The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: I Got You

Episode Date: December 16, 2020

In this hour, stories of community, solidarity, and support, sometimes from unexpected sources! A preacher's daughter, a grumpy grandfather, a conflicted young man, and a self-isolated writer. This episode is hosted by Jay Allison, the producer of this radio show. Hosted by: Jay Allison Storytellers: Lydia Caesar, Adam Ellick, Craig Mangum, Elif Shafak

Attention Houston! You have listened to our podcast and our radio hour, but did you know the Moth has live storytelling events at Wearhouse Live? The Moth has opened Mike's storytelling competitions called Story Slams that are open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night's theme. Upcoming themes include love hurts, stakes, clean, and pride. GoodLamoth.org forward slash Houston to experience a live show near you. That's the moth.org forward slash Houston. From BRX, this is the Maw 3D Oour. I'm Jay Ellison, producer of this radio show, and this time our theme is, I got you.

Stories about the times we have each other's backs, even or especially when it's not expected or easy. Our first story comes from Lydia Caesar. Lydia told this at the Sheldon Concert Hall in Art Galleries, where we partnered with the University of Missouri, St. Louis. A quick note, this story does deal with some mature themes. Here's Lydia Caesar, live at the mall. So, I currently live in St. Louis, but I'm born and raised in Hollis, Queens, New York. And New York and a house.

I am a church girl in every word, every sense, okay? I'm what they call a PK. This is an acronym for Preacher's Kid. My grandfather founded a church, a storefront with a handful of members, and by the time my father grew up, the church grew as well by the thousands. My dad took over the ministry and we have international churches, branches.

My dad's sermons were picked up by a radio broadcast that's heard by the masses. So I'm basically saying all of this to say that my dad is kind of a big deal in the church community. I got used to being called Pastor Caesar's Daughter as I was a little girl growing up and I'm a Leo. So the attention that came from being a part of the first family was okay, I didn't mind it so much,

but at the same time, this fish bowl life that we lived in, it had a lot of pressure. I was the second born of four kids. My dad is a total family man and we went to church every Sunday as you would expect religiously, no pun intended. We went to Sunday school, junior church, Friday night youth services. We even went to Christian summer camps and to be honest, I loved it. I would not change the way I was raised for anything in this world. And I actually began to love God for myself. I developed my own faith not because my parents forced it on me. So much so that by the time I turned 16, there

was a group in my church called Purity with a Purpose. And I joined this group. We were young girls who said we were going to save ourselves from marriage. We were not going to have sex. And so we met our husband, the man God had for us. We went, we had a ceremony where we got these 14-carried gold rings. I still have mine on today. It had purpose engraved on the inside. And this was, this was all me. Nobody said, you must do this.

But even though I was, you know, I had my own faith growing up, I was this sort of wild child. My mom says that when I was up, I was this sort of wild child. My mom says that when I was small, I wasn't even three. She said she went out and bought a book called The Strong Wild Child. Like she needed like a manual for me. She said I was so different from my older sister.

My older sister was mild tempered and she didn't give them any problems, but I questioned everything. I had a rebuttal for everything. For example, my sister was not allowed to go to her prom. My parents said it was a party, and they was going to be secular music and dancing, and that is what they do in the world. And we are not, we're in the world, but we're not of the world. We're set apart. So, partying is not what believers do, and she said, okay, and she didn't go. And I was watching. I was going to my prom. And I had a perfect lawyer-like Christian response

as to why I should be allowed to go when my prom came around. I said, mom and dad, if we look at the text, Jesus' first miracle in the Bible took place at a party. And the party was popping because they ran out of alcohol and our Lord and Savior turned the water into wine. So how can parties be off the table? By this time I was done, we were prom dress shopping. And this is the kind of Christian that I am, that I was, that I've always been. A free thinker. And even the way I dress, I always wore bright, bold colors, I wore clothes that fit my curves and I was a show off at church.

And this didn't always go over well with people. They judged me a lot. I'm the preacher's kid and I just wasn't supposed to be that way. But okay, also, there was these women. These holy, holy roller women, I mean they were so holy and I felt especially judged by them. I mean they wore turtlenecks up to here. They wore dresses down to their ankles. I was never going to be like them. It was a tall order of holiness that I felt like I was never going to be. I actually avoided these women, but sometimes I see them

in church, and one lady whenever she see me, she would hug me, and while hugging me, she would rub on my thigh to see if I had on a slip. And if I didn't, she would chastise me. I mean, make me feel like I was going to hell for not wearing an undergarment. Another woman told me that my hopes and dreams I wanted to entertain and sing.

