The Moth - The Moth Podcast: A Place at the Family Table

Episode Date: August 5, 2025

In this hour, finding one's place among family. Caregivers, care recipients, and stewards of cremains. This episode is hosted by Moth Artistic Director Catherine Burns. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: After her sari ceremony and debutante ball, Swapna Kakani realizes what coming of age really means. Roz Chast isn't sure where to lay her parents to rest. Zellia Enjoli Tatiana's role of "older sister" gets put to the test. Adam Wade is an awkward teen who spends every weekend with his adoring grandma and her sister. Podcast # 749 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

Hey, Moth listeners. For 17 years, The Moth Podcast has shared thousands of stories from stages around the world. Now it's your turn to take the stage. We want to hear from you. The Moth has created a listener survey to help us better serve our community and continue bringing you the best possible content. Visit themoth.org to share your thoughts. It takes just a few minutes for your voice to be part of our story. Head to TheMoth.org and take our survey today. This is the Moth Radio Hour and I'm Catherine Burns. In this week's hour, we're hearing stories about family dynamics.

It can be tricky to understand our place and roles in our own families. I personally come from a classic, blended family. The first weekend after their wedding, my stepdaddy Wayne and my mama left 12-year-old me and my siblings with my new step grandparents, Mama and Pa Harold, who lived on a farm in rural Alabama. My 14,000 person hometown was Metropolis by comparison. Everything was unfamiliar. The first night, Pa Harold asked if I'd like to go down the hill and pick out a watermelon

to cut up for dessert. I was excited to have a way to pitch in. I picked out a nice fat green melon and struggled to hoist it up over my head. I got about two thirds of the way up the long red clay mud driveway when boom, the watermelon slipped out of my hands, fell to the ground, and cracked open in the dirt. Three times I went down the hill for another watermelon and three times I get close to the top then drop it. I felt so embarrassed but Pa Harald just looked at me kindly, went down with me to get a fourth and carried it home. Twelve-year-old me assumed Pa Harald was

thinking I was some silly city girl but he didn't say a word to anyone about my fumbling grip. He made me feel welcome into this new family of mine until the day he died. My son, born ten years after his death, is named Harold. Understanding the inner workings of family becomes even more complicated when we start to grow up and pay attention to the dynamics and nuances at play. What are the adults thinking and feeling? That was a question for our first storyteller, Swapna Kakani, who like me grew up in Alabama. She told her story at the Randolph Schools Thurber Art Center in Huntsville, where we partnered with Alabama Public Television and public radio station KLRH. Here's Swapna Kakani live at the mall.

I'm 13 years old and I'm standing in my childhood bedroom with my arms out standing tall and the woman of my family have engulfed me. They're tying then wrapping pleating draping and pinning making sure they're accounting for every inch of nearly nine yards of my first sari. As they're wrapping I get to see the details of the sari for the first time of this cotton silk fabric and it has a saffron auburn tone to it, it has a shine, it has gold plated designs on the border and the blouse that was altered to just fit me has a deep cut in the back. It's almost scandalous for a 13 year old. And the sari is almost lengthy and as I'm standing there, my mind wanders to

the walls of my bedroom and they're dotted with farm animals. I have a wall that's a mural of a farm, and my bed is filled with stuffed animals. And I think, is this what it means to come of age, to feel like my room is not fit for a woman? It feels childish when just the night before, it was perfect. And I think, is this what it means to feel like a woman. It feels childish when just the night before it was perfect. And I think, is this what it means to feel like a woman? To not feel like a kid anymore but to feel like an adult? My sari for the first time. This is a big deal for my family and I.

This is the first time my parents are able to share their traditional Indian ceremonies with their daughter, with their family, with their community. In Hinduism, there are so many ceremonies. It's hard to keep up. They start as early as birth. At six months, there's a ceremony called Anaprasana, which literally translates to introduction of solids. Introduction of rice, first solid food. So it's a celebration of a child eating solid food for the first time. And as important as these ceremonies are for my family,

I was not able to partake in them because of my birth defect. I was born with an intestinal birth effect called short bowel syndrome. It's a GI chronic rare disease where I was not born with all my small intestine. And from day one, I was dependent on IV nutrition from an IV in my chest and a feeding tube in my stomach.

