In 2025, Dmae Lo Roberts embarked on a statewide storytelling experience focusing on personal stories from both artists and community members. These stories are a form of living oral history.
In 1959, the woman who brought me into this world bundled me in a basket and placed me in a Hong Kong stairwell near Sai Yeung Choi Street, a bustling region of the British colony. I was 4 days old. A passerby called the police, who transported me to St. Christopher's Home, the largest non-government-run orphanage on the island.
The Central Statistics Office has been surveying the same group of people born in 1998 since they were nine years old, releasing reports at key moments in their adolescence.
The people who never feel invisible? They're the ones asking questions. My buddy Frank is seventy-one. When his grandson talks about some video game, Frank doesn't say 'When I was your age, we played outside.' He asks, 'What do you like about it? How does it work?' And he actually listens to the answer.
The Stasi, the secret police, were legendary for their data files. Their work was based on instilling fear, and they induced stunningly amazing numbers of East Germans into informing on their neighbors. Something along the lines of 1 in 6 East Germans were informants, whether out of fear or out of approval of what the East German government was doing.
I should have said 'I don't know' more often. That woman's nine words unlocked something in the room. Suddenly everyone wanted to talk about the exhausting performance of parental certainty they'd maintained for decades.
Recently, I was at a family gathering when I noticed something fascinating. My friend's grandmother, in her eighties, was completely surrounded by her adult grandchildren. They weren't just there out of obligation - they were genuinely engaged, laughing at her stories, asking for advice, and making plans for their next visit. Meanwhile, at another table, I watched a different grandmother sit mostly alone while her adult grandchildren stayed glued to their phones, offering only polite nods and forced smiles.
When I was eight, my grandmother taught me how to make her famous apple pie. But it wasn't really about the pie. Every Saturday afternoon, we'd stand side by side in her kitchen, her weathered hands guiding mine as we rolled out dough. She'd tell stories about her childhood, ask about my week at school, and somehow make me feel like the most important person in the world.
My grandchildren live 3000 miles away, so I don't get to see them nearly as often as I'd like. Recently, I took a three-week break from my regularly scheduled life to help take care of them while their nanny was away. My son and daughter-in-law both work full-time, and I was eager to pitch in and help with school runs, meal prep, baths, and bedtime.
I was thinking about this the other day while scrolling through my phone on a Saturday morning, realizing I'd been working for two hours without even noticing. Growing up, my weekends looked nothing like this. There were unspoken rules, traditions that just happened without anyone scheduling them into a calendar app. These weren't grand gestures or expensive activities. They were simple rituals that, looking back now, built something most of us are desperately trying to recreate through therapy apps and self-help books: genuine connection.
