The Moth - Feel Good: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: July 28, 2026

In this hour, stories to boost the spirit. A cruise to Antarctica, a fresh loaf of bread, and bedtime stories. This episode is hosted by Moth Director Jodi Powell. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media.Storytellers:Born 50% deaf, Ellis Miller learns what they've been missing.Ron Hart shares a bedtime ritual with his daughter.Darrell Thorne performs on an Antarctic cruise… and encounters some choppy seas.Silvana Clark finds her purpose.Cormac Stevens discovers the joy of baking bread.Faye Lane's self esteem is challenged when cast in an unfavorable role in the school musical.Podcast # 991

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Jodi Powell. In this hour, we are leaning into stories that make you feel warm and cozy that take you into moments you wouldn't mind living twice. Moments you want to slow down that remind you, oh, this. This is what it felt like. Roll out that blanket with a cup of tea. Find that spot on the beach or near a fire. Let the smallest things be exactly as big and meaningful as they actually are.

Our first story comes from Ellis Miller. Alice told the story that Detroit Grand Slam in 2019 were we partnered with WDET. Here's Ellis. When I was little, I believed that babies came from God's factory in the sky. And that the day I went down the assembly line, they were missing a few parts. One of the parts I'm missing is a tiny piece of bone in my left ear.

making me 50% deaf. Now, growing up, this didn't have a big impact on my life. I had to sit in the front of the class, even though I was more of a back-of-the-class personality. I was terrible at the game telephone. Take me bird watching, and I thought she had superpowers because I could barely hear the birds, let alone find them in the trees.

Now, when I was 30, I started to worry about what would happen as I got older if the hearing in my right ear gradually faded. So I did some research, and I talked to my doctor, and he told me about a surgery where they would implant a tiny piece of metal in my ear and restore all of my hearing. And I was so excited for the possibility to find out what I had been missing this whole time, so a month later, I had a surgery date. after the surgery, I had to wait several weeks for my ear to heal before we would even know if it was successful. So I waited and I waited and I went back to work and I kept waiting. And one day I was with a coworker and walking across my office and I got to the door. I turned the door knob and it creaked. I turned it again and I heard this creaking noise.

and I started turning it over and over because I didn't know that doorknobs made sounds when you turn them. My eyes filled with tears because I had expected things to get louder, but I didn't know there were entire sounds that I had never heard before. My coworker is watching me standing there, turning the doorknob, and she said what was probably a,

typical voice, are you okay? I didn't know what to say. I was really embarrassed and overwhelmed, so I just rushed out of there and I could hear my feet as I walked down the hallway. When I got in the car and I shut the door, I jumped because it sounded like it slammed. And the whole drive home was like being in an action movie because I could hear these traffic noises coming from every direction. When I got home, I sat in the silence. of my living room, and I started crying, because everything was too loud. Over the next week, I wore an earplug to help my brain try to process all the new sounds it was hearing. Now, I tried on every single pair of shoes that I owned to hear the different sounds each one made as I

clomp through the house. I apologized to my cats for telling people that they were terrible at purring, They were very good, very loud. And I'd go into my backyard, and I would hear birds, so many different kinds of bird sounds. And each time I heard one, I knew exactly what tree they were sitting in. Unfortunately, this didn't last. As my ear continued to heal, the implant shifted, and the world went quiet again.

I was determined to get back hearing, so I had the surgery a second time a year later and the same thing happened, lots of waiting, tons of new sounds, and then quiet. This time I was too heartbroken and I couldn't take that roller coaster again to try a third time if it wasn't going to work. So I forced myself to accept that this was the way it was going to be. Later that year, I got sick. I caught a cold and as I was sniffling, and sneezing, I blew my nose and the implant shifted. And for a few hours, I had full sound again until I sneezed. And now almost every time I get sick, something like this happens, hearing returns for a few hours,

sometimes a few days. I'm the only person I know who looks forward to catching a cold. Once this happened and it was a Sunday, so I went to church as usual. and I heard our choir sing a song, and I was able to pick out every single note that they sang, every single part. And I thought, oh, this is why people get so excited to go to church. They get to hear this every week. And I know that it won't last. I know there's always going to be a limit to the number of creaky doorknobs that I hear and bird songs that I listen to. I know that there will be countless songs I only have