My first year of life, I was in and out of the hospital, had multiple surgeries, and my parents were not allowed to feed me by mouth. In my 27 years, I've had 62 surgeries, including a small intestine organ transplant. These ceremonies were not a priority, but my sari ceremony was their first opportunity to celebrate this tradition with their daughter.

As I'm standing there, tall and with my hands out, I come back to reality when I feel a sharp pinch. It's shocking. And my aunt says, oh, did I just stab you? And I see the final pin coming in at my shoulder to pin the back of the sari, the palu. I'm standing there dressed in my first sari and I'm literally weighed down with jewelry from head to toe and I have hair extensions to make a long braid in my back and I take my first steps just trying so hard to keep the folds together not ruining anything and all I can think is don't faceplant, don't faceplant, don't faceplant.

The ceremony ends in our living room with all our guests watching. My parents invited our entire family from both my mom and dad's side have flown in and over a hundred mothers and daughters from the Huntsville South Indian community are present which is a herd in itself. The ceremony ends with them coming to me and dropping dried rice mixed with turmeric on my head, which signifies blessings for the future. I officially came of age in the culture I was born in. Seven years later, I'm in college at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, UAB, go Blazers!

Woo! And a spring break. I've come home, like the responsible child I am, and I see on the kitchen table a cream envelope written in calligraphy writing is my name addressed Miss Swapna Kakani. I rip through the seal and I read the card and it says the Symphony Guild quarterly invites you to be a 2009 debutante. What the heck is a debutante? Fortunately I've watched a lot of Gilmore Girls in high school, including the episode where Rory is escorted by her boyfriend Dean to her debutante ball.

And she's wearing a white wedding dress, and he's wearing the tuxedo, and they dance the night away, and I think, oh no, I don't want to have anything to do with this. Well I call my friend who I know is also invited and she explains this is their coming of age, their tradition, their sisters have done it before them, their mom has waited for this moment. But to me, I see it as an expensive party to which I have no connection. I already had my coming of age, my tradition. Regardless, I got to tell my mom about this invitation that I got, and our duties, and what this card is.

And I find my mom in her doctor's scrubs cooking an Indian feast for us for lunch. And I go and stand next to her and I'm in my athletic tomboy outfit, shorts and t-shirt and chakos. And in between breathing in cumin and coriander, I explain to her my rudimentary understanding of a debutante ball, and this fancy card, and what our duties are for the next six months. To my surprise she says yes you must do it and my parents and are both of them are so excited and I think what's their excitement what's their

desire why I didn't get it then But today I can share that they appreciated and enjoyed the formality of it and how it was a fundraiser. And as an immigrant physician, to have their daughter, the first Indian American to be presented to society in Huntsville, Alabama was a milestone in itself and something they were proud of and something I should be proud of. For my mom, I said yes.

The ball was in October of 2009, the summer before we had the task of finding the dress. We were told it was gonna be a white wedding dress and with straps. Those were the rules. I was in summer school at UAB, and so every week I would drive home and my mom and I would go on these shopping excursions. It was the blind leading the blind. We didn't know anything about American wedding dresses,

but my mom being the social butterfly she is, she knew people who did. Her white nurses that knew the selection in town. They gave her a list and we consumed our Saturdays going to each store and crossing them off. There were five stores, and of course the last one was the charm. The Something Blue shop in Hartsell, Alabama, halfway between Birmingham and Huntsville. The dress I chose off the rack was a floor-length gown with an intricate beaded center and a prominent train and it was strapless. But unlike my sari, it was white with hooks and zippers and no personalized blouse.

The ladies at the store were the epitome of southern hospitality. They went above and beyond to accommodate us. They were very nice. At the last fitting they said, oh please come back when you get married. And there's this awkward silence. And I think I'm most likely going to wear a sari to my wedding. The weekend finally came. I was escorted by my version of Dean, Christopher Dean, who was a high school classmate who flew in from out of town for the event. And just like the sari ceremony, this was a big deal for my parents and my family.

My mom invited nearly all 20 Indian family members who live in town. And I got special permission from the debutante committee for the woman of my family to wear saris to the event. Their evening gown of choice, their tradition. The day before the ball, my mom, dad, and I were to take pictures in our clothes the next day. My mom in her dark, elegant sari, my dad in his black tuxedo, and me in my white wedding dress, white leather gloves, and hair done in Shirley Temple curls.

