The Moth - In Control, Or Not: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: April 14, 2026

This Episode originally aired on July 19th, 2022. In this hour, four storytellers attempt to control the outcome. (As the universe laughs!) This episode is hosted by Moth Senior Director Jenifer Hixson. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: Dame Wilburn fakes her college graduation to avoid her mother's wrath. Gabriel Woods Lamanuzzi tries to wrangle a room of 2nd graders.  Tod Kelly gets carried away and confronts a bad driver. Nimisha Ladva appreciatse her father's calm command in troubling times. Podcast # 774 To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

This is The Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Jennifer Hickson. In this hour, stories about control, wanting it, wrestling it from the powers that be, or happily surrendering it to those more capable. Whether it's a mighty battle for absolute command or a slight power adjustment, so you maybe could just, you know, get a little sway. The battle for control begins in childhood with your parental overlords and sometimes extends into adulthood, which is the case with our first story. teller, Dame Wilburne. You may recognize Dame's voice, either from her first moth mainstage story, where she attempts to take control by lifting a curse. Highly recommend that one. Or maybe you'll recognize her as one of the guest hosts on our radio hour and podcast.

If you know Dame, you know that she rarely follows the rules. Dame is a rebel. In this first story, we get to meet the woman who inspired the rebellion, Dame's mother, a woman so fierce. Dame weaves a tangled web to avoid her wrath. Live in her home city of Detroit, where we partnered with Music Hall Center for the Performing Arts, here's Dame Wilburne. My father died the sophomore year that I was in college.

And this made me the sole focus of my mother, the dragon. Now, she got that name because she wanted me to be a free. spirit, but she was never prepared when I did free-spirited stuff. And she would always respond to these moments with volcanic levels of fury that could only be described as dragonesque. She was five, ten, and heels. She kept her talons sharpened. She would wear $2,000 worth the power suits and accoutrements. mom and she would smoke under no smoking signs for kicks. She also once sent a man a pink slip. He was in a coma and she sent it to the hospital and had his wife sign for it.

This is the woman whose eyes are boring into the back of my head as I sit at my graduation with my diploma holder trembling in my hand. This Holder and I have a secret, and we learned this secret about three months ago when my counselor said I was a few credits short of graduating. I was 15 credits short of graduating. Now, if you don't go to college and don't understand what that means, that's a semester. So I had somehow managed to be in school for five years and still be a semester short of graduating. Thank you. Some of y'all, some of y'all get it. And it was also at that meeting that she told me that if you weren't graduating until the fall, you could walk in the spring.

And that's when it started. I began to come up with a plot that would extend the time between the time I graduated and the time my mother, the dragon, found out that I hadn't graduated. Which means I've got a problem while I'm sitting here in this chair. Now, I don't know how many of you have run a con, but if you're running a kind, evidence is bad. Holding it is worse. I'm holding something that's empty. So I need a hail Mary pass. That's when I look to the young lady next to me, and I see that she has a form letter that says the reason she didn't get her diploma is because she didn't pay her life.

last bill. I take this out of her hand, put it in my diploma holder, throw my hat up into the sky, and celebrate my graduation. Now, I walk outside, and I get into the parking lot. My mother makes a beeline for me

and snatches that holder off from under my arm because she can smell blood in the water. She opens it up, reads it, and says, makes sense, and we go off to dinner, and And baby, it was beautiful.

I now have a little time on my hands, but here's one of my issues. Now, I can't go home because under her direct gaze, I'm going to crack. Okay? So I told her, well, I'm going to work campus security for the summer. And then when I come home in the fall, I'll get a job. Now, the key to a good lie is that it's got some truth in it. I'm a campus security officer. At least it was until I had an administrator and a police officer knock on my dorm door.

Okay, now the word they use is embezzlement, but I feel like that word is too big. Okay, stay with me. At the time, I had access to the charge account for campus security at the school bookstore. and apparently I had run up a charge of about $700. Exactly. So the admin informed me that I had two options. You can quit your job, pay the money back. Or we can fire you.