here, but I live in this state of hope, waiting for the next time that something shifts and wondering what it will be that I hear next. Thank you. Alice Miller is the pastor of a church in Granby, Connecticut, where they live with your dog Murphy. Ellis told us that several years later, the implant no longer shifts into place when they're sick, but that first sneeze always gives them the thrill of hope. The experience of gaining and losing their hearing left them with a lot of empathy that they draw on when working with people in their community as they deal with hearing loss due to aging.

I asked some of the tellers in this episode if they have a warm and cozy ritual of their own or a go-to-way to unwind. Ellis sent this. Where I live, there are a lot of hiking trails. Whenever my partner Kate and I have big feelings or are overwhelmed by life, we quote, take it to the woods. We go for a hike and keep walking

until we've talked everything out. It never fails to give perspective and right size, whatever it was that felt overwhelming. Our next story comes from Cormac Stevens. He told it in Burlington, where we're partner with Vermont Public. Here's Cormack, live at the mouth.

When I was six years old, I ate the perfect piece of bread. My parents brought it home in a brown paper bag with a red stripe going down the side. The loaf was oblong with a ridge of crust along the top, and the crust was a caramel golden brown, shiny with bubbles, and the inside was snow white. I loved that bread, and to me it became the epitome, me of what bread should be, the platonic ideal.

Bread with a capital B. When I was 12 years old, I started baking bread. My mother taught me how to make the sandwich loaves that she made two of every week. And the recipe was so simple that even a child could follow it, and I did, all the way up until my mother would turn out the dough from the mixing bowl. And with a few deaf twists of her hands,

she would turn it into a perfect sphere. And I would try the same thing. and the dough would stick to my hands and it would tear and all I would get was this big shaggy mess and I would look at her and I would ask her what she was doing that I wasn't doing or what I needed to do to make that work and all she could really say to me was that

I didn't know how to do it yet and then I just had to keep doing it over and over and over again until I knew how to do it and so I did and every week until I was in 18 years old, I baked bread. When I was 19 years old, I

finally got a book on bread. Not sandwich bread, but nice bread, artisan bread, capitalized bread. And I learned a lot from that book. I learned that an oblong loaf is called a batard. And I learned that the ridge across the top of the loaf

is called an ear, which you get by scoring it with a lumb. I learned that a shiny crust is caused by steam in the oven and that most commercial bakeries will inject steam into the oven and that it's almost impossible to get that level of steam in a home oven. That last part I learned while baking my way through that cookbook and trying to get to my perfect loaf of bread. I never quite got there.

I never got to capital B good, but I got pretty good at baking bread. Well, I thought I got pretty good at baking bread. When I was 22, I was living with my parents after graduating college during what we called the novel coronavirus. And I applied to work at a bakery and in my application I presented myself as a fairly accomplished home baker with 10 years of experience. And I had read so many books at that point. And I, but my first day came along and I realized that knowing all the names for things is not

the same thing as knowing what they are or how they work. And my first day I was inundated with new words, with new phrases, with new motions that I needed to learn. Instead of baking two loaves a week, I was baking 2000 every single day. And in the light of that, I did not feel like an accomplished home baker. I felt like I was 12 years old, looking at my mother's hands again. But I went home that night, and I came back the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and I did it over and over and over again until I knew, and I learned.

I'm 24 years old now. I know a lot more than I used to. I know how to shape the dough into a bitard. I know how to score it with alums so that it forms an ear. I know how to load it into the oven and inject it with steam, and I know when to take it out when it's a perfect caramel golden brown. I know how to take the bread and load it onto a wire rack and send it into the next room,

where the packers will take each loaf, and they will slip it into a brown paper bag with a red stripe on the side. And I don't know where it goes after that. But in my more sentimental moments, I do like to think that some of it goes to a six-year-old kid, and it makes them just as happy as it makes me every day. That was Cormac Stevens. Cormac is a baker from Waterbury, Vermont.