The photographer took me away from my parents to take solo portraits. And while he's taking the photos, he nonchalantly says, your mom, she just fell. And I think, that's weird. She'll get right back up. Nothing fazes her. But then I hear commotion to my left.

And I see my mom tangled in her sari, laying on the floor, continuously saying, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I've ruined the day. And then I hear her say, I can't feel my leg. That's when I knew it was much more than just a bad fall. She was not getting back up. Shocked and not wanting to get in the way with my big white dress, from a distance,

I see my mom wrapped head to toe in her sari, unable to move, get rushed to the ER by ambulance. The result was a clean break of her left femoral bone. It turned out that she had a stress fracture that went undiagnosed the whole entire year prior. She had to have immediate surgery that night and then she was not going to make it to the ball the next day. Sitting in the surgery waiting room, I had my most true coming of age moment.

I was nervous. I was constantly looking up at the screen to check her status. Is she done yet? Is she done yet? I was wringing my hands, bouncing my feet. The PB&J sandwich my aunt gave me was not comforting. I barely could touch it. My entire life, my parents sat in the surgery waiting room while I was rushed to the operating room. Saying goodbye to my parents at the double doors of the surgical suite was almost a ceremonious ritual

we did multiple times every year. Our unfortunate tradition. At the age of 20, this was the first time the roles were switched and I sat there in the surgery waiting room, waiting to hear the fate of my mom. This surgery was 30 minutes at the most, minor. She was going to be fine. I've had many minor surgeries of the same title. It was then I realized that no surgery is minor to the family.

No surgery is the same. I've had so many surgeries that have become numb to the process. I've forgotten about the risk. But my parents, they haven't. And still, they continue to stand by my side and show strength and poise in our amazing caregivers. That's all I wanted to be, to show that strength, that poise, that faith, and no expression of fear.

I couldn't, though. My heart ached for what my parents go through. It wasn't the sari ceremony. It wasn't the debutante ball. It was realizing what my parents have and continue to do to save me was what it means to come of age. Thank you. Thank you. Swapna Kakani is an advocate for patients with rare diseases. Through her platform, Swapna Speaks, an organization Alabama Rare, Swapna has given presentations

all over the world to help improve health care for those suffering from short bowel syndrome and other rare conditions. To see stunning photos of Swabna and her family at the debutante ball, go to themoth.org. Coming up, cartoonist Roz Chast struggles with what to do with her parents' ashes. That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Searchlight Pictures presents The Roses, only in theaters August 29th. From the director of Meet the Parents and the writer of Poor Things comes The Roses, starring Academy Award

winner Olivia Colman, Academy Award nominee Benedict Cumberbatch, Andy Samberg, Kate McKinnon, and Allison Janney. A hilarious new comedy filled with drama, excitement, and a little bit of hatred, proving that marriage isn't always a bed of roses. See The Roses only in theaters August 29th. Get tickets now. Book club on Monday. Gym on Tuesday.

Date night on Wednesday. Out on the town on Thursday. Quiet night in on Friday. It's good to have a routine and it's good for your eyes too because with regular comprehensive eye exams at Specsavers you'll know just how healthy they are. Visit Specsavers.ca to book your next eye exam. Eye exams provided by independent optometrists. This is the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm Catherine Burns. In this hour, we're talking about complicated family dynamics,

and how we show up for those we love. Now we're gonna hear a story from beloved New Yorker cartoonist, Roz Chast. A few few years ago a Moth friend saw one of her cartoons and mentioned to me they would make a great Moth story. We reached out to Roz and luckily she agreed. We recorded the story outdoors at Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn where the Greenwood Historic Fund is our partner and you'll hear the sound of some airplanes flying overhead. Here's Roz Chast live at the Moth. Well, some years ago in 2014, I wrote a book about taking care of my parents in the last

10 years or so of their lives. It's called, Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant? The title came from something that my father used to say a lot. It was really one of his favorite phrases. The other one was Why Ask for Trouble? But I think the reason why he liked to say this phrase was because my mother really loved talking about illnesses and accidents and seemingly horrible things had

happened to almost everybody that my parents knew. I mean, you could just take anything. You could take a button on a shirt. And sure enough, somebody was once buttoning their shirt. The button popped off. It went up their nose. They choked and they died. It is just, it was the craziest thing. A chair. Somebody was going to sit down in the chair. they missed the chair, they got a bruise on their hip, the bruise got infected, they died. And my mother seemed to sort of relish telling these stories. And you know, Mr. Mulcahy, he was getting into the car, he slammed the car door on his leg, got infected, they had to cut the leg off.

