The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Afraid to Look

Episode Date: October 26, 2021

In this hour, stories of nerves, anxiety, fear! And the courage and support that allow us to overcome. A phone call, a taxi ride, and a stranger's generosity of spirit. This episode is hosted by The Moth's Artistic Director, Catherine Burns. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: Amanda Stern, Tim Manley, Annoush Froundjian, Cheryl Murfin, Devan Sandiford

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 radio hour from PRX, and I'm Catherine Burns. I'm usually a problem solver.

Someone who isn't afraid to jump in and talk something through until I figure it out. But occasionally, I find myself overcome by a vague angst that permeates everything, and I'm afraid to look at things too closely at a fear of what I'll uncover. Moth's story teller and beloved instructor Sharon Salisberg says that fear and worry make it impossible to see our situations clearly. Without clarity, answers are hard to come by. If we want to fix things, we have to deal with our fears because they keep us from seeing the solutions.

So this week, we're going to hear from storytellers who were afraid to look, but somehow manage to muster the courage to peek through their fingers and try to find their way through. First, we're going to hear from the writer Amanda Stern. Amanda's story was recorded live at St. Anne's Church in Brooklyn Heights. This was during the pandemic, so he had a very tiny audience made up mostly of our masks and socially distant staff and crew. I just want to mention that in this story, there is some discussion of thoughts of suicide. Here's Amanda Stern, live at the mall. Since I was a child, I've been held captive by this nameless, invisible dread. The feeling was so all-encompassing, it made routine things like coming and going, feel

like I was putting my life in danger. It convinced me that if I wasn't watching her, my mom would die or disappear. I felt responsible for her safety. And this made leaving her every single morning to go to school feel unbearable. And leaving her to go to my dad's every other weekend feel like I was walking towards my own kidnapping. The only way that I could alleviate my apprehension, calm myself down, and find relief was just

to avoid the hard thing and stay at home with my mom where I knew I would be safe. Nobody knew what was wrong with me. They called it homesickness, this feeling of mine, but I knew that couldn't be right because I felt it even when I was home. All I knew was that I felt defective and broken, and I secretly worried that I was crazy. I didn't anticipate that the dread would grow as I grew and that I would bring it with me from childhood into adulthood. That's exactly what happened. The year is 1995.

I'm 25 years old. I live in a small apartment with a shower in the kitchen. Elena Smoreset is my generation's current soundtrack. I haven't left the apartment in three weeks. I don't have a job, so that's not a problem. I don't leave the house to see friends or go to bars or do anything a 25-year-old should do. When I get hungry, I order in, but I don't get hungry because I'm thinking of killing myself. You see, now I'm an adult, but instead

of my mother being the central thing around which my dread has organized itself, it's my apartment. My apartment has become my mother. Only now, just the thought of leaving sends me to the bathroom to throw up. I worry that any small movement will set me off, so I stay as still as I possibly can. But then I worry that I'm running out of air, so I race to the window and I open it, but as soon as I stick my head out, I can feel the dread in the wind rushing towards my face, trying to murder me. And I slam the window down

and I race back to the bathroom to throw up. But this doesn't stop me from worrying that I'm running out of air. So every now and then I check. I open the apartment door, I take a couple of steps out, but nope, nope, nope, I can feel that black cloth of dread wanting to drop over my head and pull me to a grave and bury me alive and cement. And I respect to my apartment and I always end up throwing up in the bathroom. I can't even have friends over because I'm so afraid

they'll breathe all the available air and I'll die from socializing. I want a big life. I want to perform and be on stage. I want to write books and do readings from them. I want to host dinner parties and actually attend them. But how can I do any of this when I can't even be around people?

The only way out, the only thing I can figure to do is just to end my life. It just makes the most logical sense. But before I do that, I need to know the name of the thing that wants me to kill myself. And I know the person who knows that is my mother. I know that my mother has been keeping a secret from me.

I know that she believes and knows that I'm crazy, but she somehow managed to keep it from me, to tell all my friends and boyfriends and teachers, and she managed to tell everybody in my life that I would ever meet, to keep this fact from me, to humor me. But I need to know. I need to know the name of this thing that wants me dead. So I call my mom. I tell her that I'm not doing well. And I tell her that I need to know what's wrong with me.

I need to know its name. And she says she doesn't know. And no one knows. And I tell her it's okay. I'm prepared. I'm ready. I'm actually calling you for this information. I need it.

