Host: Jodi Powell
[overture music]
Jodi: [00:00:12] From PRX, this is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jodi Powell. In this hour, stories of confrontation.
Growing up in Jamaica, I was so used to hearing the shouts when a fight was on in the schoolyard. I would often find myself standing at the edge, peering in. And one day, I got caught in the rumble with a classmate. And this time, it was me in the center of fighting. I desperately needed to get out, but I quickly realized the only way out was to go fully in. And so, I fought back and the schoolyard sounds enveloped us. And before I knew it, it was over. But I was terrified, because now I had to go to the vice principal and face what I had just done. I got two days suspension and more chores from my grandmother than you can count.
A confrontation isn't always like a schoolyard fight. It can mean asking yourself hard questions, understanding and sticking to boundaries, rolling up in a space that is not meant for you and owning it. It can mean finding courage.
That was true for our first storyteller, Harjas Singh, who told this at a Mainstage in New Bedford, Massachusetts, where we partnered with the Zeiterion Performing Arts Center. Here's Harjas, live at The Moth.
[applause]
Harjas: [00:01:36] Ever since I was three years old and my hair was long enough to be tied into a bun or a joora, my mom and I had developed our daily ritual. I would sit down in front of her, my back towards her, and she would oil my hair, comb it, braid it, then tie it into a bunch. She would then cover it with a 1x1 foot square cloth called a patka.
But there was another daily ritual that I would observe every morning. I'd be sitting at the breakfast table and I would see my grandfather, an older, bearded, Dumbledore-esque [audience laughter] gentleman with a bun on his head. He would take this really long piece of cloth, let's say the length of the stage, and he would hold one end of it, my father would hold the other end and they would roll it from either side until it looked like a long pipe. He would then take it to his room, and he would walk out and there would be this beautiful turban sitting on top of his head.
And to me, it looked like a king wearing a crown. He almost had an aura about him. And I would ask him, “When can I wear that?” And he would say, “When you're older, when you're more responsible.” I had no idea what that meant. I was three. [audience laughter] But all I wanted to do from that day on was be older and more responsible.
So, when I woke up on the morning of my 13th birthday, I was bursting with energy because today was finally the day. Today, I would transition from boy to man, and it would be marked by my very own turban-tying ceremony. See, the turban-tying ceremony is not too dissimilar from a Bar Mitzvah or a more religious sweet 16. [audience laughter] But instead of reading from the Torah, we read from the Sikh holy book, the Guru Granth Sahib. But more importantly for me, my grandfather would switch out my patka with a 16-foot long dastar or turban.
So, I shower quickly that morning, I put on my favorite Bugs Bunny sweater [audience laughter] and I make my way outside. I see my grandparents and I touch their feet to seek their blessings. My parents, they're so happy on this day, because for them, with the turban on my head, I would be fully accepting my identity as a Sikh, that I live an honest life, I give back to society and I remember God. I was really, really excited, but it had also been a little while since I was three years old, and I had seen some stuff.
Before the ceremony started, I thought back to my first day at St. Xavier School. I was five years old and I would be attending the same school that my father had attended when he was a child. I was so proud and I almost felt like I had bragging rights. Like, you know, kids who go to Harvard and say, “Oh, my parents went to Harvard.”
My mom and I went through our daily ritual like we did every morning. She oiled my hair, combed it, braided it, tied it into a bun, covered it with a patka. I put on my school uniform, my navy-blue shorts, sky blue shirt and tie, and my grandfather dropped me off at the bus stop, me riding behind him on his LML Vespa scooter.
As a kid who'd grown up in a Sikh family and in a Sikh neighborhood, I thought, everyone is supposed to have a bun on their head, or wear a patka or have a turban. So, it was to my surprise, when I get to the bus stop and none of these kids look like me. No one is wearing a patka. No one has a bun on their head. But these kids keep looking at me funny. For all they could care, I must have looked like Shrek to them. [audience laughter] But instead of being ugly and green and an ogre, I was ugly and had this thing on my head, this turban.
