Host: Lee Ann Gullie
Lee: [00:00:02] Welcome to The Moth podcast. I'm Lee Ann Gullie, your host for this episode and director of development at The Moth.
As a fundraiser, I think a lot about the concept of giving back, about what we can and should do as members of a community, how we can make sure that the things we value continue to have a place in the world, whether that's through volunteering, showing kindness to the people around us or supporting the organizations we care about.
Today, we're going to share two stories that examine this idea and look at what we get when we give back. And we'll tell you a little bit about how you can help support The Moth in its mission to create community and build empathy around the world.
First up, we have Jim Beebe-Woodard. He told the story at a Burlington, Vermont StorySLAM, where theme of the night was Love Hurts. Here's Jim, live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Jim: [00:00:51] So, as an adult here, I would characterize myself as a devout atheist. But as a kid, I did grow up going to church. We went to a really nice church, actually. It wasn't super dogmatic, and it was really invested in families and doing good in the community and all the things church should do. One of the ways that our church did that was there was always some food drive going on, canned food drive kind of thing. And very often, we would have a Sunday where all the kids in the congregation would have some canned good.
At some point during the service, the kids would come up onto the chancel in front of the sanctuary, and they would have their canned goods and they put in a box and the minister would bless it and it was all nice. It was a nice way for kids to learn a little bit about giving and taking care of others in the community. And so, for a lot of years, when I was really young, my folks would just give us something and we'd go up and we'd put it in the box, and that was that and that was all good.
So, as we got a little older, my sister and I, there was a Sunday where my dad said, “Hey, why don't you guys go into the pantry and why don't you pick something? Why don't you pick something that you'd like to give to another family in need?” And we're like, “All right.” So, we go in. This is the late 1970s. It's suburbia. We have a wall of canned goods, and mac and cheese and my dad's Old Spice. [audience laughter] And so, I'm looking at all these canned goods and going through it. I see there's a can of mandarin oranges. And I was like, all about mandarin oranges. I loved them so much. I'd open them up, eat the whole can. It was so good. So, I slid that to the side. [audience laughter]
So, I'm going through, going through. I come upon this honking can of Veg-All. Now, if you don't know what Veg-All is, it's this really horrible cut vegetables-- canned vegetables aren't all that delicious anyway. They're really salty and everything. But Veg-All was particularly disgusting. It had lima beans. We just hated Veg-All. So, I was like, “Yup.” [audience laughter] And so, I grabbed the Veg-All. Meanwhile, my sister is having her own parallel process and she's like, “I've got creamed corn.” That was the thing she hated the most. [audience laughter]
So, out we go. I've got my Veg-All. My sister's got her creamed corn. My parents are putting their coats on for church and my dad says, “Okay, did you pick something out?” I said, yeah, yeah. He said, “Oh, okay. That's what you want to bring to the families? And I say, come. Okay. So, go to church. Go through the whole thing, put it in the box, gets blessed by the minister. That's all good.
So, this is the time in our life where Sundays were very much a family day for us. And so, typically after church, my grandparents would come over and we would have some brunchy thing with pancakes and eggs and stuff and just spend time together as a family. But this particular Sunday was what my mom liked to call a Sunday dinner Sunday. This was something she liked to do every couple month’s or whatever. Sunday dinner Sundays, just what it sounds like, around 12:30, 1 o'clock, we had a Sunday dinner. And so, it was usually more food, and you'd stay in your church clothes and it was all that stuff.
So, this particular Sunday of the aforementioned Veg-All creamed corn was a Sunday dinner Sunday. We get back to the house, and my mom had left a roast chicken in the oven when we left, so the house smelled so good. There's chicken in the oven and all this stuff, and nana and pops get there and we're all psyched. We sit down to have dinner. My mom puts the chicken down and it's steaming. It's so yummy. I'm waiting and waiting. The rule was, of course, you don't touch anything. You don't serve yourself. You don't even talk about serving yourself until everyone's sitting at the table. My parents are still buzzing around doing their thing.
Everybody's sitting down. My dad's finishing up, and he brings over the last two dishes. [audience laughter] I'm so predictable. [audience laughter] So, he comes over, and my sister gets a plate of creamed corn, I get a plate of Veg-All. [audience laughter] For every test, there is a corresponding lesson. [audience laughter] Sometimes the test comes before the lesson and sometimes the lesson is crystal clear. And so, very clearly my sister and I were like, “Oh, man.”
The funny thing was, my folks, this wasn't a punishment. It wasn't like we were shamed a whole bunch and everything. They set it down and my dad said like, “You know, you thought this was good enough to give to somebody else? Is this what you want?” And I was like, “You know.” So, he was right. [audience laughter] I didn't want it. So, we ate the Veg-All, we ate the cream corn, no chicken. No, but it was okay. It was okay. [audience laughter] It was awful, but it was okay. This really is though a lesson and a test that I have carried through my life. Perhaps not so literally, a little more metaphorically, but--
I definitely encourage you to think of this as a test you can lay over your own life. You can use Veg-All if you like. But am I giving out what I wish to receive back? Whether it's my words or my deeds or my actions, my interactions with my friends, my family, what do I do at work? You know, am I doling out Veg-All, [audience laughter] or am I giving you my mandarin oranges?