She told me that that was of the world and that a woman of God has no place entertaining. I was supposed to be in the pulpit, spreading God's word. And I just felt like I wasn't free to be who I wanted to be just because I'm a PK. And I hated that feeling, but what helped me was my dad. He had this saying, he would say that our faith is not so much about religion and rules and dogma,

but it's about a relationship with God. And that relationships are flawed, just like we are. And I loved that. And that helped me make it through the times when people in my church made me feel like I wasn't so much a part of the church family. So by the time I turned 18, I started college. And I didn't go away, I stayed home, and while in school, I met this guy, and we fell in

love, and we started having sex. Now sex was complicated for me, because I liked it. But at the same time, it came with this guilt. I had made a covenant and I knew that I was not supposed to be having sex before marriage, but it was very, very hard to stop. So it was like a back and forth thing. And one day I remember feeling this like weird, keen sense of smell and this insane nauseousness. And I went and got a pregnancy test and it turns out that I was pregnant.

Now, this is the worst thing that could have ever happened to me. I fell into a deep, deep depression. I didn't even know what depression was until this time in my life. And I'm a preacher's daughter, getting pregnant and not being married is a mess. getting pregnant and not being married is a mess. And I said to myself, Lydia, this is going to be the hardest thing that you have ever had to deal with. I was a freshman, I had the rest of my life, I had of me, I had these huge dreams, I was not ready to be a mom, or to deal with all of that, just all of the mess that was going to come along with it. And even with all of this weight on my back,

I felt like the world was literally on my back. The thing that was the hardest for me was how am I gonna tell my dad? How am I gonna tell my mom and my church? And decided to tell my mom first. She and I are really close. And I also knew that even though she'd be disappointed that she was gonna be the most level-headed about it.

So I told her and it went how I expected. And then it was time to tell my dad and I knew that that was not going to go the same way. But I called my boyfriend and said, look, we have to do this together. So we told our parents that we wanted to sit down and have a meeting with them. So we met in our house, and I'm one of the cultures my boyfriend. My mom's on the other couch, my dad's on the stairs. My mom's pretending that she doesn't know. Shout out to moms because they keep their daughter's secrets. I think my dad just kind of thought that maybe we were going to get engaged, but that wasn't it.

And my boyfriend is the one who actually said it. He said, Bishop Caesar, by now my dad is a bishop. So he's just climbing. He said, I'm sorry, but Lydia's pregnant. And it was silent. My dad didn't say anything for at least 20 seconds. And when he opened his mouth, he says, how could you do this to me? And it hit me like a ton of bricks.

I could totally understand why he said that. We live in a fishbowl. My dad, my family is the standard. People look to us to be perfection, to not break the rules. And if anybody, if anybody in the Caesar family was gonna screw it up, it was gonna be me. And I can just imagine I could see it unfolding.

I could see myself walking in church Sunday after Sunday, my belly growing. I'm just wearing the shame. And I could see those holy roller women being like, see, so I shouldn't have been wearing them outfit. So whatever they were going to say, I would just could see it unfolding. And I said to myself, okay, you're in the choir and you're in the acting ministry.

And at that time in my church, if you commit a sin that people can see, a visible sin, I mean, because we all sinned behind closed doors, but if you got pregnant or had an affair or something like that, you had to sit down from your ministry during that season. You couldn't minister while in your sin. And I knew that I was going to be in church, but not ministering.

I wasn't gonna be acting and I was gonna be getting big and people were gonna be asking and buzzing, my gossiping and it was gonna to be like this domino effect of my congregation finding out. And I just, that was like a nightmare to me. So I made a decision that I wanted to announce my pregnancy to the entire congregation. I told my parents that this is what I wanted to do.

And my dad, he was kind of indifferent at this point. He really just wanted everything to go smoothly. But my mom loved this idea of me being able to control the narrative myself. So she and I wrote the speech. And the Sunday had come where it was time for me to go to church and tell this to the congregation. And that Sunday I walked into the church. I mean, this is my church. I know these people. I've been in that pulpit a million times, singing and speaking and ministering, but this day I felt like an outsider. I was so nervous.