So, after my grandfather had left, some of these kids started circling around me like vultures. One of them came close to me and said, “Hey, what's that thing on your head? Is that an egg?” And another kid said, “No, dude, that's a tomato.” [audience laughter] And then, another kid said, “So, you put a tomato on your head every morning and then you cover it with a piece of cloth? Eww.” Five-year olds can be pricks. [audience laughter] And then, out of nowhere, one of these kids comes and smacks my forehead trying to squash that tomato. Pride turns to shame and shame turns to fear. It's the first time I realized in my life that I could be hurt for no other reason than how I look.
I go back to the bus stop every morning and this game continues. I suffer this day after day, and I don't tell anyone until one day it becomes too much. I go back home crying to my mom and I ask her, “Why do I look like this?” My mom's first reaction, she rolls up her sleeves and says, “Who are these damn kids, [audience laughter] and what are your teachers doing not protecting you?” And then, she calms down and looks at me crying, wipes my tears, gives me a hug and she says, “Beta, my son, we are Sikhs. The turban is a part of our identity. It's a gift given to us by our Gurus. And who are you to try and blend in when you were born to stand out?” [audience applause]
Easier said than done for a kid who's just trying to fit in with his friends. But things only got worse after 9/11. It was almost as if anti-turban rhetoric had taken hold of the world. It didn't leave my small town of Ranchi in India. This game of whack a mole that started at the bus stop continued for the next couple years. And the more I would tell these kids not touch my patka, the more they would want to do it. So, one day, I was at school and this kid tried touch my patka and my joora and tried to like rip it off. And I told him, “No, don't touch it.” And he said, “Why? Are you hiding a bomb underneath there?”
I felt hurt, confused, disturbed, angry. “Why had this kid called me a terrorist when I wasn't one?” I went home crying to my grandfather. He was sitting in his reading chair in his room, and I asked him, “Why do I look like this? Why do I need to wear a turban?” And he gave me a little bit of a history lesson. He said, “When Sikhism started in India, five centuries ago, India was ruled by kings. And turbans were a symbol of royalty. Only kings and noblemen could wear them. And these kings weren't necessarily kind. They would put people to death for no other reason than practicing a religion the king didn't approve of. So, the Sikh Gurus had instituted the turban as a symbol of equality, as a symbol of standing up against the injustices of these kings.”
This was the first time I had questioned my religious identity and received an answer I thought I understood. But even though I theoretically understood, why I should be wearing the turban, the world outside kept giving me reasons not to. So, back at the ceremony, as excited as I was about putting this turban on my head, I was also conflicted with all these memories of being treated like I was an outsider. The entire family then started the ceremony. We moved to the prayer room in our house where the Guru Granth Sahib sat atop a palki or a pedestal. My father took his place behind the palki while we sat around on the floor as he read verses from the Anand Sahib, the prayer of happiness and bliss.
Then, from a crumpled purple plastic bag, my grandfather took out this beautiful red and golden polka-dotted turban. It had been custom made for me, just like all the turbans had been made for my father and my grandfather before me. My grandfather held one end of the turban, I held the other, and we rolled it from either side until it looked like a long pipe. I knelt down in front of the Guru Granth Sahib clutching one end of the turban in my mouth, and my grandfather put down layer after layer of this turban over my head. And with each layer that he put down, the weight of the turban started to feel more real. I realized that it wasn't just the weight of the turban. It was the weight of history on my shoulders. It was a weight of expectations that I wasn't sure if I was ready to carry just yet.
When the ceremony was over, I bent down to touch my grandparents and my parents’ feet to seek their blessings. I then went into my room, stood in front of the mirror and looked at myself with this turban on my head and I thought, I look weird. I now was looking at myself like those kids had looked at me at the bus stop, like I was Shrek. And I realized, I started to question in that moment that there were other kids who I had grown up with, other Sikh kids. But instead of wearing turbans now, they would wear baseball caps. Instead of keeping their hair and their buns, they would now shave their hair off. I would wonder, is it worth continuing to fight for your right to just exist instead of just trying to blend in?
I realized after the ceremony that the turban had been given to me wasn't something I had accepted. My grandfather had tied the turban on me, but it wasn't my turban. It almost felt like an organ my body was rejecting. But I also wanted to be proud of my religion and my culture, just like my father and my grandfather were.
