Host: Jay Allison
[overture music]
Jay: [00:00:12] From PRX, this is The Moth radio Hour. I'm Jay Allison, producer of this radio show. And this time, we're bringing you stories from A Moth Mainstage we held at the center for the Arts in Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
Tara Clancy was the host. She's a writer, comic, actor and a frequent host and storyteller at The Moth. The theme of the night was Flirting with Disaster. Here's Tara Clancy.
[cheers and applause]
Tara: [00:00:38] Wyoming, how are you?
[cheers and applause]
Oh, wake up, baby. Wake up. [audience laughter] Welcome to The Moth. I am so, so excited to be here. As you can tell, I'm a native, right? [audience laughter] Now, I am from New York. This is my first time ever in Wyoming.
[cheers and applause]
Thank you. Thank you. I love you back. I'm blown away. I'm blown away. It's like so beautiful here. And last night, somebody told me that this is the least populated state. And I was like, “Wow, man. Now, that is a tagline.” [audience laughter] Wyoming, less people. [audience laughter] I'm in.
So, tonight, our theme of the night is Flirting with Disaster. So, all the stories are going to tie into that theme. And so, I have to tell you that when I thought about that theme for myself, I just instantly, I think, well, when did I most flirt with disaster and it's when I decided to become a parent. That's it. You become a parent and you are just perpetually flirting with disaster. [chuckles]
I have two kids. They are four and seven. Two boys. Two little boys. It is two boys, two moms. It is like the universe's little joke [audience laughter] on the lesbians. [audience laughter] Flirting with disaster. [audience laughter] So, I have these two little guys. All right, so, a little quick story here. So, we are all in the car. We're in the car. I am driving the car. The other mom is in the passenger seat. They are in the back. We are having a conversation which we think they're not paying attention to. I used the word dyke. We were talking about water and immigration. Like, irrigation systems. [audience laughter]
Anyway, of course, the second it comes out of my mouth, my five-year-old in the back is like, “What's dike?” I'm like, [onomatopoeia] But I spit right out. I am like, “It is a pejorative term for a lesbian.” He's five. [audience laughter] I wish I could tell you that the next thing he said was, “What's pejorative?” But he doesn't. He says, “What's a lesbian?” Like, “Really, kid?” We both raise our hand. [audience laughter] So, I'm shocked. Kid's missing the forest with the trees here. He doesn't know, but you got to do it.
And so, I'm stopped at a red light. And so, I, explain. I'm like, “A lesbian is a woman that loves a woman. A gay man is a man who loves a man. When a man and a woman love each other, we call them straight people.” I could hear the wheels turning, but there's a little bit of silence. We look at each other and we're like, “All right, all right.” Seems we got out of that one. But then, all of a sudden, I hear the window. I hear like [hiss sound] I look in the rearview mirror, and I can see my son and he's got his head. He's sticking it way out the window and he's looking at something. And so, now I look forward and I see a man and a woman pushing a baby stroller coming down the street. He's staring at them.
I look again in the rearview mirror, and he's got his head all the way out. And then, all of a sudden, he goes, “Hello, straight people.” [audience laughter] And I duck. [audience laughter] Like, these people must think, those lesbians just drive around Manhattan, [audience laughter] like it's a safari. [audience laughter] “Look, son, they're the indigenous straight people. [audience laughter] Don't speak loudly.” Flirting with Disaster. That is my experience, Flirting with Disaster with my kids.
All right. Are you ready to start hearing some stories?
[cheers and applause]
You ready? So, here at The Moth, in lieu of reading people's bios. There are bios in your programs, and we want you to read them maybe at intermission, take a look. But in lieu of doing that, what we do instead for a little bit of fun, is we ask everybody the same question, and then we bring them up on stage with their answer to the question. And so, tonight, since our theme was Flirting with Disaster, the question was like, “Tell us about your last close call.”
