The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Not What They Seem

Episode Date: January 6, 2021

In this hour, tales that remind us that looks can be deceiving. Disguises, surprises from strangers, and reckoning with one's own identity. This episode is hosted by Moth Senior Director Jenifer Hixson. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Jenifer Hixson Storytellers: Phill Branch, Raabia Wazir, Jean le Bec. Micheal Devlin, Jim Giaccone

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 from PRX. From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour, I'm Jennifer Hickson. In this hour, we're sharing stories about situations where things are not as they seem. From purposeful deception, to just coming to terms with who you are, versus who you thought

you were. We found our first storyteller, Phil Branch, at our story slam in Washington, D.C. Here's a story he developed for a show in Boston, where we partnered with Public Radio Station WGVH. Here's Phil Branch. So my senior year in high school, I am your average of all American teenage boy, interested in average all American teenage boy things, like having a cool cool car and taking a high date to the prom,

and designing my date's prom dress. Um... I... My senior year, I'm 5'6", 129 pounds, and this might be surprising, but I could not catch and or dribble a ball of any sort. So the fact that I had a date at all was a miracle. My girlfriend's name was Dana,

and she was the most beautiful girl that I had ever seen. And we were together most of senior year, and as we got closer to senior prom, we began planning. And when I say we began planning, what I really mean is that I began to sketch what we were going to wear to the prom. Prom was a big deal in my family, and my parents went to the prom together, and several of my aunts and uncles went to the prom together, and all those pictures were up on the family wall. And I knew it was my turn and nothing could go wrong. And one day I was at home watching music videos and as this artist named Christopher Williams

was really popular at the time. And he was this tall, gorgeous man with this great curly hair. And it was this music video called Promises Promises. And he's wearing this white, neighbor-collar suit. And he just looked so regal and strong. And I look up at him with my 129 pound self and say I'm gonna look like that for prom. So I begin sketching this suit. Now I'm not gonna completely rip off Christopher style because you can't steal

another artist's work but I'm gonna design this suit that looks kind of like his but it has my flair. So it's all white, but the sleeves have this sort of satin material that has a sort of paisley design to it. And I use that same material for the trim that's going to go down the pant leg and to cover the buttons that are going to go all the way down for my neck down and you're judging. And, you know, just something simple.

And, and for my date, I combed through all the hottest fashion publications of the time, to kind of decide where her look would be. And, you know, I'm in the Sears catalog, and the Spiegel, um, J.C. pennies. and I'm in the Sears catalog and the Spiegel, JC Penney's, and I finally decided that she's gonna wear this mermaid dress

and it's gonna have some of the material from my suit because my suit was the base, and she would have this sort of pink lace overlay at the top and it would be great. So I couldn't actually draw or sew. So I gave her these sketches and said, you know, go find someone who can make this. And then I took my scribble to my seamstress,

slash my friend's mother, and said, do you think you can make this? And she said, sure, give me about a week or so, and I can put it together once you give me all the The fabric and the things you want and I said great. So the plan was in motion. So I had No idea that asking my date to accept my design for her senior prom dress was gonna be problematic and Dana Was not into it at all So she broke up with me and Dana was not into it at all.

So she broke up with me. Now, I wasn't necessarily in the closet at 16 because I wasn't conscious, per se that I was gay, but apparently I was so gay that I wasn't aware that designing my date's prom dress and a white suit with sort of a pink shimmer that when they hit the light was essentially my coming out Keence and Yara. So for that whole school year where Dana was my girlfriend, it felt great to just be one of the guys and to feel like I had the things that other guys had and I could have this

future and maybe I can get married and have this life. And it was a really powerful feeling because I hadn't had that feeling before. And when she left, it was equally powerful because it affirmed all the feelings that were starting to brew up in me that I was indeed broken and I was hurting. But I had about 50 yards of satin and somebody had to wear it. So I just asked a freshman who I knew would go

and things just moved along. In the day before the prom, I go pick up my suit from my friend's mother, Slash Seamstress, and I take it home and I put it on. And for the first time, I realized that you might need to be able to draw if you are going to design a suit. And it didn't quite work, all the colors and the materials. And then once leave was shorter than the other. The pant legs weren't even, the trim was crooked, and my mom is downstairs waiting for me to come down so she can see this suit.

