Host: Catherine Burns
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Catherine: [00:00:14] This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. And I'm Catherine Burns. In this week's hour, we're hearing stories about family dynamics.
It can be tricky to understand our place and roles in our own families. I personally come from a classic blended family. The first weekend after their wedding, my stepdaddy, Wayne, and my mama left 12-year-old me and my siblings with my new step grandparents, Mama and Pa Harold, who lived on a farm in rural Alabama. My 14,000-person hometown was Metropolis by comparison. Everything was unfamiliar. The first night, Pa Harold asked if I'd like to go down the hill and pick out a watermelon to cut up for dessert. I was excited to have a way to pitch in. I picked out a nice fat green melon and struggled to hoist it up over my head.
I got about 2/3rd of the way up the long red clay mud driveway, when boom, the watermelon slipped out of my hands, fell to the ground and cracked open in the dirt. Three times I went down the hill for another watermelon and three times I get close to the top, then drop it. I felt so embarrassed, but Pa Harold just looked at me kindly, went down with me to get a fourth and carried it home. 12-year-old me assumed Pa Harold was thinking I was some silly city girl, but he didn't say a word to anyone about my fumbling grip. He made me feel welcome into this new family of mine until the day he died. My son, born 10 years after his death, is named Harold.
Understanding the inner workings of family becomes even more complicated when we start to grow up and pay attention to the dynamics and nuances at play. What are the adults thinking and feeling? That was a question for our first storyteller, Swapna Kakani, who like me, grew up in Alabama. She told her story at the Randolph School's Thurber Art center in Huntsville, where we partnered with Alabama public television and public radio station KLRH. Here's Swapna Kakani live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Swapna Kakani: [00:02:15] I'm 13 years old and I'm standing in my childhood bedroom with my arms out, standing tall. And the women of my family have engulfed me. They're tying, then wrapping, pleating, draping and pinning, making sure they're accounting for every inch of nearly nine yards of my first sari.
As they're wrapping, I get to see the details of the sari for the first time of this cotton silk fabric. It has a saffron auburn tone to it. It has a shine. It has gold plated designs on the border and the blouse that was altered to just fit me has a deep cut in the back. It's almost scandalous for a 13-year-old. And the sari is almost lengthy.
As I am standing there, my mind wanders to the walls of my bedroom. And they're dotted with farm animals. I have a wall that's a mural of a farm. My bed is filled with stuffed animals. I think, is this what it means to come of age to feel like my room is not fit for a woman? It feels childish when just the night before it was perfect. And I think, is this what it means to feel like a woman, to not feel like a kid anymore but to feel like an adult?
My sari ceremony in my Indian heritage is a coming-of-age ceremony, where a girl wears and receives a sari for the first time. This is a big deal for my family and I. This is the first time my parents are able to share their traditional Indian ceremonies with their daughter, with their family, with their community.
In Hinduism, there are so many ceremonies. It's hard to keep up. They start as early as birth. At six months, there's a ceremony called Annaprashana, which literally translates to introduction of solids, [audience laughter] introduction of rice, first solid food. So, it's a celebration of a child eating solid food for the first time. As important as these ceremonies are for my family, I was not able to partake in them because of my birth defect. I was born with an intestinal birth defect called short bowel syndrome. It's a GI chronic rare disease, where I was not born with all my small intestine. And from day one, I was dependent on IV nutrition from an IV in my chest and a feeding tube in my stomach.
My first year of life, I was in and out of the hospital, had multiple surgeries and my parents were not allowed to feed me by mouth. In my 27 years, I've had 62 surgeries, including a small intestine organ transplant. These ceremonies were not a priority, but my sari ceremony was their first opportunity to celebrate this tradition with their daughter. As I'm standing there, tall and with my hands out, I come back to reality when I feel a sharp pinch. It's shocking. And my aunt says, “Oh, did I just stab you?” And I see the final pin coming in at my shoulder to pin the back of the sari, the pallu.