The whole service I just sat there looking at this paper, then my dad finished his word and he says, at this time, my daughter Lydia has something that she'd like to say to the congregation. And I stood up. I was too scared to walk even up on the pulpit. I just stood in front of the church. And I had on this burgundy skirt and a white blouse that I got out of my mom's closet. It was way big. I did not want to be judged. And I stood there and I looked out 500 faces looking back at me, people who I knew they watched me grow from a girl

to the young woman that I was. And I started to read and basically what I said was that I made a mistake. I started having sex and I got pregnant. And that I let myself down, I let God down, and I let my family down. And that God, my family, they forgave me. And I asked for my congregation to forgive me as well.

And I also asked them that this is going to be a hard time for me. So please help build me up, not tear me down during this time in my life. And my face was down and I was just looking at the paper. And when I lifted it up, one by one I just see people start standing up. And next thing you know the whole church is on their feet and everybody's clapping and people are crying and I'm crying and I'm like oh my god why are they clapping? I didn't know like I didn't know what to expect but they were supporting me and it was over and I sat down and at the end of service one of the holy rollers comes up to me and

I'm like, oh God. She says, Lydia, I just want you to know something. I had my first child out of wedlock. And it was really hard for me. But you know what? God had my back and he has yours. You're going to be okay. You're stronger than you think.

And then another lady, another one from the Holy Role of Crew. She told me all three of her kids she wasn't married. And she said that she can't imagine how it is for me to have to deal with it as a PK. And that she's there for me if I ever need to talk to somebody that she's there. Another lady came up to me and she hugged me, and while hugging me and tears streaming down her face,

tears coming down my face, she said, Lydia, I've watched you grow from a little girl to this fierce young lady that you are today. I would have never been able to stand up here and tell my sins to the congregation. You are going to be a shining example. And your testimony is going to heal and help so many other young women who will go through the same thing as you.

And of course, there were the naysayers, Bishop Caesar, can't even control his own family, blah, blah, blah. But it came back to me what my dad had taught me my whole life. Was that those people who are talking and saying all this negativity, those people are probably super religious. They probably don't have a relationship with God. The people who opened their arms to me and were there for me, those are the ones with a real relationship.

And my church family, I learned something else about them that day, The people who opened their arms to me and were there for me, those are the ones with a real relationship. And my church family, I learned something else about them that day, that they were exactly that, my family. They helped me raise a daughter that I did not think I was strong enough to have. Thank you. That was Lydia Caesar. Lydia is a singer-songwriter originally from Queens, New York, who performs all over the country.

This is her singing now. I feel more alone. The closer we get it's uncomfortable. It's like you know that I ain't going to know it. Lydia now lives in St. Louis, Missouri. She's married and her daughter, the one she talks about in this story, is now 16. Lydia says she is her best friend. You can find out more about Lydia at themawth.org. You say you love me with your evidence, evidence, yeah, yeah, yeah boy show I would. Coming up, more stories on our theme I got you when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

No, no, no, no, don't hold on with Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org. This is the Mawth radio hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison, and we're hearing stories of time someone has our back, or when we stand up for others. Our next story is from Adam Ellic. Adam told this at a grand slam in New York City, which is supported by Public Radio Station WNYC. Here's Adam live at the Music Hall of Williamsburg.

I'm sure this is good for you. It's a stay. When my father was dying of cancer, he called me into the living room. Beside him was my 77-year-old grandpa, Marty. And he said no matter what happens to me, always take care of Marty. I was 21 so of course I agreed what kind of monster wouldn't. But I didn't love Marty. Marty was a raunchy offensive little fella, massive gut,

spindly little chicken legs and when he spoke it was an offensive comment about a woman or he was railing against a relative who didn't pick up a lunch bill seven years ago. Marty was born to dirt poor Jewish immigrant parents, 13 kids shared an outhouse. And when Marty was 16, he was forced to quit school to work in a butcher shop. Marty was obsessed with money. His goal was to never be poor again. And he eventually bought that butcher shop in a Hasidic Jewish neighborhood. Everyone there said Marty has the best burgers in town.