He currently lives in Philadelphia with his girlfriend Lucy and his cat Pomodoro. Since telling this story, he has learned how to laminate pastry, but his first love continues to be bred. In a moment, we go on a trip across the country in an RV, and to a dance party in Antarctica, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jody Powell. Our next story was told at a grand slam in Seattle at the Town Hall, where we partner with public radio station K-U-O-W. Here's Silvana Clark, live at the Moth. I'm in Manhattan, meeting with my literary. agent. Now, this sounds very hoity-toity, but she has just said to me, I've been an agent for 12 years. I've never had an author with such dismal book sales as you. Very encouraging. I'd written 10 books. I can write the books. I just can't sell the books. One publisher gave me a two-book contract,

gave me an advance, and the day I'd turned in my manuscript was the day he went bankrupt. Another publisher was so excited that my book was going to be a big bestseller, he told me to get an accountant to handle all my money. And my royalty check for the first year was $36.24. J.K. Rowling had nothing to worry about. And I left that office feeling pretty discouraged, and I decided to put my pathetic book-writing career on the back burner. I started applying for real jobs.

I tried and tried. Nobody wanted to hire me. And I was feeling pretty depressed. But I heard there was a shoe charity looking for some volunteers for one morning to help out at this homeless shelter. So I thought, I'll go, even though I'm depressed, and I don't want to.

So there were 15 volunteers. We helped people get new shoes, and then afterwards they invited all the volunteers to go for lunch at this restaurant across the street. We're all sitting at the table talking, and I see one man over in the corner who's a volunteer all by himself and he looked sad. And I thought, I should go over and invite him to come over here. But then part of my brain says, he doesn't want to sit with you.

You're a failure. You don't have a job. You can't write books. Plus, you'd have to talk to him, and I am not good at small talk. But I feel sorry for him, so I go over and I say, hi, I'm Silvana, one of the volunteers. He smiles. And I awkwardly say, did you have fun volunteering? And he says, I'm glad we could give those people shoes.

And then, because I'm bad at Small Talk, I say, do you want to come sit with us? You look sad. And he says to me, thanks for the invitation. I'm Wayne, CEO of the shoe charity. I told the CEO of a multi-million dollar nonprofit that he looks sad. But he came over and sat with us. Now, during the next eight months, my husband and I traveled cross-country to Bellingham. I still didn't have a job, and I still felt like a failure.

I had an idea. I wrote Wayne a three-sentence email, and basically it said, I hope you remember me. Why don't you buy my husband and I an RV, and you pay us to travel around the country giving away your shoes? And I hit Send. Ten minutes later, Wayne responds with, send me a one-page proposal. Now, I hadn't thought this through at all.

I hadn't even told my husband that we might be having a new job together a proposal and I sent it off. A month goes by. Wayne calls me and says, I bought you guys an RV. Can you be here in three weeks? And I said, of course. And then I went and told my husband we had a new job. Because we were empty nesters, he says, let's go for it.

For almost two years, we drove a big, bright blue RV to 34 states, giving away thousands of new shoes. And part of my amazing job was to find underserved charities. And we would go in on the designated time and literally kneel down and put new shoes on the feet of the people that we met there. We were at one location and a man came in and I said, what size shoe do you wear? He said, I don't know, I just get hand-me-downs. So I looked at the faded tongue on his shoe and I said, it's a size 13. I brought him some 13s. He put him on, he said, do anything bigger? Sure. So I went and I got him 15s. He put those on and he said, bigger? Sure. So I went and I got him a 15. I could tell he was embarrassed. So I just went and got

him a 16. I put him on. He walked around and he said, it feels so good to be able to walk without crunching my toes. And I had the privilege of going and giving away shoes at the Association for Abused Deaf People. And a week later, we gave away shoes at the Society for Torture Survivors. And, you know, I may not have been a best-selling author like J.K. Rowling, but I was able to make a little impact in the lives of the people that I met. And I found purpose in giving away shoes, and that was kind of more magical than Hogwarts. And as for the two books that I wrote after the RV tour,