So, over the next few years, I tied the turban off and on, mostly on special occasions like friends’ birthdays or family events, because those felt like safe moments where I could put the turban on and become comfortable with its weight. And every time I tied the turban by myself, the weight of the turban started to feel lighter, as if the turban itself was evolving to fit with my head, becoming one with me.
So, on the morning of my high school graduation, I woke up and I went through my morning ritual again. I oiled my hair, combed it, braided it, tied it into a bun. I put on my school uniform, my navy-blue pants, sky blue shirt and tie. But instead of choosing to wear the patka like I had for so many years before this, I chose to wear my turban on this day. I decided I was done feeling afraid of who I was, and I wanted to be proud of who I am. I rolled the turban from either side into a long pipe. I carefully put down layer after layer of the turban over my head. When I was done tying, I stood in front of the mirror again and I asked myself, why do I look like this? Why can't I just blend in?” But this time, the answer came from within, why try to blend in when you were born to stand out? Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Jodi: [00:13:36] That was Harjas Singh, who is now more confident in his identity, which gives him the strength to be an active representative of the Sikh community after 11 years of being in the US. He's now a software engineer, but also a storyteller, and thinks he inherited storytelling from his grandfather. He still gets the occasional stare from someone who's never seen a man with a turban before. But oftentimes, his turban is a great conversation starter. He'll happily discuss religion with complete strangers anytime.
In a moment, we hear from a backgammon champion, and a mother introduces her kids to the movie, Home Alone, and they come up with a plot of their own. That's when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
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Jay: [00:14:48] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole Massachusetts. And presented by PRX.
Jodi: [00:15:00] This is The Moth Radio hour from PRX. I'm Jodi Powell. Our next story comes from Antoinette-Marie Williams. She told it from her motorized scooter that she calls her Ferrari, and she calls herself handicapable. Live from our Harlem Mainstage at City College's Aaron Davis Hall, here's Antoinette-Marie.
[applause]
Antoinette-Marie: [00:15:29] As far back as I can remember, Rachel and Henry Williams played cards. At 10, I listened to the laughter and teasing around the card table. My dad invited me to play. He needed a partner. He taught me the rules of the game, how to win. And he also taught me how to hold the cards in my small hands to play Bid Whist, pinochle and cutthroat pinochle. [audience laughter]
They lit up the room with passion and confidence. And it rubbed off on me. I learned to play backgammon from my friend, Terry, almost 50 years ago, probably longer than most of you have been on the planet. Backgammon is a board game that's been around probably longer than and found in Tutankhamun's coffin. The game is played with 15 checkers and dice for each player. Each player rolls the dice and moves their checkers around the board according to the numbers on the dice. You win the game by getting your checkers to your home board and getting your checkers off before your opponent.
I loved backgammon. I was dying to play. I was hungry to play this game. I found Chess City, a few blocks away from my apartment. They played bridge, chess and backgammon there. Only a few women were in the game of bridge. I found a group of men playing over in the corner, four Bulgarians and one Haitian. They were arguing mostly in Bulgarian about the plays to make. They made some of the worst plays I had ever seen. [audience laughter] They were really bad. After watching for several days, Figgy, one of the Bulgarians, invited me to play. “Had he read my mind?” Jesus. He invited me into this game. I was so excited.
That evening, I walked home with more ducats than I came with. [audience laughter] It was truly reassuring and exciting to play with them. We played several days a week, and I walked away generally with more money in my pocket. Sometimes I lost, and my motto, “It's just an investment.” Kept them coming back, putting more money in my pockets. [audience laughter]
After playing with them for a while, I heard about Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo has the largest world backgammon championship in the world. I always thought that this Mediterranean Wonderland tournament was out of my reach, too expensive. I did some research. “Monte Carlo, here I come.” [audience laughter] It was a week-long tournament in July and I went. There were over 200 people in the intermediate division, very few women. But I was there, representing the sisterhood.
When I walked into the room, I heard the melodious tune of the shaking of the dice. It was music to my ears. Most of the men there, male opponents, underestimated me. They thought that I was a mere dilettante in the game. But I was going there to prove that I was a winner, that I could beat them.