When I asked our next storyteller the question, she told me this little story and I love it. So, here it is. She loves to watch those videos you see online where people are doing something stupid basically, like they've been asked a question and they don't know the simplest question. So, she always loves sit and watch and laugh at these stupid people. And so, one day, one of the questions came her way. A friend sent her a question.
And the question was, “Which animal would be the first to get the bananas out of the palm tree? A giraffe, a monkey, a cat or a lion?” She sat around thinking about it, thinking about it and finally she's like, “You know what? I think I'm going with a monkey. I'm going with a monkey” She puts in her answer and she gets to the end and it's like palm trees don't have bananas. Who's stupid now? Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Cristina Briones.
[cheers and applause]
Cristina: [00:06:46] I applied for a job here in Jackson cleaning houses. I was living in Bondurant, and finding a house to live here in Jackson was hard and expensive. So, when the woman who interviewed me said she had a place that I could rent from her, I took the job. I worked for this woman for 11 months, cleaning houses and rental properties. I liked the job, because it paid well and I had a place to live in Jackson which was the best and it was close to my girl’s school. Everything was perfect.
One day, my boss called me and she said she didn't approve my hanging out with one of my coworkers, a guy, the maintenance guy, who happened to be married with the manager. I tried to explain her, my friend and I ran into him in a coffee shop and had coffee with him. There wasn't anything more. But she didn't believe me. She accused me of having an affair, which wasn't true. I was sad and it felt unfair, but there wasn't anything that I could do. So, I tried to stay away from those people and hope it would go away. But being in a small town, rumors spread out fast.
Eventually, this rumor got back to my 13-year-old daughter. One day, she said she knew about it, just because the manager decided she needed to tell her. I couldn't understand why they did it, why they wanted my daughter to hear those things about her mother. That was evil for me. And I thought, this is it.
I grew up in Tlaxcala, Mexico, with my mom. And there, if someone is saying damaging things about you, lies, you could report them to the police and they will help to put an end to it. You can sue for defamation of character. So, I remember going to Jackson police department. There was this young and kind officer who helped me. I had so much frustration and I felt desperate and miserable, and I started explaining to him what was happening.
He asked me why I was still working there. I said, “I'm giving her my two weeks’ notice.” He asked me “Why?” And I said, “Well, I think it's what you have to do when you're quitting a job.” He said “There's no law that said you have to give two weeks’ notice.” So, he said, “You don't need to work for this person anymore.” He also said he will help me to find a job if I needed to. So, I went home and I called my boss and said, “I quit.” She got very angry and she said, “If you don't work for me, you can't rent my apartment anymore.” So, she gave me three days to move out.
Finding a house to live here in Jackson, it's difficult, especially for a single mother of four girls. I didn't have any money saved, because I had been paying her $2,300 a month. And the money that I made working for her was barely enough to cover bills, food and things I needed for my girls. Sometimes it wasn't enough, but there was nothing that I could do.
And to move to a new place, I needed first month, last month, plus a security deposit. There was no way that I could have that money in three days. But the law was on her side and she could legally evict us with nowhere else to go. The officer put me in touch with one organization that helps women, a shelter. So, we move to the shelter. It was a very nice house. We had our own room, and it was cozy. But I knew it was only temporary. So, I managed to find a new job that I could start saving for my new home. And thanks to one of the local organizations, 122 and people at the shelter, I made it.
During one of those days, I got introduced to a group that was trying to bring people together to get involved in the community. So, they invited me to join this Latino leadership program, where we talk about all kinds of issues the Latino community was facing here in Jackson, like education, housing, public safety, etc. Because what I had been through, I decided I wanted to focus on housing issues. I learned that I wasn't the only person who had experience been evicted from their home with no notice.
During one of those meetings, someone mentioned that there were opportunities to go to the town council meetings and talk about and raise these issues. So, I got the idea to go there and propose landlords be required to give 30 days’ notice before they can evict a tenant, so the tenant could be prepared for a move. Many Latinos thought I was crazy. They said the law wouldn't be there to protect us.
