The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Live from the Cowboy Poetry Gathering

Episode Date: November 29, 2022

In this hour, stories from the Elko Cowboy Poetry Gathering. Hosted by Dame Wilburn, with additional hosting from Jay Allison. A woman says goodbye to her childhood ranch; a young girl finally gets her wish to own a pet; a Guatemalan teenager goes on a silent and stealthy mission; and a Dakota man tries to track down someone he has not seen in years. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Hosted by: Jay Allison Storytellers: Teresa Jordan returns home to a parched and cracked land. Dame Wilburn visits Macon, Georgia for a summer and gets an unconventional pet. Nestor Gomez flees the Guatemalan Civil War to the safety of his mother’s home. Bobby Wilson hears of a Dakota man he desperately tries to meet.

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 the Moth.org forward slash Houston. From PRX, this is the Malth Radio Hour. I'm Jay Ellison, producer of this radio show, and this time we're bringing you a live

event held at the Elko Convention Center for the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Nevada. It was produced in partnership with the Western Folklife Center. We'll have stories of ranchers, Native Americans, and some folks from east of the Rockies too. Our first storyteller is Teresa Jordan, who has been involved in the gathering for a long time. She said, cowboy culture is a storytelling culture. You have a lot of time on your hands and lots of material. Big animals, bad weather, odd people, you're always in a fix in one way or another. Cowboys, she told us, always say, at least I'll get a story out of it.

Here's Teresa Jordan, live at the mall. The year I graduated from college, my father sold the ranch in Wyoming. They'd been home to my family for almost a hundred years. This ranch had survived the Indian wars and the Great Depression, fire and flood and drought and plagues of locusts, but it could not survive the death of my grandfather that had happened a couple of years earlier. As soon as I picked up my diploma, I headed home for what I knew would be the last time. Now, my father had seen this coming,

and he had sent me to college so I'd be prepared for a very different sort of life. But until the sale of the ranch was a reality, I really hadn't confronted the big question, which is, who would I be without the land and the animals to define me? Now this ranch was such a beautiful place. It started about 50 miles northwest to Cheyenne and there were, it ran 8 miles along Chugwater, and there were these big, broad, beautiful meadows that raised tons and tons of hay. And the cattle would winter on these meadows,

and they would have their calves, and then in the spring we would trail them up into the high country, and they'd spread out over that prairie grass, and they would get shiny and fat. But when I came home that summer after I graduated the ranch didn't look like that anymore. We were in the third year of a desperate drought. There had not been a drop of rain in over 12 months. And without the rain to

wash it off there was dust on everything. It was like color. It robbed the color from the world. And I was so connected to this land. It was not just that I had been raised there, but generations of my family had been raised there. It was literally in my DNA. And to see the land hurting like this, it was as if my own skin were parched and cracked and aching. And drought makes everything. with my own skin were parched and cracked and aching.

And drought makes everything, it drought puts stress on everything, it weakens it. And it wasn't just that the grass was so sparse, but we had sickness in our calves. So I came home to take up my usual job, which was to take care of the cows in the summer while the man put up hay, but it was a really different job than it had been before. I really had never dealt with sick calves.

I'd have, you know, I'd have an occasional one, five or six over the course of the summer. But that summer, I was doctoring the dozen a day and sometimes twice that many. To doctor a calf in an open country, I had to rope it and I was not a good roaper. But there was so much at stake, and I got better pretty fast. And I would throw the calf, I'd get on top of it, I'd pull the pig and string out of

my back pocket and hog tie it, and then I would inject it with penicillin and give it oral antibiotic. And then I needed to mark it. I needed to know who I had doctored in how many times. And so every day I'd have a different mark. I had these big, greased crayons, greased paint crayons in my saddle bags. And one day I'd put a red circle around the right eye

and then a yellow stripe down the nose the next day. And some of these calves I had to doctor so many times that they looked like clowns. The other thing that I did that summer was it was my job to keep the windmills running. And in the high country all our water came from windmills, they pumped the water from the ground. And there is a great technology in Wyoming. Wyoming is, I believe, the windiest state in the Union, but that summer, nothing.