I'm ready. Give it to me. Tell me I'm crazy. But she won't do it. She denies it. She tells me that if I were crazy, she'd tell me. Totally don't believe that.

But she says it. Anyway, she doesn tell me. Totally don't believe that, but she says it. Anyway, she doesn't like the way that I sound, so she tells me she's gonna call a cab and I should take it and come over to her house, which is five blocks away. Now, the only thing that could actually get me out of my apartment would be the promise of being close to my mom.

We're not even, you know, we don't even really get along that well at this point, but the umbilical cord between us has never been cut. So being near her, I feel, will just be the thing to get me out of my house. So I raise down the hall, down the stairs, and into this cab. And the second that I shut the door, I look at the lock on the cab, and I put my fingers in a V, and I put them on either side of the lock, because I want to be ready for when the cab driver depresses a lock because he's going to kidnap and murder me. But I'll be fast and I can flick the lock back up

and race out of the cab. Now, even in my suicidal despair, I can see how absurd this is. Because here I am wanting to kill myself, but I'm afraid this guy's going to do it for me. Like, wouldn't I want him to kill me? But the truth is, I don't wanna die. I just don't wanna feel like this anymore. If only I could feel differently.

If only I could not be filled with dread all the time. If only I could feel relief. And in that moment, my body somehow calls up the feeling that I want and I can feel it across my chest and it is so delicious, it's so perfectly perfect. It gives me a third option. Because the truth is, it's not the absence of feeling that I want. It's the presence of relief that I long for. And I know that the only way to feel this feeling,

to fill my body with it, is to conquer my fear. And the only is to conquer my fear. And the only way to conquer my fear is to face it. And I understand in the back of that camp that the thing that is hardest for everyone in the world to do, which is to face your fear, actually feels easier and less exhausting to me than continuing to live my life the way that I've been living it. And so that's it.

That's what I decide. I am going to live my life facing my fears because I cannot continue to live my life beholden to all my terror. We pull up in front of my childhood home and I remove my fingers from the lock, and I race inside the promise of being close to my mom. The next morning, my mom sends me to our therapist, and I find myself sitting in front of him,

and he asks me for all my symptoms, and I tell him. He asks me, how many weeks I've been feeling this way? And I say, don't do that kind of math. I've been feeling this way a thousand weeks, since I was a baby. And he's shocked that I've gone this long without being diagnosed or treated. And he tells me that the name of my condition

is a panic disorder. Only my panic disorder grew up, got married, and had babies. And now, my body is home to five or six different anxiety disorders and clinical depression. He puts me on medication. I start seeing a therapist, and I slowly get better, and better, and better. My 25 year old self was right.

Facing my fears is easier than avoiding them. Avoiding them gave my fears power, but facing them gives me power. Now I can get into a cab and not be afraid he's going to kidnap me. I can write books and do readings from them. I can have dinner parties and actually attend them. I can be afraid and do it anyway. Because I know that facing my fears won't kill me, but running from them almost dead.

Thank you. is the author of the novel, The Long Hall, the memoir Little Panic, and the 11 books for kids written under pseudonyms. Amanda is working in her next book and can be found on Facebook's bulletin, where she has a newsletter called How to Live. Coming up, a man's repressed feelings cause physical problems in his body. An anxious bride introduces her fiance to her Armenian traditions and has stressed out new mom struggles to cope. 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 3D Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns.

In this hour, we're hearing about times when we put our heads in the sand and try to hide from life, even though that doesn't work. Now we're going to hear from three people we met in our story slam competitions, starting in New York City, where WNYC is a media partner of the mosque. Here's Tim Manley. It was a spring night in 2008 and I'm lying underneath the covers next to my best friend Ben. This had become kind of normal for the past few months that we slept next to each other with this like one foot space between us. We were pioneers of a new masculinity, comfortable expressing our platonic care for each other,

no concern for homophobic social norms. And I was totally in love with him. Not like a friend love, but like a love like when I like felt alone, I thought about Ben and it made everything okay. Not like a friend love, but like a love. Like when I like felt alone, I thought about Ben and it made everything okay. And I decided that tonight was tonight I was gonna tell him. And he's lying next to me, but he's facing the other way.