I'm standing there dressed in my first sari. I'm literally weighed down with jewelry from head toe. I have hair extensions to make a long braid in my back. I take my first steps just trying so hard to keep the folds together, not ruining anything. And all I can think is, don't faceplant, don't face plant, don't face plant. [audience laughter]
The ceremony ends in our living room with all our guests watching. My parents invited our entire family from both my mom and dad's side have flown in, and over 100 mothers and daughters from the Huntsville South Indian community are present, which is a herd in itself. The ceremony ends with them coming to me and dropping dried rice mixed with turmeric on my head, which signifies blessings for the future. I officially came of age in the culture I was born in.
Seven years later, I'm in college at the University of Alabama at Birmingham UAB. Go, Blazers. [chuckles] It's spring break. I've come home, like the responsible child I am, and I see on the kitchen table a cream envelope written in calligraphy writing is my name, addressed Miss Swapna Kakani. I rip through the seal, and I read the card and it says, “The Symphony Guild quarterly invites you to be a 2009 debutante.” What the heck is a debutante? [audience laughter]
Fortunately, I've watched a lot of Gilmore Girls in high school, [audience laughter] including the episode, where Rory is escorted by her boyfriend, Dean, to her debutante ball. She's wearing a white wedding dress and he's wearing the tuxedo, and they dance the night away. And I think, oh, no, I don't want to have anything to do with this.
Well, I call my friend, who I know is also invited. She explains, this is their coming of age, their tradition. Their sisters have done it before them. Their mom has waited for this moment. But to me, I see it as an expensive party to which I have no connection. I already had my coming of age, my tradition.
Regardless, I got to tell my mom about this invitation that I got, and our duties and what this card is. I find my mom in her doctor's scrubs cooking an Indian feast for us for lunch. I go and stand next to her, and I'm in my athletic tomboy outfit, shorts and T-shirt and Chacos. And in between breathing in cumin and coriander, I explained to her my rudimentary understanding of a debutante ball, and this fancy card and what our duties are for the next six months. To my surprise, she says, “Yes, you must do it.”
My parents, both of them, are so excited. And I think, what's their excitement? What's their desire? Why? I didn't get it then. But today, I can share that they appreciated and enjoyed the formality of it and how it was a fundraiser. And as an immigrant physician, to have their daughter, the first Indian-American to be presented to society in Huntsville, Alabama, was a milestone in itself, and something they were proud of and something I should be proud of. For my mom, I said yes.
The ball was in October of 2009, the summer before we had the task of finding the dress. We were told it was going to be a white wedding dress with straps. Those were the rules. I was in summer school at UAB, and so every week, I would drive home. My mom and I would go on these shopping excursions. It was the blind leading the blind. [chuckles] We didn't know anything about American wedding dresses. But my mom, being the social butterfly she is, she knew people who did, her white nurses that knew the selection in town.
They gave her a list. We consumed our Saturdays, going to each store and crossing them off. There were five stores, and of course, the last one was the charm, the something blue shop in Huntsville, Alabama, [laughs] halfway between Birmingham and Huntsville. The dress I chose off the rack was a floor length gown with an intricate beaded center and a prominent train and it was strapless. But unlike my sari, it was white with hooks and zippers and no personalized blouse.
The ladies at the store were the epitome of Southern hospitality. They went above and beyond to accommodate us. They were very nice. At the last fitting, they said, “Oh, please come back when you get married.” [audience laughter] There's this awkward silence. [audience laughter] I think I'm most likely going to wear a sari to my wedding.
The weekend finally came. I was escorted by my version of Dean, Christopher Dean, who was a high school classmate who flew in from out of town for the event. And just like the sari ceremony, this was a big deal for my parents and my family. My mom invited nearly all 20 Indian family members who live in town. I got special permission from the debutante committee for the women of my family to wear saris to the event, their evening gown of choice, their tradition.
The day before the ball, my mom, dad and I were to take pictures in our clothes the next day. My mom in her dark, elegant sari, my dad in his black tuxedo and me in my white wedding dress, white leather gloves and hair done in Shirley Temple curls. The photographer took me away from my parents to take solo portraits.
While he's taking the photos, he nonchalantly says, “Your mom, she just fell.” I think, that's weird. She'll get right back up. Nothing phases her. But then, I hear commotion to my left and I see my mom tangled in her sari, laying on the floor continuously saying, “I'm sorry, I am sorry, I've ruined the day.” And then, I hear her say, “I can't feel my leg.” That's when I knew it was much more than just a bad fall, she was not getting back up.
