ERIC BROOKE: So I tell my friends a couple of hours later, "I'm gonna be a candidate, too," and they go, "What?

You as a politician?

You're having a laugh!"

DONNA WASHINGTON: The first time I ever felt like I didn't belong somewhere was in my own country.

M.J. KANG: There were supposed to be six of us.

Where are the people who cared about democracy, who want to make sure that voting never stops?

WES HAZARD: Tonight's theme is "Cast Your Vote."

♪ HAZARD: In our democracy, voting is both a privilege to be cherished and an essential duty to be fulfilled.

I think we can all understand how voting might sometimes seem like it's mundane or ineffective or like a chore that needs to be fulfilled.

But I assure you it is not, and I can't think of a better set of conditions than what we have seen in America in 2020 to illustrate that point.

Tonight, our amazing tellers will be sharing their own stories of civic engagement, hope, and election surprise.

♪ WASHINGTON: My name is Donna Washington.

I live in Durham, North Carolina.

I am a professional storyteller, and I have been performing for 34 years.

I do personal narrative and folklore and literary stories.

What role has storytelling played in your life?

Stories tell us who we are and where we belong and that we're in the right place.

That's what stories do.

That's why a kid wants to hear the same story told over and over and over.

It's about security, it's about home, it's about family.

Stories are about love.

They tell you who's in and who's safe, and they make you feel comforted.

So for me, storytelling is like...

I don't know, it's, it's...

It's like if a beacon, that tells you how you get from point A to point B and why you decided to go there in the first place.

HAZARD: Tonight, our theme is "Cast Your Vote," and I was just hoping that you could tell us what that means to you.

There is a story in my family that's told about what it was like to vote in the 1950s.

The men, the old men, used to sit around, but, you know, my great-grandfather, my great-uncles, and my cousins from that age-- and they're all men, because the women didn't vote-- and they talked about putting on their best suits and, and how they would have to take a bus, and then they'd have to walk five miles because there was no bus to the polling places, and that there was a poll tax the white people didn't have to pay and they had to pay, and they had to walk through white neighborhoods where they got all this abuse.

And despite all of that, they voted every single election, because they understood how important it was and how their vote could be taken from them at any minute if the wind changed.

♪ Right before Obama was elected the first time, I was touring up in the mountains in North Carolina.

I went up there, checked into my Hampton Inn, and I was given the room right off the lobby.

The next morning, my contact arrived, and, uh, he said, "There's something I need to tell you."

I said, "All right."

He said, "The FBI is in town."

And I thought, "Why is he telling me this?

They're not looking for me."

I said, "Why is the FBI in town?"

He said, "Well, we have about seven Black families "left in our county, and somebody has been burning crosses on their lawns."

And I thought, "Oh, my gosh, that's terrible!"

Because that's terrible.

Now, I didn't know why he was telling me about it.

I mean, I'm not from there.

Well, over the course of this week, I was in middle schools and high schools telling stories.

I had a wonderful time.

It was a very conservative area.

There were McCain-Palin signs everywhere, and the girls were all wearing Palin glasses-- without the glass, just the frames-- because she was so stylish!

And that was exciting to me, because I think it's cool for young people to be involved in what's going on in politics, in our country.

You know, we get the country that we fight for and vote for.

We can get less, but we can never get more.

So we have to fight and we have to vote.

So I was very excited about that, and the night of the election, I got back to the area where my hotel was really late, and I decided to just grab some greasy food and go into the hotel.

So I pull into the drive-thru, and underneath the squawky box, there is a note that says they're going to close early.

Now, normally, they're open till 2:00 a.m. And I think to myself, "Oh, I know why they're closing early.

"I bet they can't get any teenyboppers to man this window."

So I was really excited.

I drove around, I paid for the food, and I decided to check and see if I was correct.

I said, "So, why are you closing early?"

And a little teenybopper boy looked out of that window.

He looked right at me and he said, "In case they riot."

And I had a moment.

I was pretty sure that I had not gotten less Black from the moment I ordered this food to the time I got through this drive-thru.

But you have to understand.