So I go downstairs in the suit, and she does her best not to laugh in my face. But after a few moments, she just sort of runs off in her room and just lays down in the bed and cries real tears. So the suit didn't work. But the next morning I say, well, maybe if I get the curly hair, it'll balance it out. Now, at the time I had what was called a gumby cut, it was sort of like Bobby Brownish,

and it was up into the side, and I was really proud of it. And I ripped out a picture of Christopher Williams from a team magazine, and I take it down to a salon in my neighborhood that I had never been in because I wasn't a lady and I take it inside and I say to the stylist, can you make me look like this? Now anyone with eyes that functioned should have said absolutely not. absolutely not. But she said sure. So I sit down and she begins to work her magic and she puts the cream in and she's doing all this stuff and I'm just sitting there and at first I'm really excited but then I start to feel like someone's poured acid on my head and

I'm confused why everyone is still singing music to the radio and reading Oh Ebony magazines when I'm clearly dying in this salon chair and Just before our screen the stylist runs over and rinses my scalp and it feels so good and She turns me around to the mirror. And I don't look like Christopher Williams. I look like Shade. My hair is bone straight, and I am freaking out. And she goes, calm down, we're not done. And I said, OK.

And she turns me back around, and she starts putting more things in my hair and trying to do something and then she turns me back to the mirror and she was right. I didn't look like Shade anymore. I looked like salt and pepper. I had this curly bob and it was awful and I was about to cry and she tried a few more things and nothing was working and then she looks at me and says, this one's on the house. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it.

I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it.

I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not going to say it. I'm not to take your money. So I just get up and I walk back down the street, singing, push it, and I go to the barber shop where I should have been in the first place, and he does a little something, makes me presentable enough, and I go home and put on my crooked suit,

and I take the freshmen to the prom, and we have a good enough time. A few weeks later, the prom proves come back. The pictures, and my date looks great, props to me, and I look insane. LAUGHTER So, the pictures weren't ordered and they weren't given out to family like we normally would do for people at prom time, and worse, I did not make it to that wall.

I had failed at being normal again and it was disappointing. Years later, I'm in college as my senior year and I hear from Dana again and we hadn't talked since high school really and we started to reconnect and it felt good to hear her voice and I started to wonder if maybe we could still have something, but by this point, I kind of knew I was gay,

because they had been clues. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure.

I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure.

I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure. I'm not sure.ed up and clothes that I did not design. And we go to the ball and have an amazing time. And for a fleeting moment, I wonder, could this be my life? But I'm not 16 anymore. And I know that I don't love her in that way.

And I knew that I had to let her go and let that life go or that idea go and that was really rough But on the upside the pictures were amazing And I had the right hair and the right suit and the right date. And that picture made it up to the family wall with my parents and my aunts and uncles. And I am smiling in that picture. But the truth is, I am terrified in that moment because it was the first time that I had told myself the truth. And I wasn't certain what I was walking into after that night and I am scared to death. And, you know, we often talk about coming out to other people,

but the truth is you have to come out to yourself first. So, after all this goes down, I realized that it was okay for me to be me. And as it turns out, I ended up with all the things that I thought that I wasn't going to have when I became my true self, have a wonderful husband and a home and two amazing kids that I love. And it's a beautiful And. But as it turns out, that picture of my life now hasn't made it to the family wall either. But that's okay, because I have my own walls now, and I can hang any damn thing that I want. That was Phil Branch. He's a husband and father of two, and he's also a film and media scholar, a college professor,

and a documentary filmmaker. You may have seen searching for Shaniqua, his documentary about the impact names have on our lives. Now about that prom picture. At the time of this recording, Phil was not able to locate the official version. Remember, his family didn't order it. But he was able to dig up one, where if you look hard, you can make out his white slip on loafers and light pink hose. You can see the picture at themoth.org.

