Fresh Air - Above All, Uzo Aduba Is Her Mother's Daughter

Episode Date: September 25, 2024

Orange Is the New Black actor Uzo Aduba grew up the daughter of Nigerian immigrants in a predominantly white Massachusetts suburb. She looks back on her late mother's influence in the memoir, The Road Is Good. Learn more about sponsor message choices: podcastchoices.com/adchoicesNPR Privacy Policy

Support for this podcast and the following message come from the NPR Wine Club, which has generated over $1.75 million to support NPR programming. Whether buying a few bottles or joining the club, you can learn more at nprwineclub.org slash podcast. Must be 21 or older to purchase. This is Fresh Air. I'm Tanya Mosley, and my guest today is award-winning actress Uzo Aduba. When she won her first Emmy in 2014 for her breakout performance as Suzanne Crazy Eyes Warren in the Netflix series Orange is the New Black, seated next to her at the awards ceremony in a regal blue Nigerian headdress and gown was her mother, Nonyem, whom Aduba tearfully thanked for immigrating to the U.S. to make a better life for her family. In a new memoir, Aduba makes clear that to know her, you must first know and understand her mother, who died in 2020 from pancreatic cancer.

Aduba's memoir takes us through her parents' journey in the 60s after the Nigerian Civil War, settling in and raising Aduba and her siblings in the predominantly white suburb of Medfield, Massachusetts. Intertwined with her mother's story is Aduba's journey, how she discovered acting, and the pursuit of her dreams in New York City before landing her breakout role in Orange is the New Black, for which she won two Emmy Awards. Aduba is known for her ability to embody her characters. She also won a third Emmy for her performance as Shirley Chisholm in the FX series Mrs. America, and she currently stars in the coming-of-age film as Clarice in The Supremes at Earl's All You Can Eat. Her new memoir is

titled The Road is Good, How a Mother's Strength Became a Daughter's Purpose. And Uzo Aduba, welcome to Fresh Air. Thank you so much for having me, Tanya. I would love to start our discussion in grounding it in this book. Can I have you read the first page of your memoir? As I write this, my mother is dying. For years, this is how I imagined I'd begin my book. That is how much the stories of our lives intertwine. Ours was the longest relationship of my life. When I first received

the news, there was at the core of my being a resistance. Up until that moment, I hadn't realized that I thought my mother would never die. I hadn't known that she was my belief system, that I thought my mother was a god, even if it was a little g. You see, my mother could do anything, lift anything, move mountains. Only a few inches above five feet, she was tall to me. She had that much fire in her. My boldness is bolstered by her sincere belief that I can accomplish anything. I began work on this book before my mother's cancer diagnosis and continued while my siblings and I cared for her, while I prepared to say goodbye. When I say that my mother taught me so much, even in dying,

I don't mean what she taught me in those final days and weeks. I mean the dignity with which she sat for the 495 days after her cancer diagnosis. She was then who she'd always been. Loving, faithful, funny. How could I lose her when I still had so much to learn? And each time I set out to write my own story, the only place I thought I could begin was the end. Uzo, thank you so much for reading that.

And my condolences on the death of yourzo, thank you so much for reading that. And my condolences on the death of your mother. Thank you. You know, I think we all, at some point in our lives, will have that moment when we realize that our parents, our mothers,

are mortal. And for you, it was also when you realized how clearly that she was you, that there was this imprint of her in you. And I was really struck by that year and a half after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, that you really saw the dignity in her and her ability to be able to have grace right before she died. In what ways did she show you that? Oh, you know, in a multitude of ways. It was the ability to still host and entertain people

when they would come and visit her and still do it with celebration, even if we all knew she was in pain. It was the way she would express her love to us faithfully, constantly reminding us that we were the best thing she'd ever done in her life. She'd say that to you. Absolutely. And she'd done a lot. It was in some of her final days the way that she remained fearless while being afraid, if that even makes sense. The peace beyond all understanding that she displayed, not knowing what's on the other side of life, but still meeting it with the optimism and positive outlook. My mom would always say, you know, you got to keep a positive outlook and stay optimistic and still be that. You know, you can say those things in your life. But to embody it. To embody it when tested. And she was that when tested still.