There was not a breeze. And if you don't have wind to run the windmills, then you've got to put a pump check on it, this gasoline-powered engine. We use these little three horsepower bricks and stat-straten, miserable engines that I swear were only put on this earth to make me tear out my hair. I was

not a very good roper but I was a terrible mechanic and that summer I didn't have a choice and I learned how to take a carburetor apart and put it back together and sometimes if I couldn't get one of these little miserable sons of bitches working I would have to take it clear off the mill and put a new pump jack on it. And there was this one day at a really hot day and it was in the hottest part of the day. And I had this jack that I could not get running. And it was up above me.

And I realized I was going to have to take it off. And so I'm working up above my head. And it's leaking and this gasoline is running down my arm and I it was hard to get the right leverage and I could not break this bolt loose and I was pushing and pulling and Granting and cussing and this gas just kept running down my hand and there was a there was just a point where I was just so Frustrated and I just lost it and I threw this ranch down in the dirt

and I stomped down off this mill. And I just went over to pick up and I sunk down on the bumper and I put my head in my hands and I just lost it. I just sobbed and I remember just saying over and over, this is too hard, This is too damn hard. Those were long days. There were a lot of days that I would wear out to horses. And when you wear out to condition cow horses, I was dead tired when I would get home and I remember this one night I went up to take my bath and I was so tired I just I couldn't even get

undressed I was just sitting there with my hands on the sink and looking at myself in the mirror and I don't think I'd really seen myself all summer I was looking at myself in the mirror and I always wore these sleeveless snap button cowboy shirts. And I was so strong. These cast by this time are 350 pounds, 350 pounds, and I had the arms of an Olympic swimmer. And it struck me that I would never be that strong again. And then on the 22nd of July, I woke to my father's shouting, it's raining, it's raining.

And I went downstairs and I could see him out there in the yard and he had his hands up to the sky, up into the rain and he was saying in this sort of dry hyperbole that was his idea of a sense of humor. He was saying, thank you, Lord, not for me. I've seen rain before, but for the children. And I'd come out into the yard and I think he sensed I was there and he turned around and he saw me and my father was not a playful person. He was not a hugger, but he saw me there and he just picked me up into a bear hug and he swung me around and he was laughing and I was laughing. And so I went out to get my horse and all

summer long I just gone out in the horse pasture and I'd grabbed whatever amount I wanted for the day. But that day this rain made them just as crazy as it had made us and the horses were just running and kicking and bucking and it took me forever to get a horse. And finally, I got a horse and I got saddled up. And by this time, this mist had started to come in. And then by the time I got up on top, it was fog. It was just this thick, impenetrable, pea-suit fog. I really, I couldn't hardly see past my horse's ears. And it was clear to me.

I couldn't see anything. It was clear to me. I wasn't going to do any good there. So I just turned around, call it a day, and head home. And now a fog like this, in open country, it's so mysterious. You're completely engulfed in this white cloud. You can't see anything. It's mysterious and it's wonderful.

And it's also sort of terrifying because you really have no grounding. And I wasn't entirely sure where I was, but I just trusted my horse. And he found the sandrata to take us down. And I think I probably felt this before I heard it, but these cows start, these running cows start coming up behind me. And by horse was just wanting, he just was dancing and prancing and wanting his head. And so I just gave it to him.

And we took off down that sandrata, dead run, racing and literally blind abandoned, and I was just laughing out loud. And that was it. The drought had broken, and it rained for several days. And even before the rain stopped, the grass had started to green, and then the sun came out, and the wildflowers just exploded. And then in just a few weeks, my family moved off the land forever. And that all happened 40 years ago. But it's still so alive to me.

It is still so vivid. But when I go back there in memory, what I think about is that day that the rain came back. That summer had been so hard. There had been so many things that I had needed to do, that I did not know how to do, but somehow I had learned to do, and that had to bode well for whatever lay ahead. Thank you. The Lisa Jordan is an artist and author who grew up as part of the fourth generation on

that isolated ranch in Wyoming. The love of storytelling she inherited from her family inspired her own, writing which includes cowgirls, women of the American West, and the ranch memoir, writing the White Horse Home. Her newest book is The Year of Living Virtuously, Weekends of the American West and the Ranch Memoir, riding the White Horse Home. Her newest book is The Year of Living Virtuously, Weekends Off. She and her husband,