So all I can see is the street light on the curve of his shoulder. And I start to say something, but the word stop in my throat. So I reach out my hand, but no matter how much I will it, I can't move my hand closer to him. I can feel the words inside of me. They're like physical objects that are like all piled up and like pressing against me,

but I can't say them and my body is a mobile. In the morning, go to bed, wake up. Ben makes us some granola and yogurt, and I sit at the kitchen table silently, and underneath the table I'm massaging my own hands because when I woke up, I had these weird tender nodules like on my palm and in between my fingers. He's like red bumps that hurt when I press them, but I kept pressing them. And when I went home, I had to lie down on my bed because my legs hurt so bad. When I lie down, I looked at them, my legs were all swollen and they had these red splotches on them.

And on my thighs were those like bumps again. My roommate came in and she said that the bumps were my emotions trapped inside of me. If I could just learn how to say the things that were stuck inside of me, my body would show that. My rheumatologist felt otherwise. She felt around a lot of my arms. She cut out a big chunk of my leg and she, not a big, a little piece of my leg, I should clarify.

And it wasn't that crazy. And she explained that the skin tells you a lot about what's going on beneath it, that it's sort of like the communicator between the inside of your body and the outside world. She also told me that I had this rare thing called cutaneous poly arteritis no doza. Right? Totally. Seeing the Buzzfeed article about it. It's an inflammation of the blood vessels, but only in the skin. And she said that I'm actually, I was actually very lucky that it was only in the skin because if it moved to my internal organs, which sometimes it did, it was often fatal. And I asked her how often does that happen. And she replied very

casually, oh, there's not enough research. They're like, all right, well, she gave me a prescription for a medication that's usually used to treat gout in the elderly. On my way home, I passed by the drug store and for some reason I couldn't bring myself to go in and get it filled. Instead I went home and I worked for a long time on an email to Ben, which of course I couldn't send when I was done. All the words seemed cliche.

All the sentences started with, I feel like, that's a lot. And I needed instead sort of like a more, a more, like an email wasn't right. So what I did, then I opened up the drawer next to my bed and I took out a black pen and I wrote on my hand, Ben, and the ink shimmered for like a heartbeat and then it dried. And I continued to write a message to him. I wrote, Ben, when I feel stuck or when I feel frozen by my fears and by my doubts,

I think of your face and you're telling me, yes. I took a photo of it with the camera on my laptop, but I couldn't email him the picture because it felt like it'd be too vulnerable. And it wasn't just Ben that I had these things inside of me that I needed to say to them. You know, there was also like my brothers and my sisters and my mother and my father

and my stepmother, there were so many people in my life who I had so many things to say to. And so I decided that I would write a message to someone in my life every night on my hand. And I took a photo of it every night and I started a blog called I Need You To Know How Much I Love You. I didn't tell anyone about it. And every night I'd write on my hand, I'd post the photo.

And in the morning, I'd wake up with phrases, like tattooed on my face backwards. And they'd become righted in the bathroom mirror. Like, I don't know, but, or I wish I could, where you are so, and I was taking those things that were trapped inside of me and I was communicating them to the outside. And as I started to do this, I did it for like a, well as I did it for months, the stuff on my arms and my legs totally cleared up.

I was also like excising more and eating better and drinking more water and I started wearing these like, knee high anti-ambulism compression stockings that grandma's wear, but it was definitely all about letting the feelings out. And so, once my body looked good, I knew I could call Ben, and I called him from the window of my bedroom, and I told him Ben, I have this idea about me and you. It comes to me the way that ideas for drawings come to me.

Me and you swapping t-shirts, me and you holding hands, me and you like brothers. And he said to me, Tim, I think you know, and I did know, and it felt so good. And he said, I think you know that I'm only attracted to women. And that's how I was so sad in a way, because I knew I just lost the thing that made me feel less alone. But also, my body felt so good, because I'd learned how to take this that made me feel less alone, but also my body felt so good

because I'd learned how to take this stuff that was inside of me and I put it outside of me and in the process I'd transformed who I was on the outside and the inside. And then that night I wrote on my hand Ben. Thank you for helping me become the person I wished I could be. Thank you. That was Tim Manley. He's the creator of the Emmy nominated web series The Fields, a show about a by-guy with way too many emotions. You can watch it on YouTube. His friend Ben is an artist living in Los Angeles and I'm happy to report that Tim and Ben are

still best friends. Tim says he's very happy to be an instructor in the Moths Education program. Tim we're so grateful to have you. Now we're going to hear a story from a New York City Grand Slam, again for our media partner is WNYC. I think many brides will agree that planning a big wedding is an anxiety-ridden affair, especially when you add intense cultural differences and expectations into the mix. Speaking to that, is Anu Shroonjohn, live at the Maw. It's one thing to tell someone that you're Armenian. It's a completely different thing to explain to them just how Armenian you are, because there are levels.

