The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: A Place at the Family Table

Episode Date: February 1, 2022

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. Host: Catherine Burns Storytellers: Swapna Kakani, Roz Chast, Zellia Enjoli Tatiana, Adam Wade

Attention Houston! You have listened to our podcast and our radio hour, but did you know the Moth has live storytelling events at Wearhouse Live? The Moth has opened Mike's storytelling competitions called Story Slams that are open to anyone with a five-minute story to share on the night's theme. Upcoming themes include love hurts, stakes, clean, and pride. GoodLamoth.org forward slash Houston to experience a live show near you. That's theMoth.org forward slash Houston. This is the Moth 3DWOWER from PRX, 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 step-daddy Wayne and my mama left 12-year-old me and my siblings with my new step-grandparents, Mama and Pa Harold, who lived in 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 hoisted 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 Herald just looked at me kindly, went down with me to get a fourth and carried it home. 12-year-old me assumed Pa Herald was thinking out with 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 10 years after his death, is named Harold.

I'm 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 that he and feeling? That was a question for our first storyteller, Swapna Kikani, who liked me grew up in Alabama. She told her story at the Randolph schools, Durber Art Center in Huntsville, where we partnered with Alabama Public Television and Public Radio Station, KLRH. Here's Swapna Kikani, live as a mom? I'm 13 years old, and I'm standing in my childhood bedroom with my arms outstanding tall.

And the woman of my family having golfed me, they're tying, then wrapping, pleading, draping, and pinning, making sure they're accounting for every inch of nearly nine yards of my first sorry. As they're wrapping I get to see the details of the sorry for the first time of this cotton silk fabric and it has a saffron, auburned tone to it, it has a shine, 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 sorry 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, to not feel like a kid anymore, but to feel like an adult? My Sarah ceremony in my Indian heritage is a coming of age ceremony where a girl wears and receives a sorry 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.

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 a rice for 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 defect, called short bowel syndrome. It's a GI chronic rare disease where it's 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 Sarri 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 face plant. all I can think is don't face plant, don't face plant, don't face plant. Are 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 100 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 Kikani. I rip through the seal and I read the card and it says, the symphony guild quarterly invites you to be a 2009 debuton. What the heck is a debuton? 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 debuton 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 debut tomboy. 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 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. And we were told it was gonna be a white wedding dress and with straps, those were the dress. If we were told it was gonna be a white wedding dress and with straps, those were the rules. I was in a 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 Hartzell, 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 a 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 sorry 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 Saras 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 W. Tonk committee for the woman of my family to wear sari's to the event. Their evening gown or choice, their tradition.

The day before the ball, my mom, dad and I were to take pictures and are clothes the next day. My mom and our dark elegant sari, my dad and his black tuxedo and me and 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 phases 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 pig white dress. From a distance, I see my mom wrapped head to toe in her sorry, 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 ringing 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 haven't. And still, they continue to stand by my side and show strength and poise and are 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 sorry ceremony. It wasn't the Debbie Tumble. It was realizing what my parents have

and continue to do to save me was what it means to come of age. Thank you. has given presentations all over the world to help improve health care for those suffering from short-bowl syndrome and other rare conditions. To see stunning photos of Swabna and her family at the debutant ball, go to the moth.org. Coming up, Cartoonist Roz Chas struggles with what to do with her parents' ashes. That's when the moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. 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 going to hear a story from beloved New Yorker cartoonist, Roz Chast. A few years ago, a moth friend saw one of her cartoons and mentioned to me that it 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 Maw. 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 his, 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 was 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 hips, the bruise got infected, they died. And my mother seemed to relish telling these stories. And Mr Mr. Mulkay, 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 love talking about or she love

talking about illnesses and accidents, they did not really like to talk about specifically about death, especially their own death. 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. I would try to have these conversations about things and it was just impossible. I didn't particularly want to talk about it, so we just avoided it. 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. 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.

We'll never forget. And when they died, my father died first. He died at the age of 95. And he was cremated. And the, I remember picking up his cremains, they call it, nice word, at the funeral parlour and they were in this little box. And I put them, 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 parlour 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, they were in a little box, and she didn't have a channel 13 bag. She just, she didn't get one. But they were, they were in my closet for a long time. 2007, 2009, they, it was the dates of their death, and they, 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, it was sort of nice

to know where they were. And the truth was, since they didn't want to talk about death or their deaths, there was no place that seemed other than arbitrary for them to be. I thought, well, my closets at least, 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' remains 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, 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, and she, 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, the 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, Deer Serz or Madams. I wrote this book about my parents, blah, blah, blah, blah, archives, George and Elizabeth Chast.

