Host: Sarah Austin Jenness
[overture music]
Sarah: [00:00:12] From PRX, this is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin Jenness.
It's been more than 50 years since the UN General Assembly adopted the Convention to Eliminate All Forms of Discrimination Against Women. But I recently heard Melinda Gates say, while introducing a Moth event, “That based on current rates of change as measured by the World Economic Forum, US women won't gain equality with men for another 208 years. We're making progress, but it's slow going.” So, the five stories in this hour are all about women claiming power.
Our first storyteller is Betty Reid Soskin. Betty is one of the oldest storytellers ever to grace The Moth stage. She told this story with us when she was 97. The story happens when she was 95 years old, and her friends and family were telling her that she shouldn't be living alone and independent any longer. Here's Betty Reid Soskin, live at The Moth in Missoula, Montana.
[applause]
Betty: [00:01:16] The year was 2017, and my friends were settling for Friday night bingo at the senior center. I was a full-term permanent park ranger at Rosie the Riveter Home Front National Historical Park in Richmond, California.
[cheers and applause]
But I had reached that age with problems that meant I had outlived my sense of future, and was involved in a grand improvisation. I was making up life one hour at a time. I was meeting with my attorney, going over end-of-life issues in the morning, going to work and then coming back to an exploding life. It was intense. I spent my days as a ranger doing things that rangers do, guiding tours. I was being involved in trainings. Of course, that takes up most of our lives as rangers.
Trainings in CPR, in which I was most often the victim, [audience laughter] trainings with that defibrillator that’s on the wall, just in case one of my visitors got in trouble, but also answering phones. And that was tricky for me, because I would answer the phone, "Rosie the Riveter Home Front National Historical Park," to a visitor or a potential visitor wanting to make reservations to hear one of my programs, because I was in the theater three to five times a week, doing programs involving the history of that great place. They would say, "My mother or my grandmother or my grandfather heard this woman and was excited." They would go on, on and I would feel more and more embarrassed, and Betty would go more into the third person.
And by the time the phone call was over, after I had gotten to the reservation books, which, incidentally, usually booked two or three months in advance. And they'd say, "To whom am I speaking?" And I would say, "Helen." [audience laughter] This became a joke among my colleagues, so much so that on one of my birthdays-- My supervisor had a new brass ID tag that I wore above my other tags, which said, Helen. [audience laughter] Helen became the persona that did all the things that Betty didn’t have the nerve enough to do, and Helen was to become a strong feature in my life. Because my family was involved in concern, and I was involved with those end-of-life issues and wondering whether living in an apartment alone was something I needed to go on doing. I had become a park ranger at the age of 85. I mean, who does that? [audience laughter]
[cheers and applause]
But my sons were deeply concerned about the fact that I was living alone. I’d given up driving, because my sight was failing, but I didn’t want my kids to have to wrestle my car keys out of my hand. So, my life was becoming more and more constricted, right? But on June 30th, I woke in the night to a presence. I realized that there was someone in my bedroom, and I turned to see a man standing not six feet away, with a small flashlight, looking through my things.
I reached over to the nightstand where my cell phone was. Anyone would do that, right, to call the police. But my turning signaled to him that I was awake. And within seconds, he had leaped across my bed, had wrestled me out of the bed and flung my cell phone across the room. I remember feeling grateful that neither of us was armed, because had it been a gun, it wouldn't have lasted more than six seconds.
We wrestled in that room, the stranger and me. I screamed as loud as I could scream. He pinned my arms. My back was against his chest. And I remember, for some strange reason, realizing that my head ended at his chin, and that he was probably 5’8”, 5’10”. It's amazing what comes to you in times like that.
We wrestled across the floor. When we got to the door of the hallway, I suddenly realized, even though I was still screaming, but my screams were being muffled by the fact that his arm was over my mouth. I was to learn later that no one was hearing me anyway, because the downstairs apartment was empty. But as we got to the doorway of the hallway, I reached out, and kicked his leg out from under him and we both fell. I fell with my back on the floor and he was straddled with his knees on each side of my body, my torso. And his hands were freed up, and he was trying hard to keep me from screaming, so he was pummeling my face with his bare fists.