Usually, these meetings are attended by landlords and people with power. And they said no one would listen to me. Nobody would care what I have to say. I wouldn't have a voice, a Latina, mm-mm. I was disappointed and I thought, well, maybe they are right. But at the same time, people who was supporting the housing group was telling me that attending those meetings would be more effective. So, I decided to go. Town hall, it's a very formal room and it was full with people who have issues to discuss on the agenda. I was a little intimidated, but I wasn't alone. Two other amazing ladies from the housing group were with me,
We were the last item on the agenda. When we were called, I was very nervous like today. [audience laughter] I was worried about my English and speaking in front of the mayor and the council. But I knew I had to do it. So, I started speaking. I told them my story when I got evicted from my home and how hard was to be out there with nowhere to go with my four daughters. I wanted to avoid more people could live this experience. When I was done unanimously, town council members and mayor agreed that this was something that should be made into a law. They told me that they needed two more hearings before it could become a law. But they all agree, they heard my story, they did care and that was amazing.
On November 21st, 2017, it became a law. [audience cheers and applause]
Landlords have to give 30 days’ notice, before they can evict a tenant. After that, I went to more meetings with the housing department, county commissioners and town hall. I worked to try to help people in our community to find and keep safe, affordable housing. These days, my girls and I still live here in Jackson. I love my job. Still expensive to live here. Right now, we share one bedroom apartment, but it's home and it's safe and it's ours. I am so grateful to be here in Jackson. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Tara: [00:17:00] Christina Briones, ladies and gentlemen.
[cheers and applause]
Jay: [00:17:05] Christina Briones is a recent graduate of the Community Leader Academy in Jackson Hole. And in her spare time, she engages local community organizations to raise awareness about issues facing the Latin American community. You can see a picture of Christina and her four children on our website, themoth.org.
Coming up, more stories from our live show in Jackson, Wyoming, when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
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The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by PRX.
You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison. We're bringing you a live event from 2018 at the center for the Arts in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. The theme was Flirting with Disaster. Here's your host, Tara Clancy.
[cheers and applause]
Tara: [00:18:32] When I asked our next storyteller, the question, “Tell us about your last close call?” He said this and I loved it. He was going through airport security with his daughter. TSA decided to talk to her and they said, “Is that your dad?” And she said, “No.” [audience laughter] And he's like, “Oh, my God.” And they're like, “That's not your dad?” And she's like, “No.” [audience laughter] And the third time is, “This is not your father?” And she's like, “That's my daddy.” [audience laughter] Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, Terrance Flynn.
[cheers and applause]
Terrance: [00:19:28] So, it's the middle of the 1980s when I arrive at college. Marquette is a Jesuit Catholic university located in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. My first event is my freshman dorm orientation. And the resident RA gathers all the guys around. It's an all-male dorm, and he introduces himself and he says he's got a joke to help us relax and to break the ice a little bit. And he's like, “You guys know what gay stands for, right? Got AIDS yet?” He was right, the ice was broken. Everyone's laughing, including me, because I'm just thinking, oh man, [chuckles] I've been in the closet for 18 years, I guess I can do another four more. It's not going to kill me.
But by second semester, I started getting this reputation that nobody in college wants. I'm known as a good listener. [audience laughter] It's only because that I have nothing to add to the conversation, which is all about my friends burgeoning love lives. Since I lack one, I become this repository for all of their dating details. And by Valentine's Day, I really was like, “Oh, I just felt like I needed to take a risk and to do something.” So, what I do is I go into my dorm room, I locked the door and I did the 1980s version of googling something, which is to dial 411, the number for information. [audience laughter] And a woman answers, and my throat just goes bone dry. I mean, I'd never come out of the closet to anyone, not even some voice on the phone. It's the 1980s. You just didn't do that kind of. It wasn't a thing yet.
