The Moth - Girls!: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: October 13, 2026

This episode originally aired on October 11th, 2022.This week, an episode in honor of the International Day of the Girl Child, observed October 11. Stories from across continents and across generations -- about the challenges, the adventures, and the joys of girlhood. Hosted and produced by The Moth's Executive Producer, Sarah Austin Jenness. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media.Storytellers:10-year-old Briony Chappell and her father search for each other after being separated on a ski trip. Dia's mother surprises her in a moment of need. Primah Kwagala recounts the night her father brought home a second wife.Masooma Ranalvi decides to break her silence.Eve Engel hopes to get her first kiss.Juliette Holmes and her mother go shopping in 1940s segregated Georgia. Podcast # 786

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin Janice. We've produced lots of women's episodes over the years, but this hour is all about girlhood. In 2011, the United Nations created the International Day of the Girl Child to recognize girls' rights and to focus the world's attention on the unique challenges girls' face. Today, we have stories from Nepal, Uganda, India, London, and the U.S.

that dive in terms of women. the hearts and minds of little girls, and some lessons and traditions that some little girls have grown up with. These stories are all told by women about events that happened when they were young, some joyous, some harrowing, all memorable and life-changing. We begin this episode with a 10-year-old Londoner on her first ever trip to the U.S., perched on a ski slope in Colorado, just where I would not have wanted to be, but that's just me. I like to swim when I was little, and I'll tell you a little bit more about that later. Brian E. Chapel told this story with us at a Grand Slam in London.

Here's Brian. When I was growing up, I went skiing every year with my dad. And when I was 10, we went to America, which is obviously very exciting for a 10-year-old. I'd seen it on TV. I knew they had great snacks. Extremely important when you're that age. We were about four or five days into our ski holiday, and we were on the final run of the day.

And my dad had said, okay, I'm going to ski down to the bottom and I'll see you there. So I was like, okay, that's fine. So I was skiing and I fell over, which is obviously cripplingly embarrassing when you're 10 because you think you're really cool and great at everything. So I'd like fumbled to get up and trying to put my skis back on and I keep skiing down.

And I get to a fork in the feast and one way down is to one village and one way down is the other. And I'm like, I can't remember which way to go. my dad has definitely told me and I have definitely forgotten or not been listening. And so I just make a sort of 50-50 decision, ski down to one village and it's full of people, but none of them are my dad. So I'm like, ah, I've made the wrong decision. And so, you know, I'm like, I'm okay, I'm going to get on the shuttle bus to the other village and he'll be there.

And obviously I'm there, like, I'm fine, I'm 10, and I'm trying to, like, pick up my skis and I'm trying to carry them, and that's something I've never done before because my dad has always carried them, and I've always carried the poles. And I'm trying to get onto the bus. And the guy's like, yeah, okay, come on. Yeah, you're alone, but fine. And I go to the other village and I get off. And obviously, my dad is not there either.

So I'm like, ah, I'm definitely sort of lost now. And I think, you know, I'm a very sort of well-trained child. And I think, what do I do in this situation? I go and find a responsible adult. So I go into the village. and I see a supermarket and it's covered in pictures of animals and it's called Noah's. And I'm like, yeah, that seems legit. There's definitely a responsible adult in there.

So I go in and, you know, like any typical British person in a crisis, I join the queue. Wait, and I wait to my, I wait to my term. And I go to the checkout, the lady on the checkout. And it's probably in like poshish, British accent, more posh than I've ever used in my life. I look at her and I go, excuse me. But I've lost my dad. Burst into tears. And she's like, oh, obviously, while this is all happening,

my dad has had the same experience. I'm not in the village that he's in. So he thought, well, she'll be in the other village. I'll get on the shuttle bus. And an amazing comedy of errors, we've crossed like this. And so he's now in the other village that I was originally in thinking, oh, my God, I've lost her. And where is she?