Shocked and not wanting to get in the way with my big, white dress, from a distance, I see my mom wrapped head toe in her sari, unable to move, get rushed to the ER by ambulance. The result was a clean break of her left femoral bone. It turned out that she had a stress fracture that went undiagnosed the whole entire year prior. She had to have immediate surgery that night and then she was not going to make it to the ball the next day.
Sitting in the surgery waiting room, I had my most true coming of age moment. I was nervous. I was constantly looking up at the screen to check her status, “Is she done yet? Is she done yet?” I was wringing my hands, bouncing my feet.
The PB&J sandwich my aunt gave me was not comforting. I barely could touch it. My entire life, my parents sat in the surgery waiting room, while I was rushed to the operating room. Saying goodbye to my parents at the double doors of the surgical suite was almost a ceremonious ritual we did multiple times every year, our unfortunate tradition.
At the age of 20, this was the first time the roles were switched. I sat there in the surgery waiting room waiting to hear the fate of my mom. This surgery was 30 minutes at the most, minor. She was going to be fine. I've had many minor surgeries of the same title. It was then I realized that no surgery is minor to the family, no surgery is the same.
I've had so many surgeries that have become numb to the process. I've forgotten about the risk. But my parents, they haven't. And still, they continue to stand by my side and show strength and poise and are amazing caregivers. That's all I wanted to be, to show that strength, that poise, that faith and no expression of fear. I couldn't though. My heart ached for what my parents go through. It wasn't the sari ceremony. It wasn't the debutante ball. It was realizing what my parents have and continue to do to save me was what it means to come of age. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Catherine: [00:16:00] Swapna Kakani is an advocate for patients with rare diseases. Through her platform, Swapna Speaks, an organization, Alabama Rare, Swapna has given presentations all over the world to help improve health care for those suffering from short bowel syndrome and other rare conditions. To see stunning photos of Swapna and her family at the Debutante ball, go to themoth.org.
Coming up, cartoonist Roz Chast struggles with what to do with her parent’s ashes. That's when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
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Jay: [00:16:57] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by PRX.
Catherine: [00:17:07] This the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Catherine Burns. In this hour, we're talking about complicated family dynamics and how we show up for those we love.
Now we're going to hear a story from beloved New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chast. A few years ago, a Moth fan saw one of her cartoons and mentioned to me that it would make a great Moth story. We reached out to Roz, and luckily, she agreed. We recorded the story outdoors at Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn, where the Greenwood Historic Fund is our partner. And you'll hear the sound of some airplanes flying overhead. Here is Roz Chast, live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Roz: [00:17:49] Well, some Years ago in 2014, I wrote a book about taking care of my parents in the last 10 years or so of their lives. It's called Can't We Talk about Something More Pleasant? [audience laughter] The title came from something that my father used to say a lot. It was really one of his favorite phrases. The other one was, Why ask for trouble? But I think the reason why he liked to say this phrase was because my mother really loved talking about illnesses, and accidents and seemingly horrible things had happened to almost everybody that my parents knew.
I mean, you could just take anything. You could take a button on a shirt. And sure enough, somebody was once buttoning their shirt, the button popped off, it went up their nose, [audience laughter] they choked and they died. [audience laughter] It was the craziest thing. A chair. Somebody was going to sit down in the chair, they missed the chair, they got a bruise on their hip, the bruise got infected, they died. [audience laughter]
My mother seemed to relish telling these stories. Mr. Mulcahy, he was getting into the car, he slammed the car door on his leg, got infected, they had to cut the leg off. [audience laughter] One of the rules of my childhood was never sit directly on the ground, because if you sit directly on the ground, it might happen to you what happened to her best friend. She sat directly on the ground, she caught a cold in her kidneys [audience laughter] and she died. [audience laughter] So, my father's phrase, “Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?” was the title for this book.
Nevertheless, even though they loved talking about or she loved talking about illnesses and accidents, they did not really like to talk specifically about death, especially their own deaths. It was a topic that they liked to avoid, which made, in many ways, taking care of them hard, because I never really found out what they wanted. I would try to have these conversations about things, and it was just impossible. I didn't particularly want to talk about it, so we just avoided it. That's what the book was about.
