The Moth - Legends: The Moth Radio Hour

Episode Date: March 10, 2026

In this hour, stories of legends: the people that have left an indelible mark—in our memories or the history books. A steelworker, a Cuban grandmother, and Medgar Evers. This episode is hosted by Moth Director Jodi Powell. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: Caroline Connolly spends a summer with her grandmother, "the ultimate Cuban matriarch." Stacy Sullivan gains a new appreciation for her father.  Marques Celestine contends that Mardi Gras has "never been as much about the what, but the who with." After moving to a new country, Brenda Williams takes pottery classes with a local elder. Pastor Herbert Broome realizes that a critical piece of history that he was a part of is omitted in his local museum. Podcast # 969 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

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Jody Powell. In my home, there's a photo of my grandmother, a beautiful, kind woman from the hills of Jamaica whose strength has shaped my entire life. She's my definition of a legend. And she reminds me that legends aren't just found in history books or on giant screens. They're right here, in our families,

our neighborhoods, or classrooms, and in our communities. In this show, we're hearing stories from and about legends. Her first story comes from Caroline Connolly. Caroline told this at a grand slam at the town hall in Boston, where WBUR is our radio partner. Here's Caroline. I spent the summer of my freshman year in college,

living with my then-75-year-old grandmother in Boca Raton, Florida. If you don't know Boca Raton, it is a place with a lot of 75-year-olds. That's what my grandmother told me when I called to ask if I could stay with her while I was in there. turning at a company nearby. Now my grandmother goes by Lala in our family because we couldn't pronounce abuela when we were little and she is the ultimate Cuban matriarch, a fourth grade teacher who raised four kids, some of her nine grandkids and never left the house without lipstick earrings and should you ever need it at

least five packets of Splenda in her purse. It's worth noting that Lala is begrudgingly a diabetic and by begrudgingly I mean she just doesn't feel like being one. That's really the best way I can describe it. And that summer, she had been directed to change her diet and do something that absolutely horrified her exercise. And because I was there, it became my responsibility to oversee all of this.

So we established a routine. I would wake up early in the morning and make us two cups of Café Bustello. I would take mine black, and Lala would take hers, with milk and a huge fistful of corn flakes that she would cram into the mug every day. This is a recipe she concocted to, quote, trick the blood sugar level test.

Now, I was a communications major in college, so I wasn't like questioning her science, and the levels for the most part seemed fine. We would take our coffee out onto her back patio table where there was a small pool. and we would just chat about life. She would ask me questions that had been troubling her like, why do so many white women do yoga now?

And she would dispense love advice, like, marry someone who you can have a conversation with for the rest of your life. And in the same breath, do not marry someone who does yoga. And as for the physical activity, Lala had decided, allegedly with her doctor, that cleaning around the house and the occasional light stroll

were sufficient forms of cardio activity. So when I would point out to her, she had an exercise one day. She would get up from the couch with a smirk on her face, walk over to her kitchen counter, and casually wipe it down. It was Lala's way of saying, go to hell, granddaughter.

And on the weekend to meet our strolling goals, we would drive to the local mall and do laps inside Nordstrom. And so we would start, art in the shoes section and then make our way over to cosmetics and jewelry and eventually work our way to the second floor where they had the higher-end designer stuff. And we would walk around like two of the most lethargic robbers casing a joint. And we would reward ourselves for our effort.

At night we would lay in her bed side by side, chowing down on sugar-free wafers, watching a movie from her extensive VHS collection. And these were films, by the way, that Lala had bought on sale at Big Bloc. stores all around Florida in the 90s. So the genres ranged from Air Force One kind of action to not without my daughter, that controversial Sally Field film. And this was us week to week, and I found myself a single 20-year-old with no friends in the area getting so excited about a sugar-free jello night and a third viewing of

the First Wives Club. But several weeks into my visit, Lala was in feeling. well one day. Her blood sugar had spiked, and we thought it was best she'd go to the hospital. And so while she was being driven there, I was asked to look after my then 10 to 12-year-old male cousins. And generally speaking, I am somebody who relates more to a 75-year-old than I do a 12-year-old boy. That is true at like every stage of my life. And so when I went outside to check on them, it was no surprise that things weren't going as planned. They had taken all of Lala's patio furniture and thrown it into her pool.

