The Moth - Giving Back: Jim Beebe-Woodard and Richard Cardillo

Episode Date: October 27, 2023

On this episode, we feature two stories all about giving back. Hosted by the Moth’s Director of Development, Lee Ann Gullie. If the transformative power of storytelling has reached you or you would like to ensure it reaches others, please make a donation to The Moth today. Text GIVE23 to 78679 to make a fully tax deductible donation and help ensure our continued work to nurture empathy and build community. Storytellers: Jim Beebe-Woodard’s parents teach him a lesson about empathy and care for others. Richard Cardillo heals through the act of giving bread.

Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Leanne Gully, your host for this episode and director of development at the Moth. As a fundraiser, I think a lot about the concept of giving back, above what we can and should do as members of a community, how we can make sure that the things we value continue to have a place in the world, whether that's through volunteering, showing kindness to the people around us, or supporting the organizations we care about. Today, we're going to share two stories that examine this idea and look at what we get when we give back.

And we'll tell you a little bit about how you can help support them off in its mission to create community and build empathy around the world. First up, we have Jim Beebe Woodard. He told the story at a Burlington Vermont Story Slam, where the theme of the night was love hurts. Here's Jim live at the mall So as an adult here, I would characterize myself as a devout atheist but as a kid I did grow up going to church and

We went to a really nice church actually it Wasn't super dogmatic and it was really invested in like families and doing good in the community and kind of all the things church should do. And one of the ways that our church did that was there was always some sort of food drive going on, canned food drive kind of thing. And very often we would have a Sunday where all the kids in the congregation would have some sort of canned good and at some point in the, during the service,

the kids would come up onto the chancel in front of the sanctuary and they would have their canned goods and they put in a box and the minister would bless it and it was all nice and it was a nice way for kids to learn a little bit about giving and taking care of others in the community. And so for a lot of years when I was really young, my folks would just give us something,

and we'd go up and we'd put in the box, and that was that, and it was all good. So as we got a little older, my sister and I, there was a Sunday where my dad said, hey, why don't you guys go into the pantry? And why don't you pick something? Why don't you pick something that you'd like to give to another family in need?

And we're like, all right, so we go in. This is the late 70s, it's suburbia. We have a wall of canned goods and mac and cheese and my dad's old spice. And so I'm looking at all these canned goods and go through it. And I see there's a can of mandarin oranges. And I was like all about mandarin oranges.

I loved them so much. I had to open them up, eat the whole can. It was so good. So I kind of like slid that to the side. So I'm going through, gone through. And I come upon this honken can of vegol. Now if you don't know what vegol is, it's this really horrible cut vegetables,

can give vegetables and all that delicious anyway, they're really salty and everything. But vegol was particularly disgusting and it had lima beans and we just hated vegol. So I was like, yep. And and we just hated vegol. So I was like, yup. And so I grabbed the vegol. And meanwhile, my sister is having her own parallel process. And she's like, I've got creamed corn.

And that was the thing she hated the most. So out we go, I've got my vegol. My sister's got her creamed corn. We're like, and my parents put in a coat sound for church, and my dad says, okay, did you pick something out? I said, yeah, yeah. He said, oh, okay.

That's what you want to bring to the families, and you see, okay, so go to church. Go through the whole thing, put it in the box, plus it gets plus by the minister, and that's all good. So, this is the time in our life where some days we're very much a family day for us. And so, typically after church, my grandparents would come over and we would have some sort of like brunchy thing with pancakes and eggs and stuff and just spend time together as a family. But this particular Sunday was what my mom liked to call it Sunday dinner Sunday.

And this was something she liked to do every couple of months or whatever. And Sunday dinner Sundays, just what it sounds like, around 12, 31 o'clock we had a Sunday dinner. And so it was usually sort of more food, and you'd stay in your church clothes, and it was all that stuff. So this particular Sunday of the aforementioned Vegeol Creamed Corn was a Sunday dinner Sunday.

And we get back to the house, and my mom had left a roast chicken in the oven when we left to the house. So good. And there's chicken in the oven, and all the stuff,. So good. And there's chicken in the oven and all the stuff. And Nanom pops get there and we're all psyched. And we sit down to have dinner. And my mom puts the chicken down in the steam in it so yummy. And I'm waiting and waiting.

And the rule was, of course, you don't touch anything. You don't serve yourself. You don't even talk about serving yourself until everyone's sitting at the table. And my parents are still kind of buzzing around doing their thing. And everybody's sitting down, my dad's finishing up and he brings over the last two dishes. And I'm so predictable. So it comes over and my sister gets a plated cream corn. I get a plate of cream corn. I get a plate of vegol.

For every test, there is a corresponding lesson. Sometimes the test comes before the lesson. And sometimes the lesson is crystal clear. And so very clearly my sister and I were like, oh man. And the funny thing was with my folks, this wasn't a punishment. It wasn't like we were shamed a whole bunch and everything.