I'll give you an example. When my grandfather died when I was about four years old, I asked my mother what happened to grandpa, and she said, “He went to Virginia.” [audience laughter]
So, I took care of them for these 10 years. It was pretty rough. I was an only child and I grew up in a very small apartment in the middle of Brooklyn apartment 2J. Never forget. My father died first. He died at the age of 95 and he was cremated. I remember picking up his cremains, they call it, nice word, [audience laughter] at the funeral parlor. And they were in this little box. I put the box inside of his favorite Channel 13 bag that he always carried around with him, [audience laughter] and then I put that bag in my closet.
And two years later, at the age of 97, my mother died. When she died, I went to the funeral parlor and picked up her cremains, which were in a little box. She didn't have a Channel 13 bag. She didn't get one. But they were in my closet for a long time. 2007, 2009 was the dates of their death. They remained in my closet until about maybe two years ago. I didn't really mind having them in my closet. I thought it was a little bit weird. But on the other hand, it was nice to know where they were. [audience laughter]
And the truth was, since they didn't want to talk about death or their deaths, there was no place that seemed other than arbitrary for them to be. I thought, well, my closet's, at least, it's not arbitrary. They're here, they're with me sort of. And then, about two years ago, out of the blue, I got a letter from a stranger, this woman, who had read the book I wrote about my parents and knew that my parents’ cremains were in my closet. [audience laughter] And she said that there was a mystery-- She had read my book and she really enjoyed it, but there was a mystery that needed to be solved. She reassured me that she wasn't nuts and I believed her, because I'm a trusting sort, considering that I grew up in Brooklyn.
What she was saying was, my parents before me, they had a baby that died shortly after birth. And because, as I said, my parents didn't like to talk about death, I did not know where she was buried. I couldn't really talk much to my parents about this, because they did not want to talk about it. When I brought it up to my mother, she would just say, “I don't want to talk about that mess.” Because the truth was that she almost died during this horrible incident. And the baby, as I said, died.
Anyway, so this woman, this stranger, took it upon herself to look up online on a website called Find a Grave, which the female chaste death, 1940 or so, because my parents waited a long time, I'm not that old, between having her and having me, because they were so afraid, and where this baby was buried. She did this research before I did. She found something that she thought I might find interesting. That this baby was indeed buried in Mount Lebanon Cemetery in Queens. Hebrew Cemetery. So, I thought, whoa, that's weird.
I went online, and I looked up Mount Lebanon Cemetery, and I found their contact button and I wrote, “Dear sirs or madams, I wrote this book about my parents, blah, blah, blah. Archives, George and Elizabeth Chast.” I just thought, well, maybe they'll get to this, I don't know. The next day I got a letter from the guy at the cemetery who, incidentally, is called a cemeterian, [audience laughter] I learned this term. And he said, “Dear Roz, I believe you have found your sister. Not only that, but it turned out that my mother's parents were also buried in that cemetery, which I did not know.” He sent photos of my grandmother and my grandfather, the one who was supposedly in Virginia. [audience laughter]
So, I talked to him a little bit and I said, my parents are in my closet and I think I'd like to get them out of there. [audience laughter] And he said, “Okay, we're in business.” [audience laughter] So, I set up an appointment. It was a two-part process, because the first part was really for paperwork. We set up an appointment, and I went out to Mount Lebanon Cemetery with my son. It was really interesting. We met with him. He took out these archived cemetery maps and he showed us the precise place where my sister was buried. We went out there and we put stones on her grave, which is what Jews do. We don't put flowers there. We put little stones, and showed me where my grandparents were buried.
We went back to his office. He knew that my parents were cremated. It's becoming more common in Jewish cemeteries, because as he said, “It's a hot topic. Ha-ha-ha.” [audience laughter] He really did say that. [audience laughter] So, he was really, really nice. He said that he found a perfect place for my parents’ cremains, that there was a niche wall and it overlooked the place where my sister was buried. There was only one niche left in that wall, and it was niche J2.
