Host: Suzanne Rust
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Suzanne: [00:00:13] This is The Moth Radio Hour. And I'm Suzanne Rust. In this hour, stories about big reveals. We'll be hearing from a young girl who discovers both her fragility and her strength, a reluctant middle school thespian and a woman with a rather curious hobby.
Sometimes it's good to start things at the ending. In this case, someone else's ending. Linda King told this story to SLAM in New York City, where we partnered with public radio station WNYC. Here's Linda, live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Linda: [00:00:43] Well, good evening, all. You know, it may be hard for some of you to believe, but I love a good wake. [audience laughter] Funerals, not so much. Too much standing and kneeling and moaning and mumbling, but a good wake. You walk in, you sign the book at the back, you proceed to the front, you offer your sympathy to those on the first row. You view the deceased for maybe 15 seconds or so, turn around and proceed to the rear, where you get to catch up with all the people you haven't seen since the last wake. [audience laughter]
Now, I was parked across the street from Macken's Funeral Home in Island Park. Their lot did not have one single space available. They're the kind of place that has two, maybe three rooms, and they can have multiple bereavements at the same time. I was here, because my friend Hilda's husband had died. Now, notice I said died, not passed. People die. Kidney stones pass, [audience laughter] if you're lucky.
Now, I didn't know Hilda's husband. I had never met him. I wouldn't have known him had I tripped over him. [audience laughter] But I knew her. She was a friend. I think that the rituals of death are largely for the comfort of the living. So, anyhow, I walk into the lobby and there she is sitting by herself. I walked up to her, and we spoke for a couple of minutes. She said that the reason she was out there in the lobby was that his wake was so full of people, particularly his family, and it was getting very emotional and it was getting very warm in there, and she just needed some air to clear her mind a bit. So, we chatted again. She proceeded to move off down the center aisle to join her family mourners.
I, in the meantime, wandered around the lobby picking up the flyers, the business cards. I was, one time, at a moratorium in Queens where they actually had postcards for you to pick up and send to somebody. What do you write on a postcard from a moratorium? [audience laughter] So, I moved to the rear, also went into the room on the right and signed the book, moved slowly to the front, expressed my condolences to the folks on the first row, although I didn't know any of them and proceeded to view the deceased.
Now, I'm a woman of a certain age, retired. Some people might say settled, but they'd be wrong. [audience laughter] Hilda was maybe 10 years, 15 years my junior. And this fella lying in the casket was 20 years younger than her. [audience laughter] I thought to myself, go on, girl. Do your thing. [audience laughter] Do your thing.” So, as I'm standing there respectfully for my 10 seconds or 15 seconds, [audience laughter] someone approaches me and it's a man about my own age. And he says to me, “Mrs. King, did you know him from the group?” And I said, “Well, to tell the truth, I didn't know him at all. I'm a friend of his wife, Hilda’s.” The gentleman looked at me, sort of knit his brow, pursed his lips and said, “Mrs. King, my son was not married.”
Audience: [00:05:06] [gasps] what?
Linda: [00:05:08] And he looked at and he said, “I think you're in the wrong room.” [audience laughter] Well, he looked at me and I looked at him and we started to snicker. [audience laughter] Then it turned into giggles. Before it got to a raucous chuckle, I said to him, “You know, I think I'd better move to the rear. It doesn't look right for the father of the deceased and some strange woman to be standing over the casket laughing.” [audience laughter] So, he thanked me for having made the situation a little lighter. I did slide right to the back, across the hall to Hilda's husband's wake. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Suzanne: [00:06:09] That was Linda King. I confess to Linda that I had some particular requests for my wake. I'd like the mourners to exit dancing to Sylvester's Disco hit, Mighty Real, and I'd like spicy margaritas served at the reception. So, I asked her if she had any special requests. She said, “I never left the 1970s. So, I'd like to have some good old Motown playing in the background. I'd like folks to enjoy themselves, maybe do the Hokey Pokey. I want to leave them laughing.”
We are family. I got all my sisters with me.
Suzanne: [00:06:43] Simone de Beauvoir once wrote, “One is not born, but rather becomes a woman. That road can be beautiful, but it's often tricky to navigate. The world isn't always the safest place for young women. And the moment we first realize that, it can be eye opening and humbling.”