And I just thought, well, maybe they'll get to this. I don't know. The next day, I got a letter from the guy the cemetery who incidentally is called a cemetery in. I don't know. The next day, I got a letter from the guy at the cemetery who incidentally is called a cemetery in, 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, 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 not, it's becoming more common in Jewish cemeteries because he said, It's 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. Um, so he was really, really nice. And he said that he found a perfect place for my parents' remains, that there was 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 went, 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?

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. It's 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 box as holding my parents' cremains 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 Rose Chast. Rose is a long time cartoonist for the New Yorker. She likes birds and you can see her cartoons as well as photos of Fries and her two parrots, Eli and Jackie on her Instagram. We're turning now to our Atlanta Story slam series where we partner with Georgia Public Radio. Here is Zilia, Angelali Tatiana, live as a mom. I'm in seventh grade. I'm pretty smart.

My boyfriend's pretty smart. So we're like, you know, bellictorian, salutatorian, couple of the year. And I'm pretty popular, but I'm not full of myself. I'm pretty humble. Seventh grade, seven great. So, I'm at lunch, and you know, there's the Cool Kids Club. You have your click, or you sit with them.

This is what we do. If you're not part of this click, 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 running from the playground, running, do, do, do. So everybody calls me Z.

You're going to call me that too. But my name is Zilla. And so they run in from the playground, and all I hear is Zilla, Zilla. And so I'm sitting at the table, I'm like, what has happened? People never say my name like this. What have I done? 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 sisters 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 and I say, oh my gosh, what happened? What happened?

I'm looking at the kids, like, what, somebody tell me what happened, dammit. 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 doing. And I'm looking at the kids, support her. What happened? We had a contest who could go over the top. And I said, over the top of the swings, that? Where is seventh grade? We don't even do that. I said, that's beastly.

You know, I'm super excited. She's ballin'. And I'm like, oh my gosh. And I'm like, so you're obviously, you know, hurt. Did you just let go or what happened? She's like, I made it over the top. So she's ballin' you know, blood is in her tears and I'm like, I have to tell my mom what happened

or everybody's doing, what are you gonna do? So I take her broken, crumpled up glasses off, and kinda stick them in my skirt pocket and super small, and then I walk her to the front office, and my kids were kinda laughing and stuff. And I turn around and I'm like, shut up! At least she went over! What did you do? 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 happened once you got over? She's like, well, I let go. And I'm like, why? And she's like, well, in the movies, you let going in. You land on your feet. I'm like, you got more guts than all these kids. You know, and I'm kind of wiping away the tears and the blood. And I'm like, it's going to be OK.

You're going to be OK if she's just crying. And they call my mom. And of course, my mom freaks, because she's like super, you know, just protective. She's like, oh my gosh, are you serious? No, mom, I'm kidding. My god, mom, I'm serious. Her glasses are crushed. She just, she's in bad shape.

And my little sister, she kind of 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 your 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, thank you. Thanks for today. And my mom was like, what happened? Just tell me the whole story. And in retrospect, I'm this older sister. Yes, I'm her protector. And at the same time, I was this coolest kid in class. 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 your idiots,

whatever it is, I'm gonna be here. whether you broke up with him because he's an idiot and most of your 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 Angelid 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 in great aunt. That's when the moth radio hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns. In this hour, we've been hearing stories about finding your place and 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 a case for Adam Wade, in this story, told at a Moth Main Stage 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, you're not physically or mentally able to handle the rigors of marching band. I had friends, I had a few and what the few friends I had, he went by the nickname, Fetus. So I popularity wise, like a scale 1 to 10, I was a 2. 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 was bright purple mercury cougar. 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. And Yaya and Ariti, both their husbands had passed on Greek so it was a Yaya and Ariti. And both their husbands passed, they lived together and they worked in the Ameskig shoe factories. And my yaya, my grandma, she made the shoes and before she retired.

And she, so much manual labor or hands, they look like potato skins. And Arete, she was more of the Sophia Lorenzka 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 mom and pop fast food place. They liked that the seafood was really good. They overcooked the lobo. It was good. So we go and we order and they

always order the fries scops and the french fries and tired of sauce and I would order just the cheeseburger because 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 yaya wiki would steal the salt and pepper shakers. I was like our game, they had a lot, they had like 300 things in the salt and pepper y'all will for the house, but it was like their thing. We love doing it and it was like, you know, and I wink and they do it. You'd hear the zip and it was good and a mission accomplished and like that.