And it made me really proud to know that the woman I believe that she was, she actually was. This book is a beautiful tribute to your mother. And one of the things I thought about when reading it was there's this element of individualism in American culture where we don't really lead with our parents' story when we're telling our story. We're kind of told to like we – it's almost a footnote. You know, you ask, oh, okay, where are you from? Like the fourth, fifth, sixth question. This is really saying like when we ask, who are you, Uzo? You are saying, I am my mother's daughter. What about your relationship with your mother made it clear to you right from the start when you thought, okay, I'm going to write a memoir, even before she got sick, that you would write one that included her story.

Yeah, I think I knew that I was going to include her story because so many of the tenants by which I live and motivators that display themselves in me come directly from her. My self-talk, the way that I motivate myself into pursuing this business, going to audition after audition, the way I prepare for it is built out of language that my mother had given me and my siblings since we were children. It's her saying constantly to us, I've never heard of nothing coming from hard work. That's what she would say. All the time. I've never heard of nothing coming from hard work.

And when we were kids, you hear and you're like, okay, she keeps saying that. But then you grow up and you start to see life and you realize, number one, she's living that. You see her through her own conduct, working hard and breeding results, whether that's keeping a roof over the head of five kids and bellies full, whether that's having moved to this country and achieving not one but two masters, you know, in social work, whether that is showing up and shuttling us to whichever activity that we needed to be at and then coming home after a long day's work and cooking and getting everything ready to check homework. She worked hard and saw the impacts of that hard work. And I know that's how I talk to myself. I say that expression even still.

She poured so heavily into my cup. My cup is ultimately filled with her. You grew up in Medfield, Massachusetts. It's about like almost 20 miles from Boston, right? Yeah. How did your parents end up there? My dad got a job in Massachusetts, and they were in Boston. And then when they realized they were going to be settling in Massachusetts, you know, more permanently, there were two things that they were looking for.

Number one, they wanted a quiet community. You know, my family immigrated from Nigeria. They didn't grow up in the city. They grew up in a village. And that's a quiet community, small, small town. And they wanted to continue that tradition. Second, you know, my parents have a humble background and couldn't afford, you know, sending kids to a bunch of private schools. That was beyond their –

And the schools were good there in Medfield. And the schools were great, excellent. And that was really what they were circling and paying most of their attention to. The social aspects and makeups of the community were not things that they were as aware of. Meaning that you all would be one of the only black families in your community. Correct. Correct. And only African family on top of that as well. The culture dynamic that was so foreign to them, I think, being immigrants and having such a strong understanding of their own, I don't think that was given the weight in that time that it's given in today's times when we're considering neighborhoods. Your mom actually said, I never knew there was anything wrong with being black until I moved to America.

Yeah. Yes. When did you become aware of the way that your blackness was viewed growing up in Metfield? I think it first started with my hair. As it always does. As it always does. You know, my first real core memory is being in the third grade, and we had a neighbor who had really long brown hair, this girl down the street. And I can remember one day, we were all playing in front of our house, and I don't know if we braided her hair, and then she decided to braid mine. I don't know if we braided her hair and then she decided to braid mine.

I don't know. But I just know she somehow was now getting ready to braid my hair. And she went to put her hands in my hair and she said, ew, your hair is so greasy. And there was grease in it. Yeah. You know, I mean, because we're laying down the front there, you know. Right. You had a ponytail. Yeah. And it had never occurred to me to even attach the word ew to it. That something about it, not because I thought it, but because she expressed it was bad.

And from that, I was also aware that it was different. And I had never even thought of it as being different. And then there would be added layers. You know, I think about my mom, so proud. You remember you used to put beads. You'd braid your hair and you'd put little beads at the end, almost in the same variety in the way that the Williams sisters had beads when they would play on the court. My mom used to do green, white, green beads for my sister and I in representation of the Nigerian flag. And I loved those beads.