You can pay the money back plus court costs and you can go to jail. The officer informed me that embezzlement has a, a 15-year jail time. And I thought about it. Now, the reason I thought about it, much to the bemusement of the officer, was I was pretty sure the dragon was never going to get her talons through those jail walls. And I might actually be safer with the cops than I was at home. But I also know I couldn't really go to jail and tell my fellow inmates that I had embezzled

$700 worth a pizza flavor. combos. So I took option one. Now I find myself in another, you know, little problem, because as a campus security officer, I could stay on campus for the summer for free, but I don't have that job. And I owe the bookstore $700. And to stay on campus, I've got to pay a grand. Can't ask the dragon. So this is where modified Con number three comes in. Okay, hold on. Stay with it.

We got this together. We're going to be all right. So I called my godparents and told them that my mother had fallen on hard times. My mother hadn't been on hard times since she was two. I said she'd fallen on hard times and I needed them to pay this bill because I didn't want to ask her for the money. Okay. Now we got it. We have tied up all the loose ends.

Everything is gravy. I've got the whole summer to figure out what I'm going to say to her. Well, while I was doing all that plotting and thinking, I had forgotten to get myself enough money to eat. And that's when I started reading magazines. I started reading the newspaper. I started watching the news. And I turned myself into one hell of a dinner guest.

I've got good shoes. I've got good manners. I know how to talk to people. I'm witty and urbane. I was raised right. mostly. And people love to have me over. And I'm good at getting myself invited to things I'm not supposed to go to. But the end of summer snuck up on me pretty quickly. And my buddy came in from New York and I told him everything I had going on. And he said, you know, you might be some

kind of evil genius. I hope one day you're going to use your powers for good. And that's when it hit me. I'm out of lives, I'm out of people, I'm out of time, I'm out of chances. I got one more card to play, and that's the truth. And it dawns on me, I got to call the dragon. Now, I'm not going to call her and talk to her. Absolutely not. So I waited until she went to work, and then I called home and left a message on her answering machine. And the message I left, was hi it's dame I didn't graduate and I'm actually 15 credit hours short the school says I gotta pay fifteen hundred dollars by end of business on Friday

so that I can register for the fall semester if you got it great but if you don't let me know Thanks. Bye. Now you got to understand. I don't know how many of you have ever run a four-part con, but the key to doing it is to not talk to anybody. So I hadn't answered the phone in like four months because talking to people is how you give up what evidence. Once I left that message for her, I shut off the ringer on my phone, turn the answering machine volume all the way down and took it. a three-hour nap. When I woke up, my answering machine light was blinking at me angrily.

It took everything in me to press that button. But I played the message, and this is what it said. I will be at Sienna Heights at noon on Friday. I expect to speak with you and click. It's not terrifying at all. So when I told my counselor everything that had gone on, I came clean to her, she said, I think it's best that you two not meet in private. I think you should meet in the music room and I'm going to be in my office and we're going to leave all the doors open.

This woman had met my mother one time, but she knew what I was up against. And that's how I ended up clutching a music stand. staring into the eyes of the dragon. Now I'm waiting for the speech. You know, you're a liar, you're a cheater, you have a chronic lack of ambition, you know, the speech I've been getting my whole life. But she starts crying.

And she says, do you know what it's like to not know where your child is? Do you know what it's like to leave message after message and not get it returned. Do you know that I contacted the Michigan State Police Department and tried to have you declared as a missing person? But they informed me that I couldn't do it because you were 24 years old and you were an adult. And you didn't have to call your mom. Now, my mother didn't cry at her mother's funeral. So I'm touched and moved by this.

However, the hustler in me was thinking about how the Michigan State Police Department got my back. I am an adult. I don't have to talk to my mom. The po-po is on my side. And that's what gave me the courage to tell her, do you know what it's like to be the singular focus of a very focused mother? Do you know what it's like to have no control over your childhood and see that it's going to spill into your adulthood? Do you know what it's like to get a diploma you don't really want in a degree you don't really want for somebody else?

And then she asked me a question for the first time in 24 years. She said, what do you want to do next? and I said, I want to finish. And we walked over to the business office, and she wrote a check. And we walked outside, and that's when the sun hit her. And she pulled up to her full height. And you could hear the leathery edges of her wings snapping in the wind. And she unclenched her talons and put her.

one right up against my jugular. And she said, you need to get the hell out of this school, because I'm not paying one more dime for your education. And I thanked her, and she drove off. But I didn't need her pep talk. I already knew what I wanted to do. And I walked off that campus with the high GPA of my entire educational career, a 3.0, and my own set of leather wings. Thank you.