How Can And Live in Southern Utah, where they raise a small band of Navajo Choroship. To see photos of the ranch, Teresa, and her father and find links to her writing, visit themoth.org. We'll have more stories from the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in just a moment. 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 Jay Allison and we're bringing you a live show

from the Cowboy Poetry Gathering. The host of the evening was Dame Wilburn, a Moth Grand Slam champion and frequent storyteller. Here she is telling the story she brought with her to Nevada from Detroit. So I'm a strange child. I think it's, I don't know if it's obvious to you, but I'm a strange child, okay? So I had like dual citizenship growing up. I was born in Macon, Georgia and would spend my summers there and then during the school year I'd be in Detroit. Michigan. Now, let's establish my life for a second, right? So, I went to a private German school, the Detroit World War of School. So, though everybody in my school spoke German,

the World War, Fruit Off Steiner, method of teaching is from Germany. I would come home speaking with German and my own father, who was paying the bill would call me a communist. Now, then I would go to Georgia and visit my grandma who we all called Nene Annie and she had a cousin who owned a jackass that used to wear pants. And I had like a straw hat and no one seemed to notice that that's what was happening.

I'm sitting there, he's got no one saying anything, so I didn't say anything. And then when I'd leave school and come home, I was in Detroit. Like I didn't live in the outskirts. Some people say they're from Detroit and they're like 70 miles out. No, I was in Detroit.

So I had this kind of weird multicultural upbringing, and so things never quite made sense to me. Case in point, I'm in Georgia, and we lived in Macon. And Macon at the time had not zoned itself yet to exclude farm animals. Now we couldn't have large animals. We could have something small. So my grandfather was a hog farmer, but in the city.

Now, I'm going to paint a picture. So I75 cuts through my grandaddy's backyard. I75 South. If you happen to drive through making and see Mercer University drive, there's a storage facility, there's this weird looking house that looks like somebody put it together from a kit.

There's a barn that does not look like a barn, but is the color of a barn, and that is my grandfather's house. Now, when I was little, I'd go down, and I stayed for the summer, and my mother wanted me to have a traditional Southern upbringing. She wanted me to understand my family my roots and where I came from. So that meant a lot of sweet tea, a lot of yes May I'm no man. Pretty much being Southern is just eating a lot of food and thanking people for it. Like that's 90% of the job That's all you do. You just go to somebody's house and they hand you a plate of something and you say thank you, ma'am

And you eat it and you don't know what it is It is best not to ask and you that's why that tea is so sweet like just eat it slam the tea and get out, you know And that's that's the job so My my parents we lived in a two-family flat so I could never have a pet pet. And I always wanted a pet. And the lady across the street, she was, I'm gonna get into that, that's another story. But she raised chickens and cats together. So she had like these gigantic chickens and these big sort of alley cats.

And then she had these little chicks and little kittens and everybody got along. The cat never tried to kill the chicken, chicken never tried to kill the cat. It was pretty good life. And I called my mother, said, that the lady across the street told me, I could have a kitten.

And my mother was like, no, you can't have a kitten. I said, well, there's, but I want one. She's like, I understand that, but we don't live in a kind of place you can have a kitten. So, okay, my grandfather's listening to this. And he says, well, your mama won't let you have a kitten, but you could have a hog. And I'm like,

yeah, yeah, like a hog. So, but now all the hogs had had babies, right? So we got the little piglets, right? And they're all, I mean, if you've ever seen a piglet piglet, not, not two weeks in, because two weeks in, they look like monsters. But like when they're all, I mean, if you've ever seen a piglet, piglet, not two weeks in, because two weeks then they look like monsters. But like when they're little, little, little, it seemed perfectly reasonable to me that I could move into a two-family flat with this little pig. I never thought it was gonna grow up. I thought they just had sizes, like you get a little one and then there's a bigger one

and then there's the one gigantic ones, I don't mean. I didn't understand anything. Now, these hogs were already in trouble because they were smarter than us. Like every day of my grandfather's life was a battle to outwit the hog so they'd stay in the pen. And he'd win that battle about 80% of the time. But 20% of the time, usually around three in the morning,

you'd be in bed and you're here, ha, and that lets you know the hogs are on the freeway. That's how you knew. That's how you knew. So we wouldn't even, like, there wouldn't even be a startled. It was the first time it happened. I, you know, I'm a little kid. I'm like, oh my God, it's like, what's going on?