As I mentioned before, the apartment where my parents lived for 50 years and where I grew up was 2J. And I just thought, oh, well, we really have found a place for my parents,” speaking of sense of place. And then, there was no rush. So, it took a few months. But I did make a second trip out there with a friend, and I had my parents in a tote bag. [audience laughter] I was on the subway [audience laughter] and I kept thinking. I so wanted to just say to somebody on the platform, guess what or who is in this bag? [audience laughter]
So, I got there and I went out to the niche wall with the driver. We got there, and I have to describe this like a picture, because usually I draw things. I don't just tell a story, I draw it. And so, you'll have to picture, there's this wall, and leaning against the wall, this niche wall where they put cremains, is a tall ladder going up to the very top and there are two workmen people on the ladder. One by one, I gave the boxes holding my parents’ cremains to one guy, and he passed to the second, and he put my father in there, and then they put my mother in there and then they sealed up the box and I realized it was time to say goodbye. That's it.
[cheers and applause]
Catherine: [00:29:28] That was Roz Chast. Roz is a longtime cartoonist for the New Yorker. She likes birds. You can see her cartoons as well as photos of Roz and her two parrots, Eli and Jackie, on her Instagram.
We're turning now to our Atlanta StorySLAM series, where we partner with Georgia Public Radio. Here's Zellia Enjoli Tatiana, live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Zellia: [00:29:59] I'm in seventh grade. I'm pretty smart. My boyfriend's pretty smart. So, we're like valedictorian, salutatorian couple of the year. I'm pretty popular, but I'm not full of myself. I'm pretty humble. [audience laughter] Seventh grade, seventh Grade. So, I'm at lunch. There's the cool kids club. You have your clique or you sit with them, this is what we do. If you're not part of this clique, you don't sit with us and drink your juice. That's how it goes. So, I'm sitting at lunch, everything's fine. Some kids run in from the playground, running, du, du, du.
So, everybody calls me Z. You're going to call me that too. But my name is Zellia. And so, they run in from the playground, and all I hear is, “Zellia, Zellia.” And so, I'm sitting at the table, I'm like, “What has happened? People never say my name like this. What have I done?” And my heart drops. I'm like, “What's going on? What's going on?” So, I jump up, and they're like, “It's your little sister.” My little sister. She's in second grade. I see her sometimes in passing, but never really during the day. And they're like, “She fell off the swing. She's hurt really bad.” So, I'm freaking out. I know my mom is going to freak, so I'm like, “Oh, gosh.”
So, I get up from the lunch table and I run outside. My little sister's literally crawling out of the dirt like a zombie. There's blood coming from her nose, in her mouth, and her glasses are all twisted and cracked. She's just bawling, walking toward me. I just grab her and I say, “Oh, my gosh, what happened? What happened?” I'm looking at the kids like, “Somebody tell me what happened, damn it.” [audience laughter] And they're like, “She fell off the swing.” And I'm like, “How? How did you fall off the swing?” So, I bend down to her and I'm like, “Tell me what happened. Tell me what happened,” holding her chin. She says, “We had a contest. [sobs]” And I'm like, “Okay, keep going.” I'm looking at the kids, “Support her. What happened?”
“We had a contest, who can go over the top.” And I said, “Over the top of the swing set? We're in seventh grade. We don't even do that.” I said, “That's beastie.” I'm super excited, she's bowling. [audience laughter] And I'm like, “Oh, my gosh.” And I'm like, “So you're obviously hurt. Did you just let go or what happened?” She's like, “I made it over the top.” [audience laughter] So, she's bawling, blood is in her tears. And I'm like, “I have to tell my mom what happened.” Everybody, “Zellia, Zellia, what are you going to do?” So, I take her broken, crumpled up glasses off and stick them in my skirt pocket and super small and then I walk her to the front office.
The kids were laughing and stuff, and I turn around and I'm like, “Shut up. At least she went over. [audience laughter] What did you do?” So, we get to the office and I'm like, “Well, what happened once you got over?” She's like, “Well, I let go.” And I'm like, “Why?” She's like, “Well, in the movies, you let go and then you land on your feet.” [audience laughter] I'm like, “You got more guts than all these kids.” And I'm wiping away the tears and the blood, and I'm like, “It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay.” She's just crying and they call my mom. And of course, my mom freaks, because she's super, just protective. She's like, “Oh, my gosh, are you serious?” “No, mom, I'm kidding.” I'm like, “Yeah, mom. Serious. Her glasses are crushed. She's in bad shape.”