And he did, because he laced the meat with a cheaper type of meat called pork. My grandfather. We didn't have much of a relationship growing up. When he was in the meat shop, I was fulfilling my narrow view of success. I was accumulating degrees and becoming a journalist and I was dating girls who work at think tanks. And now I was stuck with this oath from my father to take care of a man I didn't love,

but I wasn't going to let my dad down. After my dad died for the first few months, I'd call Marty once a month and I would check in with him the calls were awkward, we were just going through the motions. And then one day I got a call that Marty's in the ICU. I went there and we probably both thought this was the end. Because when I got there, he finally had a real and raw conversation with me. He told me that he was still haunted by memories

of what he saw liberating the Dockhau concentration camp. He told me about losing his virginity to a French woman during the war. And he told me what we all knew, which a French woman during the war, and he told me what we all knew, which is he still felt guilty for being an absent, workaholic parent. He survived, and then I started calling him every day on my way to work. I just wanted to inject a little bit of happiness into his lonely life, and he soon declared those calls the highlight of his day. I was just

listening. He revealed to me why his business went bankrupt at 75. It turns out one of his own sons stole all the money from the meat shop and Marty was still heartbroken. I was just listening. Sometimes we forget about our amazing power to just listen someone back to life. Now I'll spare you the details, but as Marty got into his 80s, he was sicker and sicker. Every time, three or four times, I see you, surgery. We'd call the funeral home, and the sucker would come right back.

LAUGHTER Then I had to start going every month to Delaware to visit him and on those car rides I was kind of hating myself. You should be writing a book or going on dates, but he needed things and I had to take care of him and when I got there we had so much fun because this broke guy was freeing himself of all his resentment. The womanizer now had a female fan club. We went to his favorite frozen yogurt store and the girls came around the corner and kissed his cheek

and they're like he's our unofficial grandfather. I was kind of jealous of both sides. The nurses in the rehab center would come visit him on his day off to hear his stupid jokes. During grad school I brought a friend to visit him on his day off to hear his stupid jokes. During grad school, I brought a friend to visit him from Armenia. We walked in the door and he said, everyone else goes to get laid on spring break, and this shmuck goes to visit his grandfather. Marty and I are both a bit abrasive and grouchy,

and I feel like we created this space together that was like a place and a vulnerability and a sweetness that we never wanted to show to other people. I saw us as two single guys. We shop alone for groceries and we sleep in empty beds. Marty had two failed marriages and I've had a mess of a love life. And I feel like being together during those visits was our way of processing together our loneliness. The last time Marty went into the hospital was for herneous surgery.

And the doctor said, don't do it, it's way too dangerous. At this point, Marty had a pacemaker and a feeding tube and a catheter and a colostomy bag. And it was no life. And he said, let's do the surgery. He called it suicide by surgery. Just before they wheeled him into the operating room, I was at his bedside.

He was unconscious, and I was bawling. He was unconscious and I was bawling. And I was trying to decide if I want this man to survive or to die. I thought back, I panicked. I thought back to that pledge. I made my dad. I was supposed to take care of him and make him live. But there was nothing left. The doctor came to console me by my side. She was a gorgeous Russian cardiologist. And she said, you know, just before he closed his eyes, he told me, are you still single? I apologized to her in the midst of my tears and I said,

I'm sorry, please don't even tell me what else he said. I can't even imagine. And she said, he told me that if he survives, he's going to introduce me to a schmuck who has the warmest heart in the world. This whole thing started with me being terrified about taking care of someone who I didn't even love. And as he wheeled away, I realized that now I'm terrified

to let go of someone who I truly loved. Thank you. Cheers. Cheers. Adam Ellic is a Pulitzer Prize an Emmy-winning video journalist with The New York Times. He's been attending New York Story Slam since 2005. The first story he told won the Story Slam, which brought him to the Grand Slam, where he told this story about Marty.