Our next storyteller, Aisha Rodriguez, shared such a revelation at The Moth Education Showcase in New York. Here's Aisha.
[cheers and applause]
Aisha: [00:07:10] At 12 years old, being a girl meant being one of the boys. It meant hitting the courts and hitting the books. You could never catch me slacking. And part of this meant having this big group of guy friends to protect me, even though I was a good foot taller than most of them, a better ballplayer than half of them. But really, we stayed together, and they had my back. And part of this was we thought we ran the streets, but we ran student council, [audience laughter] and we didn't really know nothing more than the school and the schoolyard.
But one day, things changed, and we wanted to expand the horizons, go to another ballpark. Part of this was going out later and farther. And being the girl of my family was difficult in this sense, because I was always home, getting my work together, “Keep it together, because you're the youngest girl.” I told my mom like, “Oh, mommy, mommy, can I please go with Marisol and Lisa, Jessica?” Really, I was with Justin, Kevin, Jeremy, [audience laughter] But somehow, I got out, and I was so happy.
We're at this new park, a couple blocks further than the last one, and we're thinking like, “Yo, we run these streets, man.” But it's starting to get later and later, and I'm realizing, like, “Oh, man, I lied. I'm going to get in trouble. My mom doesn't know where I'm at, who I'm with.” There was nothing worse than getting in trouble. So, I tell my friends, “Let's start heading home. It's late. It's 09:00 PM, middle of the night.” [audience laughter] Because they're 12 too, they're like, “Yeah, Aisha, let's go.”
So, we're walking home. The way it works is that I live the farthest from the park, and each avenue a different friend lives. So, we're dropping off one by one, and it ends up me, Justin and Kevin. I'm starting really to panic. Like, I'm lying, I'm late, I'm supposed to be home already, I'm going to get in trouble, I'm going to die. Like, it's it.
As I'm starting to have this panic attack, my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket. I take it out and it says, “Mom,” who I should mention is my grandma and I call her mom. And I pick up ready, like, “Oh, mommy, mommy. I'm on my way home.” And she stops me. And she goes, “Aisha, don't come home” and the call drops. I'm really starting to think, man, the world is over as I know it. And little did I know I was right. So, I take the phone back out, and I dial my house and I'm ready with the same spiel and I tell her like, “Mommy, mommy, I'm on my way home.” She stops me again and goes, “Aisha, don't come home. Someone got raped in the elevator.” And the call drops yet again.
And here, I'm starting to get real scared and I'm thinking, man, that could have been me. If I was home on time, doing the right thing, if I was there, that could have been me. And my two friends look at me worried and ask me what happened. When I tell them, they look at me like, “That's what you're scared of?” This was when I realized I'm the girl of the group. Like, they can only protect me so much. But they walk me home and my grandma comes down to take over this protective role. She's ready. She got her Bata chancleta zico [audience laughter]
[cheers and applause]
She's also there like, she's just ready and she holds something out and it's a metal turkey baster and she goes, “Aisha, protect yourself.” So, I take it, not really sure what I'm supposed to do with that. We go to the deli, the sus illegal one that's always doing something wrong, but it's your fam, so it's okay. When we tell him what happens, he also looks at me like, man, that could have been you. He reaches down, takes something out, and he holds it out, and it's a switchblade and he tells me, “Protect yourself.”
So, now I got a switchblade in one hand, tucker baster in the other. I just shove both of them in my pockets like, “Yo, what's more sus than this?” [audience laughter] I'm still really panicking like, man, I'm going to get in trouble. There're cops everywhere, and I didn't want to run the streets like this. But I go home and I'm still thinking like, this could have been me. And I'm starting to realize there's a world bigger than just getting in trouble.