So, however, for me, I'm now, my afternoon is really looking up. The lady's really taking pity on me. She's like, my God, you're so small, you're lost, and you're British. She's taken my skis. I'm like, thank you so much. I couldn't carry them. I'm on pole duty again. She's given me a sprite, again, the dream.

I'm normally only allowed one fizzy drink per day, and this is my second. And I remember that my chalet is called Geronimo. because it's a sign of a fancy name. And she's called the people at the chalet and said, like, does this child belong to you? Like, is she staying with you? And they've been like, yeah, she is staying with us. Why are you calling us? It's kind of weird.

And they've said, well, she's come here and she's lost and la la la. And so I've, like, got in the car with this lady from the supermarket who is loving life because not only is she doing her good deed for the day, she's getting like half an hour off work. And so I'm like sitting in the front seat of this four by four, I've got my skis in the back, I've got my Sprite, I've got my sunnies, it's sunny, I'm like, this is America. And I get to the top, you know, get to the chalet and like the chalet host, they welcome me in,

and they're like, my God, you're so small, but you're so smart. And obviously, in this time, they've called my dad, who is out of his mind in panic. He's in the Mountain Rangers office, the piece have closed for the day. They're like, sir, she is not on the mountain. We've sent the door. dogs up, they cannot find her. My dad is like in full panic mode thinking, I've lost my child, like, what am I

going to do now? Obviously gets a call from the chalet as being like, sir, we have your child. So he comes back to the chalet, he comes in, you're like, you're so smart, you're so small, you're amazing. And I'm like, yes, I am, thank you so much. Obviously saying in a chalet, I'm the talk of the dinner. My God, thank you. And

my dad was obviously freaking out. He was like, I'm going to have to, you know, go home tell my wife that I've lost you. You're going to end up as one of those children on the side of a milk bottle. This is America. And you know, in hindsight, this story really is only funny because I'm okay.

You know, there's nothing quite like ruining a holiday, like losing the person that you're with. And then the next day, we went to the local electronics store and we bought walkie-talkies. And I'm 10, I'm like, this is sick. Like, for the rest of the holiday, we communicate like spies. And I think, well, maybe I should just get lost more often.

That was Briani Chapel. Brianne is still living in London, where she works as the head of social and video at Kiss FM. Brianie still skis and is grateful to have skied so much as a little girl. At this point when she flies down the slopes, it's all muscle memory. To see photos of Brianne and her dad on holiday from the time of the story, go to the moth.org. Our next storyteller is Dia.

I can't give her last name for reasons of her safety. She tells us about her relationship with her Alma, her mother. We met Dia in a Moth Global Community Program that we taught in collaboration with UN Women Asia, with women who are living in Nepal and neighboring countries. The workshop was during the pandemic, so heads up, this recording is from the virtual world, and the audio has that lackluster Zoom quality.

But I promise you, Dia is full of life. Live from Kathmandu Nepal, here's Dia. I remember when I was around five years old, the sun was slowly waking up over the horizon, painting the horizon with bold strokes of orange. And my beautiful alma in the fields of marigold, picking each bloom slowly and onto the doco, a bamboo basket. Then she plucked a little bright orange blue,

and tucked it beneath my ear and called me her Lamri Tzori, her beautiful daughter. And ever since I was a child, I knew that I was a girl. So we moved from the village to the city and I started to go to school. I spent all my time with other girls from my class. I sat and ate lunch with other girls from my class. And I even went to the bathroom, the girl's bathroom, until one day

when I came out of the bathroom my teacher was standing in front of the door she slapped me across the face and yelled at me it is wrong for you as a boy to enter the girl's bathroom I was crying when I unfolded the events

to my alma back at home and asked her am I really a boy am I not a girl and I waited, but she didn't answer. Instead, in few days, we moved to a different part of the city, to a different school, and she told me I had to act like a boy. So in the new school, I started spending all my time with other boys from my class.