You know, and after that, you just get used to it It's like, all the hogs got out. So you get up and you put your clothes on that you had the day before because you keep them out because the hogs might get out. And my grandmother would go in the kitchen to start making coffee because it was going to take a minute to get them off the freeway. And the truck drivers would come off the freeway, walk down through the hall or come up through the backyard, come sit in the kitchen, and drink coffee. And my grandfather, what grandfather would go out there and say,

well boss man, we got to get these hogs off this freeway. You might go in the high and have some coffee with my wife because it's gonna be a minute. And so these guys, all the Northbound Southbound traffic, some of the Northbound traffic would come over, get in the kitchen, drink coffee, my grandpa would start making breakfast. She just, we always have eggs, we don't like it

was just that that was normal and then all of us who weren't making breakfast would go out with the buckets of slop, walk through the backyard, go down the hall and get up on the freeway, see it just start trying to get them to come off the freeway. Now if I had I, that was good, wasn't it? That's how you know, this is not a lie. But it was just normal. Like, that was a normal thing. And I would go to school, and when I got back home, I'd say,

hey, we had to get the hogs off the freeway. And my friends, my Detroit city friends would say, your family, this country is hell. I'm like, yeah, I know. You have to tell me that. But anyhow, I called my mother and I said, well, granddaddy says, I can have a piglet. And my mother said, your granddaddy's a liar.

And I said, well, he said, I can bring it home. She said, your granddaddy's a damn liar, put him on the phone. So the two of them getting to some sort of heated conversation, and I'm not even there, because I'm in the backyard at the fence, pick it out, my pickling. And Granddaddy comes out and talks to my mother and says,

now your mama is right. You can't have no pig in the city. They won't let you have it. But if you leave him here with me, you can have him, but he'll still be yours, but he'll be with me. And I'm thinking, this feels like a divorced parent thing, but it's the best I want to get, because this is the closest thing I want to get to a pet.

So he said, go ahead and pick him out. So I pick out this little piglet that's all black. And I name him Blackie, because that's what you do when you're a child. Simple things. What's the name of your Blackie? Blackie. I get simple and easy to remember.

And I stay for the rest of the summer and Blackie started to get a little bigger and I can't wait because it's going to be about nine months and then I'm going to come back and see Blackie. So I go to school and I tell everybody about Blackie, I'm going on about Blackie. I'm telling my mother and father about Blackie. I saw Blackie did this. Blackie did that. I call my granddad.

How's Blackie? Blackie's doing real good. Okay, so tell me something else about Blackie. Blackie's good and he's getting real big. Okay, so that's all he keeps saying. I'm like, yes, Blackie's getting good. I'm going to school every day. My pig is getting big.

He's so smart. You know, pigs get out and get on the freeway. You're found in this country's hell. You know, it's just this cycle just keeps happening. So long before anybody really trusted the post office, because there was a minute when no one trusted the post office, this is like the late 70s, you didn't mail nothing. You put stuff on the, don't lie to me y'all did it,

you put it on the bus. If you were sent something serious, you put it on the bus, and you go down to the Greyhound station and pick it up. So my grandfather calls and tells my mother and my father that he's sending us a package. And I am, I know, I'm in the future with you. I know. And I am, you know, my grandmother had crowd of peas and purple hulls and she would chuck all these peas and send us peas and

okra and anything out of her garden they would freeze it and send it to us. So I hated peas so I was already uninterested in what might be coming. And we get down to the bus station. We pick up this cooler and it's like double wrap. There's all kinds of tape and stuff on it. So we bring the cooler home and my dad pulls out his pocket night and he cuts open the cooler and he starts take it out all this stuff wrapped in butcher paper.

And it's obviously meat and I'm like, oh, Granddaddy sent us meat. And then my dad gets to the first layer of papers and then as he starts pulling stuff out, each package says, blacky. You know what I mean? You know what I mean? You know what I mean?