My mother knew somebody, she, one of the rules of my childhood was never sit directly on the ground because if you sit directly on the ground you might, it might happen to you what happened to her best friend. She sat directly on the ground, she caught a cold in her kidneys, and she died. So my father's phrase, can't we talk about something more pleasant, was the title for this book. Nevertheless, even though they loved talking about, or she loved talking about illnesses and accidents, they did not really like to talk about, specifically about death, especially their own deaths. It was a topic that they liked to avoid, which made, in many ways, taking care of them kind

of hard because I never really found out what they wanted. And I would try to have these conversations about things, and it was just impossible. And I didn't particularly want to talk about it, so we just avoided it. And that's kind of what the book was about. I'll give you an example. When my grandfather died when I was about four years old,

I asked my mother what happened to Grandpa, and she said he went to Virginia. Anyway, so I took care of them for these 10 years and it was pretty rough. I was the only child and I grew up in a very small apartment in the middle of Brooklyn, apartment 2J, never forget. And when they died, my father died first. He died at the age of 95 and he was cremated and I remember picking up his cremains, they call it, nice word, at the funeral parlor

and they were in this little box and I put the box inside of his favorite Channel 13 bag that he always carried around with him. And then I put that bag in my closet. And two years later at the age of 97, my mother died. And when she died, I went to the funeral parlor and picked up her cremains, which were in a little box, and she didn't have a Channel 13 bag.

She just, she didn't get one. But they were in my closet for a long time. 2007, 2009 was the dates of their death. And they remained in my closet until about maybe two years ago. And I didn't really mind having them in my closet. I thought it was a little bit weird, but on the other hand, you know, it was sort of nice to know where they were. And the truth was every place, since they didn't want to talk about death or their deaths, I didn't, there was no place that seemed, you know, other than

arbitrary for them to be. I thought, well my closets at least, you know, it's not arbitrary. They're here, they're with me, sort of. And then about two years ago out of the blue I got a letter from a stranger, this woman, who had read the book I wrote about my parents and knew that my parents' cremains were in my closet. And she said that there was a mystery. She had read my book and she really enjoyed it, but there was a mystery that needed to be solved. And she reassured me that she wasn't nuts,

and I believed her. And you know, because I'm a trusting sort, considering that I grew up in Brooklyn. And what she was saying was, my parents before me, they had a baby that died shortly after birth. And because, as I said, my parents didn't like to talk about death,

I did not know where she was buried. I couldn't really talk much to my parents about this because they did not want to talk about it. When I brought it up to my mother, she would just say, I don't want to talk about that mess. Because the truth was that she almost died during this horrible incident. And the baby, as I said, died. Anyway, so this woman, this stranger,

took it upon herself to look up online on a website called Find a Grave, which the female chast, death, 1940 or so, because my parents waited a long time, I'm not that old, between having her and having me because they were so afraid, and where this baby was buried. And weirdly enough she looked, did this research before I did, and she found something that she thought I might find interesting, that this baby was indeed buried in Mount Lebanon Cemetery in Queens, Hebrew Cemetery.

So I thought, whoa, that's kind of weird. And I went online and I looked up Mount Lebanon Cemetery and I found their contact button and I wrote, you know, dear sirs or madams. I wrote this book about my Dear Sirs or Madams. I wrote this book about my parents, blah, blah, blah, blah, archives, George and Elizabeth Chast, you know, and I, you know, I just thought, well, maybe they'll get to this, I don't know. The next day I got a letter from the guy at the cemetery who incidentally is called a cemeterian, I learned this term, And he said, Dear Roz, I believe you have

found your sister. Not only that, but it turned out that my mother's parents were also buried in that cemetery, which I did not know. And he sent photos of my grandmother and my grandfather, the one who was supposedly in Virginia. So I talked to him a little bit and I said, you know, my parents are in my closet and I think I'd like to get them out of there. And he said, okay, you know, we're in business. So I set up an appointment for, it was a two part process because the first part was really for paperwork. And we set up an appointment and I went out to Mount Lebanon Cemetery with my son.