(light chuckle) During that election, Black people became imaginary.

We stopped being people and we turned into this horde, this big, scary horde that was going to descend on white America and burn it down.

But I was not a scary horde.

I was a lady at a drive-thru.

That kid had inned me and othered me in the same sentence, and he had no idea he'd done it.

And he gave me my food and I kind of waved at him, and I went on to my hotel kind of laughing to myself.

And then I had a hard time trying to park.

The parking lot was packed!

And I finally found a place to put my car, and I get ready to go into the lobby, and I realize there's a huge big-screen TV, and Fox News is on it, and the lobby is packed, and I realize they're having a viewing party, and they're watching the election.

And that's when all the things that had been going on around me all week came crashing in on me.

And I realized that someone had been burning crosses on the lawns of seven Black elderly couples, and I was the only Black person in this area, and I was gonna have to walk through this lobby.

Someone in here knew who was doing that, and they, they didn't tell anyone, and they were going to see me walk through this lobby, and my room was right off of the lobby, and I thought, "I can't do this.

I can't do it."

You see, I'm an Army brat, and I have toured the world.

I've lived all over the world.

The first time I ever felt like I didn't belong somewhere, like I was an other, was in my own country.

I couldn't walk through that lobby, I was too scared.

So I got ready to take a step back, and I swear to you, my great-grandmother materialized next to me.

She raised my mother in segregated Texas, and Topsy Lewis was fond of saying, "Your money is the same color as they money.

"If you can't go in the front door, then you cannot go in there at all."

And I knew that if I walked through that lobby, I'd have five seconds of discomfort.

But if I went in the back door, someday I was going to die, and my great-grandmother was going to be waiting for me, and I was gonna have to spend eternity explaining why I went in the back door.

So I gathered myself and I went through the lobby.

I had no idea if anybody was looking at me.

I had my eyes on the patch right outside my door.

I got there, I opened it, I went inside.

I closed the door... And my legs stopped working, and my arms stopped working, and I hit the ground, I stopped breathing.

And at first, I thought I was having a heart attack.

And then I realized, no, you're having a panic attack.

I knew I was scared, but I didn't realize I was that scared.

Then I started saying to myself, "You've got to breathe, because if your legs don't work "and your hands don't work, you can deal with that, but you have to breathe."

And so I calmed myself down and called my husband, and he said, "How are you?"

And I said, "I'm fine," because what was I going to do?

If I told him the truth, he would have been in his car and across the country, and there was no point to that.

And then we got off the phone, and I ate my cold food, and I watched the election.

And right at first, the people in the lobby were cheering, and then they got quieter and quieter, and I wanted to be dancing around my room!

But I didn't want them to remember I was in there, so I was also quiet.

Now, I don't go to sleep during an election, because one year I did that, and, and, like, one guy was the president, and when I woke up, there was, like, the other guy was the president.

So I watched to the bitter end, and after, ah, it was wonderful, I went to sleep.

I woke up in a new America.

And that next morning, I went to get breakfast, and the breakfast room was packed.

Like, I guess all the people watching the election stayed over.

So I got some fruit and some yogurt, and I was heading back to my room, and someone yells at me.

"I bet you're happy!"

And I turned around and smiled and said, "Yes, I am."

And then I went back in my room, had my breakfast, packed, and got the hell out of there.

♪ BROOKE: My name is Eric Brooke, I live in Chicago, and I'm a VP of software engineering.

And in my past, I was a campaign manager for over 123 election and political campaigns in my life.

So I'm really curious, how did a software and marketing strategist end up in politics in the first place?

When I was at university, there was a kerfuffle, if I could put it like this, between the students and the university around closing down some accommodations, and at that time, I didn't feel anyone was representing the students well enough.

So I coordinated with all of the students to get our parents involved and lawyers involved to make sure the university listened to the students' perspective.

So I got involved in politics through student politics, and then eventually into education politics.

And then I started getting involved in city politics.

Each of those things taught me an incredible amount about humanity and how it works together.

If people who hear this story tonight took away one thing, what would you want that to be?