That was Dame Wilburne. I called Dame to talk about her mother and her mother's legacy, and here's some of that conversation. So in the story you paint her, she's pretty fierce, but she has a tender side, though, too. she does and the reason I paid her as fierce and my mother passed away in 2007 and she was home so I was with her when she passed and some of the last coherent things that she said to me was that I would tell people that she was a bad mother and I said to her you weren't a bad mother and if I speak about you to people what I will say to them is you were formidable I was not an easy child to raise. I was interested in everything and nothing all at once.

And I was a comedian and I was a charmer and easily able to get in and out of things. What I thought I did was I'd driven my mother to distraction. In these later years, I've talked to her sister. She said, your mother never talked to me or anybody else that I know of as if you were a burden. And when I heard that, I started crying because my perception of how I had been as a child was not my mother's perception at all. And as I've gotten older, that's been of a real comfort. Dame Wilburn talking about her mother, Mrs. Alberta Wilburn. Dame has a set of dragon wings that would make her mother proud. I've seen them flapping with my

own eyes. I also was thinking about sending you the tattoo I have on my right arm. It's the first tattoo I ever got. And I hid it from her for like a year before she finally saw it one day. And she said, what's that? And it's a dragon. And I said, well, I was going to get a heart that that said, Mom in it. But they were all out of red. So I just got a portrait of you. Stop! That's perfect. To see a picture of the dragon tattoo she got in honor of her mother, visit the moth.org. In a moment, a story about losing control on the road and also in a second grade classroom. 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 Jennifer Hickson. we're sharing stories about trying to exercise power over others and sometimes over ourselves. This next one is from Todd Kelly. He told it out of Portland Grand Slam where we partner with Oregon Public Broadcasting. Here's Todd. It's very important for me that you understand that I am not a violent person.

I'm very even keeled. I never lose my temper. In fact, at one point when I was 25 years old, my girlfriend of a year broke up with me because she said, said I was too even-tempered and even keeled. She said that I so was afraid to ever get angry that her words were, I was like a woman, and to quote her, she could find a better, more masculine man on the open market. And this breakup had ripples that I didn't see coming, because in addition to be my girlfriend of a year, we had sort of drifted off with her friends and I'd become estranged from my own.

And I started about six months prior working for her sister, who now that we weren't together, let me know that she didn't like me and was waiting for a reason to fire me, which I was making too easy because I was really terrible at my job. And I kept showing up late, and I knew if I shoot up late one more time, this is about a month after we've broken up that I'm going to get fired. And so I set my alarm and I am on my way to work from my crappy life to my crappy job. driving my crappy Mazda, which is like 20 years old, and it's the kind of car where it makes these noise that frighten you, and so you turn the stereo up, so you're not afraid to drive it. And I just, I just, I don't know. I can't move past anything in my life.

And I'm thinking about how I have nothing to look forward to when I see something come directly at me on the freeway from the window. And it is a a black car hurtling toward me. And I swerve over and actually go off of the highway onto the parking strip. The car is in fact, I immediately noticed it's not out of control. It's just cutting me off. It's this incredibly expensive black, gorgeous BMW. And the person clear, how could he have not known that he just run me off the road? doesn't think anything of it, just shoots on along through traffic.

And I had this moment of clarity where I decided everything in my life would be better if I passed him and cut him off. And this is rush hour traffic and it's in Portland and everybody's going about 35 or 40 miles an hour, except the guy who I'm chasing who's going about 60. And it sounds more dangerous than it probably is. He's a phenomenal driver. And this car, it handles beautifully.

And it's almost as if all the other cars recognize that this is a superior car, and they have to get out of the way. And it's like watching a dolphin go through water. And I would have no chance of following it, because now I'm going in his wake. And he's going back and forth, and it suddenly hits me. I suddenly know.

He knows that I'm following him and that's why he's going faster and this is why he won't like do anything And we come up and we get to the exit where I'm supposed to get off and get to work on time and I think no Because justice has to be served So I barrel on and we're going and we're going and we're going through the curves and I should not go through the curves in this car because it's an odd thing about my car not all the times but sometimes when you turn the wheel, it's a little while before the thing turns. So I'm now actually cutting other people off accidentally. And again, before you think hypocritical, asshole cutting off, cutting off for justice. They are very different things.