And fast forward, I'm in school and I'm thinking I'm bad. I'm telling my friends like, “Yo, I got the switchblade, like I'm boss.” My teacher starts to overhear and she goes, “Aisha, what was that?” And I tell her, like, “Oh, I have a switchblade.” She gives me the same look, like something's about to happen. I'm scared I'm going to get in trouble. I always do the right thing, but I get in trouble. She stops me and she goes, “Aisha, if you ever have to go for the eyes or the jugular.” I'm thinking, damn, I can’t get my straw of my Capri-Sun, like, how am I supposed to defend myself? [audience laughter]
But after this moment, I started to realize being a girl meant taking that turkey baster, taking that switchblade, taking literally anything in front of you to protect yourself, because the world won't do it for you. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Suzanne: [00:12:19] That was Aisha Rodriguez, a college junior who lives in Harlem. To see photos of Aisha and her mom, go to themoth.org.
Coming up after the break, reluctant thespians, when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
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Jay: [00:12:50] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.
Suzanne: [00:12:58] You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour. And I'm Suzanne Rust. In this hour, big reveals all the world's a stage, especially when you're in middle school.
Our next storyteller, Meredith Morrison, shared this story at an open-mic SLAM in New York City, where we partnered with Public Radio Station WNYC. Here's Meredith.
[cheers and applause]
Meredith: [00:13:21] So, the day that I was born ended my sister's four-year one woman show. [audience laughter] And unknown to me at the time, it also began my very lengthy audition for the important role of supporting actress in her show. The trouble was I was not what she envisioned for this very important role in her life. She had tea parties. I played tee-ball. She liked to arrive late to parties to have a grand entrance. I liked to arrive early, so that I could know where the exits and the bathrooms were at all times. For Halloween, she was Cinderella, I was the pumpkin. [audience laughter] She very much was a performer and was comfortable on the stage, and I preferred to be in the audience.
That was until one fateful day in eighth grade, of all the grades middle school, it's the time to really go out on a limb. [audience laughter] My two best friends, Megan and Kristen Hankins, the twins. They weren’t in fact twins, that wasn't like a weird thing, I just called them, came over to my house and they rang the doorbell and I opened it and they're like, “We're trying out for the musical.” And I was like, “That is great for you, guys. That sounds really awesome. I'll be there. Let me know when it is.” And they're like, “No, no, we are trying out for the musical, the three of us.” And I was like, “No. No, that's not actually going to happen, but thank you for thinking of me.”
They kindly reminded me that I owed them one, because I made them join the bowling team with me. And so, they were like, “Listen, as a fellow pinhead, [audience laughter] you have to commit to this.” And I was like, “All right, I'll do you guys a solid. I'll be your third, that way you can audition and get in and all that good stuff.” So, we practice. We go to the audition. It happens. The next day at school, we're waiting for the list to be posted, whether or not we get called back for a larger part. So, we run to the list and we see all three of our names are on it. [sighs] [audience laughter] Unfortunately, my overachieving self is like, “Well, I can't quit. My name's on the thing. I need to show up. I have to do it.”
So, we go the next day to-- No, I'm sorry. First, I go and talk to my sister. So, I open the door to my sister's room. It's almost like she set up in her own bedroom, like one of those where you have the lights, like she's backstage on Broadway. It's already there. And every time I entered, I feel like she was always like, “Yes.” [audience laughter] And so, I enter, and I'm standing in the doorway waiting for her permission and her acknowledgement. And I was like, “Jenn, I got a call back for the musical.” And she's like, “Really? Oh. All right, you'll be fine. Don't worry. I'm sure they bring a lot of people back. It's middle school.” I was like, “Okay. Thanks. Appreciate it.”
So, I read over the script and I found this character. It was the Pajama Game. And so, I found this character. I was like, “Poopsie, this is who I want to play.” She has 15 lines, enough to be a part of it. So, I might be memorable, but not enough where there's a large amount of responsibility. So, I was like, “All right, I'm going for Poopsie. She's my girl. She's a good time. That's what I'm going for.” So, we go to the lead callbacks. They give me the script and like they want you to read for Babe Williams. And I was like, “I know that role.” She has over 200 lines and she's a part of 8 out of the 12 musical numbers, 2 of which are solos.” And I'm like, “This is my nightmare. This is not who I want.”