So her white table and matching white chairs were all underwater. And by the time she came back from the hospital, I had only managed to drag out one of the chairs. I was someone, after all, who had spent the summer exercising at Nordstrom. And at first, I could not tell what she was feeling. Lala is someone who has always looked just as shocked by a car crew. as she does the discovery that my boyfriend doesn't speak Spanish. And so I wasn't sure how mad she would be,

but as she looked from the pool to her white chair, she started laughing because the chlorine from the pool had cleaned that chair. It had never looked better. Lala is now 92 years old, and she no longer. She no longer lives in that house. But I will always remember all the trips I took there,

all the ridiculous, funny things she said and all the advice she gave me. But I will especially remember how we spent the rest of that summer, which was once a week, we would take our cafe con lece and cornflakes out onto her patio, and we would throw all of that furniture into the pool because that was exercise. That was Caroline Connolly.

Caroline grew up in Massachusetts and spent 10 years reporting the news in cities all across the country. These days, she's back in Boston, where she lives with her husband, their son, and their very dignified 14-year-old dog. Her grandmother, Lala, just turned 94 this year. She now lives with family who absolutely don't on her. She says Lala's always had this beautiful ability to find humor in any situation. and that's something the two of them share, along with a sincere love of the dessert menu. Our next story comes from Stacey Sullivan.

She told this at our Milwaukee Islam, where Wisconsin Public Radio is our media partner. Here's Stacey, live at the mall. In two days, it will be eight years since my dad died in his sleep, and it still hurts that I didn't get to tell him that I loved him. and I decided tonight about a half hour ago that I wanted to do something to remember him by that he never would have done. He never would have done something like this.

My dad was kind of a peculiar guy. He had a big red mustache. He wore suspenders and he was a welder. He loved my mom and he loved Budweiser, probably a little too much. And my dad kind of started to become a little afraid of me, probably when I started getting boobs and hit puberty, and we'd do the kind of ass out, back patting hug. And my dad probably had some level of dyslexia and learning disability. He stopped being able to help me with my homework, my math homework when I was in about third grade. But he worked so hard. He worked at the same stage. steel mill since 1974. And he showed up every day and worked tirelessly welding in Phoenix, Arizona.

And those are some very hot environments. And I can remember being a kid and riding in my dad's 1987 Chevy pickup, and it would be 110 degrees outside, and he'd be driving me home from grade school, and the heat would be on in this truck. And I would just be, like, sweltering and pawing at the window, and he'd be explaining to me that it helps him acclimate to his welding environment. So when I had to go home to Phoenix in February, it was unseasonably hot in 2016. It was like 90 degrees in February.

And, you know, sudden death is such a chaotic thing. And one thing that I was tasked with was dropping off my dad's death certificate to the HR department at the steel mill that he worked at since 1974. And I never had a reason to ever go visit my dad at work or see what a steel mill was like. And I had this phenomenal existential crisis seeing where my dad worked, where he showed up to every single day and worked so hard to provide a wonderful life for me. It's a very like cold, steely environment. You know, no nice place to rest and have a lunch. You know, overhead cranes.

a lot of heavy equipment. And so I had to drive to get to the HR department, and I had to approach this chain link fence with wheels on it to allow me to go in. And there was a security guard there, and I rolled down my driver's side window, and I introduced myself as Stacy Lansdown and explained that I needed to go in to drop off some paperwork for my dad. And this man that I'd never seen before in my life kind of leans forward and says, oh boy, are you Bruce's daughter?

Are you the nurse? Boy, was he proud of you? And I just completely lost it. And just having this moment of knowing that my dad would never be able to tell me that he was proud of me again. And I would never get to tell him that I loved him. but knowing that he loved me as much as he did and talked to me, talk to the security guard about how proud he was of me,

just made it hurt a little bit less. And in two days, we'll be at eight years, and I still miss him. But yeah, I'm proud to have done this little thing for him tonight. That was Stacey Sullivan. Stacey is a nurse practitioner, and she put her name in the hat and got a chance to tell this.

story at our monthly store Islam in Milwaukee. If you'd like to learn more about our slams or even tell your own story, head over to the moth.org. In a moment, we'll continue this hour of legends and take you into two kinds of magic, the kind you find inside small, quaint shops, and the kind that pulls you out into the middle of the streets. That's when the moth radio hour continues. The moth radio hour is produced by Atlantic public media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. After a long winter, even a small shift can change how home feels. This spring, open the door to something lighter.

