The Moth Podcast: The Gift of Story
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This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows from New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more. The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.

To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon. Hey, Moth listeners, it's Leanne. I'm really excited for you to hear today's episode. But in the meantime, I want you to know that we're in the midst of our year-end fundraising campaign. The Moth is an independent nonprofit, and your support is what keeps our stories alive.

Here's the thing. Donations to public radio and podcast descriptions are important. But in order to keep our engine running, we're asking you to make a donation directly to The Moth today. Every dollar helps bring you amazing stories from around the world, like the one you'll hear in today's episode.

So if you've been moved by the stories you've heard this year, please make a donation. Visit themoth.org or text GIVE24 with no space in between to 78679. Once again, that's themoth.org or text GIVE24 with no space in between to 78679. Thanks for listening. Welcome to The Moth Podcast. I'm Jodi Powell, your host for this episode and one of the directors at The Moth.

Every personal story shared reveals the threads that connect us all. It reminds us we're not alone. Finding, developing, and sharing personal stories on Moth Stages around the world, on our podcasts, and on our Moth Radio Hour is a collaborative effort between our storytellers and staff made possible through the effort of our donors, audience members, and listeners like you. You make small personal moments come to life and mean so much to so many.

At The Moth, we have this really special opportunity to connect to storytellers from all around the world via our open mic story slams or pitch line or workshop programs at The Moth Pop-Up Porch or mobile listening hub. But today, we're doing something a little different. We're taking you behind the scenes of the main stage series. We want to show you how it all comes together. ♪

When at its best, main stage storytelling, what you hear on air and see on stage might appear effortless. These are incredible storytellers to begin with, but each person also works with a director, like me, one-on-one to craft and shape their stories, sharpening the artistry of moth-style storytelling.

It takes anywhere from five hours to two years for a moth director to help a storyteller shape their story for the main stage. It starts with, tell me what happened, and then, okay, now put me there with you, like it's a film, and we're standing there together. What are the sensory memories that you remember? What did you hear? What did you see? What were you thinking at the time? These personal stories are fingerprints. Think, why can I only tell this story?

Usually the first draft is way too long, and many times it's too distant, not emotional. So we like to think that our work is to find the heartbeat in the story, to find the emotional arc, with the storyteller bringing you right along for every step. There's the plot of the story, this happened, then this happened, but then there's what is the story really about? And on stage, these stories are like virtual reality for the audience listening.

We want the storyteller to be heard uninterrupted, and we want them to transport the audience to feel what they were feeling. We find that that's what builds connection. Here's a storyteller with Sarah Austin-Ginesse, who is also director, backstage in New York City. ♪

Okay, so what is your name and where are we? What are you here to do? My name is Crystal Finn. I'm about to go on and tell a story for the first time. How did you find the moth? I called the pitch line. I heard back from Jodi, who was amazing, and we talked on the phone and we were like, let's do this. My story is sort of a discreet story that happens over a single period of time and then reverberates.

But some of these stories are really large life stories. And to find the form to put that into 10, 12 minutes is really hard. And I think people probably listening don't, you know, aren't thinking about that when they're listening to it. But just the weight and the expansiveness of some of the

Events contained in this type package, I think is part of what makes like a moth story so taught and exciting. We bring main stage storytellers together the night before the show. We run the stories all together one last time and the directors and moth staff give final notes. And we give a lot of love and encouragement too. My name is Mathilda Mataba. We are in New York. I know you've just flown in from? Malawi.

And how do you know the moth? What was the rehearsal like last night at the moth office?

I had some emotions hearing the stories, but it was good for me because now I look at life in a different angle. Sometimes you meet people, you don't know what they're going through, the life they are living. And sometimes we tend to judge people based on the outward look, but they have a different feeling in their hearts.

I would like to encourage each one of us out there, if you are listening to this, be part of the moth. Tell your story. Let the world hear your story. Thank you. Thanks to the support of listeners and moth donors like you, we're able to find storytellers everywhere.

In 2022, I was lucky enough to be a part of our pop-up porch, a custom-built tiny home designed to tour the country and provide a welcoming space for communities to gather, share stories, and build understanding, reflecting our commitment to going where the stories are. And when the pop-up porch rolled up in Jackson, Mississippi, in walked Pastor Herbert Broome. I called Pastor Broome to talk about that recently.

Just wondering if you remember that great morning that we met off of the pop-up porch and you coming down and sitting down with me. Absolutely. That morning, I decided since I had retired, let me do something with my day. So there was an announcement that Moth was having a portable porch.

