The Moth Radio Hour: The Big Reveal
58:12 Share

Looking to improve your diet in the new year? Try seeing a personal dietitian with Nourish. Nourish has hundreds of dietitians who specialize in a variety of health concerns, including weight loss, gut health, and more. Meet with your dietitian online and message them anytime through the Nourish app. Nourish accepts hundreds of insurance plans. 94% of patients pay $0 out of pocket. Find your personal dietitian at usenourish.com. That's usenourish.com.

Huddle up. It's me, Angel Reese. You can't beat the post-game burger and fries, right? Know what else you can't beat? The Angel Reese Special. Let's break it down. My favorite barbecue sauce, American cheese, crispy bacon, pickles, onions, and a sesame seed bun, of course. And don't forget the fries and a drink. It's gonna be a high C for me. Sound good? All you have to do to get it is beat me in a one-on-one.

I'm just playing. Get the Angel Reef Special at McDonald's now. Ba-da-ba-ba-ba. And participating restaurants for a limited time. This is the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm Suzanne Rust. In this hour, stories about big reveals. We'll be hearing from a young girl who discovers both her fragility and her strength, a reluctant middle school thespian, and a woman with a rather curious hobby. ♪

Sometimes it's good to start things at the ending. In this case, someone else's ending. Linda King told this story to Slam in New York City when we partner with public radio station WNYC. Here's Linda live at the Moth. Well, good evening all. You know, it may be hard for some of you to believe, but I love a good wake.

Funerals, not so much. Too much standing and kneeling and moaning and mumbling, but a good wake. You walk in, you sign the book at the back, you proceed to the front, you offer your sympathy to those on the first row, you view the deceased for maybe 15 seconds or so, turn around and proceed to the rear.

where you get to catch up with all the people you haven't seen since the last wake. Now, I was parked across the street from Mackin's Funeral Home in Island Park. Their lot did not have one single space available. They're the kind of place that has two, maybe three rooms, and they can have multiple bereavements at the same time.

I was here because my friend Hilda's husband had died. Now notice I said died, not passed. People die. Kidney stones pass. 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 center aisle to join her family mourners. I, in the meantime, wandered around the lobby, picking up the flyers,

the business cards. I was one time at a moratorium in Queens where they actually had postcards for you to pick up and send to somebody. What do you write on a postcard from a moratorium? 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. Hilda was maybe 10, 15 years my junior, and this fella lying 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 it's a man about my own age. And he says to me, "Mrs. King, did you know him from the group?" And I said, "Well, to tell the truth, I didn't know him at all. I'm a friend of his wife Hilda's."

The gentleman looked at me, sort of knit his brow, pursed his lips and said, "Mrs. King, my son was not married." He 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, cross the hall to Hilda's husband's wake. Thank you.

That was Linda King. 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 requests. She said, I never left the 70s, so I'd like to have some good old Motown playing in the background, and I'd like folks to enjoy themselves. Maybe do the hokey pokey. I want to leave them laughing. We

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. Aisha.

At 12 years old, being a girl meant being one of the boys. It meant hitting the courts and hitting the books. You could never catch me slacking. And part of this meant having this big group of guy friends to protect me, even though I was a good foot taller than most of them, a better ball player than 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 the school and the schoolyard. 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 of my family was difficult in this sense because I was always home, getting my work together, keep it together because you're the youngest girl.

And I told my mom, like, "Oh, mommy, mommy, can I please go with Marisol, Nelisa, Jessica?" And really, I was with Justin, Kevin, Jeremy. But somehow I got out, and I was so happy.

And we're at this new park, a couple blocks further than the last one, and we're thinking like, yo, we run these streets, man. But it's starting to get later and later, and I'm realizing like, oh man, I lied. I'm going to get in trouble. My mom doesn't know where I'm at, who I'm with. There was nothing worse than getting in trouble. So I tell my friends, let's start heading home. You know, it's late. It's 9 p.m., middle of the night.

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 a different friend lives. So we're dropping off one by one and ends up me, Justin and Kevin. And I'm starting really to panic, like I'm lying, I'm late, I'm supposed to be home already. I'm gonna get in trouble, I'm gonna die, like it's it. 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, Aisha, don't come home. And 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 right. So I take the phone back out and I die on my house and I'm ready with the same spiel. And I tell her like, mommy, mommy, I'm on my way home. She stops me again and goes, Aisha, don't come home.

someone got raped in the elevator and the call drops yet again. And here I'm starting to get real scared and I'm thinking, man, that could have been me if I was home on time doing the right thing. If I was there, that could have been me. And my two friends look at me kind of worried and ask 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. Like 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 bata, chancletas, y to. And she also, she's also there like, she's just ready and she holds something out and it's a metal turkey baster. And she goes, "Aisha, protect yourself." So I take it, not really sure what I'm supposed to do with that. And we go to the deli, you know, the sus illegal one that's always doing something wrong, but it's your fam 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 baste in the other, and I kind of just shoved both of them in my pockets, like, "Yo, what's more sus than this?"