First level Armenian is, hey, I'm Armenian. My last name ends with an IAN. Yay! Second level is, hey, I'm Armenian. Are you going to the church picnic? I'm going to the church picnic. Okay, great. We'll see you at the church picnic.

Third level is, so it's important to know where you are and all of that, whether you're by yourself or whether you're around other Armenians or whether you've been proposed to by the man of your dreams, who is not Armenian. How do you explain this to someone from Baton Rouge, Louisiana? And let me just say, Justin knew I was Armenian from the start. He knew from the beginning that I went to an Armenian

day school that I spoke a different language, and that I'd sometimes go to social events where people would spontaneously grab pinkies and whip handkerchiefs in the air. But there's more. If you walked into Holy Martyrs Armenian Day School, which is a school that my grandmother founded, and pulled little honors French on the side

and said, one day, you're gonna marry a normal man with a normal last name, and like in a real American last name, like the kind that starts a normal man with a normal last name. And like in a real American last name, like the kind that starts with an M and a C, and who knows how to do normal things, like play pool and play poker, and who understands American football. She would have said, gente singes, which means what are you crazy?

Because I still knew, even at a young age, that there is a big world out there full of people with names like Lindsay and who, and who, and who, and full of people who, who didn't care that share was Armenian. And, and, and, and I knew that I had to keep this all a secret, you know, in order to be safe, you know. So, but as the wedding got closer and closer, I had to start coming to turn some of the

couple of things and admitting some things to myself. Like, I don't think I can get married in a converted barn. I need to get married at Holy Marders in Bayside, New York with a priest, with a beard and a nose who's going to put gold crowns on ours in Bayside, New York, with a priest, with a beard, and a nose, who's going to put gold crowns on our heads, and wear the best mantle, hold a cross over us, and where we'll exit the church to the sound of celebratory Armenian hymns with the accompaniment

of symbols, which is offered as an option. In addition, after which our family will dance in circles for hours and hours and hours. And when I told asked Justin Justin, his reaction was sure. Yeah, just let me know where I gotta be. Because he's kind and decent, but he also didn't know who's getting himself into. I mean, this is the Armenian church

we're talking about here. It's old fashioned, it's sexist, and it's Christian, but like the old kind of Christian, like the kind that's dark and smoky, and all the men of Beards, it's sexist, and it's Christian, but like the old kind of Christian, like the kind that's dark and smoky and all the men of beards, like, for example. And when they hold that little cross out to you, you're going to have to kiss that thing. And, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and, no, God, he's scared already. I said, no, no, no, because you've probably been baptized before, right? And he said, I don't think so. And he said, because his family religion

wasn't a part of his childhood. I mean, the first big tradition that his family celebrates is the one that he created, which is the annual pool tournament. So he pulls out his phone and says, I know, I'll text my mom. So he texted his mom and says, hey, mom, quick question, was I ever baptized?

And she responds, no, you're a heathen. So we get on the train to meet with father Mel Haasian at Holy Marder, who's first reaction to Justin is, you're not Armenian? Oh my God. Oh, because Justin looks really Armenian. I mean, he's got the eyebrows and the face and more handkerchiefs than God.

And but the questions get more and more intense. Like, like, do you believe in God, the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit? And then do you know that the Armenians were the first people to accept Christianity than living out names like St. Gregory, the Illuminator, and Vartan Mamigonia. And I'm going slow down too fast, too fast.

And we're, and we eventually plan for an April 14th baptism in addition to several one-on-one sessions that Justin will meet with the priest for to prepare for the event. And on the right home, it's quiet. And I'm, and I feel this shame and embarrassment. But what I'm afraid of, what I'm really afraid of, know what I need is for him to not find

this whole thing ridiculous. Because this Armenian thing, it's pretty goofy. But it's mine. And it's really important that I not be laughed at right now. And out of nowhere, he says, you know what? I like talking to the father. And he goes, look, I just want to marry you. If I have to announce Satan for that fine,

