The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Live from the United Palace

Episode Date: November 16, 2021

A special episode live from the United Palace in Washington Heights, New York. Subway station romance, lost names, and buried truths. This episode is hosted by CJ Hunt, with additional hosting by Jay Allison, producer of The Moth Radio Hour. Hosted by: CJ Hunt and Jay Allison Storytellers: Lin Manuel Miranda, Quiara Alegria Hudes, Led Black

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 Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jay Allison, producer of this radio show, and in this episode, we're bringing you

stories from a live show at the United Palace Theatre in Washington Heights, New York City. It was produced with the Northern Manhattan Arts Alliance partnership, and the theme was When You're home. This by the way was the first audience of any size to be at a Moth performance since the beginning of the pandemic. Here's your host of the evening comedy writer and performer CJ Hunt. Ladies and gentlemen welcome back to the Moth! back to the mall. You like that? I start real hunger, Gamesee.

Welcome back to the mall. We are here at United Palace and I say welcome back because it really does feel like that, right? I have not been able to see a mouth audience like this, even though this is just a fraction of that audience. It is beautiful to be able to be with you and see you and to know that there are thousands at home who are tuning in with us to experience this night.

So the moth is dedicated to true stories told before alive and partially digital audience. All of these stories are told no notes, no net. What I love about the craft is it's just a storyteller, their own courage, and you, and your waiting ears, and excited eyes. The theme is when you're home. You are home with us, and from the bottom of my heart, on the behalf of the moth, we just want to say welcome home. You are home with us and from the bottom of my heart, on the behalf of

the Moth, we just want to say welcome home. So for each of these storytellers, instead of reading their illustrious bios, we like to introduce them by a question. And the question is, what are three things that make you feel at home? And this first storyteller, he said, my wife, my kid, and my other kid. We are excited to have him here. Please put all your hands together for Lin Manuel Miranda. This is January 16th, 1997, eight o'clock Eastern Standard Time. And my girlfriend Meredith has surprised me with tickets to see rent for my 17th birthday. And we go up to the last row of, this is like original cast, first year,

rent, and we go up to the last row of the mezzanine of the Neeterlander Theater, and my mind is blown, and there's a moment in the Second Act where the truth just pops out. Meredith and I are what you would call in high school theater kids. You know our kind. You've heard us warming up.

You've seen our silly games. Zip, zop, zop. 10, 98, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. 10, 98, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1. You make fun of us. But we know something you don't know. We know that when we get to the auditorium, we are safe, and we are making something that is bigger than all of us.

We know, while you are in your grades wondering who likes who and who hates who, and whose life is over and who is thriving. We know life is bigger than our grade because we're making things with people of all other grades, to try to make the best thing possible. Meredith and I met when I was cast as the pirate king and she was the major general's daughter in Pirates of Pensance, and the romance is inevitable because the job of the pirates is to romance the major general's daughters. And we do show after show together, we did God's belt together.

She directed a chorus line, I was her assistant on that and that year she takes me to see rent. And there's a moment in the second act of rent where Mark and Roger, Anthony Rapp and Adam Pascal are having this heated moment and Roger accuses Mark. He says, Mark has got his work. They say Mark lives for his work and Mark's in love with his work. And I'm like, yeah, Mark. And he goes, Mark hides in his work. From what? From facing your failure, facing your loneliness, facing the fact you live a lie. What?

Yes, you live a lie. Tell you why you pretend to create and observe when you really detach from feeling alive. And that's when Jonathan Larsen reached out and punched me straight in the heart. And the truth popped out. Because the moment that show started, I was like, oh, I'm Mark. Because I was the kid who carried the camcorder to school.