I read as Babe, and then I go home, again, going to my sister's room, and she's on her bed, “How did it go?” [audience laughter] And I was like, “Jenn, I don't know what to do. They had me read for Babe.” And she's like, “Who is this Babe?” [audience laughter] And I said, “Well, she is the lead.” She's like, “The lead of?” I was like, “Yes.” And she's like, “Well, they just do that, Meredith.” [audience laughter] “Okay, Jenn.” She's like, “No, they'll have you read for these larger characters, but you could end up getting cast for a smaller role. It’s fine. Relax. You'll be--” I was like, “Okay. Good.” I was like, “I want Poopsie.” She's like, “I'm sure you'll be Poopsie if you even.” [audience laughter] She's like, “It sounds like a perfect role for your first venture into this,” because she's a seasoned thespian at 14.
So, it is the fateful day where they're going to post that final cast list. We all gather. We're waiting for the director, who is the band teacher, to post the cast list on the auditorium doors. And me, Megan and Kristin, the twins are eagerly waiting. And the crowd starts to part. I see people starting to look at me, which was not normal. I was awkward, I like to blend in. So, I start, obviously, at the bottom of the cast list, because that's me. I'm like, “Poopsie, my girl, she's down here.” And I see Poopsie, Lauren Wilkinson. I'm like, “Well, that's not me. Who's this?”
I continue looking up the list, and then I finally get to the very top, Babe Williams, next to it is Meredith Morrison and I start sobbing. The band director thought I was so overwhelmed with just like how excited I was. She comes over, she's like, “Oh, you're a babe. How do you feel?” I was like, “I didn't want the lead. I just wanted Poopsie.” [audience laughter] And she's like, “This is not the reaction I was thinking you were going to have.” And she was like, “You know what? Go home, think about it, and then come back tomorrow and let me know if this is something you really want to do.”
So, I go, of course, to my sister's room. I open the door, and she's waiting for me every single time. She's like, “So, was it posted?” And I said, “It was” and then I start crying. And she's like, “Oh, you didn't make it? You didn't get in?” I go, “No, Jenn, I got the lead.” She's like, “What? [audience laughter] The lead? [audience laughter] Babe?” And I was like, “Yes, I'm going to be playing Babe.” And she was like, “Okay. All right.” She's like, “Well, where's your script?” And I was like, “Jenn, I don't know if I want to do it.” And she was like, “Think about it.” And I did. I looked at her, I was like, “You know what? I don't want to do it, but I think I have to.”
And so, on opening night, I had my Britney Spears mic I'm very excited about. And the curtain opens and I walk out to start the play. I look out into the audience and I see Jenn, my toughest critic, sitting front row with a bouquet of flowers ready to congratulate me. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Suzanne: [00:20:19] That was Meredith Morrison, an educator who lives in Maine with her girlfriend and their growing menagerie of cats. The role of Babe was her first and last foray onto the middle school stage. I asked her how her off-off-off-Broadway debut of Pajama Game went. And she said, “About as well as you might think an eight-grade musical at peak puberty and middle school awkwardness could go.” Her sister, Jenn, on the other hand, went on to become an actress and casting director.
I was curious if getting the lead role made Meredith want to play less of a supporting role in real life.
Meridith: [00:20:52] Playing Babe Williams helped me to realize the importance of putting myself out there, which is something that I've spent the last decade or so hoping to instill in the students that I've had the honor of serving as either a teacher or their school principal. Babe also provided me a glimpse into my sister's world, and an opportunity to connect with her and understand her more through doing something that she loved so much.
Suzanne: [00:21:19] To see photos of Meredith in the Pajama Game, go to themoth.org.
[00:21:28] We like our women wise at The Moth. And our next storyteller, Betty Reid Soskin, a 99-year-old phenomenon more than fits that bill. Betty's story takes place when she was a young wife and mother in California. And it was recorded at a live performance at Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln center for the Performing Arts in New York City. Here's Betty Reid Soskin.
[applause]
Betty: [00:21:51] Thank you very much. The year was 1953. My young husband and I, now by then, were parents of three children of two and one on the way, we'd reached the place where we were about to make the decision of building a home. Where we were going to locate that home had some problems. Every Sunday afternoon, we would drive out to Mel's father’s, the parents place, that was out about 30 miles out from the San Francisco Bay area into the suburbs, where they had a little truck garden where they kept two horses. The children would ride, but we would pass through Saranap, a small suburban area between two cities, Lafayette and Walnut Creek in California.