I suddenly realized my hands were free. And that he was wearing what was probably pajama pants, because there was a drawstring that I could feel, which meant [audience laughter] that the family jewels were exposed. [audience laughter] And somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered this magical thing. I reached in, [audience laughter] I grabbed his balls and I squeezed as hard as I could. [audience laughter]
[holler, cheer and applause]
And magically, he toppled over in a heap. [audience laughter] I was suddenly free. I was right next to the bathroom door. I plunged my way through the door and sat with my back against the lavatory and my feet propped against the door, so he couldn't get into me. And suddenly, suddenly I felt safe. I listened. I couldn't hear him. I couldn't hear anything. I don't know how long that session ended, but I suddenly realized that under the lavatory was my electric iron. So, I reached in, I pulled it out, stood up long enough to plug it into the wall and turned it up to linen. [audience laughter]
[applause]
I was going to brand him for the police. [audience laughter] It was still silent. As soon as I felt it was safe enough, decided that he was gone, that my intruder was no longer there, I went in calmly, got myself into some clean pajamas, went out the front door, still with the iron in my hand, now cooling, pounded my neighbor's door, neighbors I had not met, pounded on. And suddenly, Arthur Hadley, my neighbor who I'd never met, arrived. He opened the door, let me in, yelling to his wife, "Call the police, Helen." [audience laughter]
[cheers and applause]
That night, I think I received a gift that was unattended. Because when the police arrived, and the city officials with them, and the police department was there because I'm a pretty noted figure in my city, they offered not only counseling, but to relocate me if I needed that to happen. And I suddenly realized, despite my kids' fears or even my own, that that intruder had given me a gift, that for the first time in my life I knew that I'd been tested, not only survived, but prevailed. And I'm now 97, still living alone. Thank you. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
[poses by Dave Douglas]
Sarah: [00:12:25] That was Betty Reid Soskin. Betty lives in Richmond, California. And her remarkable life of nearly 10 decades has included being an author, a composer and singer, political activist, historian, public speaker, mother, grandmother and great-grandmother. She has consistently reinvented herself, and she’s one of my heroes.
Betty was named Woman of the Year by the California State Legislature and one of the nation's 10 outstanding builders of communities and dreams by the National Women's History Project. After she told her story, I spoke with Betty in the Green Room in Missoula, Montana.
Can you tell me a little bit about some of the special items that were in your jewelry box?”
Betty: [00:13:12] Oh, the most important thing was that there was a small velvet bag, drawstring bag, into which the challenge coin containing the presidential seal that had been presented to me at the Christmas tree lighting ceremony in Washington, D.C. that Christmas before. That was a crushing blow when I realized that that little velvet bag was gone. I think this was an impulsive thing on the intruder's part. I think he picked the little velvet bag up, because it obviously had some coins in it, but that, I thought at the time, would have been irreplaceable. Now, within about six weeks, the White House replaced that coin. It came with a personal note from President Barack Obama.
Sarah: [00:14:03] What did it say?
Betty: [00:14:06] It mentioned the intrusion, how sad that he and Michelle were at what happened, that he knew I would survive it. Best wishes. And that is framed now on my wall.
Sarah: [00:14:23] I also asked Betty if anything else surprised her in the aftermath of the attack.
Betty: [00:14:28] I was surprised by how quickly the trauma left. I went in for two sessions with a highly recommended therapist and realized that the control was really mine, that I was only going to get over this if I chose to, that I wasn't going to allow anybody or anything to interrupt the life as I was living it. I called the mayor and told him I didn't want to be relocated, that I felt probably safer in those few weeks after that attack than I had ever in my life before, because everybody that knew me was looking out for me, my neighbors, my friends, my co-workers, everybody. I had a sense that I couldn't have been better protected, that there was no place in the world where I could have been safer. And to this day, I still feel
that.
[poses by Dave Douglas]
Sarah: [00:15:30] That was Betty Reid Soskin. To see a photo of Betty at Rosie the Riveter National Park and the Iron Woman mug her colleagues gave her, go to themoth.org.
When we're back, a Kenyan woman wonders why her name has to be so complicated, and a son tells us how his relationship with his mom changed only after her death, when The Moth Radio Hour continues.
[poses by Dave Douglas]
Jay: [00:16:19] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. And presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org.
[poses by Dave Douglas]
Sarah: [00:17:33] This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin Jenness.