Adam wrote us and said, Marty actually survived that surgery. He woke up infuriated that it didn't knock him off, but he got an infection a few weeks after and was promptly dead as he hoped. Adam made a documentary about Marty and his life, but they made a deal that no one in the family has allowed to see it until ten years after he died. So they can watch the movie in 2028. Up next, another New York City slamer, Craig Mangum. Craig told this story at a slam at the Housing Works bookstore, just to let you know this story makes some references to human sexuality. Here's Craig Mangum. So, I grew up in an Orthodox Mormon family, but I grew up outside of the state of Utah, which means I spent most of my childhood explaining

to my friends the rules of being Mormon, like why I couldn't watch an R-rated movie, why I couldn't play sports on Sunday, why I had one mom instead of three. But there was an end to this in sight, and that was the day that I would apply to Brigham Young University, which in my mind was this like blessed Holy holy land where the best and brightest of my religion would gather together

to receive our college educations and a wholesome environment fueled with faith. And so in the day arrived for me to fill out my application, thank you. I did so very excitedly, and I signed every piece of paper they sent me, including the BYU Honor Code, which is a legal document between the student and the university in which you agreed to live an orthodox Mormon lifestyle for the duration of your education. Now I signed that knowing at the time that I was gay.

And I signed that knowing that if I were to come out, I could be expelled from the university, lose my education, and potentially excommunicated from the Mormon faith. But I had a lot of hope. I hoped that the stories I had been taught as a child would be strong enough to protect me from a future I had been taught to fear.

And so I went, and I was very excited to go. Now I could tell you at this point horror stories about how mentally and emotionally abusive it was to attend college there. But today, instead, I want to tell you at this point horror stories about how mentally and emotionally abusive it was to attend college there. But today instead I want to tell you a story of something good that happened, and that was someone I met whose name was Charles Swift. Now is the Book of Mormon Musical teaches us. The happiest day of a Mormon boy's life is his mission, and this is very true at BYU

where at the end of your freshman year, everyone is pressured and encouraged to serve for two years as a Mormon missionary. You apply, you are sent somewhere in the world, you do not pick, and you teach people about Mormonism. Now in order to qualify to be a missionary, you go through a process called interviewing in which you meet one-on-one with a Mormon religious leader who ascertains your spiritual preparedness and worthiness to represent the church as a missionary. Now, Charles Swift was the Mormon bishop who I met with as I went through that process.

Bishop is a Mormon equivalent of a priest or pastor. And now, in the context of these interviews, they really can ask you anything about your behavior. There is a set list of questions, but they can go off script, and I had heard that they will occasionally ask you anything about your behavior. There is a set list of questions, but they can go off script, and I had heard that they will occasionally ask you if you are gay, or how they put it if you have homosexual thoughts. So you can imagine my fear, as I went into this interview with Bishop Swift,

I had not told anyone I was gay, and he did indeed ask me, Craig, do you have homosexual thoughts? Now in this context, I believed this man represented God, and I did not want to lie to God, and so I said, yes, I do. Now, in this moment, Charles Swift could have answered as many Mormon kids here, which is, it is a sin, you must resist it your entire life or you will go to hell, you will not be with your family in the next life. But to his credit, he didn't say that. He said, Craig, sexuality exists on a spectrum

and where you fall is something very personal to you. But if you haven't done anything, you are able to be a missionary. Do you want to be a missionary? And of course I did, I had been raised to want to be a missionary, do you want to be a missionary? And of course I did, I had been raised to want to be a missionary. And so I said yes. He said, Craig, now know this, God is much bigger than the boxes. We try to put him in. And I kept that in my mind. I kept that in my mind as I was sent to be a missionary in Bolivia and Peru. I lived there for two years and it's a whole

another story that I came back. and I had four, like, of the best months of my life. My family was so proud of me. I had done like everything they had ever wanted. And I did what all good Mormon boys do, which is date a lot. Try to find someone to marry and start your own happy little Mormon family.

And I remember sitting on my date with a beautiful woman and just suddenly becoming so aware of how false it all felt and how fake I felt and I felt I was lying. And in that moment, this world that I had tried to build for myself over 23 years, I just began to fall apart. But I couldn't tell anyone right, I'm at BYU, I had signed this contract, couldn't come out, I could lose it all. And so I went to the one place of refuge I had only known, which was Bishop Swift. So I scheduled a time with him

in his office hours and we were catching up and he says to me now Craig, I don't remember everything that people tell me in those interviews. I literally had 300 BYU students confessing that they were addicted to masturbation. I just don't remember at all. And he said, but you, you were my friend. And I remember what we talked about. How are you? And I just started to cry. As I told him what it felt like to lose your identity, your religion, your family.