And it was really interesting. We met with him, he took out these archived cemetery maps and he showed us the precise place where my sister was buried. And we went out there and we put stones on her grave, which is what Jews do. We don't put flowers there. We put little stones and showed me where my grandparents were buried. And we went back to his office, and he knew that my parents were cremated, which is becoming more common in Jewish cemeteries, because he said, as he said, it's a hot topic, ha ha ha.

Um, he really did say that. So he was really really nice and he said that he found a perfect place for my parents cremains, that there was a niche wall and it overlooked the place where my sister was buried and there was only one niche left in that wall and it was niche J2 and as I mentioned before the apartment where my parents lived for 50 years and where I grew up was 2J and I just thought oh well we really have found a place for my parents, speaking of sense of place. And then there was no rush, so it took a few months, but I did make a second trip out there with a friend. And I had my parents in a tote bag. And I was on the subway.

And I kept thinking. I so wanted to just say to somebody on the platform, guess what or who is in this bag? is in this bag. So, I got there and I went out to the niche wall with the driver and we got there and I remember there were, I have to describe this like a picture because usually I draw things. I don't just tell a story, I draw it. And so you'll have to picture there's this wall and leaning against the wall of this

niche wall where they put cremains is a tall ladder going up to the very top. And there are two workmen people on the ladder and one by one I gave the boxes holding my parents cremains first to the one guy and he passed to the second and he put my father in there and then they put my mother in there and then they sealed up the box and I realized it was time to say goodbye. That's it. That was Roz Chast. Roz is a long-time cartoonist for The New Yorker. She likes birds and you can see her cartoons as well as photos of Roz and her two parrots, Eli and Jackie,

on her Instagram. We're turning now to our Atlanta StorySlam series, where we partner with Georgia Public Radio. Here's Zilia Anjali Tatiana, live at the Moth. I'm in seventh grade. I'm pretty smart. My boyfriend's pretty smart. So we're like, you know, valedictorian, salutatorian couple of the year. And I'm pretty popular, but I'm not full of myself. You know, I'm pretty humble. Seventh grade, seventh grade. So I'm at lunch, and you know know there's the cool kids club. You have your clique or you sit with them. This is what we do. If you're not part of this clique you kind of don't sit with us and drink your juice. It's just that's how it

goes. So I'm sitting at lunch everything's fine and some kids run in from the playground running. So everybody calls me Zee. You're gonna call me that too. But my name is Zillia. And so they run in from the playground and all I hear is Zillia, Zillia. And so I'm sitting at the table and I'm like, what has happened? You know, people never say my name like this. What have I done? And my heart drops. I'm like, what's going on? What's going on? So I jump up and they're like, it's your little sister. My little sister, she's in second grade. I see her sometimes in passing, but never really during the day.

And they're like, she fell off the swing. She's hurt really bad. So I'm freaking out. I know my mom is going to freak. So I'm like, oh gosh. So I get up from the lunch table and I run outside and my little sister's literally like crawling out of the dirt like a zombie and there's blood coming from her nose and her mouth and her glasses are all twisted and cracked and she's just bawling you know walking

toward me and I just grab her and I say oh my gosh what happened what happened I'm looking at the kids like what somebody tell me what happened damn it and they're like she fell off the swing I'm like how how did you fall off the swing so I've been down to her and I'm tell me what happened tell me what happened holding her chin and she says we had a contest and I'm like okay keep going and I'm looking at the kids support her what happened we had a contest who can go over the top and I sit over the top? And I said over the top of the swing set? We're in seventh grade, we don't even do that?

I said that's beastie, you know I'm super excited she's balling. And I'm like oh my gosh. And I'm like so you're obviously you know hurt, did, did you just let go or what happened? She's like, I made it over the top. So she's bawling, you know, blood is in her tears. And I'm like, I have to tell my mom what happened. You know, everybody's, what are you going to do? So I take her broken, crumbled up glasses off and kind of stick them in my skirt pocket and super swung. And then I walk her to the front office.