I sat down and ate lunch with other boys in my class. And I even went to the boys' bathroom. But even after doing all these things, I didn't feel like a boy. I felt like a girl pretending to be a boy. And I felt like everyone could see right through the masquerade. As I grew older, my face became angular and sharp. I started growing beard. My soldiers broad and my chest flat.

But even after all this evolving, my heart, it was of a girl. And my mind was now in a tug of war. Do I go on pretending to be a feminine boy because that's how the world sees me? Or do I tell everyone that I meet, hey, stop! I'm not a boy. I'm a girl stuck in a girl's, sorry,

girl stuck in a boy's body. But there came a point where this was not viable. And that is when I found my soul, at the doctor's stable, begging him to diagnose me of gender dysphoria so I could start my hormone replacement therapy. After a few sessions, he told me to certify that I had gender dysphoria, he had to meet a family member. And that is the moment when I saw my hope scramble to the floor. The floor is where I was looking when my alma sat across the table from the doctor as he asked her questions after questions about my mannerism when I was growing up, about my moods when I was

growing up, about my education. And then he asked her, do you know she identifies as a girl? You have to act like a boy. You have to act like a boy. You have to act like a boy. You have to act like a boy. Those were the words my mother told me when I was a child playing in, loop in the back of my mind. But then I heard a different word. She said, I always knew that doctor. She's always been my daughter. And in that moment, in the small room, the claustrophobic walls began expanding into the beautiful field of orange where my alma was plucking merry gold. And I, her daughter, was helping her. Back at her house, in our kitchen table, I asked her what had changed from then to now.

And she told me nothing had changed. She told me, I asked you to act like a boy when I was not there because I couldn't protect you from the world. But now you don't need any protecting. Now you can be you. And I couldn't help but smile in euphoria as the original. of the marigold flower filled the kitchen, the same kitchen which now housed a mother and her daughter. That was Dia. These days, Dia has been traveling for a research project,

collecting biographies on queer youth migration for the UN's Leave No One Behind strategy, which tries to reduce the inequalities undermining the potential of people all over the world. At the end of her story, Dia put a bright, beautiful marigold behind her ear. After our break, two women, one from eastern Uganda and one from Mumbai, share indelible memories from when they were little girls. 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 Sarah Austin-Ginnis.

This is an hour all about... girlhood. If girls are supported when they're young, they have the potential to change the world. In many cases, girl children are treated differently than boys, but girls remember, and these next two stories are about stark moments that changed the storyteller's lives and the lives of others. We first met Prima Quagala in a Moth Global Workshop when she was an Aspen New Voices Fellow. This story was recorded at the very end of the short workshop. and told in front of an audience of an enthusiastic eight people. Her story takes place in eastern Uganda.

Here's Prima Corgallo. Thank you. So my name is Prima, Quagala. Prima means first in Latin, and Coagala is drawn from our traditions in Uganda. It means love, directly translated, it's first love. I am the first child of my parents. And I had a happy childhood.

My parents loved me. Many times I tell people that I must be my parents' favorite. I used to walk out with my dad for outings. He visited me so many times even when I moved into boarding school. Even when I got to university, I walked armed with my dad. I was weird because everyone wanted to be independent at the university. But I came with my dad. Growing up, my dad was really nice to us.

He would come back by 5 p.m. to tell us stories, readers about our culture and traditions. You know, even when we went to some of the best schools in Uganda, my dad insisted that we must speak our traditional language. We would not speak English back home. Well, like some people look at it as a privilege. I remember particularly some of some. something I picked as a child, my dad told me that when addressing men, you need to look at

them straight in their eyes. If you're shaking their hands, make it a firm handshake. So I grew up strong and firm and confident at quite an early age. However, my world changed when I was about 9 or 10. In the year 1997, on the 2027, on the 20th. 24th of December. As it's tradition, during Christmas season, we go back to the village in the countryside and we pack up all our Sunday-based clothes, all of our food,