You did a good job, I go, hey, you sold, you know, it's good, you know. And then the food came. And like, when, right, these women, they love to eat. So, like, yeah, you would just start, and she would just attack, and she would take a scalp, and dip it in a titer sauce, stuff in her mouth, and just like a robot, and she'd forget to chew in her face, you just watch it, expand. Where I'm gonna read you she just like to look at the food a little

and she watched the steam coming up from the french fries and she put her hands over like a campfire and she'd be like oh they smell delicious and then they would stop 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 under chemistry tests? I was like, I got a 95.

And they were like, oh, you're so smart. I was like, oh, come on. Oh, what? What? 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 grave

stones as possible. And they would go, hype-bend. OK, keep going. And then we just keep driving. And then we would go to McDonald's for milkshakes, because the clam king's milkshakes weren't up to par. And then we would drive. And we would take this ride past the airport. And we'd 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, no, let's not do that. And like, I don't know what their fascination was 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 caught at the airport with Yian and the Riti, come on. I was a two-feetess, come on. Plus, my first time to actually go and 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 seem you like that. So they're begging and then at this particular night I look and I can see there's no cars there. And it's still really early So I'm like, let's go, let's go and they're like little kids 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 oldie station the duop shop on Saturday night And I put it loud enough so they can hear it. I perfected this

up 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 yeah he's in the front seat and I put her hand in my hand and the reekies hand in the back and as it takes off over us in unison, we go like, wee! And it's nice. It feels good. It feels good.

We feel good, you know? I'm like, all right, now it's time to get the whole out of here. You know? And as I'm thinking that, Yaya looks over at me and she says, you know, I wonder if that plane's going to China. Like, do you think that plane's going to China? Like, I look at it. I'm like, you know, Yaya, it's a small, like, I wonder if that plane's going to China. Like, do you think that plane's going to China? Like, I look at it, I'm like, you know, yeah, it's a small, but like, I mean, your guess is as good as mine.

I don't know if it's going to China. And the reaches in the back scene, 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 on my thumb. 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 yeah, it turns around and goes, you know, keep smoking. You know, can't just cancer like three times, but she just likes to have a few puffs. And then she throws it out the window, and yeah, it turns around and goes, you know, keep smoking. You know, can't just guy, he's 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 socks.

And then whenever, and then whenever I reached your ran out, I think she said she would go like that. And I used to enjoy watching them fight. I 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, Jettas, and Sobs.

And they'll have central high pride bumper stickers. And I'm screwed. And I look to the left, and there's Bluse of Urban pulls up. And it's the last car I want to 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 D Schneider from Twisted Sister, she's still like dive-line, but she's cool again.

And they see the pimpo-beel and they're like, oh my God, Adam, Rachel, oh my God, wow, you know, Adam, Adam, Adam, and finally I look over and I'm like, hey, what's up? They're like Adam, you're stud, who are you with? And Yaline's over and says, He's with his grandmother in great idea. What a beautiful night to watch the airplanes. They start laughing and then other cars start noticing and their foot in the high beams, their beep in the horn, their 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, 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? I go, like I snap and I say, I'm with you two on a Saturday night and we're at Mako Point.

I'm a loser. I start up the car and we drive away in silence. I had 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 start 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 comish. We always watch the comish on Saturday nights at 10 o'clock It's tires Michael Chick-liss and we're Greek and we support All the Greeks we you know, we're not a Nielsen family, but we're going to watch it. So we sit on the love seat and the hum between them. And we're eating and they're bigger so I'm 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.

This chick was. I mean, he's just as good an actor as Tully Savales and John Cassabetti's. I mean, Greek actors. I mean, he's right up there. And yeah, nods her head, and she puts her hand through my hair. And she says, you got such a nice haircut he did such a good job.

And then a wreath he puts her arm around me and says, I hope you know you're the 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 yeah, I'm gonna read to you a bone garden 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 the grave stones, and I'll respect. I hire a reety, and then 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 do anything to be able to go back and take them to the airport one more Saturday night. Thank you. That was Adam Wayne. 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 math story slam nearly two decades ago. Adam says that not only was it crowd incredibly supportive at 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 math 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-Ready. 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 Katherine Burns, who

also hosted and directed the stories in the hour along with Sarah Austin Jeness, co-producer Vicki Marica's Associate Producer Emily Couch, additional Grand Slam coaching by Jennifer Hickson. The rest of the Moths Leadership team include Sarah Haberman, Meg Bolls, Kate Talley's Jennifer Birmingham, Arena Cluche, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Gladovsky, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Special thanks to Tracy Mills-Sagara, 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 Stelwagon Symphony, Lors Danielson, and Kina Osme, Croca, Pink Freud, 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, and presented by PRX for more about our podcast for information on pitching this your own story and everything else good on our website, themoth.org. you