Day one, Pierre walked in. Tall, dark, mustached and handsome. Fine by my definition. [audience laughter] He sat down to play. Pierre had no chance. I rolled like Wanda possessed and beat him 13-0. He walked away graciously, but disheveled. [audience laughter] I strutted to the scorekeeper's desk to claim my win. Throughout the rest of the week, I played all male competitors, and I beat them all. Undefeated, I won the intermediate division of the Monte Carlo World Backgammon tournament. [audience cheers and applause]
I won a trip to Spain to use a car at the timeshare, a $1,200 German backgammon set and a trophy, and the recognition of my peers at this tournament. I had made it. After playing some more tournaments, winning and losing, there was this tournament in San Antonio in 2017. I was the only black female and the first woman to ever be in the finals of this tournament. But not only was I the first woman, there was another woman. She and I were in the finals, both from the Big Apple.
We sat down to play, and Layla was beating me 8-5 in an 11-point match. I took a break from the defeat. I rolled to the bathroom on my Ferrari, [audience laughter] and I got to the sink, and I splashed cold water on my face and I heard my father's voice, “Play every game like it's your first.” I talked to myself in the mirror, “Goddamn it, Antoinette. You can't let her beat you. Second place is not an option.”
I roll back to the table. People are standing on chairs, encouraging, thumbs up, smiling at me, rooting for me. The score was 8-5. We started to play. I rolled. I got to the best part of my game. I turned the cue. Layla passed. The score is now 8-6. We play on. I get into a good position again. I double the cue. Layla passes. It's now 8-7. My inner voice is saying, “That's when I go with it. You've got it going on, girl. Move, move.”
We start the next game. I put one of Layla's checkers on the bar. She has to come into my home board. She can't come in. My board is closed. I'm rolling to take my checkers off. I'm shake, shake, shaking vigorously. I'm nervous. My heart is pounding. I think everyone in the building hears me. I'm shaking the dice. Layla can't come in. I'm finally taking off all my checkers. Layla still is on the bar. “Oh, my God, I'm winning this game. I'm winning this tournament.”
Before I know it, I've won four points. Not only did I win, I backed amateur. I won six points. I won the San Antonio tournament, the first woman, the first black woman to win this tournament and the prizes. I am so happy. People are surrounding me with joy and thanking me, giving me congratulations. That same year, I won third place in the American Back Amateur, the first woman to ever win in that division as well, a black woman in this game representing other women.
Finally, I got a phone call that said that I was nominated for the Backgammon Hall of Fame. I've been recognized by my peers. [audience cheers and applause]
I'm so happy to be recognized by my backgammon peers. I love the game as much as I did in 1973 when I first learned, and I'm proud that there are other women joining in this male dominated game. I remember what my father taught me. I still take risks and I still play every game like it was my first. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Jodi: [00:25:06] Antoinette-Marie Williams is an exuberant advocate, an educator and a world traveler. At 75, she's still playing, and she gives free backgammon lessons to adults and teens outdoors in the park in Harlem or on Zoom. And according to Antoinette, she doesn't plan to slow down anytime soon. To see photos of Antoinette, please visit themoth.org.
Our next story comes from Rachel Cain, who told this on the Ann Arbor StorySLAM stage with our media partners, Michigan Radio. Here's Rachel.
[applause]
Rachel: [00:25:51] All right. So, my mom died when I was nine years old. And 10 years later, I was getting married and having babies of my own. When I put it like that, it's like, “Oh, my God, that was way too young.” But yes. I found myself at this age feeling completely lost. I didn't have a mom. I was a mom, and I was constantly questioning if I was a good mom and if I was going to do this right. And I cared. I cared a lot and I had a lot of really grand ideas that have gone down a lot since then. [audience laughter]
But at the time, I really dreamed of sharing the highest forms of art, and music and literature with my children. I fantasize that they'd be reading Shakespeare at five. [laughter] No, it's a lot of Pokémon, it's not good. [audience laughter] But I had these fantasies. And one day, in an effort to get started on this, I brought home a really great classic art house film to share with my two children, four and five years old. You guys might have heard of it, it's called Home Alone. [audience laughter] It's great. It's one of the best.