and just go out there to celebrate with our grandparents, aunties, and uncles and everyone else. So it's a really good time because as a child, you're looking forward to playing and learning new games and sharing what you learned from the school year and your report cards and, you know, get all of these applause from. everyone. So when we got in the village towards the evening we were supposed to go and join the rest

of the extended family for dinner and also go through what would be happening on the 25th at what time would take breakfast, go to church and all. And I heard from some of my cousins that my dad was going to introduce a new mother to us. Please understand that polygammy is legal in Uganda and some of my relatives had several wives but not my dad. You also need to understand that my dad was relatively wealthy but my mom had five girls. He needed an heir someone to take after him and inherit his property in our culture. A girl cannot inherit property. So I was confused. We have a new mother. My parents are an age. educated lot. What does that mean? And I didn't know how my mom would take it. And there's a bit of

tension. So when it got to dinner time, my mom asked us to get into a house. She closed the house and gave us strict instructions not to open the door. Well, we had not eaten, we had traveled a long way. I mean, we can't speak to our cousin. We won't see their addresses. What's this? I was sleeping in my room that night. She turned out all the lights and I could hear her pacing in the hallway to the front door. My room was just adjacent to the front door. And I was wondering what's going on. But anyway, I could brush it off and be like, okay, my mom is born again.

She is a very radical Christian, so she was. In my opinion, I thought she was praying and casting out demon. of making sure that the other lady does not make it to our dose to him. Faith in action, strongly doing that. So I kept wondering what's going on, but my baby sisters went to sleep, and I just kept hearing her moving in the whole way. Eventually at about, I think, a little after 9 p.m., my dad and his army of brothers, he had lots of them because my grandfather had about six wives as well.

So there were very many brothers. They came towards our home. With their new wife, I think they were escorting him to usher in his wife into the home. And when they approached the front door, my dad pounded the door. Open the door! He started screaming. My mom was quiet. Knowing the dead of the night, everyone is quiet.

And I was wondering what's going to happen. Open the door, he kept screaming. No sound. So his brothers joined in, screaming. Joy, open that door, open that door. She couldn't open. Then he moved to my window, my room, and tapped and called out, Prima, Prima, can you open that door?

So I got up and went to the door. And just as soon as I was about to clash the door knob, My mom shouted, Prima, do not open that door. I was mortified. I didn't know what was out there, for it was dark, and my mom was tough, and the bad cop in the home. If I did anything, I wasn't sure what was going to happen to me. And I didn't know what was happening to my dad out there,

so I was just stuck and confused between, the door and my parents exchanging of course. Well, my dad had the shout at me from outside and alongside his brothers, they burst into the door and broke it open and got in. And they had a very bitter exchange. And as just looking, my dad had his brothers with him and they were of course cheering him

and my mom was just crying. And I remember clearly my dad telling my mom that this is my home, I can do what I want. If you do not want to stay, pack your bags and leave. And my mom kept saying, I contributed to this wealth. I contributed to the construction of this house. What becomes of me?

And he said, you can take the roof and leave. I was in shock. I had never seen my dad angry. I had never seen my dad express so much frustration and anger. And the next day, we packed our bags and left. He didn't come after us. Today, almost two decades later, I'm a human rights lawyer, and I've specialized in strategic litigation,

which involves providing free legal services and challenging systems. I looked at the system of patriarchy. and how it envisioned women in our community as less than the men, as having men being entitled and the men not. So I have devoted my work and career towards supporting men to get women to access justice in our community. Thank you. That was Prima Kowala. Prima now lives in Kampala, Uganda,

and she still works as a lawyer helping other women in her community. I recently gave her a call to talk more. Last year, your father died, and I'm so sorry to hear that, but that he named you air, and that seems like a dramatic turnaround from the events in the first scene of your story. I was shocked. My mother was shocked because she believed he had a baddo does.