I thought those beads were great. And there would always be someone at school who had something to say about the beads in the hair. You know, why do you have beads in your hair? Did she ever dress you all in Nigerian garb? Of course. Not to school, but I have a picture. We're standing in front of our house, the garage, and I'm wearing an Ankara traditional dress that I remember I loved so much. And I wore it until it was too small. Like I would squeeze myself into it. I loved so much at the house. And yeah,

if we definitely, if we went to a wedding or a Nigerian-centered party, something like this, we would wear trad clothes. But it was definitely this understanding, even from watching my parents and their behavior, you would see them put on their Western clothes where they're going to be somewhere that was Western-centered, and then sort of tuck away the, you know, their ichafu or their gele. And that was a message to you, like an unspoken message. We don't wear this there. Yeah.

In Nigeria, wearing traditional clothes, trad as we call them, or Western clothes, none is more sophisticated than the other. But here, the unspoken education was that one is more elevated than the other. And those were some of the growing pains that my parents went through and that we indirectly also observed and learned, depending on the communities we were in. Yeah. One of the things you mentioned is that your mother was highly educated, two master's degrees, but she also for a time worked at McDonald's. Yeah. And as a kid, how did you understand that? You actually thought maybe it was for like the Happy Meals or something, the toys.

You didn't really realize what was happening. I had no idea what was happening. You know, like I said, money was tight. You know, we were in this community that they were scraping to keep us in and give us everything that they could in the American dream. And one part of making that happen at a point when times were tough and my dad was between jobs and my mom worked at McDonald's. And it's funny you look at things as an adult versus like your kid. She was there because she was trying to pay the bills. She wasn't there for laughs, you know.

She was there to support her family. But me as a kid, I loved, I would love when we would go to the McDonald's. I remember it was in Medway, right up the road. And we would go through the McDonald's. I remember it was in Medway, right up the road. And we would go through the drive-thru there and she would come and we'd get happy meals. And because she was getting a discount, we would get so many more things than we would ever get when we were just going there before. And this was like the 90s, right? This was like late 80s, early 90s. Yeah, exactly. So you guys were getting like those glass cups and all types of things. All the stuff, toys in there. I got cheeseburgers and McNuggets and all these things.

And I have a fond spot in my heart for McDonald's because, you know, that helped carry our family, my mom, as I look at it as an adult, the lack of ego that my mother had when she was so fiercely protective of her family and would do anything, and I do mean anything, for us and was not ever too proud to do any job. The name of your book is The Road is Good, which is the meaning of your name. Yeah. Can you say your whole name? Because Uzo is an abbreviation. Correct. My full first name is Uzamaka, which means the road is good. And it has a bit more it's torrential rain. And then you realize the tire's flat. So you got to wait for that. And there's traffic. And then you run out of gas because of the traffic. And then, oh my goodness, it's 4.30 and the rain's still coming. And then suddenly, as you turn on to my street, the sun comes out, All the water magically dries up.

I open the door and you're here at 445. And I say, And how was the trip? How was the journey? You'd say, It was hard, but it's worth it because I'm here now with you. So, Like, it was, the journey was worth it. The journey was worth it.

When did you start shortening your name? When I was a kid. Uza is a common nickname for Uzamaca. So close friends or family say Uz. And if I hear someone calling me Uzamaca fully, even my parents, I know I'm in trouble. Did you ever want to change it? Oh my gosh, I know I'm in trouble. Did you ever want to change it? Oh, my gosh, yeah. When I was very, very tiny, I had a teacher who told me that my name was too hard to say.

And this was already after kids who would be like, Uzi, like the gun, you know, like, oh, what kind of name is that? That's such a weird name. And I was always already after, you know, I was the second name in roll call in my school. And after Dan Abramson, Dan Abramson was first. You still remember. You know his name, right? Dan Abramson, then Uzomaka came second. And I had a teacher who, by the way, did not have the easiest name to say, just incidentally. She said she couldn't say it, that it was so hard, such a hard name. Uzomaka, Uzomaka, I can't figure it out. And I wanted to just, I think at that time, feeling my onlyness, wanted to fit in, you know.

And I asked my mom if she could start calling me Zoe. Zoe was the name. Where did you get that name from? Zoe, Zoe, Zoe. That sounds kind of like. Okay, so it was kind of close to your name. Yes, Zoe instead of Uzo. I was like, that sounds kind of like. Okay, so it was kind of close to your name. Yes, Zoe instead of Uzo. I was like, that sounds easier.