I was the kid who, when I wasn't in the auditorium and was hanging out with my friends, I had a camera up instead of actually hanging out with my friends. While everyone else was actually getting to know each other, I held everyone out of remove and recorded the whole thing. So when Jonathan Larson's Roger says that to Mark, I felt like he was talking to me. And I went from someone who likes musicals and it be saves enough money, buys TKTS tickets on his birthday to thinking, oh, the truth

can come out in a musical. You're allowed to write musicals. And that's when I went from being a fan of musicals, of being a theater kid to trying to write my first musical. And I wrote my first musical that year. It was called Nightmare in Dean Major. And I wrote it in a feverish weekend over a winter break. And we had a student-written theater club at my high school. They would have five student directors, they would pick five plays from the submissions from all over school, and my musical got picked and was the first musical ever done,

because they're usually just 20-minute one-act plays, and so they did nightmare in Dean Major. Fast forward to opening night April 1997. He's turned standard time. And I should mention here that two things. One, my mother's a psychologist. Two, nightmare and demager is terrible. It concerns our young protagonist who falls asleep and has a nightmare in demager. And all of this Freudian concerns come to haunt him. Cheafly among them, the main villain of the piece is a fetal pig he dissected an AP bio who was back for revenge. Shakespeare ate.

Herod just in Hammerstein, it certainly ate. And there's other characters that are all from the Freudian subconscious, because like I said, my mother's a psychologist, and there's an alcoholic uncle Steve and a scary clown from a child's birthday party, and they're all coming back to haunt the protagonist in D Major. And I'm sitting there, and the show is getting laughs. And I'm sitting in the audience, and I'm thrilled that the students who are watching and my parents who are watching are enjoying it.

And there is a moment in the show where this little girl comes on stage. She was played by an eighth grader. She was played by Sarah Schwaiski. And she sings. You probably do not remember me, but in fourth grade you were in love with me You don't know my name, but you know my face Sometimes I get just a bit sad When I think that you have forgotten me But I'll always be

In your dreams, in your dreams And I'll stay right here, in your dreams, in your dreams. And several things happen at once. One, there is nothing funny or silly or student like about this character. This character pops up. The main character tries to play with her and hang out with her. And he's cut off because he's told she passed away when he was young.

And I suddenly remember that when I was four years old, my best friend died. remember that when I was four years old, my best friend died. She was, it's the nightmare scenario for any parent. Each of her parents thought she was with the other and she drowned behind her home. And this is what I remember. I remember my mother telling me in my room on a morning when I had nursery school. I remember crying. I remember getting in the car that day. My nursery school teacher ran a carpool of her own students to take us to Uptown Nursery on 179th Street. And I remember that teacher

Whispering, Lynn's friend died to every parent of the children she picked up along the way. I remember about a year of gray, just the memories are gray. I remember that year more vividly than I remember her. And I realize if anyone laughs at this part of this student show, I'll die because the truth popped out. Because I didn't remember her, but she showed up in my first musical. And I look't remember her, but she showed up in my first musical. And I look over my mother, who I'm sure has a lot to say about this. And they understand, and the show goes on, and it's a very silly ending, and the guy wakes up, and the play is over.

But I get addicted to that feeling of the truth popping out in the show and what are we all going to do when it's staring at us. I remember when I was writing Hamilton and the line, I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory popped up. That is not in Ron Chernow's book. I'm not in any history book. That's something coming out of me that makes me understand this person.

And a lot of people, because I worked a lot, sort of think, oh, well, it's autobiographical. He's Hamilton. But I felt the exact same way. When Aaron Burr said, if there's a reason I'm still alive when everyone who loves me has died, I'm willing to wait for it. That's not in any biography of Burr, you're going to find. That's the moment where you write and you write until the truth pops out.