But I can't, I can't, I'm not falling back, but I'm not catching up to him. And I keep going and we go, and finally we're passing to Wallaton. I'm now like 15 miles past my work. We get up to the 205 interchange and suddenly cars are going off there and it breaks open and I can see him he's 10 car lengths ahead of me and he hits the open space

he's going 60 and then clearly he just puts his foot on the grass and he leaves it there because he goes from 60 to 90 boom and he is like a comet and it's like those cartoons where you see the car suddenly shrink inside but that's okay because I'm just a few seconds behind him

and then I hit the open space and I hit my accelerator, I hold it out, and I go from 60, I'm still going 60 because piece of shit car, and I should turn around, but I don't, because I think I can't stop now. And then a miracle happens. As I start to get towards Wilsonville, there's some thing happening on the highway

that's caused great congestion, and he's the last car in the fast lane. And I can say, oh boy, he's seeing me coming in his rear view. He knows it's coming. He knows it's coming. And I can feel the adrenaline. I feel amazing. And suddenly, he branches off and he gets off.

And I follow him. And I think, I'm going to confront him. And he parks immediately in this business park. And he gets out, and I'm like, he's going to have it out with me. And I get out. And he's really big. And that flight part of me goes, we're terrible. at this. And I'm like, no. Today

we're going to try it. And I walk up to him and I go, hey! And he turns around and it's the moment I see his face and his expression that I know, he has no idea who I am. He has no idea what's happened. He has no idea what's happened. He has no idea is cut me off. And I have no idea what to say.

And all I can say is, you cut me off. And he said, oh, God, I'm sorry. Like, right at the off ramp. And I'm like, no, like, 20. miles ago. And he's like looking at me and he's like, and not in an unkind way, he's like, are you going to cry? I was. Like I can feel the tears welling up and I want to say my life is out of control and it's shit and I just want something to go right. But all I can say is you cut me off.

And he says in like the coolest, kindest way, I am so sorry. Like I was late and I wasn't paying attention and it looks like you're having a rough time and I'm so sorry that I made it worse for you. I am terribly sorry. And I hadn't had anybody apologize to me about anything in forever. And it just felt amazing. And if this were an ABC after school special, suddenly my life would have changed, but it didn't, of course, except that in that moment it did. I just felt better. And I apologized, and I thanked him. I got in the car, and I started to drive off to work knowing as soon as I was going to get there,

I was going to put in my two weeks notice, and I was going to start asking myself seriously, what do I need to do to get my life back on track? Thank you. That was Todd Kelly. Todd says that what happened that day in his 1983 Mazda, 323, was totally out of character. I asked him why he thought he lost it that day and he said, heck if I know, maybe it was my brain's way of telling my heart, it was time to grow up and move on.

And that's what he did. After Todd quit the den-end job, he bartended for a spell, then had a successful career in risk management. And these days, Todd is a journalist who also produces live shows in Portland, Oregon. For people whose North Star is predictability and origin, order, any deviation from the path can be a challenge. Our next story was told by Gabriel Woods La Manuzi, at a story slam in Boston, where we partner with PRX and Public Radio

Station WVUO. Here's Gabriel. Okay, so I'm the type of person with assigned pegs for each specific coat that I own, and very much assigned slots for each utensil in my kitchen drawers. This pillow in my world goes with this pillow case only, and Every time my girlfriend leaves her keys in my key spot, I have to just pray for patience.

Left to my own devices, all of the spice bottles in my cabinets would be label facing forward, because I'm not a barbarian. And when it's down halfway, I take the soap dispenser in the bathroom and switch it with the one in the kitchen, which is used up more slowly so that they can deplete at the same time and be filled up simultaneously. I consider this peak brilliance.

So you get the picture. For as long as I can remember, I have been a lover of and at times a refugee in order. Predictability, organization, these are things that help me maintain sanity in an otherwise chaotic and overwhelming world. And, you know, so make a plan, have a routine, everything is just safer and better that way. Well, when I went off to college, settle on a major in cognitive science, partly because the research is awesome. and partly so I could just be tucked away in a neat, orderly little lab somewhere. Well, my junior year of college, I ended up stumbling my way into an education course. And the professor was an amazing human being.