[00:17:37] We’re hearing stories of women in this hour. What is in a name? Well, our next storyteller, Purity Kagwiria, grappled with this question for the first 20 years of her life. In Kenya, where Purity’s from, it’s common for people to have three names, and for children to be named after the elders. But that’s not exactly how Purity’s story unfolded. Purity told this in a Moth Global Community workshop that we taught along with the Ford Foundation during a convening of women leaders from around the world. Here’s Purity Kagwiria, live at The Moth.
[applause]
Purity: [00:18:14] When I was seven years old, I needed to get baptized. All this time I knew I had one name, Kagwiria. But at the church, they said I needed two names. I went home and asked my grandmother, “What name I should be baptized by?” And she said, “Pick my name, be called Elizabeth like me.” I said, “Mm, that's too old, I'm still very young. [audience laughter] I need to find a cooler name for myself.” I went back to church, and the teacher's daughter gave me her name. She said, "After all, I was just baptized two months ago." So, her name to me sounded very fresh. Therefore, I was baptized as Purity Kagwiria.
Four years later, maybe five years later, I needed to do my high school final exam. When I went to register, they said I needed a third name. [audience laughter] And this third name had to belong to a man, I needed to show that I belonged to someone. All this time, no one had ever brought up the issue of me having a father. I knew that my grandmother's father was my father, after all, we all called him Baba. But then, I knew that I couldn't pick his name. Again, this age thing was too old for me to pick his name. [audience laughter]
So, I decided that I'd grown up hearing my mother talk about having a husband called Mutua. And I thought, what are the odds, I must be his daughter. So, I picked this last name, [audience laughter] went to school and said, “These are my three names.” I got registered. Four years later, I needed to apply for my national identity card. And for me to do that, I needed to bring an identity card belonging to my father to show that I belong to this man. And here was a crisis, because my mother had not talked to this man for so many years, [audience laughter] and my mother was also missing. I had not seen her for at least three. So, there was no way I was going to go to this man to tell him to give me his ID.
So, my grandmother said, "Oh, I have a long childhood friend you could go to-- I'm going to go to him, and he's going to give me his ID and you're going to register for your identification." That's what happened. This man adopted me. On the spot, I became his daughter [audience laughter] and registered for my ID. A couple of years later, I lost this identification card and needed to remember my father's name, so that I could put it on the certificate, on the application form.
I could not remember. My grandmother also could not remember the name of this man, [audience laughter] and the man had since passed away. [audience laughter and holler] I sat on the pavement in Nairobi and said to myself, “What could this man's name be?” I guessed his name must be Stephen. So, I put Stephen Mutua as my father. By the mercies of God, that was his name, so I got my ID back. [audience laughter]
When I decided to get married at 29, I again had to decide what name I was going to go by. And the registrar said that I needed to drop this Mutua name and pick my husband's name. At that point, I decided that I was going to stick with the two names that are on my birth certificate and the ones that I really chose for myself. This is Purity Kagwiria. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
[soft guitar music]
Sarah: [00:21:51] That was Purity Kagwiria. Purity lives in Kenya and is the executive director of Akili Dada, a leadership incubator for young women who are passionate about social change. Purity is also the mother of two boys. Here’s what she wrote to us. "I chose my sons' names with a lot of thought. Each of my sons has four names. So, if they want to drop any, they have plenty to choose from. I named my second son after myself, which is not a common practice here, but I did this as a feminist political act. Women are mostly excluded in their children's lineage, because the children are only given the father's family name, and that's what I wanted to change."
Our next story is a different angle on women and power. It’s about powerlessness and a deeper understanding of a woman that came only after her death. We met our storyteller, Timothy Bell, in a Moth community storytelling workshop that we produced along with the Seattle University Project on Family Homelessness. He was homeless as a child before entering foster care, where he remained until he was 18 years old. After the storytelling workshop, Timothy developed the story for a Moth night with the theme, Home Lost and Found. Here’s Timothy Bell, live at The Moth in Seattle, Washington.
[applause]
Timothy: [00:23:21] So, it's the middle of a bright, sunny Seattle day, and I'm clicking away on my computer and I'm planning a vacation and I get a call from my brother. And from the other end of the line, I hear, "She's gone, dude." It takes me a second to figure out what he's talking about, but he's talking about our mom. Our mom has passed away. I get off the phone with him and I finish planning my vacation.