[cheers and applause]
Lee: [00:06:25] That was Jim Beebe-Woodard. Jim is a Connecticut native and a 1989 graduate of the Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts. After attending UMass Boston, he spent the 1990s in Boston working in nonprofit organizations providing advocacy and support to people living with HIV and addiction. He now lives a very quiet life in the woods of Vermont with his husband, Travis.
Jim's story reminds me so much of my childhood. From a very young age, I was lucky to have the chance to experience the power of giving back. My grandfather ran the local community center where I grew up. And whether it was helping to work Bingo or serving meals at a spaghetti dinner, I saw the deep value in human connection, helping others and having the chance to tell your story. This all feels deeply connected to the work I do at The Moth.
While most folks know The Moth through its podcast, Radio Hour and Live Events, there is so much work that happens behind the scenes to bring the transformative power of storytelling all over the world. Each year through our education, community engagement and global programs, The Moth helps individuals feel seen, find their confidence, advocate for themselves, conquer their fears and so much more.
If the transformative power of storytelling has impacted you or you would like to ensure it impacts others, please make a donation to The Moth today. Text GIVE 232-786-79 to make a fully tax-deductible donation and help ensure our continued work to nurture empathy and build community. Text G-I-V-E to 232-786-79 to give today. And just a reminder, while we are huge fans of all of our public radio partners, funds raised through their giving drives go to support their programming. Give today directly to The Moth. We're an independent nonprofit and the support we get helps to ensure the future of our work.
Our next story also touches on how giving back can heal and build community. Richard Cardillo told this at a New York Mainstage, where theme of the night was This Way Up. Here's Richard, live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Richard: [00:08:30] It's August of 1991. I'm living in this tiny little sublet in the East Village. I just turned 33. This is the first time in my life I'm living in a place of my own. I'm feeling pretty lost and pretty lonely. I had recently left a Catholic monastery, where I had lived as a monk with a vow of celibacy. I picked that vocation, because I felt I was always drawn to a life of service. But even more importantly, at the age of 16, I figured out that I was gay.
One night about three weeks after I moved in, I went to make dinner and I realized I had no food in the house and I had no money. So, I obsessively kept checking the cabinets in the kitchen for anything. All I kept coming up with was this half bag of white flour, little bit of salt, and in the far reaches of the top cabinet, interspersed with all the soy sauce and ketchup packets, was this little packet of yeast. I looked at the side of the flour bag, and followed the directions and I made bread. That began a decades long passion.
I threw myself into this passion with a vengeance. I soon was making so much bread that I couldn't eat it myself. And I started giving it away to family, to friends, to my colleagues, students and their families. I started to feel really, really good about myself. So much so that one Saturday night, I decided to venture out and try my luck at meeting a guy. [audience laughter] I ended up at the car wash.
The car wash was the nickname for the back room of a really seedy, sleazy bar called the Spike in the West Village. It had these ceiling to floor plastic strips, just like a car wash, that separated it from the bar area. So, there I am in the back with my arms crossed, feeling so afraid and just scared witless. All of a sudden, this handsome guy comes near me. He has the most beautiful long brown hair and these piercing blue eyes. He comes up next to me and he goes to reach out, and I flinch and I jump. And in the most beautiful Southern drawl, which I never learned how to imitate, he said, “Oh, precious, what in God's green earth are you so afraid of?” That's how I met Peter.
We talked a little bit more, went to the bar. He kept buying me beer after beer and just drawing me out of myself. He was just so easy to talk to. He showed such interest in me. He then guided me onto the dance floor. Even while we were dancing, he was talking away and listening intently on everything I had to say. He finally asked me that question, “Want to come home with me?” And I got afraid and I started making excuses. “Nah, you live on Avenue B, too far away, too dangerous. I got to work tomorrow.” He gave me this big hug to stop me, and he drew me in. He said, “Oh, precious. Take a chance on me.” [audience laughter]
The next morning, I woke up super early to sneak the hell out of there. I go into his living room, and there he is, completely dressed. He was insisting on escorting me back to my apartment. Well, that clinched it. I was smitten. We dated for about four months. And then, right after that, I moved in with him.
Pete was this force of nature. He was this ardent activist, and he protests for so many different causes. No nukes, a cleaner environment, the war machine to dismantle it, anything. He was out on those front lines protesting and marching. He would take me along with him. I started to feel so alive when we did this. He wanted to make the center of our relationship hospitality.
