The Moth - 25 Years of Stories: Finding Power

Episode Date: March 25, 2022

This week, we feature two stories about power - who gets it, who wields it, and what it takes to find it. This episode is hosted by Jodi Powell. Host: Jodi Powell Storytellers: Lyralen Kaye, Phyllis Omido To find out more about Phyllis Omido’s work, check out her NGO The Center for Justice, Governance, and Environmental Action - centerforjgea.com To find out more about Lyralen Kaye's social justice theater and film go to anothercountryproductions.com

Attention Houston! You have listened to our podcast and our radio hour, but did you know the Moth has live storytelling events at Wearhouse Live? The Moth has opened Mike's storytelling competitions called Story Slams that are open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night's theme. Upcoming themes include love hurts, stakes, clean, and pride. GoodLamoth.org forward slash Houston to experience a live show near you. That's the moth.org forward slash Houston. Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Jody Powell your host for this week. This episode we're looking at power. Who gets it? Who wields it, and what it takes to find it.

And since March's Women's History Month, we're sharing two stories from 2017 of women and non-binary people that found power within themselves. First up is Lerillyn K. They told this at a Moth Open Mike story slam in Boston, where the theme of the night was Discovery. Here's Lerillyn, live at the moth. Applause. My mother sat in the passenger seat on the move from Ohio to Pennsylvania, staring straight ahead her lips pressed tight. And I was in the way back of the station wagon

with my feet up against the window, yelling out license plate numbers in a game that I made up to distract my younger siblings. For my mother, the move and my father's bankruptcy meant humiliation. But for me, it meant that the last three months of eighth grade would be spent at grade school number four. And I was nervous that the spitballs and signs hung on my back that had welcomed me to grade schools number two and three would be repeated. And all I wanted was to fit in. Fat fucking chance.

I am so much better at standing out at having really strong opinions and laughing too loudly and being a little too smart. So my mother, who was demure and pretty and nicknamed straight arrow in college, a woman with whom I had so little in common, we could barely talk without having an argument. She was very in favor of me fitting in.

Though had she known that I bought a pack of cigarettes and went to the woods to practice smoking, so that I could inhale in front of the popular girls without coughing, she wouldn't have approved of my methods. But they worked. I smoked, I drank, I streaked, I even cried when Jim Croci died. I did what I had to do.

So it's June and I end up in the green canvas tent in our backyard with my new friend Debbie Reese, whose dark eyes and dark hair make my body feel uncomfortably warm in specific places. And the humidity is pressing in. There's a rim of sweat along my hairline, as I lean toward her trying to make myself cry so I can get her to hold me. And she does.

And I know it's not the hug that I want, but it still sends my body into 14-year-old menopause, flashing hot, hot, hot, as Debbie leaves and I walk back toward the house. And I open the screen door and I walk across the kitchen to the living room, and there she is, my mother sitting on the couch. It's a tablo, actually. My mother on the couch cushion, looking up at her new boss, she's just been hired to be the secretary,

the principal at the local Catholic Elementary School. And her boss, sister Nancy, looking down into her eyes with a soft smile on her face. At the sideboard, Sister Terez is pouring herself a very big whiskey. And Sister Jean, Sister Nancy's old friend, is at the window standing a tad too close to Sister Doris, but her eyes are shooting daggers at my mother. And I get it, this is my first introduction to Dyke Drama.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . And still, my eyes keep going back to my mother's face because she looks so young and so vulnerable

and so in love, I barely recognize her. And I think, oh my God, I'm gay. And so is my mother. So much for nothing in common and I run out of the room. For the next 10 years sister Nancy and my mother work together every day and on weekends they slept in the king's size bed in my parents' bedroom while my father slept in the den ostensibly in my parents' bedroom. While my father slept in the den, ostensibly because his snoring would keep the rest of us awake. And the entire parish pretended that Nancy and my mother were just friends.