they both flopped. Thank you. Sylvana Clark spent five years traveling across the country for several companies as a brand ambassador. Along with telling over 55 stories at Moth StorySlams, she now tells highly dramatic stories

to her three-year-old granddaughter. Since spending 19 months, giving away shoes, Silvana got another six-month job traveling in an RV. She visited cams for foster kids and entertained them with skits, magic tricks, and of course, stories. Our next story is from Darrell Thorne. He told this at a New York City StorySlam, where WNYC is a media partner of them off. Here's Darrell. It's March 19th, 2022. It's 11 o'clock in the morning. I'm nine feet tall. and covered in 2,000 mirrors, top to bottom. On my feet are stilts, brand new that I've never worn before.

On my head is a mirrored globe with the continents and latitude and longitude lines cut out. I can see through them. On my body is a brand new custom stilt suit with mirrors that I've had designed. And in my hands are silk chiffon fans. They're about five feet long, a blue and white ombre. And I'm feeling really great and really happy because everything's working well, particularly because it's freezing cold. The stilts are working well, the headpiece is perfectly in place, and I'm able to grip my hands tightly with the fans billowing out behind me. And I'm feeling really secure.

I'm having to take really long strides in my stilts because I'm trudging through snow. and the hardest part of all is this ferocious wind that is blasting into my face because I'm walking across the top of a glacier in Antarctica. So four months earlier, I get the call from a client and they say, do you want to go on this perform with us on the expedition cruise to Antarctica for 10 days? And at this point, I've been working for myself

as a performance artist and costume designer for about eight years, but this is definitely the most exciting thing that's happened to date. So I'm like really thrilled, but also I feel this sinking cessation in my stomach because I realize this is going to be very difficult for me. I'm someone who has always been risk averse, and I describe myself as, you know, having a very high self-preservation instinct. But really, it just means that there's a lot of fear.

Flying turbulence, like the slightest bump, I'm thrown into a panic. My palms start sweating, as they are now. I feel light-headed and, you know, I have other fears as well. Strange dogs, undercooked chicken, roller coasters, elevators, choking on a bay leaf. There are many things. And basically, anything that makes me feel there may be a risk I tend to shy away from. So I had certainly shied away from any gigs on a cruise ship. The idea of being on a boat tossed around in the ocean that was not for me.

But I thought, you know, this is amazing. And who knows, maybe the waters aren't so bad down in the south. So I go to a meeting with his client. First meeting we're laying out the performances, he's explaining the themes, et cetera. And I noticed there's four days on the calendar where there's nothing scheduled. And he says, I might as well tell you

that's when we're going through the Drake Passage. Those are the stormiest waters in the world. 30 to 60 foot waves, and it lasts for 36 hours. So my heart sank, my stomach flipped. My palms immediately began sweating, and I just was filled with terror instantly. And he saw that in my face, apparently. He said, it's okay.

You know, other people have canceled because of the Drake passage, so just let us know. So I go home, I'm thinking it over, and I'm just realizing I have to do this. I can't not do this because of fear. So I'm committed, and basically I spend the next three months with just this growing pit of dread in my stomach

as I'm designing my six new costumes and laying out performances and gathering all the things you need for an expedition to Antarctica. So the day comes. fly to Argentina, board the ship, and the captain comes on and says, we're delaying for six hours

because apparently there's a horrifying storm in the Drake Passage. So I'm like, okay, this is my worst fear in the moment. And I'm stuck here, there's nothing to be done, so I'm trying to just manage myself. The six hours pass, and we're leaving Argentina, heading into the Drake.

And it just so happens that the people who put this cruise together, brilliantly put a dance party that would coincide with going right into the Drake Passage. They happen to throw a party called Daybreaker, and they're masters of these sorts of things. So I was like dreading this. I heard about the dance party. I'm prepared. And basically that's exactly what happened.