There's a moment in Hamilton where the parents lose a child and I have had countless parents come up to me and say, how do you know what this feels like and how did you find the words? And one thing that is true is that it took me a day to write that song. It wrote pretty quick. And another thing that is true is that I have been writing

that song since I was four years old, because I have imagined how that felt since I was four years old. And I remember poor Meredith, the girlfriend, who got me tickets to rent, coming home to six voicemail messages from me saying, call me when you get home, call me when you get home, call me when you get home. Because I have imagined 50 ways she has died on the way home

on the train from my house, because of that year of gray. on the train from my house because of that year of gray. And I realize that when you choose your heroes, I chose Jonathan Larsen, who tragically passed away the day before his show had its first public performance. And I wonder how he felt, writing the second act of that show, watching Mark and Roger talk to each other as an artist in the midst of the plague of the AIDS crisis as Jonathan watched friend after friend and a generation of artists die

in this plague of this disease. And how we felt when it got to those lines and how sometimes as an artist all you can do is hold up the camera and bear witness until the truth pops out. Thank you. One man well Miranda is a Pulitzer Prize Grammy Emmy and Tony Award winning songwriter, actor and director. He is the creator and original star of Broadway's Hamilton and in the Heights and the recipient of the 2015 MacArthur Foundation Award and the 2018 Kennedy Center Honors. Mr. Miranda and the Miranda family are active supporters of initiatives that increase people

of colors representation throughout the arts and government, and assure access to women's reproductive health and promote resilience in Puerto Rico. His 2021 film releases include In the Heights, Vivo Tiktik Boom, Miranda's film directorial debut, and Disney's in Canto. He lives with his family in New York. Coming up, Pulitzer Prize winning writer Kiarra Allegria, Hugh Dees tells us about her first love, music. The Malthrayi Hour is produced by Atlantic Puppet, and the Malthrayi Hour is produced by Atlantic Puppet,

and the Malthrayi Hour is produced by Atlantic Puppet, and the Malthrayi Hour is produced by Atlantic Puppet, and the Malthrayi Hour is produced by Atlantic Puppet, and the Malthrayi Hour is produced by Atlantic Puppet, and the Malthrayi Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Mothradio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison, and in this hour we're bringing you a special live show from the United Palace Theatre in Washington Heights, New York City. Here's your host from the evening. C.J. Hunt.

Our next storyteller is an incredible storyteller like all of these storytellers. And when asked, what are the three things that make them feel at home? They said, my James Baldwin books, my Pirito Mass books, and my Enthazaki Shangue books. Please put all of your hands together for Chiara, Alagria, Judiz. Thank you. So as early back as I can remember, I was chasing the good notes. The first time I remember this, I was four years old.

I was visiting my aunt Linda and Uncle Rick, who were professional musicians. And they showed me an album cover, Champion Jack Dupree. Well, I thought that was pretty cool because his name was like a little weird and wild champion. And my name, Kiara Aligria Houdies, is a little weird and wild. So they stacked two yellow pages on top of the piano bench. For those unfamiliar, yellow pages are books that contain phone numbers.

And they sit me on top of the yellow pages so that I'm high enough that my hands can reach the piano keys. And they drop the needle on the champion Jack Dupree album and they say, play along and they leave me alone. So the first thing I did was listen. I had never heard him before. It was New Orleans Blues piano. And then I just tried putting my finger and pressing one key down and it sounded really bad. So, you know, it's like I recoiled,

like I touched a hot stove top and I tried putting my finger on another key. And that note went with the record. And I spent the next half hour chasing the good notes, chasing the notes that went. It was kind of like an action adventure for my hearing. And as I did that that for half an hour the weight of the world outside disappeared. It was only four but the world already started to weigh a little bit. My parents were already fighting a lot. By the time I was in middle school, the world had begun to weigh a lot more more by that time my parents were separated. And the two parts of my life were split and torn into, I had also been to more funerals than I knew was normal.

It was HIV, AIDS days, it was crack cocaine days. And a lot of those funerols were of like my big cousins who were like in their 20s. Now my mom is a priestess or a santera in a religious and spiritual path called Lucumi. For those unfamiliar, Lucumi originated in Yoruba land, Nigeria, and was brought to and syncretized with Caribbean Catholicism.