There, we found a lot. There was an old concrete swimming pool in the middle of it. I think it had been a recreation area at some point. But there were orchards, there were oak trees. It was bordered by a Creek. It was just exactly what we wanted, except for the fact that were African American, and we were contemplating building a home in the segregated white suburbs. We did that. We did it feeling that we were entitled to do this. We got a white person who was married to one of our friends to make the purchase. [unintelligible 00:23:43], who was an architect who was willing to design our home. And we proceeded to do that. But being African Americans in a restricted area, we were going to be subject to death threats for five years.
During the period of the construction, we had to make decisions. We had an eight-year-old, a third grader who had to be enrolled in school. Decision to enter Rick into school was made simply, because had we gone into the fall, his education would have been interrupted in the local school where he was attending as a third grader. But if he rode out with his father every day onto the site while the house was being constructed, we would drop him off into the lion's den of a school where he would be the only black child. We were the only family, the only family of color in the entire valley at the time.
We had no idea that Rick would be subject, the target of those dinnertime conversations that were unmitigated bigotry in the presence of white children by their parents, and that they would act out that hatred on the school grounds against my child. We wouldn't know that until much later. We did make some friends, a couple of friends. One was Marion Powelson, who had bought a lot with her psychiatrist husband, because we were there. She was progressive. And Bessie Gilbert, a Mormon, six-foot-tall pioneer woman across the street. These were our friends.
As the house was under construction, a strange thing began to happen. I would be sitting in my car at the end of a day, just about dusk, sitting in the car in the summer heat watching the streets, listening to the frogs, listening to the crickets, trying to get used to being in this area. And each day, almost without question, some neighbor would walk down the street, would stop at the car, would say, “I am,” and they'd get me their names, “I hope you'll be happy here.”
At the same time, the improvement association was meeting, and we were getting vicious letters threatening to burn the lumber as fast as we could stack it to do the construction on the house. These were a very, very strange thing, because it seemed to me that what people could do collectively, few could do individually, because almost every one of those neighbors stopped by at some point.
One day, Marion Powelson, who had been to Sam's Market down by the Creek, came home, pounded on my door, irate. She was holding a poster in her hand, announcing a minstrel show at the school. A minstrel show, any of you can remember or are aware, was a form of entertainment that took place during reconstruction. It was always white folks pretending to be black folks, and they were always created in ridicule of African Americans, of people of color. But this minstrel show was being put on by the PTA as a fundraiser at the school that my child was a single black student.
Marion, in fury, said, “You must do something.” I hadn't a clue of how to confront this. I lived with it for about 24 hours. I didn't know how to explain it to my children. It was something that was alien to my lifetime. I had grown up in California. On the day before the minstrel show was to be held, one day after Marion's announcement, I got into my car, drove to the school, not having a clue as to what I was going to say. My breath was being gasped out. The lump in my throat threatened to smother me.
As I neared the school, panic set in. But I got out, parked my car, walked into the principal's office down the hall. He wasn’t present. He was out on the playground, I suppose. But his costume was hanging over the doorway. Big, blousy black pants, a white shirt. I suppose it was a bandana tie with red polka dots. A kinky wig was on his desk. I sat and wondered what I would say. And suddenly, there he was, coming down the hallway. As he caught sight of me, he turned on his heel to walk away. And to his credit, he turned back after about five feet and he came into the office. He proceeded, and then the words began to flow. And I said, “You know, this is wrong.”
There was a pause, and then he said, “But not until I saw you there. But I don't know why.” It was very clear that he really didn't know why. Then he said, “You know, Mrs. Reid, we love colored people. In fact, we are only showing how happy go lucky they are.” And I said, “But do I look happy go lucky?” [audience laughter] And he said, “No.” I could see the pain in his face. And suddenly, the words began to flow, and I said, “You cannot do this, because as educators, as educators, you have no right. But I'll tell you what, it's too late now, your show is only 24 hours away and I will insist that tonight at your dress rehearsal, you explain my visit to your staff. Tell them what I've told you.” And I said, “And I will be in the audience tomorrow evening.”