You know what I mean? You know what I mean? You know what I mean? You know what I mean? Now, I'm too young to read, but the look of horror on my mother's face pretty much let me know what that's it. And there are sausages and smoked pork chops and ham hawks and tons of bacon, like lots of bacon,

because blackie got real big. And I'm mortified. I'm at the kitchen table, petting the paper. Like, really in my mind I decided my grandfather was a cannibal. Like there's something wrong with him. My grandfather's mentally ill. And I'm just petting this paper. And my mother looks at me and she says,

Damien, Granddaddy doesn't really know what pet means. Like if it's a dog, he thinks that's a pet. If it's a cat, he thinks that's a pet. Now just about anything else that you can cook with a bucket of peas, he probably doesn't think it's a pet. If it's a cat, he thinks that's a pet. Now just about anything else, that you can cook with a bucket of peas, he probably doesn't think it's a pet. And I was done. I was a vegetarian.

I'm like, I'm done. I'm done with you. Savages? I'm done. I'm not eating. I'm not eating no more pig. I'm done. And I want to tell you that I held that line.

I want to tell you that I held that line. I want to tell you that. My dad in the middle of March in Michigan dusted off the grill on the back porch of that second story, flat. And he put a couple of rounds of sausages and a couple of slabs of ribs on that grill. And by the time he brought it in the house and put some Mrs. Griffith BBQ sauce on it,

which you could only get and make a Georgia and my granddad is sent along with the pig. I pretty much just said, well, here's to you, Blackie, and I ate everything on that plate. That was Dame Wilburn, host of this live event in Nevada. Dame is a storyteller from Detroit, Michigan. She spends her days working for the National Kidney Foundation of Michigan. You can share these stories or others from the Moth Archive and buy tickets to Moth Storytelling events in your area, all through our website, TheMoth.org, and there are

Moth Events year round you can find a show near you, or come out and tell a story to slam. We're on Facebook and Twitter at The Moth. Our next storyteller from the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering is Nestor Gomez. It's 1980. I'm about 10 years old, living in Guatemala with my siblings and my parents. But we are very poor. There are times when the only food that we can afford to buy is black beans, which is perfectly fine with me because that's my favorite food.

But Guatemala is in the middle of a civil war. And things are getting really bad in Guatemala. There are times where my family doesn't have any money to pay the electric bill, the gas bill. And those times, what happens is that the beans that my mother keeps on the fridge was boiled after a couple of days with our electricity. To this day, I can clearly see my mother are in baking soda to the bad ovens to cure them,

so we could eat them, because the baking soda will take away the bad smell and the bad taste of the beans. But things continue to get worse in Guatemala because of the civil war, and my parents had no other choice that to travel to the United States searching for jazz, leaving me and my siblings in the care of our grandparents and uncles. Now, the plan was for my parents to work for a couple of years, save money,

and then go back to Guatemala. But the civil war got so bad that my mother realized that it wasn't safe for us to be in Guatemala anymore. So she decided that she was going to bring us to the United States instead. But she couldn't wait for business, so she was going to bring us undocumented to the United States. And since the journey was going to be very difficult, she sent my father back to Guatemala to help us on the journey. The first thing that my father said when he arrived to Guatemala is that we were going to be reunited with our mother. The second thing that he said was this was not going to be a pleasant trip.

We were going to travel silently across Mexico and then crossed the border into the United States. This was going to be undeniable on the take-in. Not only because at that time I was only 15 years old now, but because my middle brother was 5 years younger than me and my other brother was 10 years younger than me. He was just a little baby, but also because my sister and a friend of hers that were tagging along were both teenagers. And as such, they could be victims of sexual assaults along the way.

We took a bus that took us all the way to the border with Mexico. And we crossed into Mexico using tourist visas that allows us to be in Mexico only for a couple of hours and as long as we didn't travel to far into the country. But of course, we ignored those regulations. Now, the first thing that we learned when we arrived in Mexico, it's a Mexican-sp spoke Spanish different than Guatemala's. The same way that somebody from England speaks English different than somebody from the United

States. So our father taught us a couple of Mexican words. Singado. Pen dejo. You guys know those words. In hopes that if we were caught by the Mexican authorities, we could pretend to be Mexicans. And then we wouldn't be sent back to Guatemala. But as soon as we spoke, it was obvious that we were Guatemala.