Things were always pretty complicated between me and my mom. I remember a time when I was 12 years old and I was sitting in a department store toy aisle, just sitting on the tile floor there. I was playing with some action figures. I think I was testing their hip strength or something, ringing on their legs. I was humming to myself and I was singing songs that I had learned in school and all of a sudden, I feel this presence come up behind me, and I feel this pain in my arm. And it's her, and she's grabbed me from behind so hard that it leaves marks. All of a sudden, she bends over and whispers into my ear, "When we get home, I'm going to hit you for drawing attention to us."
This is just how it had always been with us. I grew up absolutely terrified of her, like she was the boogeyman, Just absolutely terrified throughout all of my childhood that I had done something wrong, that she was going to hit me again. And so, in this moment, I say, "You're not going to hit me. I'm going to knock you down and I'm going to burn the store down around you." She looks at me surprised, and takes a step back, and walks away and starts mumbling something about going to get security. I knew in that moment I had lost that battle. This was just one of her moves, to always get authority figures, adults on her side, and then turn them against me, and threaten me with juvie, or say that they're going to take me to jail or something like that. And in this moment, I just knew I had to go. I knew I had to be gone. I knew I had lost, and so I ran.
I ran out the front door of that department store, and I hopped on the first bike I could see. This was not my bike. This was just somebody's bike, just the first one I thought I could pedal off on. I'm pedaling just as fast as I can, because I know I have to make it home before her, and I know that I have to be able to get all of my stuff and go before she gets home, before, who knows, before the police arrive.
At this point, I should mention that we had been homeless before. And so, packing all of this stuff together in kind of a go bag, that was no problem for me. I knew how to do that. I had what I like to think of as perverted Boy Scout skills and I knew how to live on the streets. I knew what I had to do to survive and I knew what I had to grab and go. And so, that's what I did. I spent the next three months of my life homeless as a 12-year-old, before I was eventually picked up and put into foster care.
So, I can imagine you're surprised to find out that I canceled my vacation, to find out that I am driving to her apartment, that I walk into the front office of the apartment manager and I ask for the key. I'm a little surprised at myself that I care this much, because up until this point, we had almost no contact with one another. I might see her once, maybe twice a year, just to check in on her. I don't know why I continued to check in on her, but I guess I looked in on her like she's the little old lady next door, the one you're worried is lifting boxes that are too heavy for her. And so, that's our relationship at this point for many years.
I get the key from the apartment manager. I'm not quite sure what to expect. I haven't seen her in maybe over a year. Whatever I was expecting, that's not what was there.
When I walk in the front door, I'm just horrified. There is just stuff. There is stuff on top of stuff. There is furniture on furniture, and there are papers, newspapers and printouts stacked on top of one another. There's just stuff from floor to ceiling in piles with seemingly no order to them. I'm just a little bit horrified by all this, because this is going to be days of work for me.
Another thing I find, is that there are these narrow pathways around her apartment to get from room to room, so you can shuffle your way through all this stuff. I make my way to her bedroom, and that's where there's this bare patch of floor that I'm able to work from. The reason there's this bare patch of floor, is that they had to cut out and they-- I mean, the coroner's office, they had to cut out the carpet around her body, so that they could take her away.
You see, she had been in her apartment and no one had noticed that she had passed away for several weeks, and so they had to cut the carpet out just so they could perform a proper autopsy and take her away. This space was the only place you could really get anything done, that there was any way that you could sort through anything.
And so, I'm in this space. I'm getting a little bit pissed here, because I'm here for days. My keep pile of stuff is it's not growing very fast. My throwaway pile, that's growing pretty darn fast. I'm starting to throw more and more stuff away, when I come across this pile. This is my pile. This is my stuff. And so, I take a little bit more notice of this stuff.
I start to open boxes, and there's my baby teeth, there's my baby blanket and there are these Valentine's Day cards that I had written to her that say, "Mommy, I love you." That was the first time, I think, in my entire adult life that I realized our relationship, as I remember it, hadn't been the way it always was, that at some point, I loved her and that she loved me. And then, I find another note, and this note says simply, "I'm bad. I'm alone. I'm so sad. I wish I were dead." And this was the first time I had ever thought about my mom as an adult in any way other than that boogeyman, something to be terrified by. And so, in this bare patch, in this increasingly empty apartment, that's where I started to find home again.
[cheers and applause]
Sarah: [00:31:15] Timothy Bell lives in Seattle, Washington, with his wife, whom he describes as the best. Tim has gone on to use these struggles from his early life to improve child welfare systems across the US. He now works with Casey Family Programs and the International Foster Care Alliance, devoting his time to children, youth and families at risk of child welfare intervention.