Now growing up in the country, I know what a porch looked like, but I never dreamed or imagined what a portable porch would be. I saw how y'all had set the sort of picnic tables and umbrellas out there. It was so pleasant. And we just got off with great conversation. And all of a sudden, this story developed. But I was amazed that and I still impressed you all so much and to you.

he invited me to go on some tours. And being from the South and being an old country boy, some of those places I'd never been and I wouldn't have probably gone without the moth coming and bringing me that invitation. So it was great. Is there any practice that you have that, you know, a few seconds before or when you're in the green room that you practice or run over in your head that you do right before you go to the stage?

First and foremost, and the most important thing is to first pray. And I'm talking about pray hard. Lord, don't let the butterflies get in my way. Lord, don't let me forget my line. And so with that, here's Pastor Broom, live at the Moth at the Wilbur Theatre in Boston. This is a pastor's dream to see so many people out here in the audience while I stand before you. But I promise you, I'm not going to preach tonight.

but can I get an amen? February 2020, the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum in Jackson, Mississippi had opened door in celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. I had just retired so I'm like I got time on my hand, let me go and experience some of my past.

As I walked into the main lobby, I was really amazingly pleased to see so many people there. Matter of fact, it was a lot of people older than I am. And they were sharing their stories with their grandchildren, their great-grandchildren, when all of a sudden, I heard a familiar sound. It's the same song we sang at our church, St. James Bethel Missionary Baptist Church in Tulu Community every Sunday.

The song is "This Little Light of Mine." As I turned to find out where it was coming from, I was really shocked because it was coming from the Jimmy and Sarah Barksdale Expo. Now what made it shocking was I had just retired from being an automotive sales consultant from Jimmy Barksdale. He owned the Cadillac dealership in Jackson.

I never thought that he was involved in civil rights. So naturally, my curiosity, I went into and explored the exhibit. I found a map of the state of Mississippi, and if you know Mississippi looked like a great big nose, the map had indication of those counties that had voter registration.

So as I looked at Wilkinson County, which is the tip of the nose, there was no map. Now I knew that there was voter registration going on in that county because I am a living witness, an eyewitness, an EYE witness that voter registration occurred. Both of my parents taught school there. My dad was industrial art. He taught algebra and he also was a football coach.

My mom, she taught English, Mississippi history, and home economics, which in other words means I know what fork and knife to use to cut a steak. Let's go back 61 years, 1963. I had just turned 10 years old. That afternoon, two cars pulled up in our yard, a sedan and a station wagon.

The men in the sedan got out the car, they walked to the door, and I heard a peculiar knock. My dad opened the door, and these men came in. They were so tall, they had to kind of bend down and go up under the doorpost. As a matter of fact, they could have played for the Boston Celtics on the championship team. They literally walked in each one of those rooms, and they made sure they looked in the bedroom, they looked in the closet,

They looked everywhere. Matter of fact, one of the tall men made one step on the ladder and he could shine in the attic. They were making sure that the only people that was at that house was the Broome family. The other two men went around the house and because our house was placed on center blocks, they shined the flashlight all up under the house, making sure there was no bomb there. When the thumbs came up, the door of the station wagon opened up.

This man walked to the house. My dad was so excited to see him. They did a manly hug and a handshake, and my dad introduced my family. He said, this is my wife Hurley. She shook his hand. He said, this is my daughter, Herta Janice. Now she's five years old. He reached down and he shook her hand.

Then he introduced me saying, this is my son, Herbert James. When I reached up to shake this man's hand, I was shaking the hand of Mega Wally Evers. He was the secretary of the state of Mississippi NAACP meeting. My parents and Mr. Evers immediately sit down at the table. Now, back in 63, children weren't allowed to just hang around and see what grown folks were talking about.

So my sister and I, we went back in the bedroom and we looked out of the window to see these big tall men with these long guns and side piece around our country. They was actually security guards making sure we were safe. That next morning, I was woken by the smell of breakfast. My mother had fixed everything that you want to imagine.

Because my dad's friend, who, by the way, attended Alcorn State University together, located in Lama, Mississippi. So they was old classmates. But they had stayed up all night long talking. My mom had grits, eggs, bacon, toast, even dad's favorite biscuits, along with syrup, coffee, and milk. We all had a wonderful time.

After they left a few days later, they had the first NAACP meeting in Wilkinson County. It was held at the local Methodist church. Now, the meeting started at 7 o'clock, but his was 7:20 and we were still at home. My mother, bless her heart, was just so slow. She used to frustrate my dad because she was always slow. When we finally got there about 7:30,

The parking lot was full of cars and trucks. As a matter of fact, there was bicycles leaning on the side of the church. Now in 63, they didn't have central air. So the windows of the church was open. The ladies that was in there, they had their little fan along with their patent leather purses. They were trying to stay comfortable. I don't recall everything that was said that night, but I do remember there was two songs that we sung.