So the Batadrummers and the Batad themselves are Enorisha. They are the voice of a spirit or a God. My mom would introduce me to the players and she would introduce me, tell me they're given, they're birth names, but also they're Ochan names. The names they carried from the time they were initiated in the religion. I really liked that they had chosen a path

that added a new name to their life. And I would listen and the drums had a physical vibrational effect on me. I could feel the density and the drums had a physical vibrational effect on me. I could feel the density and the intensity of my heartbeat shift. I could feel it inside my blood. I would be in awe, but that kind of hushed kind of all. And if she couldn't afford the Batah players

for a given ceremony, or if they weren't available, she'd pop in a babatunde o latunji tape. That's a master drummer from Nigeria, or she'd pop in a Selena Ireotilio tape, which was Cuban folkloric music also in the tradition. Now, by high school, Batjata Rosa had come out, which was Juan Luis Gerras' seminal album,

and my cousins at our well-as-house would pop in the tape and they'd press play. And we had all been to those funerals together. And we were reeling. But once those songs came on, they became so embodied. And they would take little timid me, little timid geeky,

and they dragged me onto the linole in flora about well as living room from the whatever corner I'd been hiding and they'd slap my ass until I kind of like loosened up and I would join them, I would join the dance. And again, the weight of the world would just disappear. So when I got into Yale University, to be a music composer, composition major, I was pretty blown away. I was the first in my family to go to college,

and I thought, OK, here we go. I'm going to chase these good notes to places. I can't even imagine. I got into those handsomely wooden paneled seminar rooms. They start playing Bach, they start playing Brahms, they start playing Schubert. And I realized that the word music actually had a different definition at Yale than it had in my life previous.

It meant Western classical without having to say so. So all of a sudden, this little uh-oh kind of planted itself in my gut. You know, it's meant white, male, and dead, oftentimes by more than a century. I tried to say, well, I want to do my project on Stevie Wonder. I remember the students and the professor did actually laugh out loud at that one. I tried also to say, well, I want to do my project on Selena y Reo Delio, and I remember the professor saying to me, that's folkloric stuff that doesn't really merit the level of attention that we're trying to look at in this classroom.

You know, and even just dealing with Brahms and Bach and Beethoven, there is no dancing, okay? You sit, this is how you listen to music. You sit still and listen, that's it. Music is not about dancing, music is not about the spirits, it's not about ancestry, it's not about body. I mean, there's definitely no ass slapping happening in the seminar rooms at Yale. So, I was pretty bummed out, but I thought, okay, well, I love this Bach so much. I love this Chopin so much.

I love this Mozart so much. That's enough to sustain me for four years of really media investigation and playing. But I was jonesing. I started jonesing for some Afro-Caribbean stuff, and I went to the Listening Library. And the Listening Library, like most rooms at Yale, it wasn't the biggest one, but it's really architecturally gorgeous. Wooden paneling, stained glass windows, and

these floor to ceiling wrap around shelves meticulously ordered of boxed CDs and boxed vinyl sets, entire catalogs of Bach, just by certain individual performers. And I said to the listening librarian, I said, do you have any West African stuff? Do you have any Afro Caribbean stuff? And she led me over to the ethno-musicology section. I was like, okay, here we go. And the first thing I had to do was get on my knees because the ethno-musicology section was basically kind of down on the floor. And unlike the wraparound collection, it was two shelves.

It was about 48 inches wide, one shelf on top of another. So I was like, okay, well, this is still really cool. I'm excited to see what they got. But I noticed there weren't CDs and there weren't vinyl. They were dub tapes. And the dub tapes didn't have names on them. They only had place locations. So a tape might say Senegal, for instance.