We get into the Drake Passage. Indeed, these massive waves start coming. The DJs start spinning. And we start dancing. And it is like the most incredible. leaping and spinning and twirling and just like you would jump in the air and the floor is either leaving you or it's coming to meet you and It's totally unpredictable and it was like totally thrilling you felt like a kid on a trampoline and All of this pent up anxiety and dread that I'd had is just being expressed out of my body and it was amazing and

36 hours on the Drake passage and indeed we had 40 knot winds at 20 to 25 foot waves and I was totally fine I was just like And even sleeping, you know, the boat is going like this. I thought that I was going to disturb my sleep. I slept like a baby in a cradle. And I woke up the next morning, and it's completely still and silent. And I opened the windows from the cabin, and there's Antarctica in its pristine beauty. We get in the zodiac. I'm in my stilt suit.

I got my stilts. We're going to the landing. There's a glacier. So I've got my stilts put on, and someone is holding this end. Someone's holding that hand. And my friend Eli, who's the client, is pushing my ass. and I'm climbing up a glacier in Antarctica wearing 2,000 mirrors in a pair of stilts.

And I get to the top, and it's like a brilliant sunny day. I can see far into the distance on my stilts, and it's the colors and the penguins and the ice, and it was the most incredible workday of my life. Thank you. That was Daryl Thorne. He is a Brooklyn-based artist and performer creating work at the intersection of sculpture, costume and storytelling.

Drawing from a childhood in the Alaskan wilderness to the pulse of New York nightlife, Darrell's work explores transformation and the many ways we find each other. Since wearing his stilts on a glacier in Antarctica, Darrell has added sand dunes to the mix, performing twice on his stilts in front of the Great Pyramids in Egypt. Daryl is currently at developing a full-length theatrical storytelling work blending autobiographical stories with visual spectacle, co-directed by former Moth artistic director,

Catherine Burns, and theatre artist Julie Atlas Muse. Go to the moth.org for more information. And for Daryl's rituals, he said nothing in the world is better than daily meditation, but close seconds would be dancing, sauna, and ice cream. In a moment, a story right before bedtime, and a story right from the beauty shop. That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. With Instacart Shopper notes, you can get specific about your groceries. Take strawberries. You don't want just any strawberries. You want the ones that took their time, grown slow, the ones that weren't in a rush to get to the store. Bright red, but not showy.

firm, but, you know, polite about it. The kind you'd wash carefully, because, hey, they earned it. Okay, so maybe you can't get that specific with shopper notes, but you get the idea. Want to get groceries just how you like? Download the Instacart app. Hey, it's Michelle Jalaski from The Moth. As a director, I often hear from people who say they want to tell a story, but don't know where to start. But I don't have any stories.

It's something we hear a lot over here. But we all have stories. You are a multitude of stories, and one of my favorite ways to showcase that, is through a little exercise called, I used to be, now I am. So for example, I used to be scared of dogs, but now I have two of my own. So what happened to make you change your mind about dogs? Moth stories always hinge on some arc of change for you as the storyteller. You're different at the end of the story than you were at the beginning, and the story

shows us the journey of that change. Not every personal change will elicit a great story, but the practice of thinking on and articulating these changes in ourselves, big or small, can help us reflect on our lives and figure out which stories we do have to tell. We believe everyone has a story worth telling. Find your story by ordering My Life in Stories at the moth.org forward slash my life in stories. That's the moth.org forward slash my life in stories. This is The Moth Radio Hour.

I'm Jody Powell. Our next story was told in New York City, where WNYC is a media partner of the moth. Here's Ron Hart, live at the moth. So I have a mixed marriage. my wife is a reader and I am not. When we were expecting our first child, she tells me that if you read to children, they become readers,

and that sets them up to succeed in life. And then she sent me in an article that she knew I wasn't going to read. But we both agreed that when our daughter, Anina, was born, that we definitely wanted her to be more like my wife than me. So we were going to read to her. And I got to sign the plum job of the pre-bed story time.