The thinking was like, “If you're not caught red handed being gay, why would you just turn yourself in?” So, I just hung up the phone. But I didn't have the information I needed. And so, I paced the room and I summon my nerve, I call back. She answers again. Sounds like the same lady, maybe just a little more annoyed. I'm able to get out like, “Is there a way that you might tell me the name and address of a gay bar?” There's just this silence. I'm sure she's going to hang up, but mercifully, she just mumbles this name and address, and then she hangs up.
And that very night, I am standing in the freezing cold, industrial south side of Milwaukee and I'm just staring at this really dimly lit door. There's no name on it. The numbers are peeling off and I'm thinking to myself, how can this dump possibly be a gay bar named C'est la Vie? [audience laughter] I walk in and there's a handful of mostly older men there. They're standing around drinking and smoking and pretending really badly to ignore each other. And I think, well, why don't I join them, my people, all 10 of us. I'm sitting there. And after a while, I just realized that it's not going to be the night where I'm going to meet the love of my life. That is, until the door opens and this other guy comes in.
I was just so relieved. I remember thinking like, man, I did not know gay men could look like that. This guy, above the neck, he looked like a young Kennedy. He had this square jaw, and this cleft chin and these really intelligent blue eyes, and this windswept blond hair, like he'd been sailing or canvassing. [audience laughter] But below the neck, he was just all blue-collar realness. I mean, he had on a factory uniform with these chunky work boots and he had this work shirt on with his sleeves rolled past these Popeye like forearms. And no coat, listen, no coat in February in Milwaukee is really saying something. What it said to me was that he probably had a car. [audience laughter]
He obviously had a job and maybe he had a place to go back to. And so, he walks over to the bar, and I think there's going to be a stampede to get next to him, but there isn't. So, I do. I go stand next to him and he orders a whiskey. So, I order a whiskey, which I hate, but who cares. [audience laughter] And eventually, our elbows make contact and he doesn't pull away and I don't pull away. So, there's this moment that there's this warmth building between us. I think, let me just try something here. And so, I moved my elbow slightly. When he moved his in response, it was just like the best male conversation I never had. [audience laughter] I mean, to me, it was like a relationship, being that close to an actual handsome gay guy.
I was so close to him that I noticed this wonderful smell. I thought it was mistaken at first, but there is no mistaking the iconic smell of chocolate. I mean, in a bar that just reeked of chain smoking and too much Stetson, this guy smelled of chocolate. It made him seem familiar, almost approachable. I wanted to say something to him, but all I could think of to say was like, “Is that you that smells like cookies?” [audience laughter] which is so weird. I'm so glad I didn't say that. But I did smile, and he just gives me this look that was pure confidence. There was just nothing extra in it.
He looked like a guy who knew what he wanted to be doing. What he does is he orders another round. He comes, picks him up, and he turns around, he looks at me and he walks away. And in the bar mirror, I see him give what I thought was going to be my drink to some other guy in a brewer's cap. They chat for a while and they leave together. I was pretty disappointed, but I thought, all right, I'm going to go back. I go back the next weekend, he's there and I'll be damned if the exact same thing doesn't happen. And the weekend after that, and so on and so on for I don't know how many weekends. The only thing that's different, is that he just gets faster and more efficient at picking guys that aren't me and leaving with them.
And so, during this whole series of rejections, I get to know the bartender as you do in those situations, and I said to him, “What is the deal with that factory guy?” And he's like, “Oh, is he your type?” And I'm like, “Yeah, he's my type.” And he's like, “Well, we call him E.T.” I was like, “E.T?” And he was like, “Everyone's type, honey, not just yours.” [audience laughter] And then, he proceeds to tell me that the factory guy's type is actually dark and skinny, like the bartender. I had to admit I did notice that. So, I think, well, okay, if I'm not going to be with the factory guy yet, maybe I can be like him a little bit, at least copy his style, I can be hot like him a little bit.