And I think even the teacher said, can I call you Zoe? I was like, maybe this is a good name. Maybe that's where I borrowed it from. But I was like, Zoe sounds close to that. And she just thought it was the most ridiculous thing. She'd already, by the way, I'm number three of five kids. My older sister had tried this game once. She had already been through the way, I'm number three of five kids. My older sister had tried to try this game once. Her name is Onyi. She tried to get everybody to call her Tony.

Tony. And my mother wasn't having it. And she was ready, you know, as the third born. She said, I can't say Tchaikovsky and Dostoevsky and Michelangelo, if I can learn to say Uzo Amaka. And that was it. Let's take a short break. If you're just joining us, my guest is award-winning actor Uzo Aduba. She's written a new memoir, The Road is Good. We'll be right back after a short break.

I'm Tanya Mosley, and this is Fresh Air. It's a high-stakes election year, so it's not enough to just follow along. You need to understand what's happening so you are fully informed come November. Every weekday on the NPR Politics Podcast, our political reporters break down important stories and backstories from the campaign trail so you understand why it matters to you. Listen to the NPR Politics Podcast wherever you get your podcasts. This election season, you can expect to hear a lot of news. Listen to the NPR Politics morning wherever you get your podcasts. For a while now, you've probably been hearing about book bands, how they're gaining momentum everywhere in Texas, in Missouri, Florida, and Pennsylvania.

On the Code Switch podcast, we're taking a look at why. Why are so many books suddenly considered so dangerous to kids? Listen to our new series on the Code Switch podcast from NPR. This is Fresh Air. I'm Tanya Mosley, and my guest today is award-winning actor Uzo Aduba. She's written a new memoir about her life and the impact her mother had on it, and it's called The Road is Good, How a Mother's Strength Became a Daughter's Purpose. The book takes us through the journey her parents took in the 60s after the Nigerian Civil War, settling and raising Aduba and her siblings in a predominantly white suburb of Boston, Massachusetts. Intertwined with her mother is Aduba's journey, how she discovered acting and the pursuit of her dreams in New York City before landing her breakout role in Orange is the New Black, for which she won two Emmy Awards.

Aduba also starred as Shirley Chisholm in the FX series Mrs. America, and she currently stars in the coming-of-age film as Clarice in The Supremes at Earl's All You Can Eat. You knew you were going to tell your mother, your parents' story in a memoir if you were ever to write one. But you also talk about how she never really talked to you about her life. She never sat down and told you who she was. How did she talk to you about her life and where she had come from? Yeah, it's not really the Igbo or even Nigerian way. Maybe it's not even in any sort of way anywhere around the world, well, what do you mean you were crawling in the bush? And she's like, oh, during the war.

And you're like, huh? You know, you're like, go back a couple pages. I must have missed a chapter. And you might get, depending on the day, a little bit more information. And, you know, sometimes not. She'd be like, leave that thing. You know, like, I'm done with that. I don't want to talk about that anymore.

That's all I really have to say about that. You know, and it's like, okay, we'll leave it until, you know, maybe a few years later she would pick up. But then when we were working on this book, when I was writing this and we were sharing and trading stories and talking. You and your siblings? My mother and I. Your mother. My mother. Oh, so you talked to her about this book when you were writing it.

Oh, she knew. Yeah, because before I had begun this process before she was ill. So when I was talking to her and asking her stories, like, oh, you remember this? You know, the energy was always like, yeah, let's talk about it. And then she would sort of go back to doing whatever she was doing, because she didn't understand. There was no preciousness we felt in terms of time. You know, she was like, I was okay, I'm done for today. I have to go to my Zumba and be gone. But when she was diagnosed, the shape of her storytelling did change because suddenly now she did want to get into some of this more deep, rich specifics. Because I think on some level she knew this would be maybe, you know,

the final account of her life. And so she did want me, us to know some of the more detailed pieces, the names of some of the people who really were central figures in some of the major events that we had some knowledge of. You all both kept journals. I think she gave you your first journal, right? Yes. Yes. Third grade. And side note, I think the way you described that journal might be the same journal I got with the little lock on it, you know?