So, I brought this home. My kids watched it. They loved it, and it turned out to be a real bad movie to show them. [audience laughter] Because the next day, they got real mad at me. I had made cookies and I had told them-- I'm a real bitch here. [audience laughter] I had told them, “You have to wait till they cool before you can have them.” And they lost their goddamn minds. [audience laughter] I mean, just lost it. They stormed out of the room, they slammed themselves against the wall on the other side of the wall, where I was folding clothes, [audience laughter] and they plotted their revenge.
They were at this perfect age where they didn't realize this complicated scientific theory that noise travels, [audience laughter] and they were also really horrible at whispering [audience laughter] and so I heard everything. [audience laughter] Everything was, they were going to murder me. [audience laughter] Yeah. Like, full on Macaulay Culkin, murder me. [audience laughter]
And so I'm sitting there, and I have this dilemma, right, “Do I get up? Do I walk over there? Do I kneel down? Do I tell them softly, ‘That's not how we handle our big feelings.’” [audience laughter] “We don't do it like that.” We talk it out and whatever. Or, do I listen to the other guy on the shoulder and do I just go with it and see what happens. [audience laughter] I listen to him. So, I wait for them to get this all set. They had an Easter basket that, mind you, I had lovingly filled months before. But they took that Easter basket and they filled it with stuffed animals, and they tied a rope to it and they swung it over the banister of our stairs. [audience laughter] Their plan was to do that every time I walked by, right? Until they got me. [audience laughter] And so, I walked past.
I walked past the first time, and they missed, which does not surprise me. My son plays basketball now, and he's not good. [audience laughter] But they missed. I walked back again and they missed again. I did that eight (beep) times [audience laughter] until finally it hit my shoulder. And that was it. I couldn't do it again. So, that was it. That was the one, right? So, I just swung back.
Now I'm an English teacher, so I've got some Shakespeare in me. So, it was full on death scene, right? [audience laughter] I'm clutching my heart inexplicably. They didn't hit my heart, but like, “Oh my God.” I lean against the wall and I sink down, because I can't do squats very well, so I had to like [crosstalk] [audience laughter] I sink down and I fall over and that's it, I'm dead. I'm dead. And there's silence. [audience laughter] Just silence.
And then my five-year old starts wailing. Like, he just starts running down the stairs, tumbling over himself, I mean, just weeping. He prostrates himself over my corpse. [audience laughter] I have this moment where I'm like, “I might have like taken this too far.” [audience laughter] But I was working so hard to hold in the laughter that went away really fast. [audience laughter] I'm there and I'm dead and he's wailing.
And then, my younger four-year old comes down, and there's not a tear to be seen. [audience laughter] He's just full on, like, “Oh, yes, we fucking did this.” [audience laughter] I'm there peeking out of the slits of my eyes, because they're stupid and they don't know that I can see them. [audience laughter] I'm wondering if I am like in trouble, do I need to find a counselor? I mean, four-year olds are notoriously awful human beings. Anyways, but this feels like extra awful. Like, there is no remorse. I'm wondering if it's over for me. Like, “This is it. We've got a psychopath. It's bad.” [audience laughter]
And then, my four-year old leans down to my weeping five-year old and he strokes his cheek and wipes the tears away and just pulls his little chin up and he says, “Don't cry, Brudder. The cookies are free now.” [audience laughter] And that's the moment when I knew I'm doing this parenting thing okay.
[cheers and applause]
Jodi: [00:31:24] By day, Rachel Cain says she's a serious bespectacled public media employee. By night, she's a slightly less serious bewigged content creator on TikTok. Though those once mischievous preschoolers are now mischievous preteens, Rachel is happy to report they have never tried to murder her again. Well, not intentionally at least. They may still give her a heart attack though. To see pictures of Rachel and her family, please visit thenmoth.org and go to Extras.
Coming up, a seventh grader on a life changing school trip and an unexpected face off with a wild cat. That's when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
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Jay: [00:32:25] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org.
Jodi: [00:32:38] You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jodi Powell. Our next story is from Eddy Laughter, who shared it at a Moth Community Engagement Program showcase in Brooklyn. The evening was presented by our friends at the Kate Spade New York Foundation. Here's Eddy, live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Eddy: [00:32:59] I grew up going to a Quaker school, and I was one of the only three actually Quaker kids there. My dad was Quaker, so is Quaker still. I thought that made me an expert, whenever it came up in class, I was like, inner light, “I know all about that. I just gotcha.” I was in fourth grade, by the way. I was going to Quaker meeting for worship every Sunday, because my dad wanted me to. But I would just sit downstairs and doodle while our parents were in worship. That was just what would happen on Sundays.