So our father instructed us to remain silent the rest of the way. Now every time that you think about an adventure or a journey, you think battles, noises, exciting noises everywhere. But ours turned out to be the most quiet adventure ever. After many weeks of silently traveling by bus, we made it all the way to Guadalajara. And for those of you who don't know Guadalajara, it's kind of like in the middle of Mexico.

And a lot of people that travel undocumented, they take a train from Guadalajara all the way to Tijuana, the same thing that we were going to do. But most of the people that travel on document, they don't have any money. And what they do is they jump on the frame trains, and they travel on top of the frame trains. Our mother had been working here at the United States three, four jabs, sometimes eating nothing but beans so she could save all her money and she had given the money to my father. So we didn't have to travel on a freight train.

We were able to buy tickets and travel, yes, as normal passengers. But halfway to Tijuana, the train suddenly made a stop and the Mexican immigration authorities border the train. Hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, hwana, They handcuffed him and they took him out of the drain. A couple of minutes later, he came back into the train and he told us that the Mexican authorities were going to let us go, but they had taken most of his money. Luckily for us, he had hidden some of his money and won his shoes. When we got to Tijuana, our father contacted a cojote, which is a person that helped you close the border. And he was going to give the cojote the rest of her money, and the cojote was going to take

us to a safe housing, California, where my mother was going to say more money to take us all the way to Chicago, virtually. So the cojote took us running as silently as possible in the middle of the night. At first, we were part of a big group of people, but as we kept running, the group gets smaller and smaller. Soon enough, our group consisted only of the coajote that was falling in front of us. My father, who was running behind the kajote, he was carrying my youngest brother in one arm and with the other arm he was holding the hand on my sister's friend.

Behind that kajote, me, my middle brother and my sister ran holding hands. We continue running, and suddenly I saw a light and I heard a noise far in the distance. At first I thought, oh, it's gonna rain, it's probably thunder, but then I realized that it wasn't thunder. Those were helicopters. Now, I was only 15 years old, and I had never seen helicopters in my life before,

so I got really excited, and I started to try to look at the helicopters where they were coming from. And I could get a grab me, and throw me on the floor and throw me. This is not time for sizing. This is time for hiding. So he, so we hid behind some bushes.

Now we have been praying and hoping that we are going to get some rest from all these running, but the time that we hid from the helicopters wasn't a fun time. We were afraid that we were going to get caught and not be reunited with our mother. The lights of the helicopters illuminated where we were hiding But they didn't found us They flew away We stay hidden for a couple of more minutes until the Toyota taught us that it was safe and we started to run again Now I cannot tell you how long we ran how many hours we ran I just know that we ran for a long time

Until we finally made it to a spot where a car was waiting for us They put us into this car and they told us to be quiet and to hide, and the car drove us to a safe house in California where they put us into a little room and they told us to be quiet. The coyotes started to call my mother asking her for money. The coyotes were charging my mother and extra $100 every day for our safekeeping. She had saved some money, but she wasn't prepared

to pay extra money for our safekeeping, as she had not been prepared to pay for an extra person, my sister's friend who had taken a loan. But after a while, my mother was able to get enough money and send the money to the cojotis. They took us to the safe house to the airport and put us on a flight. In Chicago they had a contact that helped us get out of the airport and took us to the train station. We got to the train station and we took a train there all the way to my mother's apartment.

and we took a train there all the way to my mother's apartment. And as my mother opened the door, we were finally able to break our silence when we cheer and cry as we hug a mother who we have not seen in many, many years. After a couple of minutes, a mother asked if we were hungry, we were starving. So she took us into her apartment, into her little tiny dining room, and she served us food. As she began to say grace, I pretended to do the same, and then I opened my eyes and I looked around the room. And at that moment, as I saw myself surrounded by my siblings and my mother, about to eat black beans from my mother kitchen, at that moment, I was finally at home. Thank you.

