The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: The Big Reveal
Episode Date: March 17, 2021In this hour, we're drawing back the curtain! Surprises, discoveries, and difficult realizations. All will be revealed... This hour is hosted by Moth Senior Curatorial Producer, Suzanne Rust.... The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Suzanne Rust Storytellers: Betty Reid Soskin, Jayson Nunez, Jitesh Jaggi, Aisha Rodriguez, Linda King, Meredith Morrison
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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
theMoth.org forward slash Houston.
This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX, 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,
her reluctant middle school fespian, and a woman with a rather curious hobby.
Sometimes it's good to start things at the ending.
In this case, someone else is ending.
Linda King told the story to slam in New York City
where we partner with Public Radio Station WNYC.
Here's Linda, live with them off.
Well, good evening all.
You know, it may be hard for some of you to believe,
but I love a good wake. Uniroles, 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.
Now, I was parked across the street from Mackin's funeral home in Ireland Park.
There a 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 Hildes' husband had died.
Now notice I said, died, not passed.
People die.
Kidney stones passed.
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. But I knew her. She was a friend.
And 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, and she proceeded
to move off down the central 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. So, 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.
And he'll be,
Hilda was maybe 10, 15 years my junior.
And this fellow line in the casket was 20 years younger than her.
I thought to myself,
go on girl, do your thing, do your thing.
So, as I'm standing there respectfully for my 10 or 15 seconds, someone approaches me
and to 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, Hildes.
The gentleman looked at me, so I knit his brow,
purse, his lips, and said, Mrs. King, my son was not married.
And he looked at, he said, I think you're in the wrong room.
Well, he looked at me, and I looked at, he said, I think you're in the wrong room. Well, he looked at me and I looked at him and we started to snicker.
Then it turned into giggles.
And 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.
So he thanked me for having made it a little, the situation a little lighter and I did slide
right to the back, crossed the hall to Hildes' husband's wake.
That was Linda King.
Since the pandemic hit, Linda has been hunkered down with her son in Long Beach.
I confessed to Linda that I had some particular requests for my wake.
I'd like the mourners to exit dancing till 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 request.
She said, I never left the 70s, so I'd like to have some good old mode town playing
in the background, and I'd like folks to enjoy themselves.
Maybe do the hoki-poki.
I want to leave them laughing. We are family.
I got all my sisters with me.
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, can be eye-opening and humbling.
Our next storyteller, Aisha Rodriguez, shared such a revelation at a Moth education showcase
in New York.
Here's Aisha.
At 12 years old, being a girl meant being one of the boys and meant hitting the chorus
and hitting the books,
you can 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 foothold in the most of them.
I better ballplay it in half of them,
but, you know, we 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.
And we didn't really know nothing more
than a school in the school yard.
But one day things changed.
And we wanted to expand the horizons,
go to another ballpark.
And part of this was going out later and farther.
And being the girl, my family was difficult in this sense,
because I was always home, getting my work together know, keep it together because you're the youngest girl
And I told my mom like oh mommy mommy can I please go when Marisol and Elisa Jessica and
Really I was with Justin Kevin Jeremy and
But somehow I got out and I was so happy and
Right this new part a couple blocks further than the last one.
And we're thinking, yo, we run the streets, man.
But it's starting to get later and later.
And I'm realizing, 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 9 p.m. middle of the night.
And because they're 12, too, they're like, yeah, you should let's go.
So we're walking home and the way it works is that I live the farthest from the park
and each avenue and a different friend lives.
So we're dropping off one by one and the ends of me, Justin and Kevin.
And I'm starting really to panic, like I'm lying, I'm late And I'm starting to really te panicked.
I'm lying.
I'm late.
I'm supposed to be home and ready.
I'm going to get in trouble.
I'm going to die like you said.
And as I'm starting to have this panic attack,
my phone starts to vibrate in my pocket.
And 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, A Aisha don't come home in the call drops and I'm really
starting to think man the world is over as I know it and little did I know I was
raped 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 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 jobs 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 looking me kind of worried and asking what happened. And when I tell them, they look at me like, that could have been me. And my two friends looking at me kind of worried and asking me what happened.
And when I tell them, they look at me like, that's what you're scared of.
And this was when I realized I'm the girl of the group.
They can only protect me so much.
But they walk me home, and my grandma comes down to take over this protector role, and
she's ready.
She got her batat ch chancletas, ito. And she also, she's also there, like, she's just ready
and she holds something out and it's a metal turkey
bass there.
And she goes, Aisha, protect yourself.
So I take it, not really sure what I'm supposed
to do with that.
And we go to the deli, you know, the Sassaliga one,
that's always doing something wrong,
but it's your family, so it's okay.