My mom is Jewish. My connection to that side of my family is even foggier and more distant. I would just visit my family for the holidays, and get really confused about how I knew everybody and then I would come back and then go to school the next day. Weirdly, a lot of kids at my Quaker meeting were also this combination of Quaker and Jewish, and we like to call ourselves Quakish. [audience laughter] That was the extent of our analysis of that. [audience laughter]
If I'm being totally honest, all I wanted to do when I was little was pretend to be a dragon with my friends. So, religion is not pretending to be a dragon, so it was thus not high on my list of priorities then. But as I got older, it eventually was no longer cool to pretend to be a dragon and it wasn't cool to really talk about religion either. I got into middle school and everything got more awkward and I got less friends. I got really distant from religion. I stopped going to Quaker meeting on Sunday, because no one was really making me-- And so, I talked about it less. My Quakers and facts weren't fun or cool things to tell people. [audience laughter]
But I could never really get out of going to the Jewish holidays. They happened so infrequently that I had to be there and I didn't see my cousins very often. So, it was important that I went. But I got that it was important for my mom. I didn't get how it was important to me. I never really saw myself there. It felt weird and complicated, and I just felt so awkward all the time that I didn't understand what it had to do with me specifically.
In seventh grade, my school took a field trip to a Holocaust exhibit in a Jewish cultural center in Manhattan. I had learned about the Holocaust. We were learning about it in history class and we were learning about World War II in Germany in the 30s and 40s. It was something that happened in the past, so this was a field trip. It was just a time to not be in class. So, we were in seventh grade, and we enter the museum in a sort of rambunctious fashion, because it's seventh grade and that's just what happens. And the museum goes in chronological order through timelines. So, we're in the beginning part.
Me and my two friends are just walking around, making fun of propaganda. And then, the museum takes a hold on us, as it is designed to do and my friends go elsewhere, and I am by myself. And the floor of the museum is carpeted, so it eats away at footsteps, so you can't really hear anyone else around you. I'm by myself, and I'm walking, and I turn to my left and I see this long hallway. At the end of the hallway is this wall that looks like it's made out of a bunch of small tiles. I get closer and realize that they're not tiles, but they're actually very, very small portraits of photographs of people who entered and died in Auschwitz.
There are so many of them, they go all the way down this hallway, they turn the corner, and there are these pillars in the museum, just architecturally, and they wrap around. I'm overcome with this wave of this urge to make eye contact with each and every one of the pictures. I feel like I need to give them the space that I owe them, and take my time and try to give all of my attention to them. I physically cannot do that but I'm trying my hardest in this sort of frantic fashion of making eye contact with everyone. And the pictures start to feel different, all of a sudden, they feel like a mirror and I see parts of my own face there. I see my nose and my eyes, something about my bone structure in my hair. It's overwhelming and it's terrifying.
My mom would talk about feeling like she looked really Jewish in certain places when there weren't a lot of other Jewish people around. I never knew what that meant, and then all of a sudden, it makes sense. It clicks in a crushing way. I was someone who was very familiar with the concept of loneliness. I felt really isolated at school and middle school. And I was really--
When I would walk down a hallway, it felt like I was lonely to the point where it felt corrosive in my body. But this loneliness that I feel in this museum is not like anything I had experienced before. It's like, the museum had singled out me and, like, left me somewhere stranded and I was, like, almost in free fall. It was so much that when I eventually left the exhibit, all I wanted to do was find someone to talk about this with. And so, I'm going up to people in my class and trying to relay the information that this museum is apparently about me, specifically.
My classmates don't really seem to get how shocking this feels. I feel like I'm crushed and everyone just takes it like “Mm. Yeah, Eddy.” This is the reaction I get from my non-Jewish classmates and also from my Jewish classmates, someone just gives me a yikes face, which doesn't help at all. We eventually leave the museum and find our way to a playground, because that's where field trips always lead. People are running around and playing tag. I can't get myself to do that. I'm sitting on this bench, and this feeling that I've found in the museum is like sticky. It feels like I can't leave the museum.