Mr. Gomez was born in Guatemala. He holds the record for the most Chicago Moth slam wins. He lives with his wife and their two pit bulls, Hope and Cosmo. Nester told us that he feared perhaps he and Dame would not be accepted or welcomed at the gathering, not being cowboys for one thing. Nestor said, we soon learned that the residents of Elco are open-minded, friendly, and accepting kinds of folks. In a moment we'll continue with this live evening of storytelling from the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering in Nevada. 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 Jay Allison, producer of this show, and we're bringing you a live event from the Elco Convention Center at the National Cowboy Poetry Gathering. It was produced in partnership with the Western Folklife Center. Our final storyteller is Bobby Wilson. So I'm at this party back home in Minneapolis, Minnesota. The evening's winding down and I'm going to try to sneak out when the lady stops me. She just shakes my hand and introduces herself and says that my uncle told her to come talk

to me. Now, this uncle is not my uncle in the sense of blood relation. He's my uncle, Indian way. One of the many men who helped raise me and teach me the things that he knows. Anyways, this lady tells me that a couple friends of hers have fallen in with this older Indian man. And he's performing all these ceremonies and rituals for them, which is fine by me, but he's charging money, and that is a big taboo in my community.

Now as she continues to talk, I start to realize exactly why my uncle centered me, because this man that she's describing this possible scam artist is my father. Now, when I was a kid, my dad was a very traditional Dakota man devoted to the cultural practices of our people, but over the years things had started to change. He was charging money for ceremonies and taking advantage of people that were just looking for something spiritual in their lives. At this point, I hadn't actually seen my father in over ten years. And for good reason, my family had lived in fear of his violent outbursts, afraid that anything that we ever said or did would send him into this rage.

So one night, my mom, my sister and me, we all snuck out of the house while he slept. And in this quiet, panicked rush, we grabbed what little we could. So a garbage bag full of clothing, half-eaten box of twinkies, and our favorite childhood toys. My sister had always carried around this little curious George, but I preferred the dashing ladies' man known as Roger Rabbit. So that same uncle stood guard at the front door to make sure that we could escape quietly and safely.

But you don't just walk out on a life like that and start over fresh. It was really hard. We bounced around battered women's shelters and slept on people's floors. And as a man, I had been homeless. I couldn't pay my bills. I was really angry, and I lashed out and got into trouble with the law. But with the help of my community in Minneapolis,

I was able to get on my feet. After all this time went by, I had always wondered, what happened to my father after we left? Where has he been? And now suddenly this ghost is just tumbling back into my life. It was pretty surreal. And I didn't know, honestly, if this was something

that I was really ready for, but I decided to call that couple who had been being taken advantage of by my father. They live in a town called Chosuke, or as those Minnesotans say Chiasca. Now that's only about an hour drive for my apartment. So I tell them that I think their spiritual leader is my father who I haven't seen in over a decade and they tell me that in just a couple days he'll be driving from his home in

South Dakota all the way to their place in Minnesota. Now bear in mind, these people think that my dad is some kind of Indian Jesus or something crazy like that. And they're talking to me like I'm royalty. They said it would be such an honor if you would allow for us to host your family reunion at our next gathering. Now, after everything that had happened, I'm afraid that my dad's gonna chicken out

if he knows that I'm gonna come meet him. So I asked him, I'll come through, but you have to make it a surprise for him. So they agree. Now, I've only got the weekend to get my head on straight, and I cannot get to sleep. I keep rehearsing all these conversations in my mind with them.

I keep asking them questions. Why? Why did you feel like you could just beat on a small child as if he was a grown man that you hated? How could you be the most terrifying presence in a family that you're supposed to protect? So the night before our scheduled reunion I came home to an answering machine,

full of messages from a family friend. He says it's urgent, so I call him back. And he tells me that on the drive from South Dakota to Minnesota, my dad was in an accident. And he was killed. My whole world just shuts down. I started yelling at that guy on the phone. I was crying.

I just, I didn't believe him. And so to this day, you know, I still think that he died on purpose just to avoid having to look me in the eyes. But I have to go see him. I have to see this for myself. So I call up my sister and I told her the news of our father's passing. And I called up that couple who had been so excited to host our family reunion and they are devastated. They say, please let us drive you and your sister all the way to South Dakota to retrieve your father's body. Now I really did not want to involve these guys in our situation but my car had just broke down. I was working a couple of odd jobs just to make ends meet,

so with very little resources or options, I grudgingly accept. Now, when you spend so many years bouncing from shelter to shelter, you lose a lot of these items that represent your personal history. Homelessness isn't a place for nostalgia, and yet I had somehow managed to hold on to Roger Rabbit. Now, the Roger Rabbit, you guys know, is white, but my Roger Rabbit was so old and well-loved that he's a light shade of brown now, just like me.