While you're there, you can also download this story and any of the others you hear this hour. Next up, trying to find a lap lane at the public swimming pool. And a kid from Kentucky gets a job working just two blocks from the White House when the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX, I'm Jennifer Hickson. We're sharing stories of misconceptions, some accidental and some, as in the case of this

next story, completely purposeful. We first met our next storyteller, Rabia Wazir, when we did a show at a Media Arts and Education Center in Appalachia, called Apple Shop. Live from Whiteburg, Kentucky, here's Robya Wazir. Having a name like Robya in Eastern Kentucky means I get asked where I'm from and awful lot. And not just a simple, hey, where are you from, but the slow drawn out, squinty adversion.

Where are you from? And if I'm not feeling particularly generous, I say I'm from West Virginia. But if I am feeling generous, I say that I was born and raised in Charleston, but my dad is from a small mountain village in rural Pakistan, the tribal area. And my mom is a coal miner's daughter, a little white lady, from Mount Hope. So basically, I'm hillbilly on both sides. In college, I coined the term pack a latch in. And I made a Facebook group for it too, using a selfie as the profile picture. It did not take off. It was a very niche audience. But I loved growing up in West Virginia.

But there was always this sense that you had to leave. As soon as you turn 18, get to a big coastal city, go to college. And if you couldn't get there, then just crossing the border to Pittsburgh or Athens or Blacksburg would be good enough, right? You know, to stay was to accept mediocrity. And it almost like the Ohio River

was this natural demarcator between shame and glory. And it's probably why I was so pleased with myself when I finally got my first big girl job out of college. I was the National Outreach Coordinator for a Muslim American Civil Liberties organization in Washington, DC. I loved how it looked on paper. I immediately updated my resume. When friends or family would ask me what I was up to, I'd say, oh, I'm the National Outreach Coordinator for a Muslim American Organization in Washington, DC. So professional and glamorous.

But in truth, the job was a lot harder than it looked. Being a Muslim activist in DC during the Bush years didn't exactly open doors. I was stuffing on the lobes. I was making fundraising phone calls. I was managing the internship department. When there was a candlelight vigil, I was the girl hitting up. The craft store was trying to find candles. And when a windstorm

hit that night, I was the person on my hands and knees desperately trying to re-light the candles. When there was a dove release ceremony, I was the person that was somehow supposed to find the doves. But, you know, working there was a really awesome experience. It was a super diverse office, people from all over the country, from different perspectives and backgrounds. We had Muslims and non-Muslims. We had immigrants and converts. We had hijabis and non-hijabis. And we were all working for this really noble idea of embracing civil rights and encouraging civic engagement. And it really felt like we were doing something good.

But after about a year with the organization, I started to feel burnout, which is pretty common in the nonprofit world. And I ended up taking some time off to try to figure out what my next step was. So it's October 2009. And at this point, I'm basically living in bed with my laptop. I'm on the internet looking at a feminist blog, just looking for something to get rolled up about, right? And I see our organization mentioned.

And I'm like, oh, great. That's awesome. Let's see what they're saying. But I start reading. And it says, the congressional anti-terrorism caucus has accused our organization of planting spies on Capitol Hill, which it sounds bad. But we're always getting accused of being terrorists,

no big deal. But I keep reading and it says that a man, those allegations are based on a statement by a man who infiltrated the organization in 2008, which was when I was there, as an intern. This was one of my guys. And so my heart immediately starts pounding, adrenaline starts pumping, like who is this person?

So I Google his name and immediately up pops a picture of one of our interns. And it wasn't just any intern, it was my intern from my department. So this is a white guy. He's from Southwestern Virginia, and he always seemed really mild-mannered and hard-working, even though he was a particularly bright. But he said that he was a convert to Islam, and I had offered to introduce him to my mom.

So it says, the article says that not only is he making these statements, but he's putting out a book published by World Knit Daily. And if you don't know, World That Daily is the same website that said Obama was a secretly gay Muslim terrorist who was building FEMA concentration camps. Like that is level of journalistic integrity that we're dealing with here. So I am freaking out because if there's a book, that means there are crazies reading the book and the harassment is gonna start, right? It's happening. So I call my family and friends. I lock down social media, and I start checking the doors and windows, like double checking, triple checking at night. And

almost immediately, it hits national news, right? Fox News starts promoting the book. And the crazy thing is that the big reveal, these spies on Capitol Hill, was referencing a program to help Muslim students get internships on the Hill, which is perfectly normal. Everybody does that in DC. So, but because we're Muslims in doing it, it was suddenly an aferious and scary. And thankfully, we had a lot of big name journalists and politicians that stood up for us.