And he just listened and he was just very present with me. And he said, Craig, you're always welcome to come and talk to me about this, but there are people much more qualified to see you through this transition in your life. And with me there, he called a friend of his who was a therapist and set me up with my first appointment. And with that therapist, he called a friend of his who was a therapist and set me up with my first appointment. And with that therapist, I was able to navigate the coming out process,

was able to lose one identity that was harming me and gain and find one, a new one. And in that moment, I say Charles Swift saved my life. In a religion that claimed to be able to save my soul, he saved my life by giving me tools to save myself. In November of 2015, the leadership of the Mormon Church announced a policy in which all LGBT members of the church will labeled apostates. And the children of those members of of those LGBT members, were barred from baptism until they were 18 years old, had left their family's home,

and forsaken their family's lifestyle. In the wake of that policy, 35 LGBT Mormons, ages 14 to 20, committed suicide. 27 of them were, excuse me, 27 of those were within the state of Utah and the average age was 17. So when I say he saved my life, I'm not exaggerating. And there are days I am so angry at Mormonism's inability to care for its gay people that I can't, it's hard to get out of bed. And in those moments, I remember Charles Swift

and I paused to think that the religion that I am so mad at is the religion that helped him know how to help me in my moment of need. And that is when I remember, always what he told me, that God is so much bigger than the boxes we put him in. And Mormonism was just a box. Thank you. That was Craig Mangum. Craig is a writer and graphic designer based in

Brooklyn. He's a former president of the Out Foundation, a philanthropic network for the LGBTQ plus alumni of BYU. He's currently writing a memoir about discovering the private lives of three generations of the gay Mormon uncles that preceded him. You can find out more at themoth.org. Also at our website you can share these stories that preceded him. You can find out more at themoth.org. Also at our website you can share these stories or others from the Moth Archive and you can find us on social media too. We're on Facebook and Twitter at The Moth. If these slam stories inspire you to tell one of your own, throw your name in the digital

hat at one of our virtual open mic story slam competitions. To find one in your city, and check out the upcoming themes, visit themoth.org. Coming up, our last story, an earthquake and unexpected solidarity when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org. You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison. Our final story

this hour is from Elif Shafak. Elif is a novelist. Her story is about blocking out the world in order to do your work, but the world has a way of asserting itself when you're trying to escape it. From the Cooper Union in New York City, here's Alec Schaffer. So years ago, I used to live in Istanbul on a street called Kazanju. I was writing my new novel here, writing and sulking. I was walking a thin line between creating a book and destroying myself. The street was quite narrow and so steep that whenever it rained more than three inches, all the water that will accumulate up the hill would come down in a crazy gush. On such days it was a river more than a street and we the residents were like passengers on a boat. I could not help but think that one could not settle down here for too long,

but only sojourn for a while. And interestingly, the history of the street seemed to confirm this. Once this place had been a cosmopolitan hub of cultures and religions, Jews, Greeks, Armenians, Levantines, and Muslims of every sect had lived here side by side. Over the years, not feeling at home anymore, most of the non-Muslim population had left,

but a few of them had stayed. And then in the early 1970s, an entirely different cluster of people had moved in, transexuals, and also prostitutes. They had built a life here until they were driven out by the local authorities, but a few of them had remained. And this is what I was in the summer of 1999, writing a novel called The Gaze. The story was so different than anything I had imagined before and far more surreal. But all of a sudden, I had hit a snag with a plot and the characters had rebelled against

me. Even the side characters were now not taking me seriously anymore. Naturally, I was depressed. The novel was sucking me in, little by little. And from then on, I had only two choices in front of me. I would either put the book aside and take refuge in the real world, or I would put the real world aside and plunge deeper into the story and write everything all over again. And I chose the latter. I decided, needed to leave my flat, nor to let anyone in until I had finished the first draft. Now my flat was very tiny. It had one bedroom and the kitchen with ceiling so low

that if you were to make pancakes, for instance, you could not possibly toss them up in the air. The bathroom was so narrow that when you took a shower, the steam would turn into a fog that wouldn't dissolve for hours. However, in one corner of the living room, if you put a stool in front of the window and you stepped on it and you Crained your head in the right direction