Every night, we'd sit in a rocker in Anina's room. She'd be on my lap. I got a book. She has a sippy cup full of milk. When she was 18 months old, Anina fell in love with a book called 10 Minutes to Bedtime. Some fans, all right. It starts with a father shouting over his shoulder,

10 minutes of bedtime! As he's saying this, his daughter is opening the front door to the house allowing in 10 hamsters from a traveling hamster circus. Why? Because all children's books are written by people tripping on ayahuasca

or other heavy psychedelics. As the hamsters load in, the little girl does her level best to try to get through her nightly rituals before the deadline of bedtime. On every page of the book, her father is counting it down. Nine minutes to bedtime, eight minutes to bedtime. But she gets roped in by these rascally hamsters.

Four minutes to bedtime. They draw her into their circus shenanigans. She loses track of time. Before you know what, her father shouts, Bedtime! In a panic, she quickly throws on her pajamas and dives into bed just in time for her father to kiss her. Good night.

Now, in terms of reading, this book has like maybe 50 words in it. But every page has all these big pictures with tons of details. So the job of story time became talking about the details. She'd sit in my lap and point and I'd be like, yes, the little girl brushes her teeth before bed just like you. And Anina would lean in devouring this story. But here's the thing. When you're parent of a toddler, there's a thin band of time between when my kid goes to sleep and when I go to sleep. And unless there's enough time,

that is the only opportunity I have to see a movie that does not involve an animated princess, mermaid, or unicorn. So my story time strategy shifted. She would point and I say like, yes, the girl's putting on her sock. The sock is gray, like the slowly dimming light of twilight as the sun gently sets. I became audio ambient.

I could bang out 10 minutes of bedtime in four minutes tops, And most nights, her eyes would close before the book death. But then one night, she points and I say, oh, that's hamster number seven. Because all of the circus hamsters wore sweaters with numbers on them. Why? Probably ketamine. But I made the critical error of turning back one page and show her that number seven had been there as well.

And that was when her little toddler face melted off of her skull. She dropped her sippy cup and took the book from me and started flipping through pages, looking to see where he was. And then she closed the book and handed it back to me to start over so she could find this little stalker on every page. So we did that for a couple nights. And then she found hamster number four. And it was like she had, like, crack the Nazis Enigma Code.

Before you know it, we were finding all 10 hamsters on every single page of this book. And they all have their little circus agendas going. So I just have to narrate like, oh, yeah, there's hamster number three again. He's still juggling. What a crazy guy. And all the little toddler neurons in her head were going off now. This was not putting her to sleep. This had become the most exciting part of her day.

Ten minutes of bedtime was taking 40 minutes, 50 minutes, an hour. Night after night, the same chair, the same story, the same hamster. I was trapped in my own personal groundhog day. A movie I would never see again. And then one day, I would never see again. And then one day I come home and I peek into Nina's room. She has every doll she owns arranged in a semicircle. And she's sitting in our chair holding the book.

And as I watch, she points at the pages and her little squeaky toddler voice, she's like, see hamster four? Apparently she's from Boston as a toddler. She so loved our story time that she was literally acting it out. And I thought, damn it, my wife was right. Because she was still too young to read. and yet she had become a reader. And so I snuck up behind her and I said,

Bedtime! And she started giggling and she jumped up and she threw on her pajamas and she dived into bed and I tucked her in and said, good night. And we laughed and laughed because she was recreating that moment from her favorite book.

It was a perfect moment and because she was 18 months old we then had to redo it seven more times. I don't tuck an Eden anymore. As a matter of fact, Literally today, I moved her into her freshman dorm. You guys got to stop crying. She's going to Sarah Lawrence, which is an amazing school.

It is also a school I cannot afford. But Anina is going there on an academic scholarship because it turns out, when you read the kids, they become readers, which sets them enough to succeed in life. Thank you. Ron Hart and his wife raised their children. two children in Los Angeles. Ron now hosts storytelling sessions

in their backyard on summer nights. Anina is attending Sarah Lawrence and will be off to Germany for a year to study art history. Ron is still not a reader, but Anina very much still is. Ron said that was a very emotional day for him. He had literally just left his baby on their own.

During the subway ride, he burst into tears three or four times thinking about the weight of the moment. When he looked up, he realized everyone in the train car had edged several feet away from him. He wanted us to include an apology to any riders he disturbed that night. So New Yorkers, Ron Hart, is sorry for crying on the subway. You can share these stories or others from The Moth Archive and buy tickets to Moth storytelling events in your area through our website, the moth.org.