As for my mother and I, we had exactly two conversations about our shared gender preference. Conversation one. I'm still a teenager and we're having a huge fight and in the middle of it out of nowhere I just scream, at least I'm not a fucking lezzy. This is what's called living to eat your words. And my mother opens her mouth and then closes it and then opens it again and then she ran out of the room. Conversation, too.

I'm in my early 20s and Nancy and my mother have broken up. And I've come home from Europe with hairy legs. And I'm sitting next to my mother on the couch. And she leans over and starts pulling on the hairs. And then she says, you bisexual, what about you? What about Nancy? And she takes this really long pause, and then she says, she was my soulmate. I never had a friend like that before. Friends.

Oh, mom, the love that Dairnott speak its name. I didn't follow in her footsteps. Today is National Coming Out Day, and I'm here to say that I love being out and proud. I'm not sure those words aren't an understatement where I'm concerned. And I've spent a lot of time speaking and writing and working for gay rights. And every day I commit to my partner of 30 years, who looks at me a lot like Nancy used to look at my mother. And so I'm here remembering my mother and the nun and me.

That was Lerelyn Kaye. Lerelyn Kaye is an award-winning queer, disabled, storyteller, screenwriter, actor, director, playwright, novelist and poet, best known for the award-winning social justice web series, assigned female at birth, and for their solo show, My Preferred Pro Noun is We. Our next storyteller is Phyllis Omedo. Phyllis stole the story at the very end of a three-day intensive Moth Global Storytelling workshop that we produced in Tanzania in collaboration with the Aspen New Voices Fellows.

There are about ten people in the room to hear this story, so you'll notice the crowd sounds a little different. Here's Phyllis, live at the mouth. At the age of 31 years old, I had worked so hard to come up the corporate ladder. My family and relatives had invested so much in me after my mother died, so that I could help my younger siblings.

I got this new job in a new corporation and it came with a free company car and more money and I felt like I had the world in my hands. A few months into the job however, my son felt really sick and I started trying to find Kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami-kami- In my part of the world, when a child falls sick, you look for tropical diseases, malaria, typhoid. But you never think about anything else outside that. My son was later diagonalized with lead poisoning, something that was not common in that area where I came from. When he was discharged from hospital, I decided to find out a bit more kakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakak to allow this kind of work. One of the things I decided to do was test the children in that community, three of them actually tested positive for lead poisoning alongside my son.

I took this results to government in the hope that they would intervene and try to assist this community. But after I tried hard and approached different state agencies, I realized they were not going to do anything about it, because they just ignored me. I decided to go back into the community. Separately I had meetings with the elders and the women in the community. But on this specific day, we had converged as a community so that we find out what would be the way forward because we were not getting response from the government.

And therefore we set up a village meeting of about 800 people. I remember when I got into the community, a little boy called Samir rent towards me. His normal greeting would be, how are you? And I would say, I'm fine. But on this day he asked be, how are you? And I would say, I'm fine. But on this day, he asked me, how are your loved ones? I said, I'm fine. Then he asked me, why don't you ask me the same question? So I asked him, how are your loved ones? And he said, I love you only. This really touched my heart. It was very witty for us more about two-year-old, three-year-old's child. But then I had been there, Hinti, kakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakak Someone had thrown tear-gasted ass. And when I looked up, there was this police that we call Flying Squad, that had dropped this in the middle of our meeting.

There was a stampede. And I tried to help. I tried to run after Sonny. I tried to run after the other children. But there's nothing much I could do. Because I had, in the midst of all this, the police asking, where is this woman? Where is this philis? I knew that maybe if I gave myself up, Kami, kakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakak I was attracted. Brother, I was dragged by my neck like a criminal.