My parents, by the way, thought it was hilarious. They were like, if you have enemies like these, you're really somebody. And they bought two copies of the book. I don't give them money, but I still felt so stupid. Like all these weird behaviors that I didn't catch or just dismissed suddenly made sense. He was wearing a body camera and constantly filming us.

And somebody else had mentioned, oh, he really loved shredding documents, which was a really boring task assigned to the interns. It was like, okay,, he's not that bright. He just needs some time to turn off his brain. It didn't occur to me that he was just taking boxes of paper and putting them in his car. You know, I felt so exposed and scared.

And I couldn't get his face out of my head. And I remember going into just ordinary public spaces and starting to feel uneasy. You know, working with a Muslim-American organization kind of hardened me to the idea that these right-wing crazies thought I was part of a global terrorist network. But I figured, you know, if they just got to know me

and got to know all of us, they would understand how silly that is. We're just ordinary people. But this guy knew me, and he still thought I was the enemy. So, you know, I was really struggling to try to just minimize the stuff and move on. But that's the trouble with this kind of crime, because you don't want to allow these people to have any kind of emotional sway over you, because if they do, they win.

But to ignore the harm they've caused is to let them off the hook. I'd already been considering going to law school, but now being a lawyer felt like some kind of armor. And I had two choices in front of me. Like I could stay in DC and study international law, or I could go back home. And my friends were completely baffled.

Like I had just been attacked by the right-wing French. Why would I go back to one of the reddest parts of the country? But for me, it wasn't a matter of red states or blue states. It was this continued faith that if people knew me and I could make connections, I could make a difference. In Kentucky and West Virginia, I had these, I was part of these beautiful and intimate communities, and I had deep and long lasting relationships. And there's strength and power in that. As a kid, I thought that in order to succeed, I had to leave. But it became increasingly apparent that in order to become the person I

wanted to be and do the work I was called to do I had to go home. That spring I submitted my application to the University of Kentucky and I decided to continue to have faith in people but I still shred my own documents. That was Robbie Outwasere. These days she works for the Appalachian Citizens Law Center, representing coal miners seeking federal black lung benefits. She says the term pack-a-lection still hasn't quite cut on and adds for the book, suffice it to say it's out of print. Our next storyteller, Jean Lebec, is a tried and true New Yorker, born and raised in Brooklyn. We met her at a story slam in Manhattan, where we partner with Public Radio Station WNYC. Here's Jean.

I'm walking up Leavineu in Brooklyn. It's a really cold, windy day, but still, Leavonu is crowded and it's busy. Men wearing large fur hats and black coats to their ankles. They walk in groups, holding prayer books, eyes down as I pass them. They ignore me. Women wearing turvins are hats placed carefully

on quaffed wigs, black coats, mid-cafe, beige stockings, and flat shoes. They walk very, very quickly, pushing baby carriages, a trail of five or six kids running to keep up with them all dressed exactly alike. Shops line both sides of Leavonu. In the two years that I've lived in this Hasettic community of East Williamsburg. I've never shopped in these stores.

Not even the bakery with the smell of sweet bread baking and the black and white cookies and the window. I feel like a foreigner here. I'm Jewish, but I don't feel a connection here. The language is Yiddish. I walk past words, I don't understand, and signs I can't read. I'm on my way to the Metropolitan Recreation Center on Bedford Avenue. It's an all-woman swim this morning, and I'm really excited looking forward to it. I've made a promise to myself that,

even though it is really cold out, today's the day. I start my exercise routine. And a woman's swim is the best. I walk into the locker room, it's empty, I quickly squeeze, and I have to squeeze because I gained a lot of weight into my black speedo bathing suit, kind of stuff myself in. I pull on my pink speedo bathing cap,