I had great classmates. I was having a good time. But part of the requirement for this class was going to a local classroom a couple times a week. And the final project was I had to teach a lesson about states of matter using mystery goop. Okay, what is mystery goop? So mystery goop is this mixture of cornstarch and water that when you get the perfect ratio, it's kind of liquidy when you move it slowly, but kind of solidy if you like squeeze it really suddenly or punch it or something. It's pretty cool stuff. So I decide I'm going to plan the shit

out of this lesson, right? I'm going to do like warm up discussion with my students and we're going to list different liquids and solids and gases. And we're going to have a worksheet for them to write down their observations. While they explore, the mystery goop in a calm, orderly civilized fashion. This is second grade, by the way. I was new. All right. So the night before, I have everything laid out, and the morning of I wake up early, and I excitedly start mixing the concoction. And I'm kind of, you know, my mind's wandering as I'm mixing. One cup of cornstarch, two cups of water, one cup of cornstarch, another two cups of water. And I realize that I have no mystery goop developing below me in the Tupper.

Instead, I just have white water, totally liquid. So I add a bit more cornstarch, and then more, and then all of my cornstarch, and it's still just white water. And that's when I realized that I got the ratio backwards, and I halved the cornstarch and doubled the water. So my orderly world just crumbles in this moment. The scientist in me decides the best option is to evaporate the extra water as rapidly as possible.

So I put it in the microwave. All this does is cook it into some weird, fluffy mass, right? So it's got all of the mystery and none of the goop. So that's okay, it's okay. I have time. So I get my car and I go to the grocery store to get some backup cornstarch. And when I get back to my car, the battery is dead. Okay, by the time I get to school, I'm running way late, and I have no goop.

I am officially goopless, which is not a place you want to be in if you want to win over a classroom full of second graders. So I rushed to the back of the room and the headteachers running things and I'm kind of frantically but carefully mixing the cornstarch and water in my backup Tupperware with my spoon and it's working I've got this muck in front of me right? It's great and I turn around to get the worksites out of my backpack and I turn back around and the spoon is gone and I look for a culprit nearby and there's no students and I realize you know I lift the Tupperware up and there at the bottom of the goop through the see-through bottom is my spoon. So with a sigh I reach in and take out of my spoon and I'm standing there hand-dripping goop, frantic, frenzied eyes, you know, looking around the room. And you know what? The kids freaking loved it, right? When we got the lesson rolling, there were squeals of delight and kids were shouting for their friends, hey, look at this. And, you know, there was dried goop dust on hands and pens and desks and my soul. And students were arguing if it was a liquid or a solid. And there was that one kid who was saying that it was debating that it was a gas, because if you're lucky, there's always that one kid.

Only if you're lucky. And, you know, I looked around the room and realized that it was full of curiosity and laughter, and I realized that I was laughing too. I had actually laughed every time something went wrong that morning with the floofy mass, with the spoon spulunking. Maybe I didn't laugh with the car battery. But my point is that even though things went spectacularly awry in in ways I hadn't even imagined.

I was having a darn good time, and I did not feel safe, and I was not in my comfort zones, and I was most assuredly also frantic and anxious, but it was working. I felt alive. Anyway, that graduation requirement turned into an education minor, and instead of doing brain research the past five years, I've been teaching all around the world, and for every piece of organization and predictability that I'm, I've given up in my classrooms, I've welcomed in equal parts, adventure, and joy. And that's a

ratio I've worked really hard to get right. And I've got to say, my students have really taught me a lot about living a better life. Thank you. That was Gabriel Woods La Manozy. As you heard, Gabe is now a teacher and says, I believe that education should be applicable, empowering, and joyful. To see a picture of Gabriel in his highly organized workspace with a place for everything and everything in its place, visit the moth.org, where you can also download the story. There you'll also find a picture of him joyfully showing the disorganized spice rack he shares with his girlfriend, because compromise makes for harmony. Gabriel has yielded control of the spice situation.