I went home. Next day, Bessie Gilbert and I went over early, sat front row sitter and made them perform the entire ugly show in our presence with tears streaming. It was a miserable evening. I'm not sure what we accomplished. I've never known. But I do know that that was when I came into my being as a resident of that community. I don't know what we accomplished, because within a week at Sam's market, there was a poster announcing the Aunt Jemima pancake feed coming up within three weeks. Thank you very much.
[cheers and applause]
Suzanne: [00:33:38] That was the one and only Betty Reid Soskin. Betty lives in Richmond, California. You may have noticed that Betty tells us that a white friend had to handle the transaction for the purchase of her home. Betty's story takes place in the mid-1950s, prior to the California Fair Housing act of 1966 and the federal Fair Housing Act. Those were laws which prohibited discrimination in the sale, rental and financing of housing. Before that, all bets were off. Betty says that even after over six decades, she is still dealing with the traumatic effects from the years of death threats that her family received for choosing to live in their dream home.
While onstage, minstrel shows basically died out somewhere in the 1920s. Blackface lived on in the movies and beyond, regrettably to the present day where whites and blackface still resurface. I checked in with Betty via email. She told me that she had a stroke last year, and that since then she's just trying to live life one day at a time. But that life has been very rich. Betty became a park ranger in Richmond at the age of 85, making her the oldest active ranger with the National Park Service. Prior to that, Detroit born Betty has been a songwriter, an author and a civil rights activist.
Betty's great grandmother was born into slavery in 1846. Betty actually knew her. And at one time, Betty, her mother, her grandmother and her great grandmother all lived together under one roof. Four generations of powerful women. When Betty was a guest at the Obama White House, she held her photo of her great-great-grandmother tucked into her breast pocket. To see photos of Betty, her family and their California home, go to themoth.org.
Coming up next, spinning wheels and busting moves, when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
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Jay: [00:35:55] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.
Suzanne: [00:36:05] This is The Moth Radio Hour. And I'm Suzanne Rust. In this episode, we're featuring stories about big reveals those moments with an element of surprise. Jayson Nuñez told this next story at a Moth high school showcase in Brooklyn. Here's Jayson.
[cheers and applause]
Jayson: [00:36:2] All right. All right, all right, all right. [audience laughter] Okay. So, it was two weeks before my birthday, and I'm sitting in my room thinking of what I wanted as a gift. This wasn't going to be no ordinary gift, because I was turning seven. Turning seven is a really big deal for me, because seven is basically 10, 10’s basically a teenager, teenager's basically an adult. [audience laughter] So, like adults do, I wanted to get that one expensive present that was going to last me a long time. Not like a toy set that I would play with for two months and then next thing, it's collecting dust in my closet.
So, I go up to my parents and I'm like, “Hey, could we go Toys“R”Us.” So, the next day, we go Toys“R”Us. They're showing me all these toys. It's like these jigsaw puzzles, action figures, and everything. Nothing was really catching my eye. So, I wandered away. When I wandered away, I found myself in the bike aisle. It was just immediate. I look up at least 20ft, 30ft, and I see the beautiful Bumblebee yellow Hummer bike with matte black tire seat and handlebars. [audience laughter] It was like those scenes in the movies where it's like you in that one thing in a dark room and a light shining on it, like right now. [audience laughter] My feet were gravitating towards it, but my legs weren't moving. There was even this angelic music in the background, all I heard was [sings] [audience laughter] I've had my sister's bike, I've had my brother's bike, I've even had my dad's bike, which is like falling to bits and pieces at this point.
So, I run straight to my parents, and I'm like, “Hey, hey, hey. This is the bike that I want.” I show them, I'm pointing straight up. [audience laughter] And then, they're looking up, looking at me, looking at each other, look back up and they're like, “Yeah, we'll think about it.” And I was like, I'm just telling them, “This has to be it.” Even though I knew it was expensive because it was on the high-high shelf, and it was one of those bikes you had to contact the front desk for. [audience laughter] So, yeah, they're like, “Sure, we'll think about it.”