So, once a week, we'd have this communal meal in our apartment where we'd invite family, friends. And the centerpiece of all those meals was the bread. We'd share with each other and we'd care with each other. I'd look at all of this going on, and I reflected on how my life had changed and I'm wondering, how the hell did I end up here? And I loved it.
One time about four years into our relationship, all of a sudden, Pete got a bad case of pneumonia. Then he developed neuropathy in both his legs. And quickly after that, he started losing his eyesight. We saw the handwriting on the wall. He tested, and sure enough, he tested positive for the HIV AIDS virus. He was convinced he was going to fight this to stay healthy. I tried to take Pete the best way I knew how, but soon AIDS was affecting his mental health as well.
He had this horrible opportunistic infection known as toxoplasmosis. It leaves these lesions and scars on your brain in the areas that affect mood. He was sinking into these deep, deep depressions. He was cycling in and out of psychiatric institutions. On a sweltering hot August day in 2012, I get ready for work. I give Pete this prolonged kiss, goodbye. I leave and go to work. And about noon, I look at my cell phone, and he's calling me. I answer it, and I hear all this wind and all this traffic. And I just said, Pete, where the hell are you? And he said, “Listen, Richard. Just wanted to call, and let you know how very much I love you” and he hung up.
I didn't feel good about that phone call, so much so that I decided to go home and wait for him there. And about three hours after that, two police officers were at my front door, and they informed me that Pete had decided to jump from the George Washington Bridge. When Pete took his life, a big chunk of me died with him. I just stopped relating to the world. I stopped working. I didn't want to see family or friends. I became a hermit in my own apartment. I was just this hollow, solitary shell.
About four months later, on this frigid, cold December morning, I wake up to make some food for myself. And I realize I have no food in the house. So, for the first time in over six months, I made bread. I must have had the old habits in my mind, because I made a lot of bread. I made eight baguettes, and I ate the tip off of one and looked at the rest of them and knew they were going to go stale. So, the next morning, I forced myself to put on my winter jacket, trudge through the snow, go up Stanton Street to the Bowery Mission. I go inside the front door, and automatically the guy at the front desk puts his hand up. He said, “Sorry, Department of Health rules. We cannot accept food donations from anybody.”
I turn around to leave, walk over to the park on Stanton. I turned around and I realized four guys followed me out from the Bowery Mission. One of them comes right up to me and he locks eyes with me and he points at me and he asked, “You got bread?” [audience laughter] I opened the satchel with the baguettes, took them out. I broke the bread, gave it to each one of these men and they devoured it without saying a word. I get up to leave. That same man locks eyes with me again, looks straight at me and asks, “You coming back?”
The next Sunday, I made eight sourdough loaves, and I bring them into the park. They're already waiting for me. And this week, there was more talking and there was more sharing. People were connecting with their bread memories. One guy said, “I remember living down south and my grandma would make this cornbread in a skillet in the oven.” I said, well, I make cornbread. I'll make you that next week. Another guy said, “I'd run home to get there before sundown on the Sabbath, and I'd rip off a piece of the challah and eat it.” And I said, well, I make challah bread. I'll make that next week for you too as well.
In the ensuing weeks, there were an awful lot more bread requests. [audience laughter] My moniker became Bread Man. In the ensuing five months, we started talking and laughing and sharing more than bread, and I started to heal. I became lighter. I went back to work. I started seeing family and friends again. I even started laughing. And it felt so good to be with a group again. But I'll tell you what the real miracle was, in the course of the five months, we had created this wondrous sharing, giving and life affirming community. And Pete, he would have loved it. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Lee: [00:19:05] That was Richard Cardillo. Richard is a lifelong resident of the Lower East Side in Manhattan, and has been an educator and ardent activist for over four decades. He still considers himself more of a learner than a teacher, but always a storyteller. Richard is also a six-time Moth StorySLAM winner. If you'd like to see photos of the bread Richard baked, go to themoth.org/extras.
That's all for this episode. Remember, if you want to help support The Moth's mission, text GIVE 232-786-79 to make a fully tax-deductible donation and help ensure our continued work to nurture empathy and build community. And a special shoutout to our Moth members and donors who have already made a commitment to help advance our mission. From all of us here at The Moth, thank you for listening and thank you for giving back in whatever way you can.
Marc Sollinger: [00:19:56] Lee Ann Gullie is the director of development at The Moth and has 20 years of experience fundraising for nonprofits, including many theaters in the Off-Broadway Community. She currently resides in the East Village with her husband and two children, and is always on the search for the city's best pasta. Richard Cardillo's story was directed by Larry Rosen.
This episode of The Moth podcast was produced by Sarah Austin Jenness, Sarah Jane Johnson and me, Marc Sollinger. The rest of The Moth’s leadership team include Sarah Haberman, Jenifer Hixson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Klutse, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant-Walker, Lee Ann Gullie and Aldi Kaza. All Moth stories are true, as remembered by their storytellers.
For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org. The Moth podcast is presented by PRX, The Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.