My dad was such a patriarch. I didn't think he would do anything like that. I knew my dad loved me, but for someone who left us to go find a son to come back and name his daughter as heir, it was almost impossible to believe because we had never spoken about this. But through this very final act in life, Alice was able to call us back into his family. I feel very proud of him even in his passing for being able to do that. Well, I know, Prima, that you are a role model for many little girls and that you already have shown many little girls how to grow up in a different way and be like you.

Do you think about that? Yes, I do. I do think about that. I know so many girls in my community that look up to me. They come to me and say that to me all the time. My life, my story has been more like my superpower. Yeah, so I do look at myself as a role model and hold myself to account each day, to open space and support another woman working the same journey as I am. To see photos of Prima Kwagala related to this story, visit the moth.org.

Masuma Ranalvi tells our next story. She's also from a Moth Global Workshop. up, this one focused on women and girls. And a word of caution, this is about the cultural silence around the traditional practice of female genital cutting, also known as cutna in India. Here's Masuma Renalvi, live at the moth. Good morning, everybody. I was born in the city of Mumbai, which was earlier known as Bombay. It is one of the most populous and one of the most vibrant and modern cities of India.

I was part of a very, very loving, warm, affectionate family. My grandmother used to come from her village to Bombay during the summer vacations. One summer she'd come home and she said, let's take you for an outing. I was very excited because going out with grandmother who was an extrovert was good fun. You know, it meant I'd get chocolates and candies. So my mother dressed me in my best dress, and out I went with grandmother, bouncing along with her. We went into this area where a large part of my community stays. It's like an area where we stay, and she took me into this dark falling apart,

the crept building. We entered the building, we climbed up the first floor, and she knocked at a door. I'm wondering where we are going. This is going to be a fun outing, but where are we? A new old lady opens the door and get into the room. And in our community, we sit down. So we remove the shoes out, and there are rugs and carpets on the floor. We go inside the inner room, a curtain is drawn, and we sit down on the floor.

And then grandmother asks me to lie down. And I don't know what's happening at that point in time. I'm very, very scared. and she kind of gently nudges me, pushes me down on the carpet. I lie down, she's holding me, she's actually pinning me down, holding my shoulders and my hands. And the other lady at the other end is holding my legs. She removes my panty, and it's all happened very quickly.

I've started to cry, I'm sobbing. And this woman, she takes some instrument, whether it's a blade or a knife, and she cuts a part of me from down there. I don't know what it is, but it's a sharp, pierced. pain. I even do not have it in me to shout or to scream, but I'm sobbing and I'm crying. Everything else is a blur. I only know from that point I somehow get home. And the first thing I do when I get home is just hug my mom and I cry and I cry and I'm angry why did my mother send me out with my grandmother and I'm crying and my mother holds me tight and she says it's

going to be okay. I don't know anything about what has happened to me. The memory of that day has been locked in a box, all the trauma, all the whatever I went through and it's been kept away. I have never ever revisited that. I have never told anybody about that till 40 years have past. It's 2015 now. I have a 20 year old daughter. I have not cut her. I have shielded her. She's studying design in

Bangalore, which is another city in India. She's come for vacations. And there is a spate of articles in the newspaper about this practice in our community. She's read about it. She doesn't know much about it and she doesn't know that her cousins and her peers also have been subject to it because she hasn't been nor have I ever talked to her about it I want to tell her about this I have never spoken to anybody about it I'm extremely awkward about it one afternoon I sit her down and start the conversation she senses where it's going and she also doesn't want to hear it so she's

also feeling very squeamish about it and I start you know when I was seven and she says, mom, no, I don't want to hear it. And it's her squeamishness in hearing my story and my awkwardness in telling her the story. It was like it came together. The moment passed and then she asked me a question, why do we still do it? It was a general question, it was a question directed to, you know, the community as such, but it pierced me like an arrow. At that moment I felt ashamed. I felt inadequate and I felt complicit in my silence. I felt that I was

perpetuating a dark, dirty secret by my silence. And it was at that moment in my heart, I knew that I had to speak out and I had to break the silence. And that's what I wanted to do. But the biggest block or the biggest hurdle before me was my ignorance. I didn't know anything about this. I did not even know the word clitoris. I really did not. Leave alone know what the clitoris does and anything about it. So my journey into learning about this started.