And I'm still really panicking like man I'm gonna get in trouble there's cops everywhere and I didn't want to run the streets like this but I go home and I'm still thinking like this could have been me and I'm starting to realize there's a world bigger than just getting in trouble. And fast forward I'm in school and I'm thinking I'm bad I'm telling my friends like yo I gotta switch play you know like I'm boss and my teacher starts to overhear and she goes Aisha 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 gonna 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 in my Capri Sun. 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 Thespians, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

This episode is brought to you by Indeed. When your computer breaks, you don't wait for it to magically start working again. You fix the problem. So why wait to hire the people your company desperately needs? Use Indeed's sponsored jobs to hire top talent fast. And even better, you only pay for results. There's no need to wait. Speed up your hiring with a $75 sponsored job credit at indeed.com slash podcast. Terms and conditions apply.

You just realized your business needed to hire someone yesterday. How can you find amazing candidates fast? Easy. Just use Indeed. Stop struggling to get your job posts seen on other job sites. With Indeed Sponsored Jobs, your post jumps to the top of the page for your relevant candidates, so you can reach the people you want faster. According to Indeed data, sponsored jobs posted directly on Indeed have 45% more applications than non-sponsored jobs.

You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm Suzanne Rust.

In this hour, big reveals. All the world's a stage, especially when you're in middle school. Our next storyteller, Meredith Morrison, shared this story at an open mic slam in New York City, where we partnered with public radio station WNYC. Here's Meredith. 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 the 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 when it is. And they're like, no, no, we are trying out for the musical.

the three of us. And I was like, no, 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 like 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. You know, 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 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, 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 enter it, I feel like she's always like, yes. LAUGHTER

And so I enter and, you know, I'm standing in 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, 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. I was 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 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 you to read for Babe Williams." And I was like, "I know that role." She has over 200 lines and she's a part of 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. Okay, Jen. She's like, no, they'll have you read for these larger characters, but you could end up getting cast for a smaller role. It's fine. Relax. You'll be... I was like, okay, good. I was like, I want poopsie. She's like, I'm sure you'll be poopsie if you even...

Sounds like a perfect role for your first venture into this, you know, because she's a seasoned thespian at 14. So it is the fateful day where they're going to post that final cast list. We all gather, we're waiting for the director, who is the band teacher, to post the cast list on the auditorium doors. And me, Megan, Kristen, the twins are...

eagerly waiting and the crowd sort of starts 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 I'm like poopsie my girl she's down here and I see poopsie Lauren Wilkinson I'm like well that's not me who's this 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 a babe. How do you feel? I was like, I didn't want the lead. I didn't want a poopsie. And she's like, this is not the reaction I was thinking you were going to have. And she was like, you know what? Go home, think about it, and then come back tomorrow and let me know if this is something you really want to do. So I go, of course, to my sister's room.

I open the door and she's like, she's waiting for me every single time. She's like, so was it posted? And I said it was. And then I start crying and she's like, oh, you didn't make it. You didn't get in. I go, no, Jen, I got the lead. She's like, what? The lead? Babe? And I was like, yes, I'm going to be playing babe. And she was like, okay, all right. She's like, well, where's your script? And I was like, 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, and 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 Britney Spears mic 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 a 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 Bey was her first and last foray onto the middle school stage. I asked her how her off-off-off Broadway debut of "Pajama Game" went, and she said, "About as well as you might think an eighth grade musical at peak puberty and middle school awkwardness could go." Her sister Jen, on the other hand, went on to become an actress and casting director.

I was curious if getting the lead role made Meredith want to play less of a supporting role in real life. 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.

Babe also provided me a glimpse into my sister's world and an opportunity to connect with her and understand her more through doing something that she loved so much. To see photos of Meredith in 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 at a live performance at Alice Tully Hall at Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts in New York City. Here's Betty Reed Suskin. 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 born.

about to make the decision of building a home. Where we were going to locate that home had some problems. Every Sunday afternoon, we would drive out to Mel's father's and parents' place that 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 Saranap, a small town,

suburban area between two cities, Lafayette and Walnut Creek in California. There, we found a lot. There was an old concrete swimming pool in the middle of it. I think it had been a recreation area at some point. But there were orchards. There were oak trees. It was bordered by a creek. It was just exactly what we wanted, except for the fact that 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, Lusul Smith, who was an architect, who was willing to design our home, and we proceeded to do that. But being African Americans in a restricted area, we were going to be subject to death threats for five years. During the period,

of the construction. We had to make decisions. We had an eight-year-old, a third grader, who had to be enrolled in school. Decision to enter Rick into school was made simply because had we gone into the fall, his education would have been interrupted in the local school where he was attending as a third grader. But if he rode out with his father every day onto the site,