pink and green goggles on my head. I take a quick shower. I am ready. I open the door to the pool. There are women everywhere, everywhere they're walking around the pool. They're sitting on the edge of the pool. They're laughing and they're talking. They're in the pool, wall to wall in the pool, floating and singing and bobbing. There are women with arms extended, floating, pregnant women back and forth. And I'm suddenly, there's no lanes, nobody's in lanes. And they're not wearing bathing suits,

they're wearing turbans, and they're wearing dresses, zip to their collarbone, down to their knees. And I am so naked. In my black speedo bathing suit with my pink cap. So I think I could be invisible, I could be invisible. And I'm just gonna scurry over to this little corner that I saw and slip myself in. And so I slip myself in, I'm kind of hovering there

thinking what to do, what to do. Lap swimming is out of the question. And I'll just, I'll just be invisible. Maybe I'll hoist myself at hoistings too hard. And there's a woman swimming right towards me. And she's coming and I think, don't come to me. Don't come to me. She comes to me.

And she goes, hi, I'm Lily. She has the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen. I say, I'm Jean. She says, welcome. This is your first time. I go, yeah, she goes, and she takes me, and you know, she takes in my goggles and my hat. She looks just, you want to swim.

You want to lap swim. I go, yeah, she's just a swim. You can swim. I look out at all these women in the pool, like really, she says, yes, you go. Just go. You're gonna let you swim. Go, bubble up, go. So I went and I swam and all these women, they got out of my way with their dresses billowing like parachutes in the water. And then I did another lap and another lap and each time these women got out of my way.

And so, finally I did like 15 laps and I stopped and Lillian kind of made her way towards me and she said, how was your swim? And I said, it was wonderful. And she said, you must come back and I said, you know, I wasn't going to come. It was so cold. And she said, oh, and she holds't going to come. It was so cold. And she holds that her arm suddenly goes, no. Now she says, come, come, come.

So I'm laying on her arms. And the first time, like, really, really stiff. And then I just kind of relax. And she goes, see how warm the water is. And look. And I look. And for the first time I see this skylight that covered the entire length of the pool.

And she says, see, the light always comes in. And later in the locker room, I catch the eye of a woman across from me. And we both start laughing. And I think I wonder if she was one of the women that kept swimming out of my way. And I really wanted to talk to her. I know she really wanted to talk to me, but I don't speak English and she doesn't speak English,

but she pointed to herself and she said, Tova. And I pointed to myself and I said, Gene, and then as we're leaving the locker room, she fell me and she kind of grabbed my hand and mustering up like all her courage. I just could see her mustering up all the courage to say the only English word she knew to me and she looked at me and she said, Gene, if you see something, say something. And I said,

Tova, yes, if you see something, say something. And I knew, I knew, I knew that I wasn't going to take the train home, that I was going to walk back down Lea Avenue, and I was going to go into the bakery, and I was going to buy some black and white cookies. Thank you. That was Jean Lebec. Jean was an educator in the New York City School System, grades K through 6 for 31 years and then an assistant principal for four. She said that after that first visit to the pool, she didn't have the same feeling of alienation. She continued to swim and it changed her relationship with the community and ultimately with the

neighborhood. She made friends and started shopping on Le Avenue and she even found a favorite restaurant for a nosh after a swim. When we return, a woman thinks she sees a dancing sheep, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org. You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jennifer Hickson. This hour, Stories involving Second Looks.

This next story comes to us from Dublin, where we held a Moth Grand Slam Story competition in 2015. Michael Devlin took the prize for this tale. He talks pretty fast, but please keep up with him. Here's Michael. So there it was, driving down the N11 with my female companion. And I don't know if you know the N11,

but it's the main road between Dublin and Oxford. And there are two landmarks on that motorway, both of which are pubes. One is called the Beehive and Gilles called Jack Whites. And we're fast approaching the Beehive when all of a sudden my female companion bursts into laughter. Spontaneous, uncontrollable laughter. And I know I'm not the funniest man in the world, but I do have my moments. Well that certainly wasn't one of them because