You could on a bright sunny day. You could see the sea. You could see the boat sailing across the boss first So it was a flat with a view as this As this real estate agent had once told me. And this is where I decided to quarantine myself for an indeterminate periods. Now at this stage I should probably tell you that I'm a rather restless person. Even when we go to a restaurant, I need to change seats a few times during the course of the dinner. And I don't like silence, and I usually write my books outside

in noisy crowded cafes, train stations, airports, always on the move. So for me, the decision to confine myself in this little space was a big decision and totally, totally out of character. Nonetheless, I was determined. I called my mother, my close friends, and my boyfriend, and I told them, as calmly and as confidently

as I could manage, that I would not be reachable for the next days, weeks, perhaps months. They asked me if I had lost my mind, and I said, look, everything is okay, but I need to make the sacrifice for my art. And I told them not to call me, unless I called them first. My mother started to cry, and she told me to get married and have kids and live a normal life.

I said, I didn't have time for that. I had a book to finish for God's sake. Now, today credit, they all respected my decision. And I agreed not to call, not to come, not to even send a postcard. That's satisfied. I unplug the phone, pull the curtains, and turn the radio up.

That summer, this my favorite rock station used to play Santana, at least ten times a day, particularly this song, Corazones Pinado, Peers' Heart, and that became my personal anthem in the sublime and daiver. But I wasn't totally alone. I had a smoky grey cat that was named Smoky. the Smoky Gray Cat that was named Smoky. She curled up on my desk and watched me carefully, eyes narrowed to slits as if she knew things that I wasn't even aware of. And in the States, I began to write the book

from the very beginning. Now the first day went very well. I was quite productive and elated. The second day, not bad, though by the end of the first day went very well. I was quite productive and elated. The second day, not bad. Though by the end of the third day, I was having migraines and panic attacks, and the need to go out for a walk was overwhelming. By the end of the first week, I had finished 75 pages,

as well as all the food in the fridge, which wasn't a lot to begin with. And now I was feeling on salty pretzels and sunflower seeds, which I was okay with really, as long as I had water and coffee, I was fine, but being a fussy creature, my cat was starving. Across from the house, there was a little grocery store. The owner was a grumpy man who never talked to marginals and refused to sell alcohol or any newspapers or magazines

that he suspected of being even slightly, slightly liberal. Every day when he went to mosque, he would put a huge sign on his door as if he wanted the whole world to see where he was. So unlike his wife who seemed privately spiritual to me, this man was publicly religious. Now, as I said, there was no food left in the kitchen. My cat was desperate, but I had made an oath. And also by now, I had the psychology of a vampire.

I dreaded daylight. I had not taken a bath in like 10 days. My hair had changed color. It was all oily and all tangled. But most importantly, I didn't want to break my promise just to go to the conservative grocery across the street. So nowadays, of course, it's so easy. We have the internet and everything.

We can do shopping without going anywhere. But back then, the people of Istanbul had found other techniques for this purpose. As those of you who might have been in the city would have realized, there are lots of apartment blocks there that have little shops at the entrance level. So what happens is the people living on upper floors, they usually take a basket, tie a string to it, and lower it down, and the shopkeeper puts the required items inside, then you just pull it up. So a lot of shopping,

a substantial amount of shopping in the city is done in this way. The problem was, Mike Grocer's grocery store wasn't situated at the entrance of my building, it was across the street. So here's what I did. I asked help from the old lady, from the Greek neighbor across the street. She was in the opposite building, and together, we extended a laundry line between our windows. I sent her a basket, which she then lowered down.

And through this complicated mechanism, I was able to reach the grumpy grocer with a note that said, bread, brown, please, cheese, feta, please, cat food with tuna please, and the pack of beer please. And it worked seamlessly, you know, the basket came back to me, everything was in it except the beer.

No problem, my spirits raised. I renewed my oath, never to go out until I had finished my book. That night at three o'clock in the morning, I woke up and the whole world was shaking. The walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Having no experience before with earthquakes, I was totally unprepared, like millions of others. I grabbed my manuscript, my cat in that order, and I ran out of the building.

That night, my Greek neighbor, the conservative grocer and his headscarfed wife, me and Smoky, we spent the night together. My cat was extremely nervous as if she knew that more than 8,000 people had lost their lives. Later on, as we listened to the radio together and realized the magnitude of the tragedy, I looked at the manuscript in my hands, you know? All of a sudden it seemed so small, so trivial.