And then one day I sat, I opened my laptop, I opened a page, and I started writing. I wrote about all those suppressed, repressed emotions, trauma, feelings, all that anger, pent-up, frustrations, put it down in a blog. I eventually got that blog published. And that was the beginning of my journey into activism. And today I'm here to say that I'm very happy that I spoke out. Thank you. Masuma Ranalvi lives in Mumbai, India. She's now an instructor with the Moth's Global Workshops and the founder of We Speak

Out, the organization which is committed to ending female genital mutilation in India. I recently spoke with Masuma all about this. What happened after you told your story? What kind of changes did you make in your life? After I got back to India, I was kind of on a high. I had created this beautiful story and I had the courage to say it out loud. After that moment, I did not hesitate in telling my story to people. And I started telling my story very proudly, very strongly, and as a result of which,

it kind of helped me reach out to so many others. Because I started a movement, in a sense, my story started a movement. was called We Speak Out. And there are a lot of women who connected with me at a deeply emotional and a deeply personal level because this was survivors of FGM who themselves had gone through what I had gone through, who were themselves locked up in this whole conspiracy of silence.

And my voice kind of gave them this trend to speak. I did not have the courage to speak for 40 years, but now that I am awake, my eyes are open and I have the power, I have to do something to stop this from happening to other young girls. To see photos of Masuma Renalvi, her sisters and her daughter, and Masuma at the UN engaging in her advocacy work, visit the moth.org. Next up, one girl lives through her first kiss, another lives through a moment in U.S. history,

when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is. produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. You must remember this presents The Bisexuals. Libby Holman was a sexually fluid blues singer who became famous in the 1920s, and then infamous when she was indicted for her husband's murder. Later, Libby began an affair with movie star Montgomery Clift, who had to keep his own bisexuality secret in Hollywood in the 1950s.

Also featuring Elizabeth Taylor, Josephine Baker, drugs, orgies, and, of course, movies. movies. Follow and listen to You Must Remember This, wherever you get your podcasts. You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginnis. In this show, we've been hearing women's stories and the things they learn as little girls. The top of the hour I mentioned that I liked to swim. My mother used to tell this one particular story about me over and over. When I was five, she walked me into the YMCA for me to start swimming lessons. and by the time she was back at the car, there I was next to her wanting to go home. I said, I'm quitting. Someone splashed me.

And my mother said, you are walking right back in there and you are learning to swim. You're going to get splashed, but you will come out a swimmer. And I did. And a year later, Mom and I were walking on the beach in Huntington, Long Island, and we saw a bunch of older girls about to start a swim race to a dock far out in the bay. I walked right up to the organizer, a total stranger, and I asked if I could swim with the big girls in the race. She said, sure, but these girls are much older than you, and I said, all right.

And my mother watched as I got right in and swam to the far dock and back. I placed last, but I did it, and I remember feeling so bold and proud of myself. They gave me a little swimmer's trophy, a trophy I still have on my desk 30 years later. My mom is not here to tell her point of view, but I can hear her spirit laughing. And yes, you can see pictures of little me and the swimming trophy at the moth.org. Eve Engel tells our next story. She's a graduate of the moth's education program. Here's Eve Engel live at the moth in Beacon High School.

So here I was, like any good young Jew, on my first teen trip to Israel. and I was so excited because every second of this trip was planned. The itinerary was beautiful. And I love that because I'm this compulsive daydreamer, this neurotic overplanter, and I think and think about things in my head a lot and how I want them to be. So this really excited me.