My little sister, she laid on my shoulder. We were affectionate, I think, as young sisters. But it was the first time I felt like I was her protector. I turned around and told those kids to “Shut up, at least my little sister made it over. You little punk. You couldn't even get over the top.” Well, when I got home, my little sister was sitting at the table with my granny doing her homework and she looked up and she was like, “Thank you. Thanks for today.” And my mom was like, “What happened? Just tell me the whole story.” And in retrospect, I'm this older sister, yes, I'm her protector. And at the same time, I was like this coolest kid in class. When I ran to her on the playground, it wasn't really about who I was or who was watching us. It was just like everybody else disappeared, and it was me and my little sister in this spotlight.
And I'm like, “I'm going to be here. I'm still in that spotlight. I'm still here. Whether you're late on a car payment, whether you ran out of gas, whether you broke up with him because he's an idiot and most of you are idiots. [audience laughter] Whatever it is, I'm going to be here and everybody else will disappear, and it'll just be our spotlight and our sister love and I love you.”
[cheers and applause]
Catherine: [00:34:52] Zellia Enjoli Tatiana or Z is a Detroit native. She considers herself a full-time creative person, and also works as a maintenance mechanic for the Postal Service. She writes, “My little sister is graduating from nursing school soon, ironically enough, lol. She's still a courageous woman who laughs in the face of adversity.” To see a photo of Z's little sister around the time of the accident, go to themoth.org.
Coming up, a high school student in New Hampshire spends his Saturday nights with his beloved grandmother and great aunt. That's when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
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Jay: [00:35:44] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by PRX.
Catherine: [00:35:54] This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Catherine Burns. In this hour, we've been hearing stories about finding your place in your family.
Many beloved Moth storytellers tend to recall their high school years as hellish, but having close family relationships can sometimes be a balm. That was the case for Adam Wade in this story told at a Moth Mainstage in New York City, where WNYC is our media partner. Here's Adam.
[cheers and applause]
Adam: [00:36:24] I grew up in New Hampshire, During my high school years I had a tough time fitting in. I was on the golf team, but I was a reserve, so that means I never got to play. [audience laughter] I was in the marching band. But after freshman year, I was pulled aside by the supervisor, and he said, “You're not physically or mentally able to handle the rigors of marching band.” [audience laughter]
I had friends I didn't have a lot, but I had a few. One of the few friends I had, he went by the nickname Fetus. So, popularity wise, like a scale 1 to 10, I was a 2. But on Saturday night, with the company I kept, I was a 10. Every Saturday night in high school, I would go out to eat with my grandmother and my great aunt, and I would pick them up in my mom's bright purple Mercury Cougar. When I was 16, that's when I got my license. And to them, I became a man because instead of them picking me up, I would pick them up.
Yaya and Areti, both their husbands had passed. I'm Greek, so it was a Yaya and Areti. Both their husbands passed, they lived together and they worked in the Amoskeag shoe factories. And my Yaya, my grandmother, she made the shoes before she retired. She so much manual labor her hands, they look like potato skins. And Areti, she was more the Sophia Loren-esque of the two. She was a little more glamorous. She was a secretary, and she always had lipstick and high heels. So, I picked them up, and this particular night was in April of my junior year. I took them to their favorite restaurant, which was called the Clam King. It was a mom-and-pop fast food place. They liked it. The seafood is really good. They overcooked, but it was good. [audience laughter]
So, we go and we order. They always order the fry scallops and the French fries and tartar sauce, and I would order just a cheeseburger because my stomach. [audience laughter] Once the waitress left, we would play this game. I was the eyes, and I would keep an eye on the waitress and then I would wink when she was gone, and either Yaya and Areti would steal the salt and pepper shakers. That was our game. They had a lot. They had 300 things of salt and pepper all over the house. But it was their thing. We loved doing it, and it was like, I wink and they do it. You'd hear the zip, and it was good, and mission accomplished. [audience laughter]
“You did a good job.” I go, “Hey, you stole. It was good.” [audience laughter] And then, the food came and went right. These women, they love to eat. So, Yaya would just start and she would just attack. She would take a scallop and dip it in tartar sauce, stuffing in her mouth, and just like a robot. She'd forget to chew in her face, you just watch it expand. Where Areti, she just liked to look at the food a little. She'd watch the steam coming up from the French fries, and she'd put her hands over, a campfire and she'd be like, “Oh, they smell delicious.” And was like, “Okay,” and then they would start.