I asked him what he kept from the studio apartment. He still has his mother's meticulous records from when her parental rights were terminated. Here's what he had to say about that.
Timothy: [00:31:53] The case files I read are really heavy, but they have given me a new perspective on my childhood. As I read through them, I learned more about her side of the story. She had traumas of her own and she had so many health issues. Better understanding her side of things though puts me in this funny position, because while I don't forgive her as my mother, I do forgive her as a person who was just struggling to get by.
Sarah: [00:32:19] That was Timothy Bell. To see photos of Tim and his mother, go to themoth.org.
When we're back, our final two stories, a young writer in Cameroon struggles to have her first novel published and a new mother dispels the myths of childbirth. Watch out.
[melancholic music]
Jay: [00:32:54] The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.
And presented by PRX.
[melancholic music]
Sarah: [00:34:04] You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin Jenness.
We have two stories left. And the next is all about inequalities that still exist.
Musih Tedji Xavière’, our storyteller, was part of a global community workshop, where we worked with advocates in Africa and Asia to craft personal stories. Xavière’ told hers at a Moth Mainstage in Nairobi at the Kenya National Theatre. Here's Musih Tedji Xavière’, live at The Moth.
[applause]
Musih: [00:34:35] Growing up in Cameroon, all I ever wanted to be was a writer. My parents’ plan was for me to become an accountant and then get married, in that order. [audience laughter] But writing is the best way, and sometimes the only way, I know how to express myself. In school, I looked up to authors such as Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde, and Chinua Achebe, most of whom were Western authors. My role models were all men, because at school, we were only taught literature by men. I don't know if this was by design or if it was an oversight. I never imagined that a woman could be a writer, but I wanted to be just like this when I grew up.
I was 24 years old when I finished writing my first novel. I'd been writing the novel for about five years. I had to save money to pay for the publication of this book, because in Cameroon, self-publishing is the only option available to writers. We don't have book publishers. What we have are printing houses where the writer pays for the cost of printing.
Writing this book was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life, because at the same time, I had to keep up with my studies at university, stay up nights trying to perfect my craft and working part-time at a beverage company in order to save money. The pay was not good, by the way, and I had to save up to one million francs CFA, which is around $2,000 USD.
My parents did not always have the means to support me, which is why I learned to be resourceful at a very young age. They did not understand why I was so driven to become a writer either. When my mom came across me writing, she would sit down with me and say, "You and this your writing, no man will want to marry you. [audience chuckle] Try and be like your mates." I understood why my parents felt that way. They were concerned, because writing is an unusual path to follow, especially for a woman in my culture.
Regardless, I knew what I wanted, and I wanted to be a writer. I am the sort of person who believes that hard work and determination can get you anywhere in life. When I had saved up enough money, the first thing I did was rush to a printing house with a lot of excitement. The manager of the printing house gave me this doubtful look and said, "You wrote a novel? What's it about?" I said, “It's a coming-of-age story exploring the life of a young girl in an all-girl West African boarding school.” He said, "Wow, I would love to work with you. But you see, company law does not allow me to enter into contract with a woman without a male representative."
I was confused, and I said, “I wrote the book, and I have the money to pay for the cost of printing. So, what are you talking about?” First of all, there are no laws in Cameroon that prohibit women from representing themselves. There are certainly no rules that state that a woman needs a male representative in order to sign a contract. But this guy was adamant, and he said, "I am sorry. This is just the way that things are done in the printing business."
Clearly, they had their own special set of rules. It was not enough that I had written the book and saved the money. I needed a man to sign my contract for me. We argued for a while, and then I got angry and I left. I kept saying to myself that if he did not want to work with me, then I was going to find another printing house that was willing to. Having someone else's name on a contract that was supposed to be about my hard work would have taken away my sense of accomplishment. So, I pushed on.
But two months, four printing houses and four rejections later, I started to doubt myself. I started to wonder if hard work and determination was actually what it took to get anyone ahead in life. I felt as if I had overestimated myself. And then, one day, I confided in a friend of mine. I said to him, “This whole thing is giving me a headache. Maybe bringing in a man to sign the contract will be easier for me.” He said, "Before you give up, I know this other printing house that I want you to try."