The first song was "I'm not gonna let nobody turn me around." The guest speaker, he got up and he started talking about how important it was to be registered voters and that we didn't have to count beans in a jar. You didn't have to pay poll taxes. The only thing that was required was that you was a citizen of the United States and you go down and you register to vote. Road trip.

My dad had got all of us together and we stopped by the St. Clair service station. Now, my dad pulled up and the first thing he said was, "Ooh wee, this gas is so hot." When I looked out the window, 17.9 cents a gallon for premium gas. After we filled the car up, the next stop we made was at the Gulf service station. Of course, in 1963,

Black people couldn't go into the restaurant and order their food. We had to go by the kitchen door on the side, which was okay with us because the main cook was Ms. Paralee Lacey, my best friend's mom. And Ms. Lacey put our hamburgers in separate bags. When I opened up my bag, they had a big piece of meat. It had lettuce, tomatoes, onion, pickle, and even the grill was toasted to a nice crunch.

The buns was excellent. We drove 100 miles one way to Jackson, Mississippi. They drove downtown on Capitol Street and they pulled in front of the federal post office. They was mailing a letter to Washington, D.C. Of course, what I observed was they put that letter inside another letter that was addressed to my aunt in Chicago.

because in '63, if you mail a letter in Wilkinson County talking about going to Washington, D.C., I promise you that letter would have never left the county. June the 12th, 1963, my dad's friend, after attending a NAACP meeting in Jackson, Mississippi, pulled up to his house, only to be shot in the back. His wife rushed him to the emergency room

at the local hospital, only to be rejected and turned down because the hospital was segregated. He died right there on the spot. We got the news while my parents and us, we only had one TV in the whole house, and we all was watching Dad's favorite show. When all of a sudden the news flash came on announcing that Megawally Edwards was dead, that was the only time I saw my strong dad break down and cry.

As a matter of fact, we all cried that night. But it was too late to run and hide. As a matter of fact, instead of burning the stores down and looting the stores, they put on one of the most vicious boycotts in that county. No bag people even spent one red cent in the white stores. A few days later, people came to our house wearing their dark suits.

These were men from Washington, D.C., who presented my mom a letter. The letter that she sent to Washington, D.C., was a request for a grant to put on voter registration drive in that county. And it was approved. That next day, thank you, that next day, it was voter registration day.

And I stand before you and I promise you that was the only time that I can remember my mom being on time. As a matter of fact, she was blowing her horn, talking about, "Come on, James, we gonna be late." She sent my sister across the street to Mr. Johnson's house because remember, she was only five years old. So I rode downtown with my parents. They got out the car and they went in the courthouse.

Dad passed me the keys to his '57 Chevy. He said, "Son, I want you to go and get somebody else and bring them down to vote." My dad could trust me driving his car at 10 because he taught me how to drive at six years old. As a matter of fact, at seven years old, I had my own keys to my own transportation. I could literally drive downtown Woodville, Mississippi, wave at the police, tip my hat to the sheriff,

and they didn't pull me over. Now, you all might think it was that '57 Chevy, but no, it was that little 435 tractor on my way to the sweet potato field, 'cause my dad was also a farmer. As I went back to our neighborhood called Kegler's Bottoms, I drove past Mr. Monroe House, and instead of turning to the right, I decided to go straight. When I got to the end of that drive, it was a dead-end street. When I turned around,

That sit on that porch was Mr. Sidney and his wife, the Millies. So I asked Mr. Sidney Miller when I got out the car. Naturally, you know, I spoke and he said and I said, are you all registered voters with some excitement? He looked at me with a deep voice. No, son, we too old to vote. I'm like, I know he was served in the army and he's a well-dressed person.

So in my mind, I just immediately said this. Well, Mr. and Mrs. Miller, will you all register to vote so one day I can vote? Mrs. Miller didn't say a word. She got up. She went in the house. Now I'm thinking, ooh, is she going to get that old pump shotgun? Because they did say they were too old to vote.