I think it's really important for all of us to participate in democracy, whether it be as a voter, whether it be as a canvasser, whether it be talking about politics and the policies.

I think democracy is strong when we all participate in it and when we can all listen to each other.

So I feel in a way, me telling my story, I want to encourage other people to vote.

I don't care who you vote for, but I want you to vote.

♪ It's 2005, and I'm in a pub in North Cornwall.

North Cornwall is this bit at the bottom of the U.K.-- it sticks out.

This is London, this is Scotland.

And I'm in this pub.

I'm drinking cider-- tastes good, I love cider.

I'm watching the bubbles trail up from the bottom of the glass to the top of the glass.

And in the background, there's an argument.

The argument's about me, and whether I should be a candidate in the upcoming election.

So a little while ago, Dan Rogerson, a good friend of mine, reached out and said, "Hey, will you be my campaign manager?

"I'm going to stand as a parliamentary candidate in the upcoming election."

I go, "Sure, yeah, I'll do that.

I can take some time off work and everything else."

He also says there's a catch, that there is a county election happening at the same time, so there's 17 candidates for that.

So it's 18 candidates that I have to get elected, and I'm thinking, "That's a lot, but I like a challenge.

Okay, Dan, I'm in."

So a couple of months later, here's me in the pub listening to the argument, drinking my cider-- I love that cider.

And Dan stands up and says, "I've decided-- Eric is gonna be the paper candidate."

"What does a paper candidate mean?"

you say.

Fair question.

It means that I'm not intending to win.

We're 15 points behind, we have no activists in the area, and so it'll be hard to deliver leaflets and everything else.

So it's not gonna happen.

I'm just gonna be a paper candidate.

We also need it, because it's one of the counties inside Dan's constituency.

And we need to make sure Dan is represented in each of those areas.

So it's how it started-- I'm a candidate, but my main job is to be the campaign manager for those 18 people, including myself.

So I tell my friends a couple of hours later, you know, this is what's happening, this is where we are.

"I'm gonna be a candidate, too," and they go, "What?

You as a politician?

You're having a laugh!"

"Yes, it's okay, I'm not gonna win."

"Oh, but if we come down, we could help you.

"We could do whatever your thing you do is, "like, deliver leaflets and talk to people.

We could do that."

I said, "No, you don't need to do that.

I'm not gonna win, it's okay that I don't want to win."

My friends are not so good at listening to me.

So one by one, they start appearing at the local train station, I come pick them up, because it's kind of countryside.

Like, there's distance with everything.

You have to drive everywhere, and eventually, in my 200-square-foot apartment, I have five people hanging out, sleeping, and every single day, they're knocking on doors, they're delivering leaflets to get Dan and I elected.

And I say to them, "I'm feeling guilty about this."

Like, "I don't want you working so hard to get me elected.

"Like, go out and enjoy the beaches or the Cornish cream teas or some good cider."

They don't kind of listen to me and they work hard.

So at one point, me and Dan are out in Newquay North, so this area that I am standing is Newquay North, so it's a part of the town of Newquay.

We're knocking on doors and people are recognizing Dan.

That's awesome.

We're doing a good job.

But they're also starting to recognize me.

So occasionally, I'm out knocking on doors myself or delivering leaflets, and people start telling me their stories, like whether it be a story about a problem with the local school or a problem about the local bus services being cut.

And some grannies need those to get to local shops.

They won't to walk all the way.

So, I'm listening to that, I'm thinking, "Hm."

Now, I'm a software engineer by trade.

I love solving problems.

And the more complex they get, the more I want to solve them.

And there's one occasion that I walk up, and knock on a door, and hear... (imitating woman): "Come in!"

And I walk in, and I'm surrounded by grannies!

They have all these different types of cakes, and I think, "What have I walked into?"

And then one of the grannies said, "Oh, you're Eric!

"You're that candidate for county council!"

"Yep, I am."

"You could do a cake competition!

You could judge which is the best cake."

And they all stare at me, and I think, "This is a trap."

So, one by one, I taste each of their cakes.

They're great-- there's a chocolate one, there's one with raisins and currants, there's one with cherries, there's one with nuts.