And like kids were like kind of laughing and stuff and I turned around I'm like shut up at least she went over what did you do you know so we get to the office and I'm like well what happened once you got over she's like well I let go and I'm like why she's like well in the movies you let go and then you land on your feet I'm like you got more guts than all these kids. You know, and I'm kind of like wiping away the tears and the blood and I'm like, it's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay.

And she's just crying and they call my mom. And of course my mom freaks cause she's like super, you know, just protective. She's like, oh my gosh, are you serious? No, mom, I'm kidding. I'm serious? No, mom, I'm kidding. I'm like, yeah, mom, I'm serious. Her glasses are crushed, she's in bad shape. And my little sister, she kinda laid on my shoulder.

And we were affectionate, I think, as young sisters, but it was the first time I felt like I was her protector. You know, like, I turned around and told those kids to shut up, you know, at least my little sister made it over, you little punk. You couldn't those kids to shut up, you know, at least my little sister made it over you little punk. You couldn't even get over the top, you know. And then when we get home, well when I got home, my little sister was sitting at the table with my granny doing her homework. And she looked up and she was like, thank you. Thanks for today. And my mom was like, what happened?

You know, just tell me the whole story and then in retrospect I'm this older sister yes I'm her protector and at the same time I was like this coolest kid in class you know and when I ran to her on the playground it wasn't really about who I was or who was watching us it was just like everybody else disappeared and it was me and my little sister in this spotlight and I'm like I'm gonna be here and I'm still in that spotlight. I'm still here whether you're late on a car payment, whether you ran out of gas, whether you broke up with him because he's an idiot and most of you are idiots.

Whatever it is, I'm gonna be here and everybody else will disappear and it'll just be our spotlight and our sister love and I love you. Zilia Angelie Tatiana or Z is a Detroit native. She considers herself a full-time creative person and also works as a maintenance mechanic for the postal service. She writes, My little sister is graduating from nursing school soon, ironically enough, lol. She's still a courageous woman who laughs in the face of adversity.

To see a photo of Z's little sister around the time of the accident, go to themoth.org. Coming up, a high school student in New Hampshire spends his Saturday nights with his beloved grandmother and great aunt. That's when the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Hello, it's Lena Dunham. I host a podcast called The C Word with my dearest friend and historian of bad behavior, Alyssa Bennett. What is up?

It's a chat show about women whose society is called crazy. We're going to be rediscovering the stories of women's society dismissed by calling them mad, sad, or just plain bad. Listen to Unfollow the C-Word with Lena Dunham and Alyssa Bennett, available now wherever you get your podcasts. This is the Moth Radio Hour and I'm Catherine Burns. In this hour, we've been hearing stories about finding your place in your family.

Many beloved Moth storytellers tend to recall their high school years as hellish, but having close family relationships can sometimes be a bomb. That was the case for Adam Wade, in this story told at a Moth Mainstage in New York City, where WNYC is our media partner. Here's Adam.

I grew up in New Hampshire, and during my high school years, I had a tough time fitting in. And I was on the golf team, but I was a reserve, so that means I never got to play. And I was in the marching band, but after freshman year, I was pulled aside by the supervisor, and he said, by the supervisor, and he said, you're not physically or mentally able

to handle the rigors of marching band. I had friends. I didn't have a lot, but I had a few, and one of the few friends I had, he went by the nickname, Fetus. So like popularity wise, like a scale one to 10, I was a two. But on Saturday night with the company I kept, I was a 10.

And every Saturday night in high school, I would go out to eat with my grandmother and my great aunt. And I would pick them up and my mom's bright purple mercury cougar, which everybody in my town knew as the Pimpmobile. When I was 16 that's when I got my license and to them I became a man because instead of them picking me up I would pick them up. In Yaya and Ariti, both their husbands had passed. I'm Greek, so it was Yaya and Ariti. Both their husbands passed, they lived together, and they worked in the Amerskite shoe factories.

My Yaya, my grandmother, she made the shoes before she retired. She had so much manual labor, her hands, they looked like potato skins. And Ariti, she was more of the Sophia Lorenesca of the two. She was a little more glamorous She was a secretary and she always had lipstick and high heels So I picked them up and this particular night was in April of my junior year And I took them to their favorite restaurant Which was called the clam king it was a was a mom and pop fast food place. They liked it.

The seafood was really good. They overcooked the lobo. It was good. So we go and we order. And they always order the fries scallops and the french fries and tartar sauce. And I would order just the cheeseburger because of my stomach.