And they set it down. And my dad said, you know, you thought this was good enough to give to somebody else. Is this what you want? And it was like, you know, so he was right. So he didn't want it. So we ate the veg all, we ate the concurrent no chicken. No, but it was OK.

It was OK. I mean, it was awful, but it was OK. This really is though a lesson and a test that I have carried through my life. Perhaps not so literally, a little more metaphorically. But, and I definitely encourage you to think of this as a test you can lay over your own life. You can use Vegell if you like.

But, am I giving out what I wish to receive back? And whether it's my words, or my deeds, or my actions, my interactions with my friends, my family, what do I do at work? You know, am I doling out veg all? Or am I giving you my Mandarin oranges? Yeah. Thanks.

CHEERING AND APPLAUSE That was Jim VB Woodard. Jim is a Connecticut native and the 1989 graduate of the Greater Hartford Academy of the Arts. After attending UMass Boston, he spent the 1990s in Boston working in nonprofit organizations providing advocacy and support to people living with HIV and addiction. He now lives a very quiet life in the woods of Vermont with his husband Travis. Jim's story reminds me so much of my childhood. From a very young age, I was lucky to have the chance to experience the power of giving back. My grandfather ran the local community center where I grew up and whether it was helping to work bingo or serving meals at a spaghetti dinner, I saw the deep

value in human connection, helping others, and having the chance to tell your story. This all feels deeply connected to the work I do at the Moth. While most folks know the Moth through its podcast, radio, hour, and live events, there is so much work that happens behind the scenes to bring the transformative power of storytelling all over the world. Each year through our education, community engagement, and global programs, the Moth helps individuals feel seen, find their confidence, advocate for themselves, conquer their fears, and so much more.

If the transformative power of storytelling has impacted you or you would like to ensure it impacts others, please make a donation to the Moth today. Text Give 23 to 786-799 to make a fully tax deductible donation and help ensure our continued work to nurture empathy and build community. Text GIVE 23-786-799 to give today. And just a reminder, while we are huge fans of all of our public radio partners, funds raised through their giving drives go to support their programming. Give today directly to the Moth, where an independent nonprofit and the support we get helps to ensure

the future of our work. Our next story also touches on how giving back can heal and build community. Richard Cardillo told this at a New York main stage, where the theme of the night was this way up. Here's Richard. Live with the Moth. where the theme of the night was this way up. Here's Richard, live with them all. It's August of 1991, and I'm living in this tiny little sublet in the East Village. I just turned 33, and this is the first time in my life

I'm living in a place of my own and I'm feeling pretty lost and pretty lonely. I had recently left a Catholic monastery where I had lived as a monk with a vow of celibacy. I kind of picked that vocation because I felt I was always drawn to a life of service, but even more importantly, at the age of 16, I figured out that I was gay. One night, about three weeks after I moved in, I went to make dinner and I realized I had no food in the house, and I had no money. So I obsessively kept checking the cabinets in the kitchen

for anything, and all I kept coming up with was this half bag of white flour, a little bit of salt. And in the far reaches of the top cabinet, interspersed with all the soy sauce and ketchup packets, was this little packet of yeast. I looked at the side of the flower bag and followed the directions. And I made bread. That began a decades-long passion. And I threw myself into this passion with a vengeance. I assume it was making so much bread

that I couldn't eat it myself. And I started giving it away to family, to friends, to my colleagues, students, and their families. And I started to feel really, really good about myself. So much so that I'm one Saturday and I decided to venture out and try my luck at meetin' a guy. And I ended up at the car wash. The car wash was the nickname for the back room

of a really seedy, sleazy bar called a spike in the West Village. It had the ceiling to floor plastic strips, just like a car wash that separated it from the bar area. So there I am in the back with my arms crossed, feeling so afraid and just scared whittles. All of a sudden this handsome guy comes near me. arms crossed, feeling so afraid and just scared, witness. All of a sudden, this handsome guy comes near me. He has the most beautiful long brown hair and these piercing blue eyes.

And he comes up next to me and he goes to reach out and I flinch and I jump. And in the most beautiful southern troll which I never learned how to imitate. He said, oh precious, what in God's green earth are you so afraid of? That's how I met Peter. We talked a little bit more, went to the bar, he kept buying me beer after beer and just drawing me out of myself. He was just so easy to talk to, and he showed such interest in me.

He then guided me on to the dance floor. And even while we were dancing, he was talking away and listening intently on everything I had to say. And he finally asked me that question, want to come home with me? And I got afraid. And I started making excuses. Nah, you live on having your B too far away, too dangerous. I got a work to money gave me this big hug to stop me.

And he drew me in. He said, oh, precious. Take a chance on me. The next morning, I woke up super early to sneak the hell out of there and I go into his living room and there he is completely dressed. And he was insisting on escorting me back to my apartment. Well, that clinched it. I was smitten. We dated for about four months and then right after that, I moved in with him. Pete was this force of nature.