So I decided that if I'm gonna be traveling back into the past that was so dark for me, then I'm gonna bring this little fella who kept baby me safe in a house full of monsters. So my sister and I walk into this couple's house and it's so kitschy. There were enough dream catchers on the walls to choke a buffalo. I'm not kidding. And there's this huge photo of my father hanging up in the same room that it was taken. And in it, he's talking to this room, full of white people. But they're all dressed like Indians. Honestly, I felt this

weird mixture of disgust but pity. You know, my dad, he was trying to push this sense of quasi-Indianness on these unsuspecting people, but my culture, everything that I believed in, was being appropriated and packaged up into some kind of bargain-bind spirituality that was just for people who were missing something in their lives. Now, Dakota people, we believe that it takes the spirit four days to leave the body. And when we get to spearfish South Dakota,

it's the fourth and final day since my dad's passing. That is not a coincidence to me. My sister and I decide that we're going to take turns being alone with our father to say what we need to say. And so I walked into this room. It's cold, and it's quiet, except for this hum of a motor. That's preserving the dead. I can see my father's body across the room on this metal table.

And he's so still. I had so much to say to this bastard all week, but now, And he's so still. I had so much to say to this bastard all week, but now I'm just at a loss for words. His head, it was all misshapen from the accident that killed him. These black tattoos of ancient symbols all over his face were now gray and blurry. I could hardly even recognize this face that had torn my family apart. And so I closed my eyes and I try to remember

all the terrible things that he did to us. But when I look, and I mean really look at him, I can see that life for this man was pain and it was hardship. I can actually see the mental illness that was created by generations of trauma. And so I lean down and I told that man, I'm your son. I told that pitiful man that I came here to forgive. Afterwards I went to the car and I laughingly and embarrassingly admitted to my sister that I had brought Roger with me.

And she just gets this crazy look on her face. Grab her bag, pulls out curious George. So we decided that we're going to go to Bear Butte, which is nearby. It's a sacred site, walked on by our ancestors for thousands of years. We pull up and I told that couple to please stay in the car because this is for family. And that night is so beautiful. There are hundreds of tobacco offerings from other Dakota people tied to trees all along this two mile hike up to the summit of the but. Standing there, we can see these scattered lights

from the town of Sturgis nearby. But right here, it's meditative, dark, and quiet. So I light my bundle of sage. And together, we smoke the pipe, making our words visible to each other. And we lay our toys on the ground as an offering. And I looked at my sister and I said, you want to lie to him on fire?

As she said, I was thinking the same thing. So I took that bundle of sage and I cremated our childish past and in a lot of ways I think that that fire showed us the path to a brighter future You know we didn't need protection for monsters anymore because we have each other It takes a lifetime of work to heal a broken family But mine is still standing. Thank you.

Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! Woo! That was Bobby Wilson of the Scythuan, Wabituan, Dakota Tribe.

Bobby is a painter and also a member of a comedy group. His work is heavily influenced by his Dakota heritage combined with a lifelong city upbringing. He was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota and is currently based in Phoenix, Arizona. To see photos of young Bobbi, his sister and his father visit themoth.org. Bobbi wrote us, I can't wait to visit the cowboy poetry gathering once more and share a meal, a story, and sip iced tea while they drink whiskey, and bless one another with the stories that make us who we are. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour from the Cowboy Poetry Festival in Nevada, where, like at the moth, they say, we're mainly about people wanting to come together. We hope you'll join us next time, and that's the story from the moth.

The stories in this live event from Nevada were directed by Maggie Sino, Kate Tellers, and Kirstie Bennett. The rest of the most directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Janess, Jennifer Hickson, and Meg Bulls, production support from Timothy Looley. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Still Wagon Symphony and Hawkhurst. You can find links to all the music we use at our website.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, J. Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. Mothradio Hour is presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website, thumboff.org.