I'm proud of you, Gabe. Coming up, a story about skinheads in London when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media. in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This episode is brought to you by FedEx. These days, the Power Move isn't having a big metallic credit card to drop on the check at a corporate launch. The real Power Move is leveling up your business with FedEx intelligence and accessing one of

the biggest data networks powered by one of the biggest delivery networks. Level up your business with FedEx, the new Power Move. The American Dream. We all have a version of it. The notion that where you begin has nothing to do with where you end up, that anything is possible. Run for office, live off the grid, hit a homer, build robots, teach goat yoga, anything. This spring, the Moth Main Stage is traveling to cities around the country with stories

of the American Dream. Does it even exist anymore? For who? What happens when that dream is dashed or deferred? And what happens when the dream is fulfilled? come together and listen to people telling true personal stories of their very own American dreams. Experience the Moth Mainstage live. Find a city near you at the moth.org slash mainstage. You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jennifer Hickson. In this show, we're sharing stories

about how people confront power. Our final story was told by Namesha Ladva. She told this at a Moth mainstage at St. Anne's Church in Brooklyn, New York. Here's Namisha. I grew up in England, the daughter of Indian immigrants. The spring that I turn 11, there is violence in Brixton. It's an area of London. Skinheads, police, and dark-skinned people, some who look like me, are clashing. On TV, there are images of things on fire.

My father talks to my brother and me and says, there's nothing for us to worry about. We don't live near the voice. near the violence, we don't live near any skinheads, and we should just carry on doing what we do and being who we are. So one of the things we are is vegetarian Hindus, and when bugs get into our house, we don't kill them, we take them outside. So that spring, a gigantic wasp gets into the house. The stinger is visible to the naked eye. My mother rolls up a newspaper, asks God for forgiveness, and then does what she has to do.

She hands the weapon to my father. But my dad does not take it. He walks up to the window where the wasp is, and with his bare hands, cups them around the wasp, and walks outside and simply lets it free. Then he turns to me and my brother and says, I'm your father. My job is to put things where they belong, including you two monkeys.

To be honest, my brother and I do not care that we have just been insulted. Because in that moment, we are figuring out that our father, skinny shoulders, thick glasses, Indian accent, that guy, that guy might be badass. So in the neighborhood where we live, we are the only people of color.

We are such an anomaly that there's just one day I'm outside in the front garden visible to everyone when a neighbor walks by with a friend and announces passing my house. Here is where the colored family lives. The kids at school could some sometimes be cruel. And when the incidents added up, my father would come to school, talk to the headmistress, and leave with assurances from the grown-ups that they would seek to make

my condition better. Now that said, I will say that I did have friends at school. For example, there was Deborah. And I not only liked Deborah, I really liked her little brother, Michael, as well. And Deborah, Deborah's mom was a baker. And she would tell me things like things about sponge cake and fruit tarts and shortbread in three flavors and chocolate biscuits. And I'm just amazed because in my house, when my mom finds an eggplant at the market, she makes eggplant curry and that is supposed to be a treat for us. And it's not working for us. So when I get invited to Deborah's house for tea, I'm really excited. So I ask my parents for permission.

They say yes. I go to school the next day. I wait and wait and wait and wait and wait for the school day to end. It finally does. And it is time to go to Deborah's house and eat that stuff. I'm really excited, actually, to also meet Deborah's mother because she's making all this magical stuff and she's raised these lovely children.

And I'm really just so excited. So we start walking to her house. And the pavement's a bit narrow, so we have to take turns holding Michael's hand. And we're talking about how many treats we can eat before we get into trouble, and is it rude to eat two at a time? And we finally get to the door, and I'm really excited.

And Deborah presses the doorbell, and her mom opens the door, and I look at her. And as soon as I see her, I know that something is wrong. So I watch her eyes and I look to see where she is looking and she's looking at my hand holding Michael's the first thing out of her mouth. Michael, why don't you go inside and wash your hands?

Wash them twice, dear, then she turns to Deborah. Deborah, is this your friend you wanted to bring over for tea? Is this Felicia? I'm so shocked and scared. I don't have the nerve to tell her that I am not Felicia. My name is Nimisha. Then she says to Deborah, well dear, you really should have known better.

Why don't you tell her that she can't come inside and that she's not welcome? Each word is poison and I am stung. I am stung with shame and fear and the brand new knowledge that the touch of my hand is something that has to be washed away. I wish and wish and wish that my father was here, that he would come and do something about Deborah's mother for me

because I am not ready. I am not ready to do anything about Deborah's mother myself. Deborah doesn't say anything to me, and I don't say anything to her. And at school, we pretend nothing happened. A few weeks later, my family and I are on the bus. We're coming home like we always do. We get to our bus stop, we get off,

and the only thing we have to do to get home is cross the street and walk about 10 houses down. The problem is on this day, we get off the bus, and right across the street, right where we have to walk, there is a group of 15, maybe 15 young men, with very closely shaved heads, skinheads. Some of them have armbands with swastikas on them. They are like the men I've seen on TV.