So, I think, well, what I'll do is I'll start with the shoes. I went back to campus and I bought these chunky work boots at the Army Navy surplus store. They slowed down the way I walked, [audience laughter] and made my walk more of a lumber and I bought these tight work shirts. Because the factory guy was muscular, I started working out. Even my friends noticed a difference. When one of them was like, “You're not such a good listener anymore.” I knew I was getting somewhere. [audience laughter]
A couple months later, I get a buzz on campus and I think, let me just go to C'est la Vie. So, I went to C'est la Vie. I have to say, the first time I was feeling kind of hot, let’s say warm. I go in, and the factory guy is in the corner and he's drinking alone, but he looks somehow different. I think it's that he's drunker than I'd ever seen him. But most really handsome people, it only suits him. So, I turn to the bar and I order two whiskeys, because that's going to be our drink. I'm feeling like maybe I wasn't ready before. It was just that, as easy as that, there's something faithful about this night. I pick up the whiskeys and I turn around just in time to see the factory guy do something I'd never seen him do before, which is to leave alone.
I just wanted to take those two whiskeys and chuck them at the closing door. I mean, to him, I wasn't even better than nothing. I wasn't even like consolation prize material. So, I drank the two whiskeys, which I was acquiring a taste for by then, and I left C'est la Vie and I never went back. [audience laughter] And college ended, the 1980s ended and I got my ass out of the closet and I took my slightly better body and I moved to New York City and I got a job teaching English as a second language in Washington Heights. I had an apartment and friends and roommates and even my first serious boyfriend.
I'm teaching one day and what I did was I tried to expand my student’s vocabulary and comprehension by using the TV. We'd watch current events and get new vocabulary that's ripped from the headlines. So, we were watching the TV doing this, and there is this news bulletin that breaks out of Milwaukee. And it shows this guy and he's got his hands behind his back and he's doing this perp walk. There is this close up on his face, and I'm like, “That's him. That's the factory guy.” It's not every day that you see an ex-crush get arrested. [audience laughter] It's not like I was proud of it or anything, but I was a little bit excited. So, in my class, I'm like, “I know him. I know that guy.”
And then, I had to sit down because of what they showed next, which was it was a hazmat team in gas masks and they were hoisting these blue 57-gallon drums down some steps. The drums were later said to contain acid and the un-dissolvable remains of Jeffrey Dahmer's love life. [audience aww] My students struggled to comprehend this story. I mean, everyone knew the term, serial killer, but other words escaped them, like Rohypnol and stench. And the words with cognates, they just got right away, like dismemberment and decapitation. But the word that just brought the silence down and this chill in the classroom was cannibalism.
And 11 of Jeffrey Dahmer's 17 victims spent their last unimaginable moments of their lives in Room 213 of the Oxford apartment building, just a short drive-up Wisconsin Avenue from C'est la Vie. They were all young men of color. They were his type, as the bartender had informed me. I was feeling nauseous and just confused, trying to take in this information. I stand up and I turned off the TV and I just canceled class and I decided I'm going to walk all the way home to Chelsea. It take me like two hours, but I had to sweat something out of me.
I felt so confused by what I'd heard. And so, I'm walking along and I thought, I'm trying to keep down the details of this story, which just keep rising up. One of them was that I was right. He did smell of chocolate. It was because he put in these long hours at the Ambrosia Chocolate Factory in downtown Milwaukee. And so, I make my way all the way to the Columbia campus, and it's so, so hot. But mostly, my feet are hot. I noticed that I'm wearing those boots that I bought in Milwaukee six years earlier, the ones I bought to make myself more rugged like him. They are slowing me down, these boots. I don't want to be slowed down, because every time I'm slowed down, I just think of how I yearned not just for Jeffrey Dahmer's attention, but specifically for an invitation to get in his car and to go to that apartment.