Our final story was told way back in 2006. at a main stage. Here's Faye Lane, live at the mall. Faddy, fatty two by four, couldn't get through the bathroom door. When I was in the third grade, I heard that song almost every single day, and it just about broke my heart because what I wanted more than anything in the world was to be a beauty queen, to be special, because I grew up in my mother's beauty shop in Texas. It was this old A-frame house with big mirrors and swivel chairs in the front room and shampoo bowls in the old back bedroom. And my mom's all the same ladies week after week after week.

So it was as if I had this constant stream of overly indulgent grandmothers, which might actually kind of explain the fat thing. Baby, you want a moon pie? Okay. Go look down in the bottom of my purse. there's a banana moon pie with your name on it. But be careful because my gun is in there, and I don't know if the safety's on. No matter how bad the teasing got at school,

and it got bad, the beauty shop ladies could always make me feel better. Well, I like teasing. Your mama's teasing my hair right now. In fact, if it wasn't for teasing, my hair would be just as flat as a pancake. My favorite beauty shop lady was Ms. Helen. She would say, baby, don't you listen to those horrible children?

They're just jealous. You're not one bit fat. You're just blumptious. And you can sing like a little bird. Can they sing? I bet they can't sing. Sometimes I would sit under the dryer next to Miss Helen, and I would pat her soft arms and knead them like dough.

And we would talk about things. We would mostly talk about food because she loved food the way I loved food. And she would say, baby, all I need in this world is a glass of buttermilk and a warm piece of cornbread. So one day I said, Miss Helen, how come you're not fat? She said, oh, bless your heart, child, I am. I'm as fat as I can be. I said, well, you don't look fat. She said, well, that's because I know how to camouflage.

I said, camouflage. What's camouflage? And she said, well, that's where you hide. something so people can't see it. I said, wait a minute, you can camouflage being fat? She said, good Lord, yes, child, I'm stuffed into this girdle like a pig in a blanket. Don't you just love pigs in a blanket? Ms. Helen's girdle got me to thinking so that night I went into my mother's underwear drawer and my mother was tiny. She still is so she didn't have any girdles. But because she worked on her feet at the beauty shop all day, she was.

wore these really tight support stockings that are like a cross between panty hose and a rubber band. And I stole a pair. And then I went to the sewing basket and got the pinking shears and cut the legs off. And voila, I had made myself a girdle. The first day I wore the girdle to school was a living nightmare because it was about 115 degrees that day. And the sweat was trickling down my back and into the girdle. And at the bottom where my little fat legs stuck out, my thighs were rubbing together, and by the end of the day, I could just barely walk.

But the second day was much worse, because on the second day, Keith Schaefer, who was the cutest boy in our class and as mean as a rattlesnake, lifted my dress on the playground. He said, oh, my God, y'all, look, she's wearing a girdle. 10 years old and my life was over. But it wasn't because I was really lucky on the inside and I had this really rich creative imagination. So sometimes I would sit on the porch of the beauty shop after school in this glittered up Burger King crown pretending like I was a beauty queen sitting up in a convertible in a parade.

And sometimes I would practice my beauty queen acceptance speech. Oh my gosh, thank you so much. You know, when I was just a little fat child, y'all made fun of me, but I forgive you. For, in the words of Jesus Christ, to who I dedicate this crown, y'all knew not what y'all did. I just knew, I just knew in my heart that one day my life would change. So you can imagine my excitement when I heard that Mrs. Gandy's, third grade spring production would be Peter Rabbit, the musical. Because, hello, Flopsy, right?

My fallback position was Mopsy, but I figured at the very least there was a whole garden full of flowers, and I could just see me as a big languid, droopy iris, or a perky little daisy, or like a sophisticated chrysanthemum, you know. So I stood in shock and horror when it was a little bit of a It was announced that I had been cast in the pivotal role of the green bean. The green bean costume consisted of a green leotard with crepe paper pea pods safety pinned all over it, and lime green tights and this two-foot-tall peepot hat with a curly thing on top. I went to Mrs. Gandy after school in tears. I said, Mrs. Gandy, I cannot do this.