While the house was being constructed, we would drop him off into the lion's den of a school where he would be the only black child. We were the only family, the only family of color in the entire valley at the time. We had no idea that Rick would be subject, the target of those children

dinnertime conversations that were unmitigated bigotry in the presence of white children by their parents and that they would act out that hatred on the school grounds against my child. We wouldn't know that until much later. We did make some friends, a couple of friends. One was Marianne Powelson who had bought a lot with her psychiatrist husband because we were there. She was progressive.

and Bessie Gilbert, a Mormon, six-foot-tall pioneer woman across the street. These were our friends. As the house was under construction, a strange thing began to happen. I would be sitting in my car at the end of the day, just about dusk, sitting in the car in the summer heat, watching the streets, listening to the frogs, listening to the crickets,

trying to get used to being in this area. And each day, almost without question, some neighbor would walk down the street, would stop at the car, would say, "I am," and they'd get me their names, "I hope you'll be happy here." At the same time, the Improvement Association was meeting, and we were getting vicious letters threatening to burn the lumber as fast as we could stack it to do the construction on the house.

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, Marianne Powelson, who had been to Sam's Market down by the creek, came home, pounded on my door, irate. She was holding a poster in her hand.

announcing a minstrel show at the school. A minstrel show, if any of you can remember or are aware, was a form of entertainment that took place during Reconstruction. It was always white folks pretending to be black folks, and they were always created ridicule of African Americans, of people of color. But this minstrel show was

was being put on by the PTA as a fundraiser at the school that my child was a single black student. Marion, in fury, said, "You must do something." I hadn't a clue of how to confront this. I lived with it for about 24 hours. I didn't know how to explain it to my children. It was something that was alien to my lifetime. I had grown up in California.

On the day before the minstrel show was to be held, one day after Marion's announcement, I got into my car, drove to the school, not having a clue as to what I was going to say. My breath was being gasped out. The lump in my throat threatened to smother me. And as I neared the school, panic set in. But I got out, parked my car, walked into the principal's office down the hall. He was...

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, that 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-sitter, and made them perform the entire ugly show in our presence with tears streaming. It was a miserable evening.

I'm not sure what we accomplished. I've never known. But I do know that that was when I came into my being as a resident of that community. And I don't know what we accomplished because within a week, at Sam's Market, there was a poster announcing the Aunt Jemima pancake feed coming up within three weeks. Thank you very much. That was the one and only Betty Reed Suskin. Betty lives in Richmond, California.

You may have noticed that Betty tells us that a white friend had to handle the transaction for the purchase of her home. Betty's story takes place in the mid-1950s, prior to the California Fair Housing Act of 1966 and the Federal Fair Housing Act. Those were laws which prohibited discrimination in the sale, rental, and financing of housing. Before that, all bets were off.

Betty says that even after over six decades, she is still dealing with the traumatic effects from the years of death threats that her family received for choosing to live in their dream home. While onstage minstrel shows basically died out somewhere in the 1920s, blackface lived on in the movies and beyond, regrettably to the present day where whites and blackface still resurface.

I checked in with Betty via email. She told me that she had a stroke last year and that since then she's just trying to live life one day at a time. But that life has been very rich. Betty became a park ranger in Richmond at the age of 85, making her the oldest active ranger with the National Park Service. Prior to that, Detroit-born Betty has been a songwriter, an author, and a civil rights activist.

Betty's great-grandmother was born into slavery in 1846. Betty actually knew her. And at one time, Betty, her mother, her grandmother, and her great-grandmother all lived together under one roof. Four generations of powerful women. When Betty was a guest at the Obama White House, she held her photo of her great-great-grandmother tucked into her breast pocket. To see photos of Betty, her family, and their California home, go to themoth.org.

Coming up next, spinning wheels and busting moves when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Do you know about Jerry Lee Lewis wanting to murder Elvis? Or the hip-hop star who cannibalized his roommate? What about the murders ACDC was blamed for? Or the suspicious deaths of Brittany Murphy and River Phoenix? Or about Anthony Bourdain's wild lust for life and untimely demise?

These stories and more are told in the award-winning Disgraceland podcast hosted by me, Jake Brennan, every Tuesday, where I dive deep into subjects from the dark side of music history and entertainment. So follow and listen to Disgraceland on the free Odyssey app or wherever you get your podcasts. This is the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm Suzanne Rust. In this episode, we're featuring stories about big reveals, those moments with an element of surprise. ♪

Jason Nunez told this next story at a Moth High School showcase in Brooklyn. Here's Jason. Alright, alright, alright, alright. Yeah. Okay. 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.