Explore vibrant scents inspired by place, from bright citrus terraces to blooming lavender fields, and layer them into their rooms you love most. For a limited time, get a free Pura 4 diffuser when you subscribe to 2 cents for 12 months. It's an easy way to refresh your space without starting over. Visit pura.com and bring spring home. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jody Powell. In this show, we're hearing stories from and about legends,

the people who make a moment unforgettable and make you grateful you got to cross their path, even for a very short while. Our next storyteller is Marquess Salistine. He told this at a Louisiana story slam, where New Orleans Public Radio is our media partner. Here's Marquis live at the Moth. I must admit, I really appreciate this prompt because it's so much in the world out there that seems to be so opposed to our joy that I really needed this reflection today.

So I needed this. I needed this. Y'all all right if I talk about Mardi Gras too. I know somebody already did that, but my joy really, really lives in Mardi Gras. You know, I love it. I always have loved Mardi Gras. I mean, the whimsy, the charm of it all. I mean, there's just something about it. You know, you can fall into it if you allow yourself to just be free enough to do it.

I mean, the whimsy, the music, the movement. Mardi Gras is a mood, and I'm here for it. I even love the smell of Mardi Gras. Now, now, Mardi Gras does have its problematic parts, too. I won't lie. I mean, its origin story is kind of shrouded in that lost-cause mythology. I mean, think about that next time a hooded horseman gallops past you as we stand in front of the mansions of the former sugar barons and people traitors.

And the flambo? I mean, they're amusing for sure, but is it just me or is that kind of problematic? You know, in the royal courts, the debitants and the monarchs, Every man a king, but segregated as ever. That's all right. I still love Mardi Gras anyway. I still love it because, see, Mardi Gras is not just a mirror. It's a magnifying glass of our innermost impulses.

You know, the stuff we spend the rest of the year trying to suppress. And, you know, it's never been as much about the what, but the who-with. See, those memories are about. those times we spend together with the people we love. That's that's Mardi Gras for me. And now I'm able to see the joy of Mardi Gras through the eyes of my daughter. And thank God, she loves Mardi Gras even more than I do.

And before I even had words, I had memories. I remember waking up Mardi Gras morning crisp, grasping my mom's hand, chasing down float number 12, lower deck, neutral ground side, to see my dad in his full Zulu Glee. Lori, every moment perched on top his shoulders. I was mesmerized by the spectacle. I couldn't get enough.

You might even catch me at a parade in Metery if it's early enough in the season. I mean, you know, no shade to the suburbs, but y'all know what I mean. But I'd be hard pressed to share a mighty grab memory without thinking back to my dad, because it's almost cruel, if not poetic, that this one particular season, we entered into it and he went into hospice. And a giant of a man reduced by his

battle with dementia. I can remember back in my earlier years and it was a couple of weeks, maybe even a couple of months and the last parade had passed and my bedroom was still Canal Street. My bed was still a king's float. All my toys with a crowd and everything I caught that year, those were my throes. And my dad walked in on me, mid-route. And he looks at me and he's like, he laughs, you know, he lasts a little bit. And he looks at me like, son, come on now. Mighty cry is over. It's Ash Wednesday.

And see, that refrain would be a metaphor he used throughout my life because it signaled when I need to leave something behind and make wait for what was in front. And my actual Ash Wednesday arrived. It was inevitable. We knew he was getting ready to depart. But I held out, prayed to the God of my childhood for one last blessing. And I don't know if it was the conversation I had or the prayers that I had or just telling that nurse, hey, slow down on that larazepam. But I'm telling you, something indeed did happen.

Ashes on my head, ashes on his and a light shone. Something filled the room in almost with a resurrective aura. My dad's eyes opened. He cracked a smile. He even laughed. He did something he hadn't done in weeks. He got up and he walked. It didn't even feel real, almost like a tableau vivant. And I'm going to tell you, he lasted eight more months after that. He even came home for a little bit. And even as I'm telling y'all this story now, I'm taking back to those rows and rows of coconuts in my garage. And see, back then, we used to shave them and drain them and paint them and decorate them ourselves. Couldn't order it from overseas already done.