And 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,
turkey based in the other.
And I kind of just shoved both of them in my pockets.
Like, yo, what's more susten this?
And I'm still really panicking.
Like, man, I'm gonna get in trouble.
This 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 it's a world bigger than just getting in trouble.
And fast forward, I'm in school and I'm thinking I'm bad and I'm telling my friends like,
yo, I got a switchblade, you know, like I'm boss.
And my teacher starts to overhear and she goes, oh, what was that?
And I tell her like, oh, I have a switchblade.
And she gives me the same look, like something's about to happen and I'm scared, I'm like, oh, I have a switch plate. And 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.
And she stops me.
And she goes, Aisha, if you ever have to go for the eyes
of the jugular.
And I'm thinking, damn, I can get my straw and my Capri's
son.
Like, how am I supposed to defend myself?
But after this moment, I started to realize being a girl
meant taking that turkey base there,
taking that switchblade, taking literally anything
in front of you to protect yourself,
because the world won't do it for you.
Thank you.
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 Thesbians, when the moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts
and presented
by PRX.
You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX.
I'm Suzanne Rust.
In this hour, Big Reveals.
All the world is stage, especially when you're middle school.
Our next storyteller, Meredith Morrison, shared this story at an open Mike Slam in New
York City, where we partner
with Public Radio Station WNYC.
Here's Meredith.
So the day that I was born ended my sister's four-year one-woman show.
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 tea ball.
She liked to arrive late to parties to, you know, 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. And 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 a time to really go out on a limb.
My two best friends, Megan and Kristen Hankins, the twins,
they were 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.
Like I'll be there.
Let me know what it is.
And they're like, no, no, we are trying out
for the musical, the three of us.
And I was like, no, that's not actually going to happen,
but thank you for thinking of me. And 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,
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.
And we see all three of our names are on it. And 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.
And it's almost like she set up like a in her own bedroom,
like one of those where you have the lights,
like she's backstage on Broadway.
It's just like her, it's already there.
And every time I entered, I feel like she's always like, yes.
And so I enter and, you know, I'm standing the doorway waiting
for her permission and her acknowledgement.
And I was like, Jen, like, I got, I got a call back for the musical.
And she's like, Jen, I got a call back for the musical and she's like,
really?
All right, you'll be fine, don't worry.
I'm sure they bring a lot of people back.
It's middle school, you know?
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 as like,
poopsie.
This is who I want to play.
She has 15 lines, like enough to be like a part of it.
So I might be memorable, but not enough
where there's a large amount of her 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.
And they give me the script and like,
we want me to read for babe Williams.
And I was like, I know that role.
She has over 200 lines and she's a part of eight
out of the 12 musical numbers, two 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,
go into my sister's room and she's on her bed.
How did it go?
And I was like, Jen, I don't know what to do.
They had me read for babe and she's like, who is this babe?
And I said, well, she is the lead.
She's like, like, the lead of the, I was like, yes.
And she's like, well, they just do that, Meredith.
OK, Jen.
She's like, though, 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 poop, see, she's like,
I'm sure you'll be poop, see if you've been.
She's like, sounds like a perfect role
for your first venture into this,
you know, because she's a seasoned
fespian 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 Chris and the twins are eagerly waiting, and the
crowds sort of start to part, and I see people starting to like look at me
which was not normal. I was kind of awkward like I'd like to blend in. So I start obviously at the
bottom of the cast list because that's me and like poop see my girl. She's down here and I see
poop see Lauren Wilkinson and I'm like well that's not me who's this and 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 babe.
How do you feel?
I'm like, I didn't want to believe.
I didn't want to poop see. And she's like, this is not the reaction I was thinking.
You were gonna have, and she's like, you know what?
Go home, think about it, and then come back tomorrow
and let me know if this is something you really wanna do.
So I go, of course, to my sister's room.
I open the door, and she's like, she's waiting for me
every single time.
And she's like, so was it posted?
And I said it was.
And then I start crying, and 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 get in.
I go, no, Jen.
I got the lead.
She's like, what?
The lead?
The lead?
Babe?
And I was like, yes, I'm going to be playing babe.
And she's like, okay.
All right.
She's like, well, where's your script? And I was like, Jen, I don't know if I want to do it. And she was like, think about
it. And I did. And 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 have my Brittany Spears Mike,
I'm very excited about, and the curtain opens,
and I walk out to start the play,
and I look out into the audience,
and I see Jen, my toughest critic,
sitting front row with bouquet of flowers ready
to congratulate me.