I like the crunchy ones.

And I say, "These are all good qualities."

And one of the grannies said, "You'll be a great politician.

You didn't answer the question, 'Which is the best?'"

"And nor shall I," I say.

They like me either way, and they say they're going to vote for me.

And as I walk from there, I think, "Oh, God, I love this place.

"I love the people.

I want to solve these problems."

So my father, just so you know, he's British-- stiff upper lip, you know, tough.

My mother, she's Argentinean-- flamboyant, artistic, and she falls in love with things hard.

I'm kind of falling in love with Newquay.

But now I have a job back at London.

I need to pay off debts.

I can't do this.

But I kind of want to do it.

Months later, we're still campaigning, we've finished off.

It's now election day, and I'm in a gym.

Inside the gym, there's 18 election counts going on.

Votes are being counted, whether people got the X in the right box, or whether it's just outside.

People arguing about, is this a vote for this person or not?

And I'm paying attention to Dan Rogerson's campaign.

I want to make sure that he gets elected, and if I can, get all the other ones elected.

Now, I have a good friend George.

George is mischievous, he has a twinkle in his eye, and he sidles up to me.

He says, "It's close."

I said, "They're all close.

They're all looking good."

He goes, "No, your election's close."

"How close?"

"40, 50 votes."

"Oof... "But I'm losing, yeah?

It's okay, I'm losing."

"No, you're winning."

And I'm thinking, "Do I want this?

"Am I good enough for this?

The other candidate's good, too."

Later, George comes back and said it was so close, there's a recount.

Huh...

I should say, days after the election are surreal.

You're exhausted.

You've done 16- to 18-hour days.

And you're now saying thank you to all the voters.

You're saying thank you to the volunteers.

You're cleaning up the signs.

You're doing the campaign finances.

I went to Cornwall to win 18 elections, and we won 17.

And one of them we won by 48 votes.

Mine.

So I'm staying in Cornwall.

I'm going to help those grannies.

I'm going to solve their problems as much as I can.

And so, for the next three years, I work as a politician in a beautiful place in Cornwall called Newquay North.

♪ KANG: I am M.J. Kang.

I live in Los Angeles, California.

I am an actor, playwright, improviser, storyteller, and director.

Could you tell us a little bit about how you grew up and if storytelling was part of your childhood?

I was born in Seoul, Korea, and I had this amazing grandfather who came to live with us.

We immigrated to Toronto, Canada, when I was two years old, and he stayed with me from four to seven-- when I was four to seven years old.

And he used to tell me all these great stories about Korea, because he wanted me to understand my culture.

I'm so curious: usually, where are you getting most of the inspiration for your stories?

Whenever I hear a personal story, I feel like I understand that person, regardless of age, culture, um, sex-- anything.

I understand, I could relate to the storyteller, and that's what I love about storytelling.

That's what I love about sharing my stories, as well.

It's clear that storytelling is very important to you, and I'm just wondering, could you just elaborate on how storytelling has impacted your life?

Storytelling has made me feel like I have a voice, that people want to listen to my words, that people validate my experiences.

And I have, like, great memories of my grandfather, who really, really meant so much to me.

(voice breaking): So for that reason, storytelling means...

Sorry... (chuckling) Storytelling means a lot to me.

♪ When I voted in my first election as an American citizen, I saw a sign at the poll station that said, "Ask me about being a poll worker."

I asked.

A petite woman with short gray hair wrote down a website and told me that they're always looking.

I thought, as a new American, I could understand the democratic process on a deeper level, and be part of it.

I never thought I would become an American citizen.

It never really mattered to me until I had my daughter.

When she was younger, we used to travel quite a bit, and there was one year where we were outside the country one week shy of six months.

I knew, as a Green Card holder, that if I had left the country for longer than six months, I could have my Green Card taken away from me.

My middle sister had her Green Card taken away from her.

She went to Holland to be with her love, and when she returned to the U.S., she was told that she was just transiting.

It scared me that I could be kicked out of a country that my daughter knows as home.

And so, when I received notification of my in-person citizenship test, I rented a compact car to drive to downtown Los Angeles, and I even found cheap parking.