I'll walk over hot coals. I don't give a fuck, which is all I or any Armenian bride could ever hope for. Thank you. That was Anush Frunjan. She draws cartoons for Anush talks to stuff, her web comic about a girl who talks to inanimate objects. Anush and Justin currently live in a housing a housing Connecticut next door to her parents. To see a picture of Justin's baptism, and of the two of them wearing their glittering wedding

crowns at the big event, go to themoth.org. We're going to turn now to our Los Angeles story slams for a re-partner with KCRW. Here's Cheryl Murphy, live at the Moth. I work with new parents, brand-spanking new parents who are very tired and are there any new parents out here or parents in general who've gone through this? You know what I mean. When you have a new baby, it's a form of insanity. You're up all night, you're tired, you're boobs leak,

if you're the mom. And so one of the benefits of my job, or one of the things that happens with my job, is I'll often get calls or texts from New parents. Usually it's a new mom and she'll tell me some catastrophic thing that has happened. Oh my god, I forgot to change the baby's diaper in the middle of the night and she probably has diaper rash. Or, oh my god, the baby fell off the bed. Or

or, oh my God, the baby fell off the bed. Or my most recent one I got yesterday was, the baby is looking at me skeptically. And so every time this happens, I get to reassure the new parents. You know, you are the best mom this baby ever had, which is true, and that makes them feel better. And then I'll follow up with a story, and I'll say, you know what, I'm gonna tell you something,

it's gonna make you feel really good about your parenting because you really are the best parent your baby ever had. And I tell them a story about when I had my baby, 22, 23 years ago. I was one of those very tired moms, and I didn't listen to my midwife when she told me I should stay in bed with my baby for a week and not do anything else.

I should not get up. I should not go shopping or anything like that. I decided that on the fourth day after my baby was born that I needed to go grocery shopping. Even though my mother was there, she'd gone grocery shopping and she'd rearranged my linens and the closets and everything, I decided I needed to go grocery shopping now as somebody who's in the birth field,

I know that it was my hormones going up and down that caused me to want to go shopping. But I did. I packed my baby up in the car seat and I put her in the car. And we drove off to the grocery store and we went through the grocery store aisles and everybody oodened out of the baby. And I thought that was great. And we got through the checkout line and back out into the parking lot and I put all the

groceries into the car and I drove off and I put on some music. And about 10 minutes later I realized the baby wasn't in the car. So you can imagine with a little bit of panic, I did an illegal U-turn over four lanes of traffic and gunned it back to the parking lot and I actually left when I looked at the tire marks because I came screeching around into the parking lot and And I came to a stop, and I just looked out at the window of my car, I'm hysterical. There's a circle of people all around. I can't see the baby, but there's a circle of people.

I get out of the car and I'm shaking and I'm crying, and I walk over to the circle, and it kind of breaks open, and there's the baby looking happy as a clam in her little car seat, you know, goolling up and standing over her is a rather large elderly police officer. And I thought, oh my god, I'm going to be taken away, I'm going to be arrested, she's going to call CPS. And you know, I would, she looked at me and she said is this your first baby

and I said and so she walked over to me and she she picked up the baby carrier and she walked over to me the police officer and she put the baby carrier in my hand and she said I'm going to walk you to your car and she walked me to my car she made sure that the car seat was adjusted right in the car and then she said, I'm gonna follow you home. And I said, okay. So she followed me home and I'm hysterical. I drew very slowly, very slowly all the way home.

We got home. She came into the house and made sure that it was my home and there was a place for the baby. And walked down to the door and I was terrified she was going to call CPS. And then I was terrified. But well, I was going to say to my husband and she took my hand. And I think she must have been maybe 60. She looked like she was close to retirement.

She took my hand of the door and she said, I want you to know, I'm not going to call CPS. And I'm not going to call your husband. And I broke down in tears and I said, oh thank you so much, is there anything I can do? Can I call your commanding officer and just say, thank you, she said, no, I don't think that's a good idea. I said, but there's something that you can do. You know, someday you're going to run into,

you're going to meet another parent or another young mom who's having a really hard day. And you're going to be able to tell that person they're really doing OK that, you know, what, that worst things could happen, because you're going to be able to tell them that you have won the worst mother in the world. Oh, oh.

Oh. Oh. And so Oh. Oh. And so I get to share that story with every new parent that texts me about her baby rolling off onto the bed or all these things. And then I get to follow up and tell them that babies are resilient and new parents are resilient. And they're going to be just fine.

So thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Cheryl Murphy lives in Seattle, Washington, where she writes and edits for Seattle's Child magazine. She told us, despite the incident, I went on to start nesting instincts

paranatal services, providing birth and postpartum duly support, childbirth and new family education, and other services to clueless people like I once was. Cheryl tells us that both her kids live to grow into happy healthy adults. In fact, the baby in the story was in attendance the night she told this story. Coming up, a young man finds the courage to ask about a painful time in his family history. 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 the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns. In this hour, we've been hearing stories about things we're afraid to face. There's been a lot of discussion in recent years about how trauma is something that can be passed down from one generation to the next, through our physical bodies.

Our last storyteller has told many slam-winning stories at the Moth, and this was his main stage debut. The show took place outdoors at Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York. This was in September of 2020, so except for a handful of staff, the vast majority of the audience were watching from home. You also may hear the occasional plain flyby.

Here's Devon Sandaford, live, agreed with Cemetery in Brooklyn. It was in the craziness of events in June that I made the decision. I'm sitting in my apartment in Brooklyn, New York. There's a global pandemic. I'm at home. I just finished a late night of work after helping my five and eight-year-old sons with their remote learning. And now is when I've made the decision to do the hardest thing that I've ever done in my life. Call my mom. See, it's kind of weird being a 35-year-old who's afraid to call his mom, but I'm the youngest of three in my family, and I kind of just took on the role of the peacemaker in my family.

So whenever my brother and sister would start arguing, I would try and find ways to joke and make everybody back to being peaceful and happy. And anytime my brother wasn't being a good listener, I made sure to always listen to my parents and pick up things around the house because I just wanted to bring everybody peace and happiness. But I'm afraid to talk to my mom on this particular night in my apartment because I know the conversation I have to have with her is not going to bring any peace. It's only going to bring pain. Because I have to talk to her about her brother that died when I was little.

I don't really know this story because no one's ever told me, about her brother that died when I was little. I don't really know this story because no one's ever told me, but I've pieced together little pieces and what I know is that when I was six years old, my mom's brother was shot and killed on the front lawn of my grandparents' home by the police. And I can't really blame my mom

for never telling me this story because I know it's really painful. And I have a lot of painful memories and painful moments from my life that I've never shared with her. So I can't really blame her. And there's especially this one painful moment that I have that I never really shared with her. And it happened when I was 21 years old.

When I was 21 years old, I transferred to a new university in Southern California where I'm from. And the university was out along the coast and Long Beach. And I had this roommate situation set up, but my roommate kind of just fell through. And even though I was working 35 hours a week, I didn't have a way to pay for my own place out in Long Beach.

So I had to drive all the way from my parents' place, which is an hour and a half away. If there's no traffic traffic and in Southern California, there is always traffic. So I had to wake up from my parents' house and get out of the house by like 4' 30 or 5' o'clock. If I left my parents' house even one minute after 5' o'clock, I'd be sitting in like three hours

of traffic. And this was like my daily commute. I would drive to work. I would sleep in my car for a little bit. I'd work for a few hours and then I'd go to school where I would sleep in my car for a little bit, I'd work for a few hours, and then I'd go to school where I was double majoring in biomedical and electrical engineering. And then after my late night engineering classes would end, I would usually stop by the gas station, grab myself an energy drink, and these nutter butter bars, which were just delicious.

And that's the only way I could get home. I would just be way too tired, and I was doing this for a long time and I decided to tell my parents that I was staying with a friend, but I started sleeping in my car next to my work. And just in this random parking lot, it wasn't so bad though. I could, you know, park there in a little secluded area and the only things I would have to worry about really are the bugs getting in and biting me. I'd have to worry about rolling up the windows so that people wouldn't know that I'm there and rolling down the

windows so it wouldn't get off fogged up and that's kind of what I did and my parents didn't know that I was doing this but they knew that it was starting to get taxing to drive so they decided that they wanted to get me a hotel and the first night I said at the hotel, it was just wonderful. I had this big room to myself and a bed to myself. And I could watch ESPN until I fell asleep and ESPN was just watching me. It was just great.

But my parents raised me and my siblings to be responsible and independent. And I didn't like to just use my parents' money. So sometimes I prefer to just sleep in my car still and not tell them. And I would do that, especially on nights when I knew that I would have a long day at school. I would do it, but every once in a while,

I would treat myself to the hotel. And on one night, after my late night engineering classes, I left the school at around 10, 10, 30, and I pulled into the hotel parking lot. And to my surprise, I saw a parking spot right by the door of the hotel entrance, and I passed it, and I wanted to back up and get into this spot, and I see a car coming from the back,

and I slowly back into the parking spot, and I grabbed my backpack, and I step out of the car. And as I step out, I see the car rolls up, and it's actually a police car. And the police officer flips on the lights, and steps out and asks me for my license and registration. I'm like, that's a little weird. He came from the other direction. I know this can't be traffic related.