But before she died, she also gave you her journals. Yes. Yeah. Yes. How many of them were there? Oh, my gosh. Boxes. I couldn't even – boxes of densely paged, tiny handwriting of journals.

You know, I was just looking at one yesterday and – that I've not read because I haven't read them all. And I just opened a page and one of them was like page 252. I've seen another one that's like 400 and she writes small. And then sometimes if she's running out of pages, she takes a ruler and splits the lines and then writes in there. So they're really, really, really, really, really dense. And she didn't have her journal with her because she was traveling. You know, there's a paper clip held to the page of the entry because she wrote on a piece of paper that day's whatever event and then paper clipped it. So it's sequential, you know.

What's your process for going through them? What has it been? Slowly. My process has been, I'm actually, if I'm being truthful, it's, I'm still on the first one, which is like 500, 400 and something pages long. It took me a minute to start. When I read the first page, I could feel her breath come back into her lungs. And she was alive again, which felt like very intense. What kinds of things does she write about? She writes about her kids. She writes about her grandkids.

She writes about her day. I didn't know how much she prayed for each of us constantly, constantly. I knew it because she said it, but I really did not know just the length, the depth of those prayers. The journal that I'm on right now, or in the midst of, is one before I started working in film and television. I didn't know how many prayers she sent up to heaven for me to have my dreams come true. Oh, do you remember what she wrote in there about your dreams? for like peace of mind. She was praying for my stability. She was praying for whatever it is this Uzzah, you know, is trying to do. Just God, please give it to her constantly. I didn't know how much she worried for me, you know, always just that I would be okay. And that's true for my other siblings. Yeah, she loved us so much.

She was, I say it all the time and I'm going to say it again. I did not have a good mother. I did not have a great mother. I had an excellent mother. She took that pact, that initiation into that sacred circle so seriously. And it was everything to her to be our mother. And I am just so proud to be the daughter of Nanyama Aduba. Just a second, okay.

Why don't we take a short break? If you're just joining us, my guest is award-winning actor Uzo Aduba. She's written a new memoir, The Road is Good. We'll continue our conversation after a short break. This is Fresh Air. Hey, it's Mike and Ian. We're the hosts of How to Do Everything from the team at Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me. Every week we take your questions and find someone much smarter than us to answer them.

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What did you understand her to mean back then when she would say that? Oh, she would say she meant that she was spunky. Yeah. You know, she had spunk, you know. We were talking about it. I have a recording of her. She said she was because she was spunky. You have a recording.

Oh, yeah. What was it? Was like a family video? No, an audio recording as we were putting this book together and we were talking. It's because she was spunky. You have a recording. Oh, yeah. What was it? Was it like a family video? No, an audio recording as we were putting this book together and we were talking. She's like, because she's spunky. And she was talking about her famous quote, if they don't make a seat at the table, then bring a folding chair. Yeah, my mom loved her.

And she'd always do these, you know, like she's in a boxing ring, punches, you know, when she would talk about my fighting Shelley Chisholm just like this. Yeah, you know, she loved her. I think she loved – my mom loved groundbreakers. She loved people who weren't afraid. And I think that's actually exactly what she said about her. She was not afraid. She loved those groundbreakers, those people who were willing to go a step further, step outside the bounds and conditions that were told to them they should live by. She absolutely loved her. And so when I told her I got that job, whoa, she was so excited. Did you tell her you were almost thinking about not taking it because of her illness? Yes. And she understood, but was so excited that I had taken it. And she would look forward to when I would come home, because we were shooting in Toronto, and when I would come back to be with her for treatment. I was going up and down during that time. She loved hearing about the day's work on

set. Oh, you know, we're doing this scene today with Gloria Steinem. Or, you know, she loved hearing about all those parts. Or, oh, we're going to do the convention, you know, scene. And so, unfortunately, my producers on that project were able to get us, once it was complete, an early cut of it. So she got to see it. She got to see it. And she loved it. She absolutely loved it.

Absolutely loved it. It was her favorite thing that I did. It's her favorite. Yeah. I want to play a clip from it. You won your third Emmy, as I mentioned. And the scene I'm about to play, you are delivering, you as Chisholm, are delivering a campaign speech at the 1972 Democratic Convention in Miami. Let's listen. They say Shirley Chisholm tells it like it is.