And I go home, and finally, my birthday comes. And on my birthday, unfortunately, it was on a Monday, so I had to go to school. So, I went to school, came back home and we're doing all the normal birthday things, like they're singing Happy Birthday. I'm opening gifts from my brother and my sister, and then we eat dinner. And then, my dad finally comes up to me, and he's like, “Hey, we have a surprise for you.” And I'm like, “A surprise? For me?” [audience laughter] Like, “What's the occasion?” [audience laughter] He nods off my sarcasm, and he brings me to the backyard. And the funny thing about our backyard is we have this really heavy metal door, and it has five locks on it. So, he's unlocking the top lock and the middle lock and the other middle lock and then he finally swings the huge door open and there it is, the beautiful Bumblebee yellow Hummer bike with matte black tire seat and handlebars. [audience laughter]
And I was in complete awe. I'm going straight to the bike. I'm adjusting the seat for when I was going to ride it. I was touching the tires, making sure there's enough air, adjusting the gears and I was just feeling all over the frame. [chuckles] I literally picked up the bike, and I was about to leave. My dad looks at me, he's like, “Where you going?” And I'm, like, “Going to bike ride.” And he's like, “No, it's 08:00 PM. You're seven years old. Not going to happen.” [audience laughter] I was crushed, but of course, I could wait. And I did wait.
So, the next day is Tuesday, the day after that's Wednesday and Thursday. And each single day, I'm opening the curtains to our backyard, and I'm looking at that bike and I'm like, “Oh, coming Friday, me and you are going to have a really good experience. We're going to go everywhere.” I was planning on going on the highway. [audience laughter] I was going to go to Central Park. I was going to do everything. The reason I thought about that was, because in my neighborhood, Washington Heights, it's really common for a lot of kids to bike around in a group. They would do wheelies and all kinds of tricks. I wanted to be one of those kids. I thought that was so cool. But of course, I was seven, and I definitely didn't know how to do any wheelies, [chuckles] but that's why I wanted to ride the bike so much.
Friday finally came, and I had to go to school and I came home like a man on a mission. I threw my bags down and I went straight to the backyard. Top lock, middle lock, other middle lock, swing the door open. When I swing the door open, it wasn't there. I was really confused. I was like, “What's going on? What kind of joke is this?” I look around for a little bit, and then I go to my dad and I'm like, “So, where's the bike?” And he's like, “It should be out there. It's been there all week.” When he said that, I was like, “It's not there right now. We should go look for it.”
My mom and dad are really well known in the neighborhood, so they asked around and they talked to people and they were saying if anybody knew or had seen the bike. We even hop in our car and we're driving around for two hours. So, two weeks pass, and it was really starting to settle that my bike was going to be gone forever. It hurt me, but it really brought me back to a time when my dad had first taught me how to ride a bike. I was around four or five years old, and he took me to the park on a summer evening, and he was pushing me along for a little bit and then he finally decides to let go. Of course, I didn't notice and I'm pedaling for a little bit.
And then, he says from a distance, he's like, “You're doing it. This is you. You're doing it by yourself.” I look down, I'm like, “Oh, this is so much better than walking.” [audience laughter] I’m like, “I'm going so fast.” And then, I proceed to face plant and everything, like cuts on my knees and stuff. My dad's really big on metaphors, so he's like, “You know what just happened? You just fell. And life is going to do that to you a lot. So, no matter how many times life knocks you down, you got to just get right back up.” And that's what I did.
A couple days later, I called up a couple of my friends, grabbed one of my hand me down bikes and we went bike riding together. We went throughout the city. I didn't pop any wheelies, because I still don't have that kind of skill. Fast forward to about two years ago, I actually ended up getting my own bike, which my dad bought me. It's not yellow. It's black, it's electric and it does the job. I still fall off that bike, but I get right back up. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Suzanne: [00:42:40] That was Jayson Nuñez. And no, he never saw his beloved birthday bike again. Jason is currently a student at Ithaca College. He loves playing basketball and yes, riding his bike, and he has finally mastered the art of handsfree biking.
Our final story takes place in Mumbai, but it was told at a Moth GrandSLAM in Chicago, where we partnered with public radio station WBEZ. Here's Jitesh Jaggi, live at The Moth.
[cheers and applause]
Jitesh: [00:43:14] The first time my mother saw me breakdancing, she almost threw up. [audience laughter] To make it less humiliating, I will narrate this incident in reverse. My mother runs into my room. There's a left foot shaped hole in my glass window. My body is upside down. I say to myself, this should be easy. I watch a hip-hop dance video. [audience laughter] She did not see a pretty sight. This was in 2009 in India, where there was no breakdancing. This modern American art was practiced there by puberty hit early adopters of internet.