But the one thing I didn't plan on was meeting a guy on this trip. and it was hilarious because what happened was is I met this guy, Danny, and we would sit next to each other on bus rides and entertain each other with really bad. That's what she said, jokes, you know, really mature. And we did that and we bonded, but the one thing we didn't do was kiss because the thing was is that it was going to be my first kiss and I wanted it to be perfect.

And I didn't know how it was going to be perfect, but I knew it had to be, and I knew the one way it wasn't going to be was if I kissed him first. He had to be the one to do it. So this brings us to the end of the trip, and the trip started in Israel, and then it ended in this Christian retreat center

in New Jersey, of all places. And it was my birthday. It was my birthday, and it was the best day. They threw me a surprise part, And it was just so amazing. And I kept thinking to myself, the only thing that could make this day better is if I had my perfect first kiss.

So, you know, I keep waiting to see if he'll do it. And then we get to after this bonfire at night, and he says, hey, you want to go for a walk? And I'm like, okay. Then he brings us to this gazebo. And I see this gazebo, and I know what happens, in gazebos. Romantic first kisses happen

in gazebos. So I was so excited. So I sat down and, you know, I keep, like, we have this, like, awkward silence and I keep waiting for him to just kiss me. But he keeps looking at his watch. And I'm like, okay.

You know, we're not on the same page, maybe, but I couldn't even be bothered because I was having such a good day. I was wearing this white dress that made me feel really pretty and the gazebo had like twinkly lights over it which was really romantic and it was that kind of cool summer night where you could just smell it and I was so happy and then you know finally he looks up from his watch he kisses me he pulls back

shows me his watch and it reads 1159 and 59 seconds and he says happy birthday and I was like oh because I was like I see your romantic gesture like I see what you did there but the thing was is that this kiss was so underwhelming I didn't know what to do about it I didn't know what I did wrong and I was kind of freaking out I was having this out-of-body experience and it was midnight so we had to go back to our cabin. So he dropped me off at my cabin and he kisses me good night and I just walk up the stairs and I'm, you know, crying because it was my first kiss and something didn't go right. It didn't feel perfect. And so I go to my counselor's room and I'm crying and I just tell her everything

and I say how it was my first kiss and something was wrong and I don't know what I did wrong. and she goes, honey, first kisses are supposed to be awkward. First, everythings are supposed to be awkward. And, well, that just blew my mind that I could think and think and plan. And things weren't going to come out the way that they were in my head,

and that was such a liberating feeling. And the great thing was that the next time that I can, someone, it was so unplanned. It was on a Monday night and I had to rush home to do a math project and I was on a subway platform and I kissed him first and I swear it lasted like this long, but it was perfect. Thank you. Eve Engle is a preschool teacher living in Brooklyn and the very counselor who gave her the advice in her story is now a colleague of Eve's. Juliet Holmes tells our final story in this hour about a memorable lesson she learned when she was six growing up in

Savannah. She told this at a grand slam in New York City where WNYC is a media partner of the moth. Here's Juliet Holmes. I grew up in Savannah, Georgia, in the deep, deep south. Savannah was like all segregated apartheid cities with the doors to restaurants movie theaters bathrooms water fountains

had Jim Crow signs barring colored people in Savannah this particular year it was a very very hot spring and my mom told us on a Saturday morning that we were going to go shopping at Sears Row Buck. We were so excited, my sister and me. We went, we got dressed, and my mother would always say to us,

girls, you know how to act. She never used the word behave. Yes, mama, we know how to act. We know how to act. Yes, Mama, we know how to act. And the next thing I want you to do is to drink a glass of water, go to the bathroom,

flush the toilet, and wash your hands. My sister, who was older, she was so annoyed, but of course she didn't let my mama hear it. Why is it that we always have to drink a glass of water, go to the bathroom, flush the toilet, and wash our hands. By me being younger and wanting to be like my sister, I would say, mm-hmm, mm-hmm.