So I'm gonna tell it like it really is. There are women within range of my voice right now that support McGovern. And there are women that support Humphrey and Wallace, and this is your right. But if you're talking about women becoming a political force to be reckoned with, you have to decide whether or not you're going to go with the candidate who cares about women's rights and will go with you all the way down the line, or whether you'll support one of the other candidates because it has been the traditional thing to do. In this country, everybody is supposed to be able to run for president,

but that has never really been true. Somebody had to do it first. So I did it. I did it because I was the only one who had the audacity to shake this system up. That was my guest, Uzo Aduba, portraying Shirley Chisholm in the Hulu series, Mrs. America. And Uzo, you really embody Chisholm's look. You had the curly wig.

You had the colorful clothes. But you decided not to do her lisp. thoughtful about how we wanted to approach her from a language perspective, a dialect perspective, we knew that there's probably an overwhelming portion of viewers who may not be familiar with Shirley Chisholm. That's true. Yeah. That unfortunately, history had not at that point given her, and from a pop culture perspective, her flowers, her dew. And so the craft of acting is story first, right? We want to make sure that the story is translated and communicated well. And so for that reason, what she was talking about was so much more important than to us, to me, than landing the affect she had on her speech, her slisp. That wasn't the thing that we were trying to communicate and get across. What we wanted to communicate and get across through this performance was how powerful and strong she is, how determined she was to fight for the good of the whole. And we wanted her fearlessness to be clear.

Yeah, you thought the l list might be a distraction. It was going to be a distraction because people are already trying to synthesize so much information about her with such a short window of time. They don't have the years to get to know her and then tune their ear to her list. We wanted to make sure who she is. I want to go back a little bit to your childhood again, before we move more into your career. You talk about when you first realized that you were Black, you were different in Medfield with your hair. But there was this other thing that happened that you wrote in the book, and that was the first time that you were called the N-word. What happened?

I was in school. And these boys who were from the high school, our high school was being renovated. So some of the students would come down to the middle school next door to take classes. And I was in the hallway and we would trade, you know, just general, simple little like, hey there, you know, I don't know. You? You, whatever. Something simple, little simple thing. And one day I was at my locker and I turned around and here came these two boys and one of them said to me, hey, you, N-word. Did you know him? That boy? Oh, yes.

Yeah. I could say their names now. I won't. Yeah. I know exactly who they both are. And I remember it felt like a bullet had hit me. I've never been shot before, but... That's how it felt. That's how it felt. You actually write in the book, you say, to me, the word meant, I see you. I've seen you.

You are not like us. When I want to, I can dismant taken aback by it. I didn't even know that kids my age knew that word. Yeah. Did you tell your family? I did not. Why didn't you tell? I know, I understand because there's so much you don't tell your parents. But, you know, looking back, why do you think you didn't tell? I didn't tell? how difficult it had been for my siblings and even more specifically how hard it had been on my older brother, the direct face of racism that he encountered there. And I knew how disturbing it had been, how traumatizing it had been, how hurtful it had been to my parents and my siblings who were just little kids. And I had seen also how disruptive I felt it was to my parents just trying to make it through the day.

You were trying to protect your parents. Yeah, trying to make it through the day. You were trying to protect your parents. Yeah, trying to make it through the day. Yeah. And I remember all of the stuff they had fought through and fought for. And it was like, just as it seemed like things had gotten quiet, this happened. And I didn't want them to have to start fighting again. My guest is award-winning actor Uzo Aduba. She's written a new memoir, The Road is Good.

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Hezbollah members began exploding in cars. Listen to a special episode of the podcast State of the World from NPR. Want the latest news from the campaign trail and beyond? Well, listen to the NPR Politics Podcast weekly roundup. Every Friday, we tell you what happened and why it matters. Listen to the NPR Politics Podcast wherever you listen. This is Fresh Air, and today I am talking to award-winning actor Uzo Aduba. She's written a new memoir, The Road is Good, How a Mother's Strength Became a Daughter's Purpose. In it, she explores her life growing up in the suburbs of Boston and being raised by her Nigerian parents and the strengths she gained from her mother's life, whom she lost to cancer in 2020.

