed in a synagogue less than a mile from where I was born.

I didn't have my phone, so...

I was still with the bar mitzvah family, I borrowed a teenager's cell phone to call my mom.

She had been born and raised in those same inner city neighborhoods of Pittsburgh, the whole family had been there and all... a lot of the cousins were still there.

So she was the logical point person.

When I couldn't reach her right away, I started to run through all the people and where they might have been at that time on a Sabbath morning.

All of my cousins who go to synagogue were in a different synagogue down the street in lockdown, and one of my cousins had just been walking by and heard the shots.

So everyone was physically safe and everyone knew someone.

I couldn't keep scrolling through the news.

All those places... place were...

I visited there all the time, that's where my family lived, and shopped, and prayed.

So I asked a friend to text me the list when it came out.

And... the ages, the types of people, they weren't a surprise because they were the stalwarts of any synagogue.

The ones who come early were usually older or have special needs.

They greet you at the door and pass out books and lollipops and sweep up afterwards and make sure that nobody prays alone.

We call it a shamash, a caretaker, but also that same word for the helper candle that we use on Hanukkah.

Those are our armed guards.

Except that means my protection are also my friends.

We forget that it's actually dangerous to be a helper, to greet everyone with an open face when some people don't want me to exist.

To make today more holy than the days before, it's audacious.

Hillel and Shammai both, whether it was the first night or the last, had that one candle.

Except when I tried to remember my solitary Shammai candle, reflected in the window, I couldn't see it.

Because it had never been just one.

It was surrounded by the light from all the candles that my family had lit beside me.

I still like the technicalities and the details that I got from Shammai.

Law should be about what's right.

But the place where Hillel and Shammai agree is that what's right is that we take care of each other.

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

♪