Teenager's basically an adult, so... You know, like adults do, I wanted to get that one expensive present that was gonna 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 R Us?" So the next day we go to Toys R Us.

And, you know, they're showing me all these toys. There's 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. Um...

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 sister's bike. I've had my brother's bike. I've even had my dad's bike, which is like falling to bits and pieces at this point. Um...

So I run straight to my parents and I'm like, "Hey, hey, hey, this is the bike that I want." And I show them, I'm pointing straight up. And then they're looking up, looking at me, looking at each other, look back up, and they're like, "Yeah, we'll think about it." And I was like, I'm just telling them, this has to be it, even though I knew it was expensive because it was on the high, high shelf, and it was one of those bikes you had to contact the front desk for.

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 for 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? Yeah.

Like, what's the occasion? And, you know, he nods off my sarcasm. 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 Hummer 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, 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, me and you are gonna have a really good experience." Like, we're gonna go everywhere. I was planning on, like, going on the highway. I was gonna go to Central Park. I was gonna, you know, 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. When he said that, I was like, it's not there right now. 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. So two weeks pass and it was really starting to settle that my bike was going to be gone forever. And it hurt me, but it really brought me back to a time when my dad had first taught me how to ride a bike. I was around four or five years old.

He took me to the park on a summer evening, and he was pushing me along for a little bit, and then he finally decides to let go. Of course, I didn't notice, and I'm pedaling for a little bit. And then he says, like, from a distance, he's like, you're doing it. Like, this is you. Like, you're doing it by yourself. And I look down, I'm like...

"Oh, this is so much better than walking. I'm going so fast." And then I proceed to faceplant and everything, like cuts on my knees and stuff. And my dad's really big on metaphors, so he's like, "You know what just happened? You just fell. And life is going to do that to you a lot. So no matter how many times life knocks you down, you got to just get right back up." And that's what I did. A couple days later, I called up a couple of my friends, grabbed one of my hand-me-down bikes, and we went bike riding together.

We went throughout the city. I didn't pop any wheelies because I still don't have that kind of skill. Fast forward to about two years ago, I actually ended up getting my own bike, which my dad bought me. It's not yellow. It's black. It's electric. And it does the job. And 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 biking. 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 Jitesh 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 sight.

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 dancers in America to learn some techniques. Then back to practicing in my living room amidst a small audience of broken furniture and a horrified mother.

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 head spins. True to tradition, we would practice on the sidewalks. Startling morning joggers with James Brown screaming "Get up off of that thing!" on the boombox.

But I lacked the deep cultural understanding that American breakdancers had. I wanted to swim and all that was given to me was a petri dish. A friend suggested that the best way to learn something new is to teach it to someone else. So I landed volunteer work at this obscure little village called 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. In the class there was laughter and tumbling and flip-flops flying across the room. It was like I was witnessing the world congealing. Here are kids from the streets of Mumbai emulating kids from the streets of Brooklyn.

They would tilt their hats to the side and ask me if they were hip-hop enough. And I told them, "You have more street cred than my middle-class ass could ever dream of achieving." I stayed on, and after two years decided to organize a dance show, choreographed on a nice rap song. And a week before the show, 12-year-old Sameer came up to me and said, "Teacher, we are memorizing the dance sequence not on the words of the song,

but the sound of the words. 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 breakdance on a Bollywood song?" The purist in me said, "No! That is disrespectful!" But the pragmatic choreographer in me, who had six days left for the show, said, "Why didn't I think of that?"

We changed everything and that was the most under pressure fun we have ever had. Day of the performance. The audience has no clue that what they're about to witness has simply never existed before. 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 Bollywood songs. We wore 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 and invisible solidarity through street art. Thank you.

Jitesh Jaggi is a recent immigrant from India and a two-time Moth Story Slam winner. He currently resides in Chicago. Jitesh ended his career in finance one day when he lost all the data that he'd forgot to save on an Excel sheet and realized that he just didn't care. That tipping point led him to becoming a writer, and he is currently working on a book of essays. Jitesh can still do most of his moves, but confesses that he has grown a little rusty.

He says that his house has creaky wood floors, so there's always the chance of his downstairs neighbors thinking that there are six kids wrestling upstairs, even though it's just him breakdancing by himself. To see photos of Jitesh breakdancing, go to themoth.org. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time.

Your host this hour was Suzanne Rust, the Moth's senior curatorial producer. Meg Bowles directed the stories in the show with additional coaching from Vera Carruthers, Catherine McCarthy, Lauren Gonzalez, and Michelle Jalowski.

The rest of the Maltz directorial staff includes Katherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Janess, and Jennifer Hickson. Production support from Emily Couch. Maltz 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 Dodd Sessions, Keith Jarrett, and Punjabi MC. You can find links to all the music we use at our website at

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. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producers Jenna Weiss-Berman and Leah Reese-Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.