What difference did it make, whether I finished this chapter, whether I found a twist in the plot? Tonight, in the face of death, we were all temporary brothers and temporary sisters. But tomorrow, everybody would go their own way. And the old same prejudices would reemerge. I was sure that Kazanjus Street would be back to normal. But I wasn't that sure that I could go back to my novel.

It wasn't a writer's block exactly, it was something like a loss of faith, which I had never known before, and which was deeper, darker, and more sinister. To me, to this day, this is one of the toughest dilemmas in my work, to have the faith, to have the belief that stories matter, that words make a difference and connect us across the boundaries, and the sneaky suspicion that all art is in vain

in the face of larger, darker world events. And between this optimism and pessimism, my heart is a pendulum, it goes back and forth, back and forth. In the weeks ahead, I joined the volunteers who were helping earthquake survivors by collecting blankets and food and so on. By the end of the summer, I was back in my flat again, writing again. And suddenly through the open window, I heard a thud. Someone had sent a basket to me across the laundry line.

And in it, there were two cans of beer. I glanced at the opposite building to thank my Greek neighbor, thinking it was her, but to my surprise, it was not. It was the conservative grocer who had sent them. He waved at me, a tired smile on his face, I waved back, and I understood that of the experience we had shared, something had remained. And perhaps at the end of the day, this is what we write this one to achieve with our stories, something to remain, a spontaneous bonding, a speck of empathy,

and also the possibility of change. Thank you. and the most widely read female author in Turkey. She has written 17 books. Her latest is 10 minutes 38 seconds in this strange world, nominated for the Booker Prize. Elif is also a political scientist, a women's rights and LGBTQ rights activist, and a twice-ted global speaker. Ted Global Speaker. You happen to have a story of a time you were surprised when someone had your back or

didn't or when you stood up for someone you never expected to. Tell us about it. You can pitch us your story by recording it right on our site, themoth.org, or by calling 877-799-Moth. That's 877-799-6684. The best pitches are developed for Moths' shows all around the world. The name is Deb Keltz. I live in the inner city of Minneapolis, Minnesota. I traveled out west alone in an Altima about three years ago and I wanted to go through the town of Ten Sleep Wyoming.

It's a population of 300. Some beautiful scenery there. And I'd read up in a moon travel log that there was a great little off road drive to a place called Castle Gardens. Don't go down that dirt road if there's any impending rain coming your way. Well the road was dry when I went on and the storm blew in. I quick as about seven miles in on the dirt road. I quick packed up what I'd taken out of the car, went to come back out and discovered that I was traveling

on a clay base called bentonite, which they sell as a facial product. I could not go up to one of the world's smallest little hills. I could not get the tires to grip that clay. Eventually I pulled over my phone miraculously worked. I was supposed to have emergency help insurance, and they told me that, indeed, I was too far off road, and therefore I would have to pay for a tow truck

that was 50 miles away. I walked out, over Caldard, out to the road. The sun was starting to set, and this population of 300, I it was going to be grim, so I put my thumb out when a truck went by it went by. Put my thumb out again when another vehicle showed up. They went by. The third truck, I put my hands up, like the YMCA signal,

like, woo! And they pulled over, it turned out to be a couple who lived in Tensleet. They knew I was going to have difficulty getting a room at the only hotel there, and they put me up at their place for one night. Fed me, drove me back out to my car when the road eventually dried up. They gave me shelter and food, and they even washed my car off the next day with a garden hose to get that clay off. Okay, I think that's probably it, right? Hi.

Remember you can pitch us at 877-799-Moth or online at theMoth.org, where you can also share these stories or others from the Moth Archive. That's it for this episode. Here at the Moth, as Alive Schafox said in her story, we hope that from our stories, something will remain, a spontaneous bonding, a speck of empathy,

and also the possibility of change. Please join us nexton, and Michelle Jolowski. The rest of the most directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, and Mike Bulls, production support from Emily Couch. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift.

Other music in this hour from Lydia Caesar, Brad Meldow, Oscar Schuster, Bruce Coburn, and Santana. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Mothra Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Mothra Radio Hour is presented by the Public Radio Exchange PRX.org. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, thomoff.org.

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