Thank you. That was Meredith Morrison, an educator who lives in Maine with her girlfriend and their
growing menagerie of cats. The role of Bay was her first and last foray onto the middle
school stage. I asked her how her off-off, off-brought-way debut of Pajama Game went, and she said,
about as well as you might think in eighth grade musical at Peak Puberty and Middle School
Aquareness could go. Her sister Jen, on the other hand, went on to become an actress and casting
director. I was curious if getting a lead role made Meredith want to play less of a supporting
role in real life. Playing Bay 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.
Bay 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.
To see photos of Meredith and the pajama game,
go to themoth.org.
We like our women wise at the moth.
And our next storyteller, Betty Reed Suskin,
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 in live performance at Alice Telly Hall at Lincoln Center for the
Performing Arts in New York City. Here's Betty Reed Suscan. Thank you very much. The year was 1953, and 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
two mills' fathers in parents' place.
It was 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 Seridap,
a small suburban area between two cities,
Lafayette, Walnut Creek, California.
There, we found a lot.
There was an old-scene concrete fling 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 brooded by a creek.
It was just exactly what we wanted, except for the fact that we 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 a quaker, the soul Smith who was
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 make decisions. We had an eight-year-old, a third grader,
who had to be enrolled in school.
Decision to enter into school was made simply
because had we gone into the fall,
his education would be 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 had been 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 dinner time conversations that were unmitigated bigotry in the presence
of white children by their parents, and that they would act out that hatred on the schoolgrounds against my child. We wouldn't know that until much later. We did make some
friends, a couple of friends, one was Mary and Paul 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 to meet 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.
It was 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, Mary and Paulson, who had been to Sam's market, down by the creek, came home,
pounded on my door.
I rate.
She was holding a poster in her hand, announcing a minstrel show at the school. A miniatur of show, any of you can remember or aware,
was a form of endocane entertainment
that took place during reconstruction.
It was always white folks,
pretending to be black folks.
And they were always created and ridiculed
of African Americans, the people of color. And they were always created and ridiculed
of African Americans, the people of color.
But this minstrel show was being put on by the PGA
as a fundraiser at the school that my child
was a single black student.
Marion, in fury, said, you must do something.
I had an acclue 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 Maryens' 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.
And as I neared the school, panic set in.
But I got out, parked my car,
walked into the Pinchables office down the hall.
He was present, he was out on the playground, I suppose.
But his costume was hanging over the doorway.
Big, blousey 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.
And 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.
And 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. Reed,
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?" And he said, no.
And 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
center and made them perform the entire ugly shell 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.
And I don't know what we accomplished because within a week at Sam's market, there was
a poster announcing the end to Jimima pancake feed coming up within three weeks.
Thank you very much. APPLAUSE
That was the one and only Betty Reed's husband. 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 on-stage minstrel shows basically died out
somewhere the 1920s, Blackface lived on in the movies
and beyond, regrettably to the present day
where whites and Blackface still resurfaced.
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 enrichment 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
and 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.
[♪ Music playing in background, music playing in background,
Coming up next, spinning wheels and busting moves when the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts,
and presented by PRX.
This is The Moth Radio Hour from PRX.
I'm Suzanne Rust.
In this episode, we're featuring stories about big reveals, those moments with an element
of surprise.
Jason Nunez told this next story
at a Moth High School Showcase in Brooklyn.
Here's Jason.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah.
Yeah.
All right, all right, all right.
Yeah.
OK.
So it was two weeks before my birthday,
and I'm sitting in my room thinking of what I wanted as a gift
And this wasn't gonna be no ordinary gift because I was turning seven and you know turning seven is a really big deal for me
Because seven is basically ten. Ten's basically a teenager
Teenagers basically an adult so you know 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
you know, it's collecting dust in my closet.
So I go up to my parents and I'm like, hey, could we go to Toys Or Us?
So the next day we go to Toys Or Us and you know, they're showing me all these toys
is like these jigsaw puzzles, action figures, and like everything.
And nothing was really catching my eye.
So, you know, I kind of wandered away.
And when I wandered away, I found myself in the bike aisle.
And it was just like immediate.
I look up at least 20, 30 feet and I see the beautiful bumblebee yellow
hummer bike with matte black tire seat and handlebars.
And it was like those scenes in the movies where it's like you and that one thing in a dark room and a light shining on it
You know kind of like right now
And like my feet were gravitating towards it
But my legs weren't moving and there was even like this angelic music in the background like all I heard was
And I've had my sisters bike. I've had my brothers bike
I've even had my dad's bike, which is like following to bits and pieces at this point.
So I run straight to my parents and I'm like,
hey, hey, hey, like this is the bike that I want.
And I show them I'm like pointing straight up.