I'm sitting there with my friend talking to me about TV shows that I don't want to talk about, watching everybody else play tag. I feel so angry that they're able to play tag and I can't, because that was all I would have wanted to do in a normal school day. But I'm sitting there, and with this feeling that I found this whole new piece of who I am in that museum and I have to hold onto it and somehow fit it into my perception of who I thought I was, which is so hard. It was like my someone-- It was like suddenly my whole face meant something different than what I thought it did. Like, how do you deal with that when you're 13 and all you do is think about the way your face looks in comparison to other people?
I've just sat with that piece for a really long time. I felt it grow into myself, or maybe I've grown into it and I found other people to talk to this about. And with my half Jewish friends, we talk about how we exist in this limbo space of maybe we're not necessarily practicing, but is still very much in our lives. Everybody who I talk to has their own definition of what it means to them. Somewhere along this journey, I realized that I really like going to all the family gatherings. I get upset when I miss them. I was sick for Rosh Hashanah one year, and I was just like, “How am I going to have a sweet new year?” [audience laughter] I was distraught. But there's a lot of comfort and connection in those gatherings.
Sometimes it feels like Judaism is a part of my body in that very physical way that I got in that museum. And at the same time, I have recently after taking a very long break from it, I've recently become a member of my Quaker meeting. I'm finding that Quakerism is its own piece that's separate from Judaism in my life. But they can both be there together and they can both exist and they don't negate each other, they're just both there. I don't just have that afternoon in a playground to figure it out. I can sit with them for however long I need and I can ponder my spirituality, what being Quakish means, and the fact that I have a heritage. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Jodi: [00:41:04] Originally from Brooklyn, New York, Eddy Laughter is attending Smith College in Northampton, Massachusetts, where she is studying different forms of storytelling, wandering aimlessly and over analyzing monster movies.
Our final storyteller is Michael Donovan, who told this at a StorySLAM in New York City, where WNYC is a media partner of The Moth. Here's Michael, live from the Bell House in Brooklyn.
[cheers and applause]
Michael: [00:41:41] All right. I was a firefighter in New York City for— [audience applause]
Thank you. And like many firefighters, most of us, we all had second jobs. And my second job was I was a carpenter. I worked as a carpenter. And a couple of the other guys in my firehouse, they were also carpenters. And so, we would all get jobs. If they needed help, they would call me. And my friend Kirk called me, and he goes, “Mike, I got a great job for us. We're going to be doing hardwood floors on the upper east side of Manhattan in my friend Brent's building.”
Brent was a pharmacist. You know, when you think of a pharmacist, you think of a gray hair with the glasses, looking over the top of his glasses. Brent had a ponytail. He had tattoos. He had a wife, Shannon, who liked to go to the strip clubs and bring back another story for another night. [audience laughter] But anyway, Brent was a little different from your normal pharmacist. He owned the building that his pharmacy was in. Pharmacy was on the first floor, apartments on the second floor and Brent had the entire third floor. Small building, but he had the whole third floor.
So, we called Brent and we were discussing the job. He was explaining the apartment to us. The apartment was one big open area. Kitchen in the back. Dining room, next to it, living room. And then, in the front was his bedroom. The bedroom had glass French doors, and that's where his bedroom was. We discussed price and what we were going to do. And Brent said to us, he goes, “There's one little problem.” And we said, “Well, what's the problem?” He goes, “I have a cat.” I was like, “I like cats. Kirk likes cats. It should be fine.” “No, you don't understand. I have a wild jungle cat as a pet.” [audience laughter]
And we were like, “You have a tiger in your apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan?” He's like, “No. No, no, not like a tiger. It's more like a cheetah or a jaguar.” [audience laughter] We’re like, “It's called a serval.” We had never heard of a serval. He assured us, he goes, “When my wife Shannon is home, the cat is like a domesticated kitty cat. But when she's not home, the shit's on anything. [audience laughter] But you really don't need to worry, because Brent likes to watch TV late and then he sleeps late, so you're probably not going to see him. We'll keep him in the bedroom,” which he called the cat's lair. And the cat's name was Slash.