I wasn't even talking. So eventually when she composed herself, I said, come on, share the joke. And she pointed to a field we just passed. And she said, see that field, in that field we just passed, there was a sheep dancing. And I said, a dancing sheep, really. a'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r

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electric fences. And as I'm doing this, the sheep and the fear start to walk away in the distance except for the uptorn sheep and its little sheep bodies. And I'm so amazed and impressed by this because sheep are timid and plastic little creatures. And here they have overcome their fear to stand by the fallen camera. I think this is amazing. These must be like the sheep equivalent of the Marines. No, no man gets left behind. Well, that's a big bugger off too. So that was that theory of the wind up. So I'm moving closer, I'm moving closer, and it's just me and the uptorn sheep lying there with

his feet in the air. And I've got to tell you, you really don't know what thoughts are going to go to your mind until your face with this sheet spread eagle before you. And the first thought of my mind was, please don't let anybody see this because it just looks so wrong. And the second thought is, if this thing going to attack me because I know you never hear of anybody being attacked and killed by your sheet, it's not up there with like recently bare attacks and shark attacks, I get that. But this thing is cornered and I've never cornered a sheep before so I don't know. I always go on record and they do have teeth you know, not big shark, K-90 but teeth on the left and the sheep are scared and I'm scared and it's debatable as to which was

more frightened so I'm thinking in the interest of you know my safety and the sheep's dignity I should stay away from either end. I go around and I take a deep breath and I bend out and I grab two handfuls of wool and then I lift with all my weight and the sheep, which turns out to be about 90% wool, flips out and he lands on his feet. I'm standing there and I feel this power, this strength,

this feeling, like some superman, some superhuman and I'm thinking, maybe I should wear my underpants on the outside of my trousers from that day forth. Mae'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwaith i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n gwybod yn ymwch i'n g walk and out of my life. And I know things would never be the same again, because this made me just one small sheep for mankind. But it was one giant sheep for me. That was Michael Devlin, patron saint of sheep. He's a husband and father of two who love swimming in the sea and studying gaelic. When I first talk to Michael I thought for sure he must be a comedian or something but he isn't, he actually works in shipping. So he's one of those hilarious co-workers you come across in life who make the day them to pitch us at the moth. We all need to laugh and it's your duty to help facilitate.

Do not hog your funny person all to yourself. Your witty coworker and neighbor, male carrier dog walker needs your encouragement. Have them leave a pitch right on our website, themoth.org, or they can give us a call at 877-799-MOTHMoth. That's 877-799-6684. We listen to them all, and we look forward to laughing. And now a caution that our next story is quite serious. Jim Giacone gives tours at the 9-11 Memorial Museum. Moth director Larry Rosen took one of his tours and chatted with him afterwards. Jim shared a personal story, and Larry said that story needs to be told at the

mouth. Eventually it happened at a New York City Grand Slam. Here's Jim Giacone. Some of the experts on TV was saying that the way that the twin towers were constructed and the manner in which they collapsed there was bound to be voids. And inside those voids was a potential to find survivors. My family and I hung on those words. My older brother, Joe, Joseph Michael Geoconey, had an office on the 103rd floor of the North Tower, and he had gone to work early

that Tuesday morning, and he was missing. And we were going out of our minds. I immediately tried to gain access, but it was turned away again and again because ultimately too many people were volunteering. It would become too chaotic. After a couple of days, a buddy of mine called. He was a firefighter up in Harlem. And he told me to meet him at his firehouse.

And I dressed in his bunker gear and me him and another firefighter drove on a way down to ground zero. When we got down below Canal Street we started encountering checkpoints. He the military, a police personnel with automatic weapons, but once they saw we were all dressed as firefighters. They waved us right through. We parked all the way on the east side. The guy that drove was afraid that we would be blocked in by more emergency vehicles and we walked blocks and blocks west. We were about to block away from the start of the debris field when I used to think of

myself as somebody who could handle pretty much anything thrown at me. And I thought I had prepared myself for what I was walking into. But I became sick. After I regained my composure, we walked into the pile. There were no words. There was no pictures. There was no way to accurately describe what I saw, what I heard, what I smelled, and I have no rescuing recovery training whatsoever, but I saw no voids. It was apocalyptic.