Uzo Aduba is a two-time Emmy Award-winning actor for her role as Suzanne Crazy Eyes, worn in the Netflix series Orange is the New Black. She also won a third Emmy for portraying Shirley Chisholm in the series Mrs. America. I got to talk to you about this message that you received. You know, there's a story that is a famous story that you almost quit acting right before you got the role of Crazy Eyes in Orange is the New Black. But there's this other part of the story that you talk about in your book where you were just like done auditioning. You were really, you're feeling really dejected, right? And so you're at home and you turn on a masterclass. Yes. Oprah's masterclass.

And I turn on the television and I'm watching Lorne Michaels talk about- Executive producer of SNL. Correct. And how he founded that show. And he's talking about some B-sketch. I just remember it was about some B-sketch. I just remember it was about a B-sketch, and the reviews came out, and it was not well-received, and he decided he was going to give it another go. And while he's in his confessional talking, he says,

I thought I would try again if I could just keep the faith, he says. And the screen dissolved into the only thing I can describe it as is like a country time lemonade ad. And there were all these purples and oranges and reds in the sky. And there's a big tree like in a country time lemonade ad. And the words, keep the faith, scrolled by the screen from left to right. And it all worked, by the way, in the format and style of the show. And I remember seeing that, keep the faith, scroll by. And I said, oh, that's cool. I really like that. When this episode is over, I'm going to take a picture of that and tweet it. And I kid you not, Tanya, the minute I finished the thought of tweet it, my phone rang.

It was 5.43 p.m. And I got the call saying that I got the job on Orange is the New Black. And I was jumping up and down because, you know, just an hour, two hours before I had just quit. I had quit. Jumping up and down. My sister came over because I had called her to tell her to come over because I had something to tell her. I'm telling her instead I'm not quitting. I'm going to go do this show. I turn off the TV. We wind up talking and eating sushi and drinking wine and having a great time. A week later,

I realized that I hadn't taken that picture. To tweet it. And to tweet it. And I said, let me. Because now it has even more meaning. Correct. Exactly. So I said, okay, let me go back and find it. I'm fast forwarding at four times speed. Can't see it. I said, oh, I'll probably fast forward too fast.

I said, let me slow it down to two times speed. Fast forward again, two times speed. I don't see it. I said, you know what? It's fine. Let me just watch it. Like, it'll feel good. In real time.

In real time. Just to see it again. It wasn't there. It wasn't there. I know what I saw. I know what I saw. How do you explain it? A peace beyond all understanding. What did your mom say when you told her that? She believed every word.

She knew it was true. I know it was true. I am a faith-filled person. And for me, I knew God was real, but like kind of lived in the abstract somewhere, just like out here. But now I knew in my heart that God was real, and that it was going to be okay. And when I think about how life would then progress just a few short years later, where I needed more than ever in my life to know that everything was going to be okay, I was really glad that I had gotten that lesson.

Uzo Aduba, thank you so much for allowing us to know your mother through your book and also to know you. This has been such a pleasure to talk to you. Thank you so much for having me. Thank you for giving me the space to walk through this journey again. Uzo Aduba's new memoir is called The Road is Good, How a Mother's Strength Became a Daughter's Purpose. Tomorrow on Fresh Air, New Yorker staff writer Andrew Marantz joins us to talk about the uncommitted movement. In his latest reporting, he takes us to the battleground state of Michigan and explores why some progressives say they won't support Vice President Kamala Harris in the presidential election unless she changes her policy on Israel. I hope you'll join us. To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air's executive producer is Danny Miller. Our technical director is Audrey Bentham.

Our engineer is Adam Staniszewski. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne-Marie Baldonado, Sam Brigger, Lauren Krenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Bea Chaloner, Susan Ngakundi, Anna Bauman, and Joel Wolfram. Our digital media producers are Molly C.V. Nesper and Sabrina Siewert. Roberta Shorrock directs the show. With Terry Gross,

I'm Tanya Moseley. Who's claiming power this election? What's happening in battleground states? And why do we still have the Electoral College? All this month,

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