As soon as they see us, they start to shout at us. We hate you. Go back to where you came from. Go back to the jungle. And then to my mother, who is draped in Asari, take it off. So my mother takes my hand and my brother's hand

and she walks away. She walks away from the skinheads, away from our house. But my father stops her. Apru gerto amte. Our house is this way. And he points right into the middle of the nest of skinheads.

and one of them looks up. He makes eye contact with my father, and once they see each other, my father walks so fast and so short across the street that even the skinheads make way for him. Then he puts his dark face right next to the young skinhead, and I see what my father has just seen before. It's our neighbor's son.

My father speaks. Good God, Frank, does your father know you are here? You are with these people? Then he turns around and he grabs my hand and he grabs my brother's hand and my mom comes with us and we walk home right through the skinheads. Because my dad really is badass. The next day I hear my parents talking. My dad wants to go to three,

Frank's house and talk to his father. My mom really doesn't want him to. She doesn't want to make things worse than they already are. And they start to argue and then I hear my father, I am going, okay? I am going. It is the right thing to do. So he goes. A few hours after his visit, the doorbell rings. I go to the top of the stairs to see what's happening and it's Frank. He's not wearing his skinhead jacket, just his school uniform. My father opens a door. It's good to see you, son. Come on in. Cup of tea. So they have a cup of tea and talk for a while and Frank apologizes. My dad says to him, you did the right thing coming here today, son. Frank is blushing. He looks like an ordinary boy now, no stinger. My dad cups his hand, puts it on Frank's back, and simply walks him

outside. As the news keeps bringing more and more reports of violence and racist hatred, my dad decides it's time to leave England. So he moves us to America. In this country, I have grown up to be, among other things, a dark-skinned woman married to a nice Jewish boy from Chicago. I've always assumed a happy multicultural future for us. Diwali and Hanukkah, samosas and lotkas. Two cultures, double the fun, twice the love. Perfect. This summer, I stopped taking that future for granted.

We're at the beach in Delaware. My children are digging a giant hole in the ground with their father. It's what they do. So I take a boogie board and I head out into the ocean. And I'm waiting for a wave and I'm behind a group of young people. And I'm closest to a man. He's probably 19 or 20 years old. And I catch something that he says.

Hey, Rachel, are you a Jew? The girl says no. And he says, totally casual. Well, that's good. And you know what? I just knocked down two hijabies down there. I looked to where he's pointing. I see the two girls with headscarves.

They are barely middle school age. The next wave carries me back to shore. The same wave knocks the young man down. I get out of the water and I join my family, but I can hear him. cursing. He is in a foul mood and he is getting closer to my family. I stand up, I put my hands at my hips and I stand in front of my children. The man is getting closer and my heart beat quickens. I start to breathe shallow and fast. I look back at my children. They are lost in their play.

But for the first time, I'm worried. I am worried that with their two cultures, can they be hated two ways? I'm thinking of my father. He is, in this September, he will be 75 years old. He has had a brain tumor operated on twice. He now walks with a walker, and his hands shake a lot. I look back up at the man, and I wonder,

is my children's burden twice mine? The answer comes to me in my father's voice. No, not today, not now. I look back at the man. My father can no longer take the wasps out himself, but I can. and I am ready. That was Namisha Ladva.

She teaches writing, oral communication, and public speaking at Haverford College. Namisha's dad has slowed down slightly, but is still 100% a badass. To see a picture of young Namisha and her family outside the home they left behind in England,

visit the moth.org. That's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time, and that's the story from my mom. The Moth. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, J. Allison, Catherine Burns, and Jennifer Hickson, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, Associate producer Emily Couch. The rest of the Moth's leadership team include Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Janice, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Clucay, Suzanne Rust,

Brandon Grant, Inga, Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and O'Brien. Aldi Casa. Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound. Podcast music, production support from Davy Sumner. We receive 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, themoth.org.