Instead, Miss Millie came out. She had her little patent level purse. And ladies, you know those shoes you used to wear out? Now you make house shoes out of them. That's what she had on. She touched her husband. She said, sure, come on. We going downtown and we going to register to vote. They got in the back of my car. And I remember I'm 10 years old. I'm driving like this.

looking through the steering wheel and the dashboard so I could reach the gas and the brakes. They were quiet all the way down the street. One of the reasons they may have been quiet was because during that time, if a black person wanted to register to vote, he could possibly lose his job. He could go to jail. A worse scenario, he could even be hung to register to vote. When we pulled up

at the courthouse. They got out the car, still quiet, and they slowly walked into the courtroom or the courthouse. I stayed in the car and I looked in the rearview mirror and there was people on the other side of the street, and you know who I'm talking about. They was taking names and writing tags down. I wish everybody here could have seen what I saw when the Millie came out of that courthouse. Their head was high. They was actually holding hands.

as if they went in the courthouse and just got married. They walked back to the car and got back in the back seat. Now, all of a sudden, I went from being their driver to their chauffeur. When we got back to his house, he said, "Young man, I am so glad that you took us down, and now we are registered voters." When I turned 18 years old, for my birthday present, my parents took me down to the courthouse.

the Chancellor's Court Office, and I became a registered voter. And the feeling that I got when I cast my first vote, that was the first time I really felt like I was a true American citizen. As long as I live, the story of the Millers, the Brooms, Mega Evers, Martin Luther King, those stories will never die. Not on my watch. This little light of mine...

I'm gonna let it shine, this little light of mine. That was Pastor Herbert Broome. Pastor Herbert Broome was born in Laurel, Mississippi, to the late Reverend James Dee and Mrs. Holly Pierce Broome. He was raised in Woodville, Mississippi, and both of his parents were teachers and community activists. Pastor Broome is married and is also retired from the automotive industry as a sales consultant.

Here's more of Pastor Broom backstage in Boston with Sarah. What happened after you told your story on stage? I got a surprise and standing ovation. That just really made me feel warm because it's not my story, but all the people who have died and gave their life, like Megawala Edwards, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, who really, in the thousands, whose lives were sacrificed.

in wars to keep America democracy. What would you say to people who haven't told their story yet at the Moth? Is there anything behind the scenes they should know? Absolutely. It brings out your past. It let people embrace you. And a lot of people are resonated by what you tell them.

And I thank personally the mall for coming to Jackson, Mississippi in their little portable porch and that I had the opportunity to meet such a great staff that helped produce and drew that story out of my spirit.

And it's all because of the Moth Foundation. So anybody out there who has a story to tell, by all means, get in touch with the Moth Foundation. You'll be glad that you did.

You'll notice Passerbomb calls us the Moth Foundation. We're not a foundation. We are a small and mighty independent nonprofit and a driving force for human connection and transformation. We've seen students advocate for themselves with newfound courage. We've witnessed strangers become friends through shared experiences. This is the power of true personal storytelling. We can only create these transformative moments with your support.

Your donation directly to The Moth sustains the storytelling you love and helps others discover their voice. Has a moth story ever moved you, made you laugh, cry, or see the world differently? Help us bring that experience to more people.

Text GIVE24, no space in between, to 78679 now to make a fully tax-deductible donation. Your gift of any amount ensures the Moth continues building stronger, more empathetic communities in years to come. Text GIVE24, G-I-V-E, 24, to 78679 to give today.

To close us out, here's Sarah behind the scenes again, this time with Larry Rosen, one of our other directors. Here we are at Sony Theatre. Can you tell us something about The Moth that maybe listeners don't know? Anything about putting together a main stage show or this green room or anything about the experience that listeners might not know about behind the scenes? There's a lot of laughing. We do. We laugh a lot.

You know, people often think about those stories, you know, they'll talk about how touching, you know, they are. And we definitely get into the stories that are more serious and things like that. But, you know, we in the office and behind the scenes, I think we laugh a lot. I do. You know, which is one of my favorite things about it. We're done here. Okay. Thank you, Larry Rosen. It's my pleasure.

And that's all for this episode. Remember, if you want to help support the Moth's mission, text GIVE24 to 78679 to make a fully tax-deductible donation and help ensure our continued work to nurture empathy and build community. That's GIVE24, no space in between, to 78679. And a special shout-out to our Moth members and donors who have already made a commitment to help advance our mission.

From all of us here at The Moth, thank you for listening. And thank you for being part of our growing community.

Jodi Powell has spent over seven years at The Moth, starting as an intern with the education and community team. Since then, she has held roles as associate producer, producer, Moth Radio Hour host, and is now a director. Jodi has worked on a wide range of stories featured on the Moth main stage, including those in The Moth's published books. Jodi is passionate about the power of storytelling to bridge cultures, connect people around the globe, and foster deeper understanding.

Originally from Jamaica, Jodi is inspired by how storytelling transcends borders and brings people together.

Pastor Herbert Broom's story was directed by Jody Powell. This episode of the Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson, Jody Powell, and me, Davy Sumner, stepping in for Mark Sollinger. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Leanne Gully, and Aldi Kaza. All Moth stories are true, as remembered by their storytellers.

The Moth would also like to thank the Mississippi Museum of Art for partnering with us on our pop-up. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org. The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.