But there was no individual artistry acknowledged. I remembered something mom told me about the erasure of names that happened when West Africans were brought to the Caribbean. The erasure of names that happened when Thaino and other native populations were decimated by smallpox and violence. I had always thought the erasure of names was something in the past, something historic,

like centuries ago stuff, but it was present tense. And my heart sank, seeing those unnamed tapes. And the thrill was gone. I kind of fell out of love with music. The thing that had used to remove me from the weight of the world just now had begun putting the weight of the world

on my shoulders. So I dragged myself like a good student into senior year and I heard Winton Marcellus was coming to town. My aunt told me and she knew the trombonist in the band and she was like he's gonna sneak you into rehearsals. So I had to cut class, but I went to Woolsey Hall and I sat in the very back row.

Wynton was in town for 10 days to rehearse his new jazz oratorio that he was then going to go premiere at his new endeavor in New York called Jazz at Lincoln Center. Now Wozley Hall is the crown jewel of Yale architecture. It is massive, like this space we're in. It is ornate everything in gold leaf. The pipe organ alone looks like the Manhattan skyline.

And I just disappeared in the back for about four days, class for four days straight, and just listened to a different genre of music, a different practice of music. And on day four, he was like, hey you, in the back row. All right, come on, come on. Yes, Mr. Marcellus. I hear you're a music composition major, so do you have good penmanship? Well I did have good penmanship because my aunt had taught me musical calligraphy, had to be very meticulous and careful when writing a note. He said, well, Cassandra Wilson is coming in 10 minutes and she's very unhappy with the state of her charts.

So you can, can you copy this chart for her quickly? So I did, I copied the chart quickly, but carefully so that the calligraphy looked neat and pristine. I handed him back the corrected chart and he gave me a $20 bill. I returned to my corner in the back and Cassandra, this regal jazz vocalist, this woman is as centered and grounded and rooted as a tree. She gets on stage. This is the first time they've run through this song because she hasn't arrived until today. The song is God don't like ugly. It began and it was a really nasty, ugly, conflicted, angry song, and her voice sank into that conflict and

nastiness like thorns, like barbs. The spirits in that song were angry. And my heart, the density, and the intensity of my heartbeat shifted. The intensity of my pulse shifted, and I could feel that nastiness in me as music was restored to my body. Well, the day before the dress rehearsal, went and Marcellus asked, a kid, so have you ever written a piece for trumpet? I lied and said, yes, Mr. Marcellus. And he said, great, bring it tomorrow, bring a tape recorder, and we'll play it

at the end of rehearsal. So I stayed up all night. I pulled the all-nighter of all-nighters at college, and I came the next day with my new slash-old trumpet piece and my tape recorder, and I gave him his chart and he put his chart on his stand, and it was for piano and trumpet, so I brought my chart over to the piano.

He adjusted his mouthpiece. My fingers were trembling. And it starts with a two bar piano intro. And I was just really just trying to breathe into my fingertips so that they would just steady themselves and play the notes. The tape recorder was going, I play, and this note comes out of his trumpet.

That's like molasses. It's so legubrious. I had written a very, very sensual piece. Like, if you've ever run your fingers down velvet and seen the little tracks that leaves behind, or if you've ever had someone you love, just smoothly run their fingers tenderly down your back. That's kind of what the piece was like.

So at the end, we finished, he said, that was really beautiful. You got some talent, kid. What'd you guys think? Because this whole jazz orchestra had been watching this thing. And his alto saxophone player said, that girl's bad. So I didn't walk back to my dorm room. I floated back to my dorm room.

That was the best compliment I'd ever received. And I wanted to hear the tape. What had happened? It was almost like an out-of-body experience. So I pressed rewind on the tape player and it didn't budge. It had run out of batteries. So I got some new batteries, put it in the tape player, rewound it, though I noticed it hadn't made it very far

and I pressed play. And I heard the first two bars of my piano intro with one or two note mistakes, but it was all right. And then the tape had stopped recording before he played his first note. And I feel like in any other moment in my life, my reaction would be like, no! But I swear it was this exhale in a little laugh,

and I felt the universe just pushing my shoulder blade a little bit. I didn't know why it had something to do with ephemerality and how nothing lasts forever. Anyway, later that year, Winton Marcellus premiered his jazz oratorio blood on the fields at Jazz at Lincoln Center and was awarded the Pulitzer Prize.