When I got to the office of my in-person citizenship test, I saw a man sitting behind a simple desk.

He was proudly fourth-generation Japanese American, and he had such a great, jovial smile about him, and nature.

"Who's the second president of the United States?"

"John Adams.

And that's not part of the test."

"You're right.

You studied more than you had to."

When I received notification that I passed my citizenship test, I arranged for my daughter to be taken out of school so I could take her with me for the swearing-in ceremony.

When my name was called up, she clapped and took pictures, and it was such a fun day.

When I got my Canadian citizenship-- my family and I had immigrated from Korea to Canada when I was younger-- that was a sad ceremony.

We had to renounce our Korean citizenship.

As a new American, I could still be Canadian, and I could vote.

For the 2016 election, I voted for Hillary Clinton.

I wanted her to break the glass ceiling.

Canada, Great Britain, Israel, and New Zealand already had female heads of state.

I wanted my daughter to have a president that strived for equality.

And so I looked up the website, signed up to be a poll worker, had a phone interview, and signed up for my training session.

At the training session, I was surrounded by people who really cared about democracy.

In the lineup for the women's restroom, we all talked about how long we had been poll workers for-- "16 years," "20 years," "30 years."

And we clapped when someone said, "36 years."

Here I was with firefighters, librarians, and other civil employees who really cared about democracy.

And we all chanted, "Voting never stops," because that's what we learned.

That the main job as a poll worker was to make sure that voting happens.

On the day of the election, I was so excited.

I woke up at 5:00 in the morning.

I couldn't sleep.

I carried with me a battery-operated candle, so cars could see me at nighttime as I crossed the street, as I walked my way to the polling station, an adult education center.

I also had a book with me to read during the breaks.

And when I got to the polling station...

I was confused.

There was no one around.

And the polling station was locked.

And then I noticed a woman sitting in a dark Buick sedan.

I walked over to her car and gently tapped on her window.

"Hi, um... "I'm here to be a volunteer poll worker.

Do you know how we get in?"

She opened her car door.

"I'm Beverly, um, the supervisor.

"I was hoping you would have the key.

This is my first time being a supervisor."

She got out of the car, and we stood outside on the sidewalk, waiting.

No other poll workers showed up.

They were supposed to be six of us.

Where are the people who cared about democracy, who want to make sure that voting never stops?

When the principal arrived, he refused to let us in.

He said that he received no notification that we were supposed to be there that day, and so we quickly set up polling stations on the sidewalk.

Voters were waiting.

I was sweating.

Voting never stops.

This was not how it was supposed to happen.

I thought that we would get doughnuts and refreshments provided by the polling station.

That the poll workers would high-five each other when voters came in to vote.

I thought we would at least be inside.

When the area supervisor, Ralph, arrived, he told us once again that the principal didn't know that we were supposed to be there.

And then finally, mid-morning, the principal said, "All right, come in, because it looks bad that voting is happening on the sidewalk."

He also told me to tell Beverly that we need to be outside of the building by 6:00 p.m. And I told him proudly that voting doesn't stop until the person who enters the line at 8:00 p.m. votes, and then we needed time to break down our things.

He begrudgingly agreed.

And, finally, I could focus on my volunteer job as a poll worker.

I passed the ballots to the voters, told them how to vote, and gave them their "I voted" stickers.

I saw neighbors come in, and my husband and daughter, they came to visit me.

My daughter, she passed me her mail-in ballot that was my husband's.

And she told me that she wants to become a poll worker.

At the end of the day, Ralph, the area supervisor, came back and told us that he would bring everything back with him because of the mess of the morning.

It was 16 hours, and I was exhausted.

So four years later, that polling station closed, and I honestly... stopped becoming a poll worker.

But then, for this election, I signed up again, because it does matter to me.

And California has now changed the rules that the polling stations can open up for ten days.

I was offered to work ten days, eight, five, three, or two.

I chose three days.

My training session starts soon.

Voting never stops.

THERESA OKOKON: Watch Stories from the Stage anytime, anywhere.

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