And then they're looking at me, looking at each other,
looking back up, and they're like,
I won't think about it.
And I was like, I'm just telling them like this has to be it,
even though I knew it was expensive because it was on the
high, high shelf. And like it was one of those bikes you had to 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.
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,
like 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?
Like, what's the occasion?
And you know, he nods off my sarcasm,
and he's like,
he brings me to the backyard.
And the funny thing about our backyard is we have this like really heavy metal door,
and it has like five locks on it.
So he's like 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-humber bike with matte black tire seat and handlebars.
And I was in complete awe, like I'm going straight to the bike, I'm like 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, you know, feeling all over the frame.
And I literally picked up the bike and I was about to leave.
And my dad looks at me, he's like, where are you going?
And I'm like, I'm going to bike ride.
And he's like, no, it's like 8 p.m. You're seven years old.
Not gonna happen.
And, you know, 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 like opening the curtains
to our backyard and I'm looking at that bike
and I'm like, oh, coming Friday and me
and you're gonna have a really good experience.
Like, we're going to go everywhere.
I was planning on going on the highway.
I was going to go to Central Park.
I was going to do everything.
And the reason I kind of thought about that was because in my neighborhood,
Washington Heights, it's really common for a lot of kids to bike around in like a group.
And they would do wheelies and all kinds of tricks.
And 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.
But that's why I wanted to ride the bike so much.
And you know Friday finally came and I had to go to school and I came home like a man on
a mission and I threw my bags down and I went straight to the backyard, top lock, middle
lock, other middle lock.
Swing the door open.
And when I swing the door open, it wasn't there.
And I was really confused.
I was like, well, what's going on?
Like, what kind of joke is this?
And 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.
And when he said that, I was like, it's not there right now.
Like, we should go look for it.
And 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.
And we even hop in our car, and we're driving around
for two hours.
And so two weeks pass and
It was really starting to settle that like my bike was gonna be gone forever and
It it hurt me
But it really brought me back to the time when my dad at first teach had first taught 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 decided to let go.
Of course, I didn't notice and I'm paddling 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.
And I'm like, down, I'm like,
oh, this is so much better than walking.
I'm going so fast and then I proceed to face-playing and everything, cut to my knees and stuff.
My dad's really big on metaphors, so he's like, you know what just happened?
You just fell.
Life is going to do that to you a lot.
No matter how many times life knocks you down, you got to just get right back up.
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 a job.
I still fall off that bike, but I get right back up. Thank you.
That was Jason Nunez 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 hands-free bike-ape.
Our final story takes place in Mumbai.
But it was told at a Moth Grand Slam in Chicago,
where we partnered with Public Radio Station WBEZ.
Here's to test Jaggi live at the Moth.
The first time my mother saw me break dancing, she almost threw up.
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.
She did not see a pretty side.
This was in 2009 in India where there was no break dancing. 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 dances 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.
This soon led me to connect with other
eccentric losers in my city
and together we started making a fool of ourselves in full public view
contorting our bodies and suffering juvenile bald patches from headspins.
True to tradition, viewed 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 breakdances 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 Banganwadi.
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.
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 conjeeling.
Here are kids from the streets of Mumbai,
emulating kids from the streets of Brooklyn.
They would tilt their hatch 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.
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 Samir 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.
And 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 break dance on a Bollywood song?
The purest in me said, no, that is disrespectful.
But the pragmatic choreographer in me who had six days left for the show said, what
did 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 are about to witness has simply never existed
before.
Breakdance on Bollywood music.
Also in Bollywood costumes.
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 the Bollywood songs,
whatever we were comfortable in. Today here in America when I see kids break
dance, I think of the connection that they have with children across
the world in the slums of Mumbai, an invisible solidarity through street art.
Thank you.
Jatesh Jhagi is a recent immigrant from India and a two-time North story slam winner.
He currently resides in Chicago. JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES JTES J That tipping point led him to becoming a writer, and he is currently working on a book of essays.
Jatesh 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, break dancing by himself.
To see photos of Jatesh, break dancing, go to themoff.org.
That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour.
We hope you'll join us next time.
Your host this hour was Suth, the most senior curatorial producer.
Meg Boles directed the stories in the show, with additional coaching from Vera Carruthers,
Catherine McCarthy, Lauren Gonzales, and Michelle Jolowski.
The rest of the most directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin
Janess, and Jennifer Hickson.
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 Sister Sledge, Julian Lodge,
Blue Dod Sessions, Keith Jarrett, and Kunjabi 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 Vicki Merrick, at Atlantic Public
Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.
This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts.
The Mothradio 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.
information on pitching this your own story and everything else go to our website, TheMoth.org.