Not to worry, my aunt and uncle, the musicians, they ended up later that year recording my piano and trumpet piece, and I still have that recording today. And gradually, I stopped chasing the notes. I let go of music, and I started chasing something different. I started chasing the stories I had been surrounded by all my life and I started writing them down and putting names on them.

When my plays went to Broadway and won fancy prizes and went to Hollywood, people would ask, like, is that your dream come true? Oh my gosh. But the slightly embarrassing answer is like, no, it's actually cool, but it's not my dream come true. My dream was that, and still is, to tell our stories, name our names,

have them go on a library shelf that's eye level, and that's wider than 48 inches, and that I know and trust really deep in my heart long after I'm gone is going to get wider and wider and wider and full of more names. Thank you. Piazza, Allegria, Qudi. Naming the names. Chiazza, Allegria, Qudi is the Pulitzer Prize winning playwright of Water by the Spoonful, the author of a memoir, My Broken Language, and she wrote the script for the Tony Award

winning Broadway musical in the Heights. She's the co-founder of Latinx Casting Manifesto, and emancipated stories, a platform where people behind bars can share one page of their life story with the world. HUDES now lives with their family in Washington Heights. This music, by the way, is her composition from the story called Counting My Blessings, and it's performed by her aunt Linda Hudies on piano and her uncle In a moment, our final storyteller from this live hour, lead black, tells us about traditional masculinity. The Mothra-A-D-W hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX.

You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jay Allison. We're wrapping up this live hour from Washington Heights in New York City with uptown native lead black. But first, here's your host, CJ Hunt. And with that, I will introduce our final storyteller of the night when asked what makes this storyteller feel home. They said, family, food, and laughs, put all your hands together for lead black. Thank you. I didn't know I was poor until my freshman year of Bronx Science.

I was the only kid at PS143 in Washington Heights that year to make the cut to attend the prestigious Bronx High School of Science. In Washington Heights, everyone I knew was just like me. We were the children of the working poor that made NYC run. At Bronx Science, I realized there was a whole world outside of Washington Heights, and I felt profound culture shock.

These kids were embedded in me, their parents weren't better than mine, but they were better off, and it really bothered me. I did not know I was the other until then. I hated the feeling of being less than. On top of that, I had to take three trains from the hood just to get there. I took the one from one nine one to one six eight,

then the eight at one forty-fifth, and then the D to school. They reversing repeat that in the afternoon. Latinos have a saying, no I mal, ke po'l vie no enga, which basically means something good or which comes from something bad. What I started to notice on my way back home is there was always a group of girls

at the 168th Street Station seemingly waiting for me. For those that don't know, 168 is one of the deepest underground stations in the whole subway system. So it gets really hot. I mean, mad hot. You heard a mad hot ballroom. This was mad hot train station.

And it would get crazy crowded because the elevators were ancient and they hovered between operational and out of order all the time. On a bad day you could be down there for what seemed like an eternity. But somehow, every day those girls were there. Then one day, one of the girls come up to me and says, my home girl Alina is digging you and you better talk to her because we're tied away for you every day at the hottest train station on Earth.