I lost my shoes in the whole fracas. I was, my clothes got torn because I was being pulled on stones and debris like that. But that was not the last part of it. As they cuffed me and made me sit, they made me watch as they damaged the community. They broke dough after dough after dough, pouring out the food, destroying the livelihoods of this community. I was heartbroken. I felt this was my fault. I asked myself why I started this. I had caused so much devastation for this

community. So I was drawn onto the police vehicle and take it to the police cell. I felt dejected. I had let my family down. They had invested in me. They had my sister, my brothers at home. They were expecting me to be there. Xavier, to help them also go through education. But at this point in my life, I had failed them. I was ashamed of myself. I reached the small cell. It was dark. It was very tiny.

And the whole floor was full of urine. I tried to sit, but there was nowhere to sit. At the corner, there was a bucket. yw hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik hulaik h Kutakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakakak My sister came, she travelled all the way from my upcountry home, and she finally managed to get here at around 2 a.m. in the morning. I was told to speak to her, she couldn't talk, because she was crying. She did not believe that I was a criminal, I was in a police cell. I didn't want to talk to her anymore, because I was just causing her pain. I told her to go home to look for my son, because I didn't know who was taking care of him. Kami takutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutak kakutakutak kakutak kakutakutak kakut what I was doing. I thought maybe I had broken some laws that I didn't know about. And in the morning when my name was called out, I was told that I was going to call to be charged with inciting violence and illegal gathering.

And so, rejected, I walked out of the police cell. But when I looked up, I realized that this whole community had worked from the community to the police. They had slept outside the police cell and waited for me to come out. And when I came out, they were also happy. They rejoiced, they clapped. They had hope. And therefore, I knew I had not choice but also to be hopeful. As I left to go to court, I knew that this had become my community as well. I knew that I was going to stand with them until I saw the end of this. Thank you. That was Phyllis Omedo, since telling that story in 2017, a lot has happened. So we got back

in touch with Phyllis to ask her a couple of questions and get her perspective on how things have changed. Phyllis wrote, 2017 seems like a lifetime away. However, the partnerships we have enabled us to navigate the very uncharted waters of environmental litigation in Africa. It has taken a lot of hard work, patience, persistence, and great resilience from our communities. Phyllis is actually being a little bit modest here, because in 2020, her work led to a landmark

$12 million settlement for the community members affected by the smelting plant. And Thai magazine named her one of the 100 most influential people of 2021. Wow! She wrote to us that working for Environmental Justice is tough, especially in Kenya, where Philly says that most state agencies aren't wired to serve the public, but to serve the few elites and business interests. And where the government, in spite of the new constitution, isn't citizen-friendly, but she's excited to finally implement the restoration and clean

up project for the community that's been contaminated with lead poisoning for over a decade now. We asked her what advice she would give to anyone who just heard her story and was inspired to do something. She wrote, quote, find it within yourself to believe in what you have set out to achieve. It has been a long and tough journey, but I wouldn't change a thing about it. It has been worth it. So believe in yourself and the integrity of your course and pursue it.

Everything you require along the journey will avail itself only if you do not give up. The world needs more than ever, people reminding each other of the need to care for people and the planet and to put an end to strife, greed and war and to go back to the basics of love for people and nature and a belief in our shared humanity. If you want to know more about Phyllis Omiro's work, we'll have information on her NGO, the Center for Justice, Governance and Environmental Action, in the podcast's show notes. This year, we're celebrating our 25th anniversary by going back through each year of the Moth's existence. Next episode, we'll have some stories from

2016. That's all for this week. We hope you'll come with us as we continue to take a look back at some of our favorite stories from the Moths 25-year history. From all of us here at the Moth, have a story worth a week. Jody Powell has been at the moth for more than 5 years. She's a producer, director, and educator who enjoys listening and seeking stories from beyond the main corridors. Originally from Jamaica, she currently lives in Harlem. This episode of the moth podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Jones, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Solinger.

The rest of the moths leadership team includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bulls, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Klucche, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Gluwowski, and Aldi Kaza. All Moth Stories are true, as remembered by their storytellers. 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.