But we didn't let Mama hear us, okay? So, Mama got her pocketbook. We were all dressed. She locked the door, put that pocketbook under her arm, and off we went to get on the bus. We walked to the bus stop. My mama paid the fare. We got on, and we went straight to the back of the bus, the assigned seats. My sister sat with my mama.

I wanted to sit by myself so I could look out the window. Oh, I was just so happy looking out of the window at all of the sites. The bus stopped later, and one of my classmates got on. and she sat right next to me. What do you want to sit next to me for? I want to look out the window. I don't want to talk to her. So she was talking and I was looking, mm-hmm, mm-hmm.

Well, Juliet, I'll see you in school Monday. Okay, bye. Goodwill. I was like that when I was a little girl, yeah, right. Okay, so the bus went on and my mother rang the bell. We got off the bus and walked across the street to Sears Roebuck. Sears was a big store, block long with three stories. Big store.

Everybody was excited about Sears Roboc. My mama went in, we went into the store. We walked straight to the back of the store, got on the elevator. Now mind you, the elevators weren't segregated. First come, first served. My mama matched the button, got off in the women's department, and she started to shop, looking, pushing, looking, looking. And my sister, the drama queen.

What's the matter? I am so thirsty. I am too. I'm thirsty too. Mama. Mama. Yes. I'm thirsty.

And my mama gave her a look that we know the look. And she kept right on looking, looking. So I said, Mama, there's the sign says, colored water. Oh, Mama, I want some of that colored water. Because I know must be rainbows, red and blue and green. Oh, mama. And my mama looked at us. And she said, she didn't say anything.

She walked over to the fountains. One was white. White water, colored water. And she stood. And she said, Betty Ann, drink from the white fountain. Oh, mama's nice and cool. Taste good. Now drink from the colored fountain.

Oh, mama, it's nice and cool. Now, I'm looking for all these colors to come out, but no colors. Juliet, you drink from the white fountain. Oh, mama's nice and cool. Now drink from the colored fountain. Mama, but it tastes the same. She said, yes, it tastes the same because it comes out the same pipes. Well, Mama, why did they have those signs?

That's the law. Well, who made the law? She said, that is how it is. Now, I don't think my mama bought anything. We walked across the street, got on the bus. And she paid the fair, and we sat on the very last seat on the bus. And she sat and she hugged both of her two little colored girls. And as I look back on that day in Cesarobach, I wonder my mama put her life on the line for her two little colored girls

because she could have been arrested, put in jail, beaten. But that is how it was in Savannah, Georgia, in 1947. Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That was Juliet Holmes. Juliet is in her 80s now, and she's lived in New York for many years. But she says her heart will never leave the low country of Savannah, where she was born and raised. When I called to tell her this story was going to air, she cried.

She said, my mother took her life into her hands to teach us the truth. She was ahead of her time. I didn't realize we lived in the segregated world because my mom always told me I could be anything I wanted. Juliet has two granddaughters, one named Savannah. And she says, I teach them lessons just like my mother taught me. To see a photo of Juliet, her sister Betty Ann and their mother, All shopping in Savannah in the 1940s, go to the moth.org. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour.

We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, J. Allison, Catherine Burns, and Sarah Austin Janice, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show, along with Meg Bowles and Jennifer Hickson. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, Associate producer Emily Couch. Additional Moth Global Community Program coaching by Kendi and Twiga and Larry Rosen. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Clucay, Susan Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga, Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. The Moth would like to thank the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation and UN Women for their support of the Moth Global Community Program.

Most Stories are True, is remembered in the firm by the storytellers, our third. Theme music is by the drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound and Blue Dot Sessions. Podcast music, production support from Davy Sumner. We received funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. 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,

and everything else, go to our website, the moth.org.