There's been several times where I've been stopped by the cops before for nothing, so I know exactly what he's doing. When he tells me to sit on the curb, I know it's a routine, racial profiling stop. He's going to take my information. He's going to check it against his database. He's going take my information, he's gonna check it against his database, he's gonna come back when he finds out that I have nothing on it, and he's gonna give me my stuff and let me go.

And as I'm sitting on the curb there, waiting, I hear these tires rolling into the parking lot, parking lot, and I think to myself, oh my gosh, how embarrassing, like, another guest is gonna come in, and they're gonna see me here, and they're gonna think I'm a criminal, and I look over my shoulder, and I see it, it Like, another guest is going to come in, and they're going to see me here, and they're going to think I'm a criminal. And I look over my shoulder, and I see it. It's not another guest.

It's another cop. And this cop car pulls up, and it shines its lights directly on me, and two officers step out and stand behind the door. And now I'm like a little worried, like, what's going on? I've never even had a speeding ticket before. I've never had any traffic tickets. I come from a really religious family. So I actually have never had alcohol even though

I'm 21 years old. So I'm like, I don't know what's going on. Before I can process this, I see the lights of another car coming in and it's another police car and it pulls up behind me and it's shining its lights on me and another officer gets out. And finally, the first officer comes back and he's asking me all these questions. He wants to know where am I coming from and what am I doing here? And then he asks me if he can search my car. And I pause for a second because I know my rights and I know I can tell him no, but as a black person, I also know that that could make me look more suspicious that I'm hiding something.

I'm not hiding anything. So I tell him, sure, you can search my car. He begins to search my car and he looks all the way through with his flashlight. And when he finishes, he asks me if he can search my trunk. And I think to myself, no, like don't search my trunk, like I haven't done anything. And as I'm thinking this, I see another police car pull up, and now there's four police cars and six officers all surrounding me as I'm sitting on the curb, and I feel like the scum of the earth. And I tell him he can search the trunk,

and he searches through the trunk. And he eventually goes back to his police car, and I'm just sitting there, and I'm so frustrated, because I had been doing everything I was supposed to be doing in my life. I was double majoring in biomedical and electrical engineering. I was working 35 hours a week to put myself through school. And I was even thinking about my parents' money and easing their minds to not have to do

these long drives. And still I'm sitting here on the curb surrounded by cops like I'm a criminal. And finally the officer comes back and he hands me my license and registration and he says, you're good to go. I just, uh, somebody called about a suspicious person and when I saw you park your car, I thought you might be trying to get away from me. Which makes perfect sense because usually when people are trying to get away, they take their time to back their cars into a parking spot

and step out slowly and wait for you. That's how you get away. And I know it's a complete lie. And what strikes me in that moment is, it doesn't matter if it's a lie or not, that this police officer is in a position of power, and he can say anything he wants, and I can only just sit there and take it. And he can say anything he wants, and I can only just sit there and take it. And I'm so ashamed that I just sit there and I don't fight back and I don't resist, but I also don't want to end up dead. And as I'm sitting there, I think about my uncle and I visualize what I've always thought about, not even knowing the story that his face

is face down on the ground dead somewhere. And I just say whatever, I gotta get back into the hotel and just let go of this. And as I'm walking away, the police officer looks at me and says, you know, you have that nutter butter in there, it looked like you had a really great dinner. And this really throws me off because he laughs to himself and I'm like, this was a joke to him and this is not a joke

to me. And I walk inside the hotel and all the people who know me from the days before they're like, oh my goodness, I can't believe that happened to you. Like, are you okay? Can we report this? Like, what should we do? And I tell them, no, I don't want to report it. I just want to get to my room and I want to get in my bed and hide and pretend like this never happened. And so that's what I do. For my whole life, I just want to get to my room, and I want to get in my bed and hide and pretend like this never happened. And so that's what I do. For my whole life, I pretend like this didn't happen, and I don't tell anyone.

I tell my parents just small details. But every time another black man comes into the news with a death, I picture myself on that curb, and I picture my uncle, and I know that I have a lot of pain. And so I want to call my mom and find out what has happened to my uncle. So I finally get the phone in my apartment and I call her. And as I get ahold of her, we talk. And I tell her about all these dehumanizing moments in my life.