And then this was the favorite part of the night for me. It's when they would start complimenting me. While we ate that, they would say like, “Oh, you got your haircut. Oh, looks good.” I was like, “Oh, thank you.” [chuckles] “How'd you do on your chemistry test?” I was like, “I got a 95.” And they're like, “Oh, you're so smart.” I was like, “Oh, come on.” [audience laughter] I appreciated-- They saw me the way I wanted to be seen. So, after we ate, we would do what we would always do, we would go to the cemetery to say hi to the dead relatives. [audience laughter]
They never got out of the car. I would just have to drive the car as close to the gravestones as possible. [audience laughter] And they would go, “Hi, Ben.” “Okay, keep going.” And then we just keep driving. And then, we would go to McDonald's for milkshakes because the Clam King's milkshakes weren't up to par. And then, we would drive and we would take this ride past the airport. We'd always just drive by it. But they'd always say, “Come on, let's go to the airport. Let's watch a plane take off. Come on.” I'd be like, “Nah, nah, nah, let's not do that.”
I don't know what their fascination was with planes. I never asked. But for me, I knew that the airport from rumors around school was, that's where all the cool kids parked. The social ramifications of me getting caught at the airport with Yaya and Areti, and come on, I was a two fetus, come on. Plus, my first time to actually go and park at the airport, my dream and hope was to actually go with a girl my own age. [audience laughter] But sadly at the time, girls my age didn't see me like that. So, they're begging. And then, on this particular night, I look and I can see there's no cars there and it's still really early. So, I'm like, “All right, let's go, let’s go.” They're like little kids, they're like, “Oh, yeah, you're the best boy. You're the best boy.”
So, we pull in and we're waiting. It's a small airport, so we're waiting and waiting. I put the radio on. I put on the oldies station, The Doo Wop Shop on Saturday night. I put it loud enough, so they can hear it. I perfected this, but loud enough, they won't complain that it's too loud. We sit there, and we wait and we wait. And then finally, this little propeller plane pulls around and it's ready to take off. Yaya's in the front seat, and I put her hand in my hand and Areti's hand in the back. As it takes off over us in unison, we go like, “Whee.” And it's nice. It feels good. It feels good. We feel good. [audience laughter] I'm like, “All right. Now, it's time to get the hell out of here.”
As I'm thinking that, Yaya looks over at me and she says, “I wonder if that plane's going to China. Do you think that plane's going to China?” I look at her, I'm like, “Yaya it's a small plane. Your guess is as good as mine. I don't know if it's going to China.” And Areti in the back seat, she starts cackling. She's like, “How the hell is he supposed to know if it's going to China?” And then she lights up a Pall Mall Menthol. She's had cancer, three times, but she just likes to have a few puffs and then she throws it out the window. And Yaya turns around and goes, “Keep smoking. Cancer has got you three times. One more time, you're going down. You're dancing with the devil. You're dancing with the devil.” And she's like, “It's a free country.” And she's like, “Well, good luck to you and the Red Sox.” [audience laughter]
And then, whenever Areti ran out of things to say, she would go like that. I used to enjoy watching them fight. It was great entertainment. But then, I look up in the rearview mirror and I see the cars, and they're coming in now. It's like Volkswagen Jettas and Saabs, and they all have Central High Pride bumper stickers, and I'm screwed. I look to the left and this blue Suburban pulls up. It's the last car I want to see. It's SD. He's a senior, and he's not a nice guy but he's cool. His girlfriend Rachel, who looks like Dee Snider from Twisted Sister, [unintelligible [00:44:04], but she's cool again.