You know what I mean? I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean,

I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean,

I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, I mean, mean, I mean, mean, I mean, I mean, Iparable, spending all our free time together. If I was in the school or playing ball with my boys, I was with her. I think was taking long walks in four trying parts. Years later, I would propose to her out of a spot overlooking the Hudson with a view of the GWB in that very same park. I lead and I have both Dominican York's, children of Dominican parents born in NYC, but I'm decidedly east of Broadway growing up in the beating heart of Washington Heights in the 190s and was worth. I lean on the other hand, live west of Broadway, I'm Bennett Ave, which is more like the

upper west side, way more affluent than was worth. No shade, but you can't claim Washington Heights if you're from Bennett. For the record the area west of Broadway sometimes referred to as Hudson Heights. But there's no such thing as Hudson Heights. It was a real estate term created to provide distance from the supposed stench of Washingtontes. So remember, huts and hikes doesn't exist. It's wastes and hikes forever. But I digress. Fast forward a bunch of years to the late 2000s and Alina and I happily married with three beautiful young daughters, Manny, Layla and Saraya. Growing up in my little apartment, washed heights, I always imagined that I would have the

same benefits of Dominican manhood that my father, my brother and other Dominican men enjoyed. As a boy, I live with my mother and my grandmother, so I didn't have to do anything. When I sat down to eat at the table, a play with awesome food would appear. When I finished, it would just magically disappear. I didn't have to do dishes or chores for that matter. I was a Dominican boy and those things for the women folk. My dad didn't even have to pick up the phone. The phone would ring right next to him and he would call out to my mom in the next room to pick it up. Neither. It didn't land for no.

And when he got home, it was like an event. Everything stopped and started simultaneously. Whatever you were watching in the one TV in the household was quickly changed to the Yankees game. The man of the house was home for work and he did to be fed and taken care of. That's what I thought I was getting into. I wanted that carefree Dominican man life.

No worries being the undisputed boss just because having the women of the household waiting on me hand to foot, I could get used to that. Alim was having none of it. She on the other hand lived with two younger brothers and a father that was a serial woman now among other things. Her mom stoically put up with all her dad's nonsense. Since Ali was the only other woman in the household, she had to be a second mom and had to be at the back and call of the men of the house.

She would not repeat that and her marriage would be. She was the two-point or version of the Dominican woman. So when she cooked, I did the dishes, on weekends, I did laundry and even cleaning. Can you imagine? My dad didn't have to do nothing. I tried my best to do as little housework as possible, but it was not to be. She would not shut up out otherwise. After a while, I realized it was only fair as we both

had full-time jobs and three kids or three kids. So we settled to a groove, and we were happily parenting our three beautiful daughters. Then in September 2008, I received a call from Alina. She was hysterical. She had found the mass in her right breast, and other doctors confirmed the worst. She was diagnosed with a aggressive form of breast cancer

called triple negative. We had entered with Juno Diaz called cancer planet. I could still recall shaving her long hair off in the kitchen as I'd already started falling off in clumps because of the chemo. Whenever we swipe with the clippers, we both quite leave knowledge that we have crossed the Rubicon. Our life would never be the same again. After the deed was done, we walked into the living room to avail the new look to our gathered family. Everyone stared lost in their own grief. My then two-year-old broke the silence when she said, Mom, you look like a monster. We laughed and then we cried hard as a unit. That first round of chemo was horrific.

She seemed to be wasting the weight right before her eyes. She was emanciated and wasn't eating or sleeping much for that matter. At times, she would cough the entire night away as her poor body was ravaged by her treatment. Our future and our outcome looked bleak. The way I coped was by doing chores. I found refuge in doing the little things

that kept the household going. Then MLK Weekend 2009, we were collectively devastated as one of my wife's many doctors informed us they have found a blood clot in her heart. The doctor insinuated that she was in grave danger of losing her life. That weekend for me was the toughest time of this whole nightmare. After everything we've been through, I felt like it wasn't long before it was all over.

That Monday, I was alone in a bedroom sweeping, listening to Heavy D's vibes album when Queen Majesty came on. Queen Majesty is a beautifully worded old to woman the heavy finds way out of his league. An over lush classic reggae break, heavy waxes poetic on love and admiration for this woman, this queen Majesty. That song hit me like a ton of bricks. I was in the verge of losing my Queen Majesty in the dam broke. I cried like I've never cried before. I ugly cried. I cried like I was taught a man was not supposed to cry. I realized right then and there that I was not strong enough to handle this alone. I proud myself in being able to take care of my family, but I was powerless with the problem before me.