And once the waitress left, we would play this game and I was the eyes and I would keep an eye on the waitress and then I would like wink when she was gone and the yayariti would steal the salt and pepper shakers. That was like our game. They had a lot. They had like 300 things of salt and pepper all over the house. But it was like their thing. And we loved doing it and it was like, you know, and I'd wink and they'd do it.

You'd hear the zip and it was good. And mission accomplished. And they're like, yeah. You did a good job. I go, hey, you stole. You know, it was good. You know? And then the food came.

And like, these women, they love to eat. So like, Yaya would just start and she would just attack and she would take a scallop and dip it in tartar sauce, stuff it in her mouth, and just like a robot, and if she'd forget to chew in her face, you'd just watch it expand. Where Arna Ritchie, she just liked to look at the food a little, and she'd watch the steam coming up

from the french fries and she'd put her hands over like a campfire and she'd be like, oh, they smell delicious. And then they would start. And then this was the favorite part of the night for me, it's when they would start complimenting me. While we ate they would say like, oh you got your hair cut, oh looks good.

I was like, oh thank you. How'd you do on your chemistry test? I was like, I got a 95. Oh you're so smart, I was like, how'd you do on your chemistry test? I was like, I got a 95. And they're like, oh, you're so smart. I was like, oh, come on. Come on. Come on. All right.

I appreciated. Like, they saw me the way I wanted to be seen. So after we ate, we would do what we would always do. We would go to the cemetery to say hi to the dead relatives. And they never got out of the car. I would just have to drive the car as close to the gravestones as possible. And they would go, uh, Hi, Ben.

Okay, keep going. And then we just keep driving. And then we would go to McDonald's for milkshakes because the Clam Kings milkshakes weren't up to par. And then we would drive and we would take this ride past the airport and we would always just drive by it but they'd always say come on like let's go to the airport let's watch a plane take off come on. And we're like no no no let's not do that. And like I don't know what their fascination was with with with planes I never asked but for me I knew that the airport from rumors around school was that's where all the cool kids parked and the social

ramifications of me getting park at the airport, my dream and hope was to actually go with a girl my own age. But sadly, at the time, girls my age didn't see me like that. So they're begging and then on this particular night I look and I can see there's no cars there and it's still really early so I'm like, all right, let's go, let's go. And they're like little kids, they're like, oh yeah, you're the best boy, you're the best boy. So we pull in and we're waiting.

And it's a small airport so we're waiting and we're waiting. And I put the radio on, I put on the old East Station, the doo-wop shop on Saturday night. And I put it loud enough so they can hear it. I perfected this. But loud enough, they won't complain that it's too loud. And we sit there and we wait and we wait. And then finally, this little propeller plane pulls around. And it's ready to take off.

And Yaya's in the front seat. And I put her hand in my hand and Ariti's hand in the back and as it takes off over us in unison we go like whee and it's nice it feels good it feels good we feel good you know. I'm like alright now it's time to get the hell out of here you know and as I'm thinking that Yaya looks over at me and she says, I wonder if that plane's going to China. Do you think that plane's going to China? I look at it. Yaya, it's a small plane.

Your guess is as good as mine. I don't know if it's going to China. And Aritish is in the back seat and she starts cackling. She's like, how the hell is he supposed to know if it's going to China? And then she lights up a palm oil menthol. She's had cancer like three times, but she just likes to have a few puffs. And then she throws it out the window and Yaya turns around and goes, you know, keep smoking. You know, cancer's got you three times. One more time

you're going down. You're dancing with the devil. You're dancing with the devil. And she's like, it's a free country. And then she's like, well, good luck to you on the Red Sox. And then whenever... And then whenever Ariti ran out of things to say, she would go like that. And I used to enjoy watching them fight. It was great entertainment. But then I look up in the rear view mirror and I see the cars and they're coming in now.