I cannot wear this. Whoever heard of a fat green bean. They're going to make fun of me. And Mrs. Gandy, I can sing. My talent is wasted on this bean. She said, Rhonda Faye, you listen to me, child. In my show, there are four bunny rabbits, and there are a lot of flowers, but there is one green bean, and you are it.

She said, now I will write you a solo, but I want you to get up there and pour your heart out on that stage, Don't you let those children tell you who you are. You show them who you are. And I decided in that moment to be the best green being ever to grace the stage. But what to do about that hideous costume? I laid it out on my sears canopy bed to assess the damage. First of all, this horrible leotard.

I strategically re-safety pinned the crepe paper peepotide. to hide my figure flaws. And then I attached my Burger King crown to the Peapod hat. And then I had a brainstorm. The bedazzler. The bedazzler is like this rhinestone for, rather a staple gun, like a staple gun for rhinestones.

So I bedazzled that leotard to within an inch of its life. And then, just in case my panties showed, I bedazzled my panties. And I looked in the mirror, I felt so beautiful. Until opening night, when I stepped backstage and I saw Betty Renee Boyd and Michelle Swinford in their pink, fluffy, flopsie and mopsie costumes. And there was Keith Schaefer and his Farmer McGregor drag looking as menacing as ever,

and I thought, oh my God, what have I done? I look like a big green disco ball. I look like Elton freaking John. So I just closed my eyes and I stood there holding my breath. And I heard the curtain open and I heard my music cue. And I could hear Mrs. Gandy backstage going Rhonda Faye, go, go. And I just couldn't do it. I just couldn't breathe.

After a few minutes, I peeked into the audience. and I saw my mom still in her uniform from the beauty shop looking really nervous. And there was Miss Helen and all the other beauty shop ladies. They were all there and they came to see me. And, you know, it was because they loved me no matter what. And I just couldn't let them down. So I took a deep breath and I started to sing. And the song I sang that night is still really close to my heart

because it's sort of become a theme for my whole life. I'm the teeny waney bain, living in the garden. I love to bask in the sun all day. All I do is sleep and play. It wasn't so bad. From my smallest beanie Jane to my teeny weenie, I am healthy through and through eat me I'll be good for you from Dallas clear to all of Texas in between y'all have surely never seen the next day at

school I felt this subtle shift nobody called me fatty all day and the seventh grade boy gave me a high five in the hallway he said look y'all it's the little green bean And ever since that night on the stage of Reinhardt Elementary School Auditorium, I haven't needed anybody to tell me that I'm okay. Special even. Because for a few minutes in the spring of 1975, I was a green bean queen. Thank you.

That was Fay Lane. Fay is an acclaimed keynote speaker and corporate trainer. As a solo performer, Fay has delighted and provoked audiences' work. She lives in New York at the Chelsea Hotel and is currently the artisan resident and chief inspiration officer for Thanksgiving Square in Dallas. When we asked Fay what her cozy rituals are, she told us she loves to sit in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel, people watching and writing in her journal. Do you have a story to tell us about rituals or moments you would do anything to live again? You can picture us your story by recording it right on our site.

site. The best pitches are developed for moth shows all around the world. There are moth events year round. You can find a show near you and come out and tell a story. The moth can be found on all major social media platforms. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us next time. And that's the story from the moth. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, J. Allison, and Jody Powell, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show, along with Catherine Burns. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, Associate producer, Emily Couch. Additional Grand Slam coaching by Michelle Jolowski. The Moss leadership team includes Gina Duncan, Christina Norman, Marina Clucce, Sarah Austin-Ginette,

Cairns, Cardinale, Caledonia Cairns, Kate Tellers, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Yoreña. Mawstories are true, is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift, other music in this hour from Bill Frazell and Epidemic Sound. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, which we hope you'll do, and to learn all about The Moth, go to our website, The Moth. work.