I remember the first time we rode the truck parade together. And the next year I bet I said, Dad, I want to ride a real parade this year. He did one bet I rode on the Kings Float. I was a page. And the next year I was big time riding a big shot. I mean, tailing the spy boy, trailing the bands, the Claiborne Bridge and the Galleha Hall stands.

Every single moment, powerful, love, joy. Thank you. Parker Solisstein is a New Orleans-born storyteller whose travels around the world have only strengthened his love for his hometown. His work has taken him from the Midwest to Asia to the East Coast and now back to New Orleans, where he's rediscovering the city's deep cultural magic. Marco says he's still all about Mardi Gras,

but it's still hard to watch the Zula parade, which was such a core memory he shared with his dad. But these days, along with his wife and daughter, they made muses their new tradition, the all-female parade that tosses bedazzled shoes. When I asked Marquess about his definition of a legend, he wrote, A legend to me is someone who puts so much of themselves out there that the impact they leave behind never dies.

They say, you know, a tree by the fruit it bears, and so much of how I try to live, parent and give are extensions of how my father led his life. My dad's impact on me and so much of my father. many others was nothing short of legendary. Our next story is from Brenda Williams, who told it at our New York City Grand Slam, where WNYC is our media partner. Brenda mentions Obia in her story. It's a West African spiritual practice that shows up in all kinds of ways across the diaspora. Think rituals, spells,

folk medicine, mostly for healing or protection. Here's a Brenda, live at the mall. So, Haiti has voodoo, Cuba has Santa Maria, America has all kinds of witchcraft, and some Caribbean countries have

Obia. To this day, I don't know how my religious Jamaican dad connected with an Obia woman, but he did. After 25 years living in England, he emigrated to the U.S. ahead of the rest of

the family and must have connected with her before we came over to join him in New Jersey. I was 14 when we moved and beyond miserable. I had no friends. We were living in a really rough neighborhood and the local high school, the stories about it terrified me. Bullying, drugs, terrible teachers. I had been this nerdy scholar in London. I knew I'd just be mincemeat there.

I started having nightmares about it. My parents saw my distress and recommended the one thing guaranteed to help me. You can probably guess, ceramics classes. Yep, they knew a lady with a kiln, who I was to call Aunt Eadie. So right off, I knew something

was wrong. Not the part about getting a new aunt. We were raised to call our elders' aunts and uncles as a sign of respect. But ceramics classes? And why would my parents spring for this when we were so broke? Anyway, Aunt Edie was this plump, sweet and salty lady who kept praising my grades and how polite I was. So I knew my dad had talked me up a lot. We did the ceramics in her basement, but we didn't create anything from scratch. She ordered figurines and statuettes and painted and glazed them to sell in her shop. I was very curious about this shop. Something else was really weird.

She deliberately painted them to look unnatural, like the little Dutch girl with the two long braids, flame orange, pitch black face, purple eyes, and these enormous ceramic cats, hot pink, yellow eyes. I told my older sister Sonny about it, how ugly they were, and we laughed about it. That's my same sister, it was around late July. She took me to check out the high school, and when we got there, there were these boys at the entrance,

and they made really crude cat calls at us, so we were too afraid to go in. Naturally, my nightmares continued. Around the same time, Aunt Edie invited me to her shop, and my sister Sonny came with me. So the shop was on a side street, tiny space. We walked in, and there were all her creations, and all those purple, pink and yellow eyes,

they look kind of confused to me on the same shelf as figurines of prophets and saints. And then there was this shelf of potions with labels like postulence brew and protection tonic and my personal favorite, lover comeback oil. And then from a room in the back

a lady hurried out clutching a bag that smelled like rancid meat I was not going near that door. Sonny and I left as soon as we could. I got home and confronted my parents. Did you know Aunt Edie is an Obie a woman? And my dad, sheepishly said, well, do you not feel safe?