He was his ardent activist and he protested for so many different causes, no nooks, a cleaner environment, the war machine to dismantle it, anything. He was out on those front lines protesting and marching. And he would take me along with him. And I started to feel so alive when we did this. And he wanted to make the center of our relationship,

hospitality. So once a week we'd have this communal meal in our apartment where we'd invite family, friends, and the centerpiece of all those meals was the bread. And we'd share with each other and we'd care with each other and I'd look at all of this going on. And I reflected on how my life had changed. And I'm wondering how the hell did I end up here?

And I loved it. One time, about four years into our relationship, all of a sudden, Pete got a bad case of pneumonia. They needed to develop neuropathy in both his legs. And quickly after that he started losing his eyesight. We sort of saw the hand writing on the wall. He tested, and sure enough, he tested positive for the HIV AIDS virus. And he was convinced.

He was going to fight this to stay healthy. I tried to take Pete the best way I know how, but soon AIDS was affecting his mental health as well. He had this horrible opportunistic infection known as toxoplasmosis. It leaves these lesions and scars on your brain in the areas that affect mood. And he was sinking into these deep, deep depressions. And he was cycling in and out of psychiatric institutions. On a sweltering hot August day in 2012, I get ready for work.

I give Pete this prolonged kiss. Goodbye. I leave and go to work. And about noon, I look at my cell phone and he's calling me. And I answer it. And I hear all this wind and all this traffic. And I just say, Pete, where the hell are you? And he said, listen, Richard, just wanted to call

and let you know how very much I love you. And he hung up. I didn't feel good about that phone call. So much so that I decided to go home and wait for him there. And about three hours after that, two police officers were at my front door and they informed me that Pete had decided to jump from the George Washington bridge. When Pete took his life a big chunk of me died with him. I just stopped relating to the world. I stopped working.

I didn't want to see family or friends. I became a hermit in my own apartment. I was just this hollow, solitary shell. About four months later, on this frigid, cold December morning, I wake up to make some food for myself and I realize I have no food in the house. So for the first time in over six months, I made bread. And I must have had the old habits in my mind because I made a lot of bread. I made eight baguettes.

And I ate the tip off of one and looked at the rest of them and knew that we're going to go stale. So the next morning, I forced myself to put on my winter jacket, trudged through the snow, go up Stanton Street to the Bowry Mission. I go inside the front door and automatically the guy at the front desk puts his hand up. He said, sorry, Department of Health rules. We cannot accept food donations from anybody. I turn around to leave, walk over to the park

on Stanton. I turned around and I realized four guys followed me out from the bowler mission. One of them comes right up to me, and he locks eyes with me, and he points at me, and he asked, you got bread? I opened the satchel with the baguettes, took them out, I broke the bread, gave it to each one of these men, and they devoured it without saying a word. I get up to leave.

That same man locks eyes with me again. Look straight at me and asks, you coming back? The next Sunday, I made eight sourdough loaves and I bring them into the park and they're already waiting for me and this week There was more talking and there was more sharing people were connecting with their bread and memories one guy said I remember living down south in my grandma would make this cornbread and a skillet in the oven I said well, I make cornbread. I'll make you that next week another guy said I'd run home to get there before Sun down on the Sabbath and I rip off a piece of a chale and eat it.

And I said, well, I make chale bread. I'll make that next week for you too as well. In the ensuing weeks, there were an awful lot more bread requests. And my moniker became bread man. In the ensuing five months, we started talking and laughing and sharing more than bread. And I started to heal. I became lighter. I went back to work. I started seeing family and friends again. I even started laughing. And it felt so good to be with a group again.

But I'll tell you what the real miracle was in the course of the five months. We had created this wondrous, sharing, giving, and life-affirming community. And Pete, he would have loved it. Thank you. Thank you. That was Richard Cardillo. Richard is a lifelong resident of the Lower East Side in Manhattan and has been an educator and art and activist for over four decades. He still considers himself more of a learner than a teacher, but always a storyteller. Richard is also a six-time Moth story slam winner. If you'd like to see photos of the bread Richard baked go to the moth.org slash extras. That's all for this episode. Remember if you want to help

support the moths mission, text give 23 to 786-799 to make a fully tax-deductible donation and help ensure our continued work to nurture empathy and build community. And a special shout out to our Moth members and donors who have already made a commitment to help advance our mission. From all of us here at the Moth, thank you for listening and thank you for giving back in whatever way you can. Leanne Gellie is the director of development at the Moth and has 20 years of experience fundraising for nonprofits including many theaters in the off-Broadway community. She currently resides in the East Village with her husband and two children,

and is always on the search for the city's best pasta. Richard Cardillo's story was directed by Larry Rosen. This episode of The Mouth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Solinger. The rest of the Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bulls, Kate Tellers, Marina Kluchay, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant Walker, Leanne Gully and Aldi Kasa. All Moss stories are true, as remembered by the storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website, TheMoth.org.

TheMoth podcast is presented by Pierre X, the Public Radio Exchange, helping make Public Radio more public at PierreX.org.