The place he was suggesting was very far, and I was reluctant to go. I did not think that I had the stamina to withstand another no. But I decided to give it one last try. I had to take a six-hour bus ride from the northwest region to the central region of Cameroon in order to find this place. I arrived in the morning. It had rained, and the road was wet and slippery, as I walked up to the building where the printing house was. When I knocked, I heard someone say, "Come in." I pushed the door open, and sitting behind the desk was a woman. I had gone there expecting to find a man, but I was taken by surprise when I saw that the proprietor of the place was a woman. Her office looked more like our living room. The place smelled like food, and there were three little children playing with toys on the floor, and she was yelling and trying to feed them. I immediately started thinking to myself, oh God, she's a woman. Maybe she'll help me. But my idea of how the world works had shifted in a way that I also stopped myself from hoping too much, in case she said no.
When I sat down, this woman said to me, "Welcome, my daughter. What can I do for you?" I said, “I wrote a novel and I want to print.” She looked at me and said, "You wrote a whole novel by yourself? But you're so young. I would love to work with you. But in order for that to happen, you know that you need a man to handle the contract for you, right?" And then, she went on to tell me that her husband had just passed away, that is the reason why she was in charge of the business until her son was mature enough to take over.
I was in tears when I said to this woman, I said, "Look, you are a woman like me. You of all people should understand why I am reluctant to have someone else speak for me. This is my dream, and I want my name on my contract." I had hoped to appeal to her emotionally, but she still ended up saying no. So, I stood up and I walked to the door. I don't remember a time in my life when I felt more defeated. I was seriously considering giving up on writing, writing for good. I was tired of chasing a dream that clearly wasn't going to happen for me.
And then this woman said, "Xavière’, come back." I came back and sat across from her. She gave me this intense look and said, "Huh, you remind me so much of my daughter. She is so stubborn." And then, she said, "We have never signed a contract with a woman before, but I will make an exception for you." It took me a while to digest her meaning. When I did, I was filled with all these emotions that made me smile and cry at the same time. I could not believe that it was finally happening. I honestly cannot remember anything the woman said after that. [audience laughter]
My hands were shaking when she reached into a drawer and brought out a printing contract for me to fill out and sign. I know that my story does not compare to signing a book deal with a known publisher. But for someone like me, considering where I grew up, signing that printing contract was a first big step for me. That woman's decision to go against company rules just to give me a chance when no one else would taught me never to give up. Her actions taught me that in addition to hard work and determination, that we all need a hand every now and then.
My parents still don't get it. [audience chuckle] But recently, they stumbled across positive reviews of my novel and they seemed proud. This was six years ago, and that woman's son runs a printing house now, and I am happy to say that he now works with male and female writers, and that the rules and traditions are changing. Slowly but surely, more women writers have a chance. Thank you.
[cheers and applause]
Sarah: [00:44:32] Musih Tedji Xavière’ is a Cameroonian writer and gender activist. Almost 2,000 copies of Xavière’'s first book, Fabiola, have been printed. And now, she's working on a collection of true stories of women and girls with a fellow storyteller from The Moth Global Community Workshop. How cool is that? The plan is to compare the challenges faced by women and girls across the African continent. To find out more about Xavière’'s work, head to themoth.org.
Nya Abernathy is our last storyteller in this hour. She shared this at an open mic StorySLAM in Washington, D.C., where we partner with Public Radio Station WAMU. The theme of the night was Love Hurts. And she took the theme literally.
[cheers and applause]
A note of caution, if descriptions of childbirth might bother you, come back to us in a few minutes. Here's Nya, live at The Moth.
Nya: [00:45:30] So, who do you think gets lied to the most? I'm going to tell you who gets lied to the most. Pregnant women get lied to the most. [audience laughter] I was told, "You're going to love being pregnant," they said. "It's going to be amazing," they said. "You're going to forget all about all the feels of giving birth," they said. And I tell you, they lied. [audience chuckle] I was a little more than nine months pregnant, and I was miserable. In an inhuman way, never felt that miserable in my life. If I had the ability, I literally would have reached into my body and pulled my child out, because I was ready to not be pregnant.