I was sure at that apartment that he would jumpstart my love life, but he didn't choose me. It might sound callous, but unlike any of his 17 victims, I was alive and living in New York City and young, and I was filled with ambition and passion and all sorts of ideas about the kind of man that I wanted to be. My first idea was just to go right away to a sporting goods store. I went and I walked in and I bought the first pair of white sneakers. I put them on and I laced them up and I paid and I left. I took the laces of those boots, I tied them together and I just chucked them into the first garbage can I could find. And with each block that I passed, I just left them further and further behind. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Tara: [00:33:12] Terrance Flynn, ladies and gentlemen, one more time.
[cheers and applause]
Jay: [00:33:18] Terrance Flynn is a writer, psychotherapist and contributor to the Wall Street Journal. Terrance is currently working on his memoir, Dying to Meet You. You can see pictures and find out more about Terrance on our website, themoth.org.
[slow upbeat music]
After a short break, our final story from this live event in Wyoming, when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
[slow upbeat music]
The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by PRX.
You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison, producer of this radio show. We're bringing you stories from a Moth Mainstage we held in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, presented by the center for the Arts. The theme that night was Flirting with Disaster. And here's your host, Tara Clancy.
[cheers and applause]
Tara: [00:34:47] All right. So, when I asked our last storyteller the question, “Tell us about your last close call?” She told me this story. She said that she and her dog was out running and was chasing-- She had to explain this to me because I'm from Queens, was chasing some wildlife. And that is a punishable offense. You are not allowed to harass the wildlife here. And so, the very close call was that her dog, even though he was only 20-pound puppy, did not get arrested for harassing the wildlife. There was no mugshot with the dog. Everything's fine. Don't worry about him at all. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Nina McConigley.
[cheers and applause]
Nina: [00:35:44] The first time I ever wore a sari, I was 13. Now, I grew up in Wyoming, which is not only the least populated state, it's also probably the whitest. And so, there's no place to buy a sari, so I wore my mom's. When we had moved to America, she had brought boxes of them. They're not the most practical thing for Wyoming winters with the wind and the snow, [audience laughter] but that's okay.
Growing up, I always thought I was the wrong kind of Indian. When people would ask me, “What are you?” I would say Indian. I wouldn't correct them if they thought I was Arapaho or Shoshone. The other thing about growing up in Wyoming, is that you as a kid get to visit a lot of forts and historical sites, and you can always dress as cowboy or Indian. I would be Indian, because it was easier. [audience laughter] I liked dressing up until on a fourth-grade trip, someone tried to scalp me while we looked at the Oregon Trail ruts.
The thing I wanted when I was 13 was to be Dorothy Hamill. I wanted to be a figure skater. That summer, I had taken a picture of Dorothy Hamill to the MasterCuts at the mall and asked for her haircut. [audience laughter] When they were finished, I pretty much looked like a mushroom [audience laughter] or a helmet, whatever you want to say. My mom, when she picked me up, she had beautiful, long Indian hair. She didn't say a word. But I didn't want to be a good Indian girl. I wanted to be Dorothy Hamill.
That summer, I also got my period. Now, I wasn't surprised by it. I had read a lot of Judy Blume, [audience laughter] so I knew what was supposed to happen when you got your period. But I knew that what was coming was that I was going to have a coming-of-age ceremony. In the part of India where my mom comes from, they do a ceremony to shepherd you into womanhood when you get your period. The ceremony is you have a ritual bath, you get clean, you get your first piece of gold jewelry, which goes to your dowry. You drink an egg to be fertile, a raw egg and you wear a sari for the first time. I knew that was coming.
So, I waited for about three periods before I said something to my mom. [audience laughter] Sure enough, soon after, on a Saturday morning, she and my aunt woke me up and they said, “Today, you're going to have your ceremony.” It started with the ritual bath, which, when you're 13, being naked is a very horrific thing. Being naked in front of other people, even worse. So, I put on my Speedo, [audience laughter] which was purple and blue stripes. My mom and my aunt went through, and they put some baby oil on my hair. Usually, it would be coconut oil. But they rubbed my hair, and then they put me in the bath and dumped water over my head. After that, they spent about half an hour trying to make the Dorothy Hamill haircut into a bun on top of my head. They used a bunch of bobby pins, probably 50 of them. They strung my hair with carnations.