And it's like Volkswagen, Jetta's and Saab's and they all have central High Pride bumper stickers. And I'm screwed. And I look to the left in this blue Suburban pulls up, and it's the last car I wanna see. It's SD, he's a senior, and he's not a nice guy, but he's cool. And his girlfriend, Rachel,

who looks like Dee Schneider from Twisted Sister, she's got like dive one, but she's cool again. And they see the Pimp Mobile, and they're like, oh my God, Adam Wade's here, oh my god, wow. Adam, Adam, Adam. And finally I look over and I'm like, what's up? And they're like, Adam, you stud, who you with? And Yaya leans over and says,

he's with his grandmother and great aunt, dear. What a beautiful night to watch the airplanes. And then Yaya leans over and says, he's with his grandmother and great aunt, dear. What a beautiful night to watch the airplanes. They start laughing and then other cars start noticing and they're flipping the high beams, they're beeping the horn, they're screaming Wade. And I just start sweating and I don't know what to do. I've never been so embarrassed in my life.

And then Yaya looks over a concern and she says, what's wrong? Are you okay? Are you okay? And I say, no, I'm not okay. And she's like, what's wrong? I go, don't you understand? I'm not who you think I am. And they're like, well, what do you mean? And I go, Yaya, I'm not who you think I am." And they're like, well, what do you mean? And I go, yeah, I'm a loser.

And she's like, no, you're not. She's like, why do you think that? And I go, like I snap and I say, I'm with you two on a Saturday night and we're at Makeout Point. I'm a loser. I start up the car and we drive away in silence. I've never yelled at them before like that. So this is all different and I'm shaking as I drive. We get back to their house

and they start boiling water for hot chocolate. They start getting the poppycock. They started getting the Swiss fudge. And I'm just sitting there watching them do this. And they're not saying anything to me. And I have this shame now, because I've disappointed them. So then it's 10 o'clock. It's time for the commish. We always watch the commish on Saturday nights at 10 o'clock.

It stars Michael Chiklis, and we're Greek Greek and we support, you know, all the Greeks. We, you know, we're not a Nielsen family but we're going to watch it, you know. So we sit on the loveseat and I'm between them and we're reading and they're bigger so I'm like sandwiched in. And then there's a commercial and again it's really quiet and I'm waiting for them to yell at me and they're not. So I say I'll tell you one thing you know this chick was I mean he's just as good an actor as Telly Savalas and John Cassavetes. I mean Greek actors these guys I mean he's right up there.

And Yaya nods her head and she puts her hand through my hair. And she says, you got such a nice haircut, you did such a good job. And then Arete puts her arm around me and says, I hope you know you're the best boy. I hope you know. So that best boy. I hope you know. So that Monday I go to school and it's a nightmare. SD's telling everybody I'm taking Yaya to the prom. I don't need it, you know?

But I'm surprised it doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would. I just let it go. Now Yaya and Aritya have been gone for a few years now, and every time I go home, I find myself, I go a couple times a year, I find myself in a car and I'm driving around. And I always retrace that route. I'll go by the Clam King, I'll go by the cemetery, I'll go by their gravestones, how to respect. Hi, hi, hi, Ariti. And I drive off. I go to McDonald's, and then I drive by the airport.

And the time since they've passed, I've tried to do everything I can to be the person they saw me as. And I'd do anything to be able to go back and take them to the airport one more Saturday night. Thank you. That was Adam Wade. Adam is, as he always mentions at the top of his stories, originally from New Hampshire. He tells us that a huge turning point in his 23 years living in New York City was the first

time he got up on stage at a Moth Story Slam nearly two decades ago. Adam says that not only was the crowd incredibly supportive that night, the man sitting next to him, Alan Manovitz, our longtime board member, offered him a few slices of pizza from a stack of pies Alan had brought along to the show to share. Adam's been a proud member of the Moth community ever since. He wrote us to say, I'm often asked, if you could now have dinner with any two people from history, anyone, who would they be? My answer is still unquestionably my Yaya and great aunt Anna Reedy.

That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Catherine Burns, who also hosted and directed the stories in the hour along with Sarah Austin-Giness. Co-producer Vicki Merrick, Associate Producer Emily Couch. Additional Grand Slam coaching by Jennifer Hickson. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Meg Bowles, Kate Telles, Jennifer

Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson and Aldi Casa. Special thanks to Tracy Mill Seguera, as well as Stories Under the Stars, which puts on storytelling shows in Huntsville, Alabama. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Stellwagen, Symphonette, Lars Danielson, and Kina Osme, Croka, Pinkfroid, and Roy Orbison.

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 this, your own story, and everything. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching this, your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.