They see the pimp mobile, and they're like, “Oh, my God. Adam waits here. Oh, my God, Wow, Adam, Adam, Adam.” And finally, I look over and I'm like, “What's up?” [audience laughter] They're like, “Adam, you stud, who you with?” Yaya leans over and says, “He's with his grandmother and Great Aunt Dia. What a beautiful night to watch the airplanes.” They start laughing, and then other cars start noticing and they're flipping the high beams, they're beeping the horn, they're screaming, Wade. I just start sweating and I don't know what to do. I've never been so embarrassed in my life.
And then, Yaya looks over concerned, and she says, “What's wrong? Are you okay? Are you okay?” And I say, “No, I'm not okay.” And she's like, “What's wrong?” I go, “Don't you understand? I'm not who you think I am.” And they're like, “Well, what do you mean?” And I go, “Yeah, I'm a loser.” And she's like, “No, you're not.” She's like, “Why do you think that?” I go like, I snap and I say yeah, “I'm with you two on a Saturday night, and we're at Make-out Point. I'm a loser.” I start up the car, and we drive away in silence. I never yelled at them before like that, so this is all different. I'm shaking as I drive.
We get back to their house. They start boiling water for hot chocolate. They start getting the poppycock. They start getting the Swiss fudge. I'm just sitting there watching them do this. They're not saying anything to me. And I have this shame now, because I've disappointed them. So, then it's 10 o'clock. It's time for The Commish. We always watch The Commish on Saturday nights at 10 o'clock. [audience laughter] It stars Michael Chiklis, and we're Greek and we support all the Greeks. We not a Nielsen family, but we're going to watch it.
So, we sit on the love seat, and I'm between them, and we're eating and they're bigger, so I'm like sandwiched in. And then, there's a commercial. And again, it's really quiet, and I'm waiting for them to yell at me and they're not. So, I say, “I'll tell you one thing.” This Chiklis, I mean, he's just as good an actor as Telly Savalas and John Cassavetes. I mean, Greek actors, these guys, he's right up there. Yaya nods her head and she puts her hand through my hair, and she says, “You got such a nice haircut. He did such a good job.” And then, Areti puts her arm around me and says, “I hope you know you're the best boy. I hope you know.”
So, that Monday I go to school, and It's a nightmare. SD's telling everybody I'm taking Yaya to the prom. [audience laughter] I don't need it. But I'm surprised it doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would. I just let it go. Now, Yaya and Areti have been gone for a few years now. And every time I go home, I find myself-- I go a couple times a year, I find myself in a car and I'm driving around and I always retrace that route. I'll go by the Clam King, I'll go by the cemetery, I'll go by their gravestones out of respect, “Hi, Yaya. Hi, Areti,” then I drive off. I go to McDonald's and then I drive by the airport.
In the time since they've passed, I've tried to do everything I can to be the person they saw me as. I'd do anything to be able to go back and take them to the airport one more Saturday night. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Catherine: [00:48:35] That was Adam Wade. Adam is, as he always mentions at the top of his stories, originally from New Hampshire. He tells us that huge turning point in his 23 years living in New York City was the first time he got up on stage at a Moth StorySLAM nearly two decades ago. Adam says that not only was the crowd incredibly supportive that night, the man sitting next to him, Alan Manevitz, our longtime board member, offered him a few slices of pizza from a stack of pies Alan had brought along to the show to share.
Adam's been a proud member of the Moth community ever since. He wrote us to say, “I'm often asked if you could now have dinner with any two people from history, anyone who would they be? My answer is still unquestionably, My Yaya and great Aunt Areti.” That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time.
[overture music]
Jay: [00:49:41] This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison and Catherine Burns, who also hosted and directed the stories in the hour along with Sarah Austin Jenness. Coproducer is Vicki Merrick. Associate producer, Emily Couch. Additional GrandSLAM coaching by Jenifer Hixson.
The rest of The Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Klutse, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson and Aldi Kaza.
Special thanks to Tracey Mills Segarra, as well as stories under the stars, which puts on storytelling shows in Huntsville, Alabama. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Stellwagen Symphonette, Lori Danielson and Kinan Azmeh, Pink Freud and Roy Orbison. We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.
The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.