And I open up to her and I tell her all the pain that I have. And I ask her, finally ask her to tell me about her brother and what happened. And she tells me about his life, them growing up, and she tells me about the dress that she was wearing. She was wearing this red dress on the day, and my uncle was kind of going a little crazy, and the cops had gotten called, and they had calmed him down. But when he walked outside, the cops were out there with their guns drawn all around him, and my dad was there saying, don't shoot, don't shoot, don't shoot, and they shot him anyway, and said that he

had a weapon on him, but when they searched, they didn't find one. And as my mom tells me this story, she's getting a little emotional, but it's not until she gets to the part where she's talking about my grandma and how my grandma used to always just retell this story anytime a visitor would come over to the house. And every time my grandma told the story, my mom had to relive the moment all over again. And for the first time in my life, I'm seeing tears filling to my mom's eyes. And I can just feel her pain and I feel so bad that I've wrought her this pain. And I thought I was supposed to be the peacemaker, but all I have done here is bring her this pain, but I know that I had to do this.

Because I know there's so much pain inside of me and I haven't been able to give my heart to the people that I love, and to bring peace to anyone from the pieces of my broken heart. And as my mom continues to tell me more things, we talk for three hours, I realize that what I'm really looking for was a connection to my mom, and to break the silence that I've been holding onto,

and to break the generational trauma that my family has gone through before it passes onto my sons. And now all I can do is hope for healing as I continue to share my story and to share about the things, the pains from my life. And I think that begins as I speak my uncle's name for the first time. My uncle's name was Roland Edwards, but I called him Uncle Ron. Thank you. That was Devon Sandaford. Devon is a writer, storyteller, and workshop facilitator

who lives in Brooklyn. His stories have been featured in the Washington Post, Speak Up Storytelling, and many other places. Devon is also the founder of Unreeling Storytelling, a Brooklyn-based community providing a platform for the repressed perspectives of people of color, women, and anyone who has felt pushed to the margins. After Devon talked to his mom, he realized that the day he had randomly decided to call her was the anniversary of his uncle's death. Devon is working on his memoir, which he

says is about how he lost his humanity and his voice until he learned to dance with the skeletons in his closet. After telling this story, Dev enjoying the staff at the Moth, where he's now our community program manager. He and I recently sat down to talk about why he finally felt compelled to tell this story and what's happened since. In terms of starting to share these stories that aren't just hard for me, but I see them as ways in which I could cause pain to my family. I don't want them to have to relive these moments.

It's very difficult for me to have done that, but also to know that I have a reason behind doing it, and I realize that how much I have been hurting my sons. I either can hurt my parents and my family, or I will hurt my sons, and I had to make the choice, and obviously being a parent, it was like, there's no way I'm gonna purposely hurt my sons. I can't pass them I can't pass

this on to my sons. That night something happened at the end of your story and you mentioned saying your uncle's name and so do you want to talk about what happened up there? Yeah I got to the place where I had planned to say my uncle's name, and I began to say his name and said the wrong name. Instead of saying Ronald, I said Roland, and then I like heard myself saying it. And so it was done. I didn't feel like I could say like, oh, sorry. I messed it up. Like, I was just like devastated. That for me, a part of telling the story was like giving my chance, my uncle a chance to like reclaim a bit of his humanity.

And after talking to my wife and my best friend, it was like very clear that I hadn't just slipped, but that the reason that I had forgotten his name is because it wasn't somebody we talked about and I didn't say his name. You want to say his full name so everyone in the radio can hear it? Yeah, my uncle's name is Ronald Edwards. We call him Uncle Ron. A lot of people call him Ronnie.

That was Devon Sandaford. To see photos and videos of Devon and his uncle Ronald Edwards, go to the Mothtaudorg. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of The Maw 3D O'Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison and Catherine Burns, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show. Co-producer, Vicky Merrick, Associate Producer Emily Couch, Additional Grand Slam Coaching by Jennifer Hickson.

The rest of the most leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin, Janess, Meg Bulls, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cluche, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inca Gliddowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in the Sauer from Stelwag and Symphonet, Chad Lawson, Michael Hedges, Richard Higopian, Buddha Sessions and the West Starways. You'll find links to all the music we use at our website.

We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Maw 3U Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themawth.org. you