My buddy said he wanted to try and meet up with the other guys from his fire halves, though we were working on the west side of the pile. We were all the way on the east. We found the best way to go around was we went down a side street in the side door of an adjacent building and we went into the either the cellar or the sub-cellars because all the main floors were damaged. And the buildings were all pretty much city blocks long. So we walked the distance of the building on the ground

and we came up on the other staircase across the street and down again and again. Multiple times I saw written on the walls, these please, usually from firefighters, begging for any information for one of their friends who was still missing, sometimes written in suit with their fingers. We ultimately came out at the base of the atrium of the Winta Garden Building. Winta Garden Building was a iconic, beautiful atrium,

and it was completely destroyed. We climbed out onto the pile, and we worked on the Bucket Brigade. Later on, my friend said, let's go back to the firehouse. I'm pretty sure he picked up on the fact that I was completely and totally defeated. We had become separated from the guy that drove us, and there was no transportation, but a cop offered to give us a ride as far as Midtown.

Before I got in a car I called my dad and I told him I was sorry. And I said, no way Joe was coming home. The cop dropped us off on 42nd Street, and I don't remember what Avenue, in fact, I remember stepping up onto the sidewalk to try to get my bearings. And a couple walked in front of me with the young boy and I noticed the man did a double take when he spotted me. And he stopped and he turned and he stood in front of me and he started to extend his hand and even before I could shake his hand, he fell forward and hugged me. And he started to cry.

And he said, I'm sorry for the loss of your brothers. He thought I was a firefighter. It's amazing to me when you realize how many thoughts can fire off in your brain in the blink of an eye and a fraction of a second. In that millisecond, I understood that that man needed to cry. In that millisecond, I felt horrible, horrible guilt. In that same millisecond, I reasoned it was okay because he is used the word, brother. Thank you very much.

APPLAUSE That was Jim Giacone. He lives in Long Island with his wife and two dogs and has three grown children. I called Jim while he was driving between jobs. He's a plumber. I asked him if there was anything else he wanted to share about the story. At Moth Grand Slam, storytellers only have five minutes, so he had to make a lot of choices about what to include.

I do remember some things that emotionally stood out to me, regarding that deck, and you know, I didn't work into the story, and it was, I don't know, I wouldn't even know where to put it, but I do remember when I went into the firehouse when I was, before I came into his bunker gear. It was, it's like my eight year old Jimmy's dream to be a firefighter. And here I was sitting in the firehouse, putting on this gear.

And I was almost like a Superman's outfit. And I felt, I guess being raised Roman Catholic, I'm born with guilt, but I felt horrible guilt also for feeling anything but, you know, shock and grief. I felt, you know, I was embarrassed of myself for feeling anything exciting, you know, because I was putting on this uniform, I was transforming myself into a firefighter. It's just, it was on a small level, but I distinctly remember that. What have you been tensed?

Who you and your brother close at level kids? What's your age difference? Well, no, there was three years between us. We were not particularly close, especially in our teen years. In fact, fist fights I remember. But when we became adults, and especially when we started families, we became very close. And I guess we matured into each other and we respected each other as adults and our families, our kids became extremely close and they are still to this day. So we were really close, you know, as little kids, yeah, as brothers, yeah, but as we got

into adolescence and teenage years, we were not close. And then we did become close. Thank God. That was Jim Giacone talking about his brother Joseph Michael Giacone. Jim's been a mentor at Tuesday's Children for the past 13 years and a mentor for two brothers who lost their father on 9-11. As I mentioned, he leads tours around the 9-11 Memorial and Museum. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time.

Your host this hour was Jennifer Hickson. Jennifer also directed the stories in the show along with Larry Rosen. The rest of the Maltz directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Janess, and Meg Bowles. Production support from Emily Couch and Julia Purcell. Maltz stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in this hour from Boombox, Blue Dot Sessions, Warren Body, Declasmatics, The Bothy Band, and Todd Sykofus. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Maw 3D 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. The Maw 3U Hour is presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, and everything else, go to our website, TheMawth.org. you