And actually I did feel safe. I kind of liked her. Dad said, Aunt Edie has no children of her own, and she's very well connected. You have to stick with it a bit longer. So the lessons continued. And after the visit to the shop, Aunt Edie asked me, what did I really think of her creations, her figurines? And of course the words horrendous and hideous came to mind,

but instead I said, strange. And she seemed pleased that I didn't try to lie. She actually told me that her customers expected strangeness. They saw beauty in it because it made them believe that she might be legit and maybe could actually help them. She had been doing this kind of work since she was 16 years old. And back then, she wanted to be a nurse, but couldn't afford to go for training. So she turned to a different.

type of healing from this very different direction. So after all of this outpouring, I was ready to leave, and she kind of held onto my hand. And on impulse, I gave her a tiny peck on the cheek. Come mid-August, the lessons had been continuing, and my parents got the call they were hoping for. Aunt Eadie had a client, an elderly Jamaican lady, who agreed to let me use her home address, which was zoned for an excellent high school,

about an hour from where we lived. The lady would not accept money, but she and Aunt Edie insisted on seeing my report card every quarter. And so it was, I gained another new aunt, Auntie Mildred, from this circle of Jamaican ladies, who occasionally, gave a gift to a young immigrant girl. And I repaid them simply by receiving by receiving the kind of education that had not been available to them. Thank you so much.

That was Brenda Williams. Brenda is a writer and human resources professional based in Brooklyn, New York. Brenda said the home address arrangement only lasted one year. But that was enough time for her to make a good social and academic transition to the U.S. And enough time for her parents to move to a neighborhood with a decent high school. When I asked Brenda how she's paying it forward, she told me,

I continued my nerdy love of school all the way to college and was able to qualify for and attend an Ivy League university, something I owe entirely to the circle of ladies. I've carried that gratitude with me and I've tried to pass it on through years of teaching, and mentoring, both formally and informally. I started with kids and teens, and now I mainly work with young professionals. In a moment, we take a trip down memory lane and meet a legend as they're becoming one,

a reminder that legends can show up at any age. That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jody Powell. Our final story comes from Pastor Herbert Broom. Pastor Broom told this at our main stage in Boston, where we partnered with WGBH and the Wilbur Theatre. Here's Pastor Brum, live at the Moth. This is a pastor's dream to see so many people out here in the Orph. while I stand before you, but I promise you I'm not going to preach tonight.

But can I get an amen? February 2020, the Mississippi Civil Rights Museum in Jackson, Mississippi, had opened door in celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. I had just retired, so I'm like, I got time on my hand. Let me go and experience some of my past. As I walked into the main lobby, I was really amazingly pleased to see so many people there. Matter of fact, it was a lot of people older than I am. And they were sharing their stories with their grandchildren, their great-grandchildren,

when all of a sudden I heard a familiar sound. It's the same song we sang at our church, St. Jane Beth, Missionary Baptist Church, in Tulu community every Sunday. The song is This Little Light of Man. As I turned to find out where it was coming from, I was really shocked because it was coming from the Jimmy and Sarah Barksdale Expo. Now, what made it shocking was I had just retired

from being an automotive sales consultant from Jimmy Barksdale. He owned the Cadillac dealership. in Jackson. I never thought that he was involved in civil rights. So naturally, my curiosity, I went into and explored the exhibit. I found a map of the state of Mississippi, and if you know, Mississippi looked like a great big nose. The map had indication of those counties that had voter registration. So as I looked at Wilkinson County, which is the tip of the nose, there was no map. Now, I knew that there was voter registration going on in that county because I am a living witness,

a eye witness, a EYE witness, that voter registration occurred. Both of my parents taught school there. My dad was industrial art. He taught algebra. also was a football coach. My mom, she taught English, Mississippi history, and home economics, which the other words mean I know what fork and knife to use to cut a state. Let's go back 61 years, 1963. I had just turned 10 years old. That afternoon, two cars pull up in our yard, a sedan and a station wagon. The men in the sedan got out the car. They walked to the door, and I heard a peculiar knock. My dad opened the door, and these men came in. They were so tall, they had to kind of bend down and go up under the doorpost. They literally walked in each one of those rooms, and they made sure they looked in the bedroom,

they looked in the closet. They looked everywhere. Matter of fact, one of the tall men made one step on the ladder, and he could shine in the attic. They were making sure that the only people that was at that house was the Broome family. The other two men went around their house, and because our house was placed on center blocks,

they shined the flashlight all up under the house, making sure there was no bomb there. When the thumbs came up, the door of the station wagon opened up. This man walked to the house. My dad was so excited to