My mom kept telling me like, “If we were in India, you'd be having jasmine. We would just walk outside the door and pick this jasmine.” And then, I got my first piece of gold jewelry. It was a little necklace and earrings came from Zales at the mall. [audience laughter] I didn't really like it, because it was the 1980s. I wanted to wear jelly bracelets and silver. [audience laughter] Didn't really care. But then, it came time for me to pick and wear a sari. I picked one of my mom's most simple saris. It was a pink one. It had a gold border. I had to wear one of her blouses, because there wasn't a place to get one and it poofed out in front.
They slowly dressed me in the six yards of cloth that it takes to wrap you in a sari. When they finished, I looked at myself in the mirror and I didn't know what I thought I looked like. After that, my mom ushered me into the living room, where she had invited a bunch of friends over to celebrate the fact that I had gotten my period. [audience laughter] I think that a lot of our Wyoming friends didn't get it. They thought they were coming to a birthday party, because I got some gifts. [audience laughter] We sat around, and ate samosas and some carrot cake, and celebrated that I was a woman. [audience laughter] If getting your period isn't excruciating enough, celebrating it, [audience laughter] not good.
I wore this sari for about an hour. And then, after that, I went into my bedroom and I rolled it up in a ball and I went back to reading my biography of Dorothy Hamill. The ceremony didn't mean that much to me. I didn't really care about it. But I knew it was my mom's way of trying to keep our Indian ness. In Casper, where I grew up, there's no Indian restaurants, there's no Indian grocery store. We knew five other Indians. It was her way of keeping a bit of home, of keeping that.
When I was 23, about five days before I was supposed to leave Wyoming to go to graduate school in Boston, my mom was diagnosed with Stage 3B cancer. I had my bags packed. The day before I was supposed to leave, I asked her oncologist, I said, “If you were me, would you go to graduate school?” And she said, “No.” And I thought, okay. So, I didn't get on the plane. Our life after that became this round of going to chemo and radiation and doctor's appointments. All of our Wyoming friends were great. They brought us a lot of food. Our refrigerator was heaving with lasagnas, and casseroles and chicken noodle soup. But my mom didn't want to eat. She just stopped eating. And one day she said, “I just want some curd rice.”
Now, I had never really cooked Indian food. That's what your Indian mom is for, is to cook you Indian food. [audience laughter] So, I thought, I think, that for the rest of my life I would just show up and rice and curry would magically appear. So, I sat my mom down at the kitchen table, and from the table, she directed me in the kitchen. She told me how you make the rice, how you brown the mustard seeds and you wait till they crack and how to temper the spices. I slowly but surely made her some curd rice, and she ate. And over the next few months, I made a little rotation of Indian dishes.
One day, I went into her bedroom, and she was really agitated and she said to me, “I had this dream that I died and that you, and your father and your sister buried me in a frilly pink nightgown.” [audience laughter] She didn’t even own a frilly pink nightgown. I'd like to point that out for the record. But she said, I don't want to be buried in Western clothes. Now, at this point in my life, we hadn't really talked about what would happen if she didn't make it. We just had been going to a lot of appointments. You don't talk about that. We didn't anyway. If my Indian cooking skills were low, my sari skills were lower, much lower. I hadn't really worn a sari that much since my coming-of-age ceremony.
A few months before when she had first gotten sick, she had to go to the emergency room. When we got to the ER, she had been wearing a sari. And of course, they tell you like, “No, you can't come in. Wait in the waiting room.” About 10 minutes after she was admitted, a nurse, a really flustered nurse, came out and she said, “You have to unwrap your mother,” [audience laughter] It is like, she was a gift. [audience laughter] I went into the hospital room and I slowly started taking the sari off of her and putting her in a hospital gown. You know, sari is six yards of cloth and I tried to fold it in the little hospital room. I couldn't get it folded and I just ended up shoving it in the plastic bag, balling it up in the plastic bag they give you in a hospital to put your things.