I remember staying up late in the night to chat with dancers in America to learn some techniques. Then back to practicing in my living room amidst a small audience of broken furniture and a horrified mother. [audience laughter] This soon led me to connect with other eccentric losers in my city. [audience laughter] And together, we started making a fool of ourselves in full public view, [audience laughter] contorting our bodies and suffering juvenile bald patches from head spins. [audience laughter] True to tradition, we would practice on the sidewalks, startling morning joggers with James Brown screaming, “Get up off of that thing,” on the boombox. But I lacked the deep cultural understanding that American breakdancers had. I wanted to swim and all that was given to me was a petri dish.
A friend suggested that the best way to learn something new is to teach it to someone else. So, I landed volunteer work at this obscure little village called Baiganwadi. The little village was Mumbai's largest dumping ground. I did not expect to even smile for the rest of the day. But 30 children were waiting eagerly to impress their new dance instructor. In the class, there was laughter, and tumbling and flip flops flying across the room. It was like, I was witnessing the world congealing. Here are kids from the streets of Mumbai emulating kids from the streets of Brooklyn. They would tilt their hats to the side and ask me if they were hip hop enough. And I told them, “You have more street cred than my middle-class ass could ever dream of achieving.” [audience laughter]
I stayed on. And after two years decided to organize a dance show, choreographed on a nice rap song. And a week before the show, 12-year-old Sameer came up to me and said, “Teacher, we are memorizing the dance sequence not on the words of the song, but the sound of the words.” I thought, of course, you are. See, the kids understood some English, but rap was too much for them. They couldn't distinguish one word from another. And then, he made a suggestion that blew me away. He said, “How about we breakdance on a Bollywood song?” [audience laughter]
[cheers and applause]
The purist in me said, “No, that is disrespectful.” [audience laughter] But the pragmatic choreographer in me, who had six days left for the show, said, “Why didn't I think of that?” We changed everything. And that was the most under pressure fun we have ever had.
Day of the performance, the audience has no clue that what they're about to witness has simply never existed before. [audience laughter] Breakdance on Bollywood music, also in Bollywood costumes. [audience laughter] The crowd was stunned. They whistled, and clapped and sang along. In the audience, I thought to myself, this is either blasphemy or the genius of children. They took what was given to them. And instead of adapting to the art, we made the art adapt to our existing lifestyle, and in doing so made it our own. This is what was missing in my own practice, and the kids put it neatly in perspective for me.
From then on, we had regular practices on Bollywood songs. We wore whatever were comfortable in. Today, here in America, when I see kids breakdance, I think of the connection that they have with children across the world in the slums of Mumbai and invisible solidarity through street art. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Suzanne: [00:48:52] Jitesh Jaggi is a recent immigrant from India and a two-time Moth StorySLAM winner. He currently resides in Chicago. Jitesh ended his career in finance one day when he lost all the data that he'd forgot to save on an Excel sheet and realized that he just didn't care. That tipping point led him to becoming a writer and he is currently working on a book of essays.
Jitesh can still do most of his moves, but confesses that he has grown a little rusty. He says that his house has creaky wood floors, so there's always the chance of his downstairs neighbors thinking that there are six kids wrestling upstairs, even though it's just him breakdancing by himself. To see photos of Jitesh breakdancing, go to themoth.org.
[Bollywood song playing]
That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time.
[overture music]
Jay: [00:49:47] Your host this hour was Suzanne Rust, The Moth’s senior curatorial producer. Meg Bowles directed the stories in the show with additional coaching from Vera Carruthers, Kathryn McCarthy, Lauren Gonzalez and Michelle Jalowski.
The rest of The Moth’s directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Jenness and Jenifer Hixson. Production support from Emily Couch. Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.
Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Sister Sledge, Julian Lage, Blue Dot Sessions, Keith Jarrett and Panjabi MC. 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.
Special thanks to our friends at Audacy, including executive producers, Jenna Weiss-Berman and Leah Reis-Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.