see him. They did a manly hug and a handshake. And my dad introduced my family. He said, this is my wife Hurley. She shook his hand. He said, this is my daughter, her to Janice. Now, she's five years old. He reached down and he shook her hand. Then he introduced me, and saying, this is my son, Herbert James. When I reached up to shake this man's hand, I was shaking the hand of Megal Wally Evers. He was the Secretary of the State of Mississippi NWACP meeting. My parents and Mr. Evers immediately sit down at the table. Now, back in 63, children weren't allowed to just hang around

and see what grown folks were talking about. That next morning, I was woken by the smell of breakfast. My mother had fixed everything that you want to imagine because my dad's friend who, by the way, attended Alcorn State University together located in Lama, Mississippi. So they was old classmate. But they had stayed up all night long talking.

My mom had grits, eggs, bacon, toasts, even dad's favorite biscuits along with syrup, coffee and milk. We all had a wonderful time. After they left a few days later, they had the first NAACP meeting in Wilkinson County. It was held at the local Methodist church. Now, the meeting started at 7 o'clock, but his was 7.20, and we were still at home. My mother, bless her heart, was just so slow. She used to frustrate my dad because she was always slow. When we finally got there about 7.30, the parking lot was full of cars and trucks.

As a matter of fact, there was bicycles leaning on the side of the church. Now in 63, they didn't have central air. So the winters of the church was open. The latest that was in there, they had their little fan along with their patent leather, person, they were trying to stay comfortable. I don't recall everything that was said that night, but I do remember there was two songs that we sung. The first song was, I'm not going to let nobody turn me around. The guest speaker, he got up and he started talking about how important it was to be registered voters and that we didn't have to count beans in a jar. You didn't have to pay poll taxes.

The only thing that was required was that you was a citizen of the United States and you go down and you register a vote. Road trip. My dad got all of us together and we stopped by the St. Clair Service Station. Now, my dad pulled up and his first thing he said was, ooh, this gas is so high. When I looked at the window, 17.9 cent a gallon for premium gas. After we filled a car up, the next stop we made was at the Gulf service station. Of course, in 1963, black people couldn't go into the restaurant and order their food. We had to go by the kitchen dough on the side, which was okay with us because the main cook with

Ms. Paley Lacey, my best friend, Mom. And Ms. Lacey put our hamburgers in separate bags. When I opened up my bag, they had a big piece of meat. It had lettuce, tomatoes, onions, pickle, and even the grill was toasted to a nice crunch. The buns was excellent. We drove 100 miles one way to Jackson, Mississippi. They drove downtown on Capitol Street, and they pulled in front of the federal post office. They was mailing a letter to Washington, D.C.

Of course, what I observed was they put that letter inside another letter that was dressed to my aunt in Chicago. Because in 63, if you mail a letter in Hookerson County talking about going to Washington, D.C., I promise you that letter would have never left the county. June the 12th, 1963. My dad, friend, after attending a NWACP meeting in Jackson, Mississippi, pull up to his house only to be shot in the back. His wife rushed him to the emergency room at the local hospital, only to be rejected and turned down because the hospital was segregated. He died right there on the spot.

We got the news while my parents and us, we only had one TV in the whole house, and we all was watching Dad's favorite show. When all of a sudden, the news flash came on announcing that Megawali Edwards was dead, that was the only time I saw my strong dad break down and cry. As a matter of fact, we all cried that night. But it was too late to run and hide. As a matter of fact, instead of burning the stores down in looting stores, they put on one of the most vicious boycow in that county. No bag people even spent one red scent in the white stores. A few days later, people came to our house wearing their dark suits. These were men from Washington, D.C., who presented my mom a letter.

The letter that she sent to Washington, D.C. was a request for a grant to put on voter registration drive in that county, and it was approved. That next day, thank you, that next day, it was voter registration day. and I stand before you and I promise you that was the only time that I can remember my mom being on time. As a matter of fact, she was blowing the horn and talking about, come on, James, we're going to be late. She sent my sister across the street to Mr. Johnson House because remember she was only five years old.