We had done all the things, I'd read the book about-- I don't even remember what it's called, something about birthing naturally, basically telling you that you could do anything. I read this book and I thought, I could give birth in the top of a tree if I had to, by myself. [audience chuckle] I am awesome, I'm a woman, I'm amazing. [audience laughter]
[cheers and applause]
I was ready to kick labor and delivery in the teeth. My due date came, and I went to my doctor, because my due date fell on my doctor date and I was like, "Tell me." Because I'd been waiting. I actually was waiting at 36 weeks, when they were like, "Well, you can have her anytime." I'm like, "Can I have her now? Is that possible?" So, I go to my doctor, and I'm like-- She's like, "You're half a centimeter--" I'm like, "You know what? I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to you anymore." [audience laughter]
So, my wonderful mother was visiting me, and I was rolling on the medicine ball, because I was so uncomfortable. And she was like, "Why don't we go get a massage?" I'm like, “Fine.” The wonderful man who gave me a massage. He said, "You're pregnant. When are you due?" I was like, “Two days ago.” And he was like, "I'm going to massage you in all the ways they tell us not to massage pregnant women." I'm like, “God bless you.” [audience laughter] And that night, I went into labor and I was ready. I was like, “I've read the books, and I watched the videos, and I talked to all the ladies, and I read all the right blogs, and I know that you're supposed to breathe this way and you're supposed to stand.”
My husband was my coach, and he was rocking with me and rolling with me and I was good. I got in the bath when we got to the hospital. I waited, I labored at home. I did all the things right and I'm like, “I'm going to make it. This is awesome.” I was like, "I'm going to go all natural. Bump the drugs. Don't nobody need no drugs. I could give birth in a tree. I don't need drugs." [audience laughter] I was doing all right. I was. I was rolling. I said, "One of the things they tell you is you feel the contractions like a wave, and you just ride the wave of the contractions." [audience laughter]
I did that for the first however many hours. And I'm like, “Yeah, it's good. It's all right. It's good. It's fine." And then, I hit transition. And if you've ever given birth, when you hit transition-- [spectator says it changes] That's right, girl. Who said it? [audience laughter] You better. I need to throw a handkerchief, because you better preach. It changes. I was like, [chuckles] “I'm good. We're going to do this. This baby's going to come out, no drugs, nothing.” I hit transition. I said, "Oh, that's why you ask for drugs. That's why. Okay, I understand."
I was so ready to meet my child. We didn't find out whether it was boy or girl. I didn't know who I was meeting. I was so excited. I was like, "Oh, I just can't. I just want this baby to come. I'm so excited." So, I'm going and going, and I hit transition. I'd been cool, right? Like, I'd been like, “All right, I'm just going to walk around the room.” I hit transition. I'm grabbing onto the bed, I'm rolling around on my back and on my side, my eyes are bulging, and I literally look at my doctor and I'm like, "Make it stop. Please just make it stop." I really thought I had things together. [audience chuckle]
So, after a lot of pain, pushing and tearing, I got to hold this little child who completely changed my life. It really is like having your heart walk on the outside of your body. I remember right after, while my doctor is stitching me up, I looked at my mother and I said, "If I ever tell you I want to do this again, remind me of how I feel right now, because I'm not doing this ever, ever again." [chuckles] I made it a point to remember the pain, because I don't care what them ladies say, “You going to remember this.” I'm going to remember. But I have forgotten. And though that hurt, the love of the second love of my life, after my husband, is so worth it. Worth it enough that I'm crazy enough to be thinking about doing it again. [audience laughter]
[cheers and applause]
Sarah: [00:50:49] That was Nya Abernathy. Nya is founder of the Dignity Effect, where she helps people build a healthy, emotional legacy through storytelling, coaching, and workshops. She lives in Atlanta with her family, and she says she feels infinitely more powerful after giving birth. At the time of this recording, Nya's daughter was three and expecting her little brother to be born any day. You can find a photo of Nya and her family at themoth.org.
So, in closing in this hour all about women and power, we at The Moth want everyone to be part of the conversation around gender equality. Not just women. Together, we can change the story. So, that's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time.
[overture music]
Jay: [00:51:47] Your host this hour was Sarah Austin Jenness. Sarah also directed the stories in the show with additional coaching in The Moth Community Program by Larry Rosen.
The rest of The Moth's directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Jenifer Hixson and Meg Bowles. Production support from Emily Couch. The Moth would also like to thank the Ford Foundation and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation for their support of The Moth's Global Community Program.
Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Dave Douglas, Engu Baga Yoku, Blue Dot and Michael Hedges. 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.