So, that day when my mom said to me, I can't be buried in Western clothes, I said, “Okay, but you're going to have to teach me.” So, I went to her cupboard. my mom's saris are all kind of stacked up. When you open it almost looks like books stacked up. I pulled out a sari. It was a green chiffon one. And from the bed, she directed me on how to put the sari on, how to tie the petticoat really tight and how you can put a knot in one corner and tuck it in and how you pleat it and drape it. I put the sari on, and then she had me take it off, then she had me do it again and then she had me take it off, [chuckles] she had me do it again.
And then I did it on a Kanchipuram sari. I did it on a hand block sari and then finally I helped get her up out of bed and I undressed her. I could see the marks on her body from where they do the radiation. They mark it. I slowly but surely started to dress her. She had a sari on. We stood there looking at ourselves in the mirror. We put bindis on and I put my hair in a ponytail. I realized the whole time that I was lying to her, because I couldn't dress my mother if she died. I couldn't dress a corpse. I mean, it's one thing to dress someone standing up, but I couldn't imagine dressing her that way.
When we looked in the mirror and I thought I wasn't just scared of losing my mother. I was really scared of losing my Indian-ness, because if she died, who in Wyoming was going to teach me? There's nobody. A miracle occurred in that a few months later, she went into remission, which were all really happy for. I did end up going to graduate school. I left Wyoming, which was and it came back and life went on. And the last time, I wore a sari was a few months ago. I got married. Yeah, it was exciting, got married.
[cheers and applause]
I didn't think I wanted to be an Indian wedding or have an Indian wedding or be an Indian bride. But when I started looking through all the bridal magazines, I didn't see myself wearing a big white dress. I knew I wanted to wear my mom's wedding sari. Now, my mom's wedding sari is the one sari that since we moved to America, she's never worn. It's wrapped in tissue paper in her closet. It's white and it's got a lot of heavy gold brocade work on it. It's really heavy. When you hold it in your hands, it looks like sunlight. When I unfolded it to look at it, I could see there was some stains on it. There was some red stain and I knew it was probably rasam or sambar from my parents wedding 46 years ago.
I took it to a dry cleaner in Wyoming, and he took one look at it and was like, “I've never cleaned anything like that.” So, I decided to just wear it, stains and all for my wedding. I liked thinking there was a little bit of my parents wedding there with me that day. The morning of my wedding, I took a bath by myself this time. [audience laughter] But my mom and aunt came over, and even though I know how to put a sari on now, they dressed me and they slowly pleated and they did the draping and they adjusted the palu, which is the bit over your shoulder. My mom put a safety pin in my shoulder and on my waist, because she was sure I was going to unwrap during the ceremony. When they were done dressing me, my mom looked at me and I looked in the mirror and I looked Indian. It felt really unfamiliar, but it also felt like home. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Tara: [00:48:29] Nina McConigley, ladies and gentlemen.
[cheers and applause]
Jay: [00:48:34] Nina McConigley was born in Singapore and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Her short story collection, Cowboys and East Indians was the winner of the PEN Open Book Award and a High Plains Book Award. She lives in Laramie, and teaches at the University of Wyoming and says that while Indian culture isn't exactly plentiful there, her cooking skills have definitely increased. You can see photos of Nina on her wedding day in her mother's sari at our website, themoth.org.
That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. And that's the story from The Moth.
[overture music]
Your host this hour was Tara Clancy. Tara is a writer, comic, actor and a frequent host and storyteller at The Moth. Her memoir is titled The Clancy's of Queens. Meg Bowles directed the stories in the show along with Maggie Cino.
The rest of The Moth’s directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Jenness and Jenifer Hixson. Production support from Jodi Powell and Timothy Lou Ly.
Moth Stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Khruangbin, Mark Orton and Béla Fleck, and VMBOD. You can find links to all the music we use at our website.
] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Viki Merrick, at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is 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.