So I rode downtown with my parents. They got out the car and they went in the courthouse. dad passed me the keys to his 57 Chevy. He says, son, I want you to go and get somebody else and bring them down to vote. My dad could trust me driving his car at 10 because he taught me how to drive at 6 years old. As a matter of fact, at 7 years old,

I had my own keys to my own transportation. I could literally drive downtown Woodville, Mississippi, wave at the police, tip my hat to the shaft, and they didn't pull me over. Now you all might think it was that 57 Chevy, but no, it was that little 435 tractor on my way to the sweet potato field, because my dad was also a farmer. As I went back to our neighborhood called Kegler's Bottoms, I drove past Mr. Munro House, And instead of turning to the right, I decided to go straight. When I got to the end of that drive, it was a dead end street.

When I turned around, they sit on their porch was Mr. Sidney and his wife, the Millie's. So I asked Mr. Sidney Miller, when I got out the car, naturally, you know, I spoke. And he said, and I said, are you all registered voters with some excitement? He looked at me with a divorce. No, son, we're too old a vote. I'm like, I know he was served in the army, and he's a well-dressed person. So in my mind, I just immediately said this. Well, Mr. Miller, will you all register to vote so one day I can vote?

Miss Miller didn't say a word. She got up. She went in the house. Now I'm thinking, ooh, is she going to get a little? that old pump shotgun. Because they did say they were too old to vote. Instead, Ms. Millie came out. She had her little pattern level purse.

And ladies, you know those shoes you used to wear out. Now you make house shoes out of them. That's what she had on. She touched her husband. She said, sure, come on. We're going downtown and we're going to register the vote. They got in the back of my car. Now, I remember I'm 10 years old.

I'm driving like this, looking through the stern wheel and the dashboard so I can reach the gas and the brakes. They were quiet all the way down the street. One of the reason they may have been quiet was because during that time, if a black person wanted to register to vote, he could possibly lose his job. he could go to jail or worse scenario, he could even be hung to register the vote.

When he pulled up at the courthouse, they got out the car still quiet and they slowly walked into the courtroom or the courthouse. I stayed in the car and I looked in the rearview mirror and there was people on the other side of the street and you know who I'm talking about.

They was taking names and writing tags down. I wish everybody here could have seen what I saw when the millies came out of that courthouse. The head was high. They was actually holding hands, as if they went in the courthouse and just got married. They walked back to the car and got back in the back seat. now all of a sudden I went from being their driver to their chauffeur.

When we got back to his house, he said, young man, I am so glad that you took us down and now we are registered voters. When I turned 18 years old for my birthday present, my parents took me down to the courthouse. House, Chancellor Court office, and I became a registered voter. And the feeling that I got

when I cast my first vote, that was the first time I really felt like I was a true American citizen. As long as I live, the story of the millers,

the brooms, mega elders, Maile Luther King, those stories will never die not on my watch this little light of man I'm going to let it shine this little light of mine

Pastor Broome was born in Laurel, Mississippi to the late Reverend James D and Mrs. Hully Pearce Broome who were both teachers and community activists service was a part of his everyday life. He began spreading the good news more than 60 years ago. I called Pastor Broome with a few questions, and he answered the phone over his Friday night game of Domino's.

Hi, Pastor Broome. So a question that I asked all of the storytellers in this hour is, what or whom is your definition of a legend? My definition of a legend would have to be my father, Pastor James D. Broom. And the reason being is because he illustrated what fatherhood is all about with his teaching young men in scouting, basketball coach, football coach. But he raised me to fish, to hunt, just to be a man, a family man. And I love him for it.

And, you know, he passed away on Father's Day, which means God himself feel like he's a legend to be remembered. So that's what my father, Reverend Brum, would be my legend. That was Pastor Herbert Brum. That brings us to the end of this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. Thank you to our storytellers, to the Moth team, and to you for listening. We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, J. Allison, and Jody Powell, who also hosted. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick,

Associate producer Emily Couch. Additional Grand Slam coaching by Meg Bowles and Jennifer Hickson. The rest of the most leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Clucce, Sarah Austin Janice, Jordan Cardinali, Caledonia Cairns, Kate Tellers, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Yereña. Most stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift.

Other music in this hour from Rai Coo. and Manuel Galbon, Brad Meldell and Daniel Rosson, James Andrews and Trumbone Shorty Brothers, Ernest Ranglin and Bruce Coburn. 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 to learn all about The Moth, go to our website, The Moth.org. Thank you.