So, he'd say, “The cat will be in-- Slash, he'll be in his lair, and he'll pace back and forth. He doesn't get up until about 11:00 or 11:30, so you're probably not going to see him.” A; So, “All right.” We're just there to do the floors. [audience laughter] So, the first day comes. We have to bring all our tools up to the third floor. So, we block open the door to Second Avenue. It was right on Second Avenue, the apartment. We block open the door. We block open the door to the apartment and we're carrying the tools up, we're bringing them in and we start working. We’re working on the floor. And sure enough, about 11:00, Kirk gives me a little “Mike, Mike, look.”
Oh, one other thing I forgot to tell you is Brent warned us. He said, “Whatever you do with the cat--" And the cat did look like a cheetah, you know, with the spots, but the head was small. It was called a serval. He goes, “The one thing you have to make sure you don't do, don't make eye contact with the cat.” [audience laughter] So, we're working on the floor, and Kirk gives me a little elbow. He goes, “Mike. Mike, what's that?” And the two of us look up, and there behind the glass doors is the cat, pacing back and forth. We look. And the cat kind of looks at us, and we both divert our eyes [audience laughter] and we keep working.
After a while, it became routine. The cat would pace. We were working. We would look at him. We would divert our eyes. So, day one went by, day two went by, now the third day was going to be. We were going to finish the job, get paid, and go home. We chalked the doors open to Second Avenue, we chalked the door open to the apartment and we're bringing our tools up. As we're walking through, Kirk says to me, he taps me again, and he goes, “Mike, what's that on the back window sill in the living room area?”
Brent, his wife Shannon, had great taste. They had these beautiful white, lacy sheer curtains and brown stone windows with the low sills. We could see a silhouette behind the curtains. And with the tools, we leaned forward. Just as we leaned forward far enough, a gentle breeze blew the curtains. [audience laughter] And there was Slash and we made eye contact with the magnificent. And the cat freaked out. Two leaps, and Kirk and I were pinned to the wall. [audience laughter] The cat leaped halfway across the apartment, hit the couch and bounced. And now, it was at the French doors, trying to get into its lair. It kept throwing itself into the glass and hissing and spitting at us.
We're pinned to the wall. [audience laughter] And Kirk leans over to me and we're thinking, “This is a $7,000 cat. It's going to cut itself. It's going to kill itself.” Or, worse than that, the door to Second Avenue is open. There's going to be a wild jungle cat running down Second Avenue. We're not going to get paid. [audience laughter] So, Kirk leans over to me. Kirk leans over and he says, “Mike, one of us is going to have to open that door and let the cat in its lair.” And being a fireman, you have to keep your wits about you, you have to stay calm in situations. So, I leaned over to Kirk, and as calmly as I could, I said, “Well, it ain't going to be me.” [audience laughter]
And Kirk looked at me with disgust, and he opened the door and the cat went in. We closed the door, we looked at each other and we were like, “We're out of here.” We picked up the tools and went down. We told, “Brent, you're paying us for the day. The cat's in his room. Thank you very much.” And the moral of the story, we went to a bar, we drank for the rest of the day. [audience laughter] The moral of the story, is that a cat on the sill is worth a beer in a bar.
[cheers and applause]
Jodi: [00:49:05] Michael Donovan spent 25 years in the New York City Fire Department, finishing his career as a Captain in Special Operations. He is currently retired and spends his time between South Carolina and Vermont. Michael is still very good friends with Teddy and describes him as one of the toughest people he has ever known. But he has lost contact with Slash, and its owners and has never had another close encounter with a jungle cat since. To see some photos of Michael, please visit themoth.org.
And that's it for this week on The Moth Radio Hour. Thank you for joining us.
[overture music]
Jay: [00:49:54] This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison and Catherine Burns along with Jodi Powell, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show. Coproducer, Viki Merrick. Associate producer, Emily Couch.
The rest of The Moth leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Jenness, Jenifer Hixson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Klutse, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson and Aldi Kaza. Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.
Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Blue Dot Sessions, Neel Mukherjee, Anat Cohen, Vulfpeck and [unintelligible 00:50:37] Ghanaian. 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.