At that very moment, when I was at my lowest listening to this magnificent record, I felt for the first and only time the feeling of grace. It's like that song put me in communion with something bigger than myself. While I've never been religious, I could feel the presence of God in the room. I immediately felt better and knew that we would somehow get through this. I still can't hear that song without crying. Before my wife's cancer diagnosis, I believed that was immortal. I fancy myself a writer even though I didn't write that much.

Her battle with cancer put a battery in my back as I now knew the death was a real concrete thing. If the love of my life could die, so could I. Say less. In 2009, I leaned finished her cancer treatment. By 2010, I became the editingiting Chief of the Uptown Collective. The site was born out of the fierce urgency to get my story and the story of my neighborhood out of my head

and into the world. The Uptown Collective began as an homage to our beloved white supremacist, but it's now the voice of Uptown online. I realized that my upbringing, the poverty, the lack were not liabilities, but they were assets. I had something that those rich kids at Bronx science might never have.

I had grit, tenacity, street smarts. I learned the hard way that the journey is just as important as the destination and out of the many trials and tribulations a new man was born. One that took the best of his heritage and culture and discarded those things that no longer served us. Aliens or Diel led her to starting a wellness program at Columbia University Medical Center for the many poor women of color dealing with their own cancer diagnosis.

These women absolutely adore and worship my wife. One day I was walking Aliens to work when we ran into one of these women. This woman literally drops everything and bows to Arlene like she's Prince Hakeem and coming to America. This woman kissed and hugged and formed up with my wife like she was some type of savior. But in many ways she is. As bad and as brutal as cancer was, it propelled the both of us to a life of service, to a community we love and cherish so much. Last September, I lean celebrated 12 years of being cancer-free and 10 days ago, we celebrated our 18th wedding anniversary. This Dominican boy is now the 2.0 version of the Dominican man.

This Dominican boy is now the 2.0 version of the Dominican man. Remember folks, after the plague came the Renaissance. Spread love is the uptown way. Thank you. My black, of the uptown collective. Washington Heights own lead black. Black, the Uptown Collective! Washington Heights own, lead black is a Dominican American writer, blogger, filmmaker, entrepreneur, and social media strategist. Lead is the founder of UptownCollective.com, a voice for Uptown Manhattan Online. Lead is the social media manager

for the Manhattan Times, the Bronx Free Press, the New York Latino Film Festival, and the West Harlem Development Corporation. He's also working on Nutcracker Inc. the documentary on the infamous Street Cocktail and a left-of-center film on the history of Washington Heights. To see photos of lead in this family, you can visit our website, themoth.org.

Truly are you. Thank you so much. We hope you come talk to us online about what you love and about what is next for all of us. And from everyone here, we hope you have a great day. We hope you have a great week and we hope you remember to go chase those good notes. We'll see you soon, take care of each other.

That's it for this live episode of The Mawth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time, and that's the story from The Mawth. I will the son of a pro! This episode of The Mawth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison and Katherine Burns, who also directed a story. Our live host was comedy writer and director CJ Hunt from New York City. He is also the director of the Neutral Ground, a documentary about breaking up with the Confederacy, and a field producer for the Daily Show with Trevor Noah. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch.

Other stories in the show were directed by Sarah Austin, Janess, and Jody Powell. The rest of the Moths' leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bulls, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cluche, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Special thanks to Mike Fiddelsen and the team at United Palace, Nieria Leyva Gutierrez, Michelle Orsi Gordon, and the team at Noma, Luis A. Miranda Jr., Sarah Alisa Miller,

Owen Panatteri, Carmen Rida Wong, and Sharon Salzburg. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in this hour from Bill Orkut and Heavy D. 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 a sure-own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.