The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Saving Graces

Episode Date: April 28, 2021

In this hour, stories of support coming from surprising places -- and moments of seemingly divine intervention. Family ties, a raucous subway ride, and hidden treasure. This episode is hosted by Moth Producer Chloe Salmon. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by Chloe Salmon Storytellers: Onnesha Roychoudhuri, Charlotte Cline, Paul Brady, Wang Ping, Hope Iyiewaure

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 Chloe Salmon. A saving grace is what usually rescue something or someone from being a lost cause. But I've always appreciated another

more optimistic view. A saving grace as the support we get unexpectedly, and often when we most need it. In this hour, stories of finding grace in surprising places. It seems fitting that our first story comes from a man named Hope. He told it for us at a slam in Chicago where we partner with Public Radio Station WBEZ. Here's Hope EOI live at the mall. So growing up in Houston, I was shaped by a couple things that I couldn't escape. One of them was my siblings. And they're good people.

My sister prays as three years older than me. My younger brother, peace is one year younger, and truth is two year younger. But the only thing is for you, they're okay. And we're all really close in age and we're all really close in size. So we really cramped in the second thing that shaped me this tiny apartment, two bedrooms, the bathroom was just frankly disgusting for the kids at least. And a big part of that was the routine of us

cleaning that and the entire house, honestly, the entire apartment. My mom would come into our room, we heard her before we saw her because she was singing, not during gospel music. And we knew that it was that Saturday that we were gonna clean the bathroom. It was a little traumatizing.

The bathroom itself, there was a corner that was just completely mildewed. I think the roaches there would rent to other roaches. It wasn't a good look for anybody. But thankfully, we were able to move out of that apartment, my mom and dad bought their house, thankfully, moving up. But that routine continued. We had the Saturday morning, gospel music,

the Saturday morning cleaning, things continued as usual. I'm thinking back to Tom and I was about 15, and my mom had come upstairs. She was directing us where we're going to go. And she pointed to me, she's like, hope, I go fix that room, spot me, spot me clean, and then go take care of this bathroom. And the one thing that still means I good for is the

troll rotation. It was not my week for the bathroom. And I mean, as people who have been in bathrooms before, no one likes to clean them. And it was not my week, more importantly. I tried to get my mom to see the injustice of making me clean it when it was truth week, and she said, no, I'm gonna go to the store,

when I get back, you're gonna have clean this bathroom. So I storm off, I head to my room, I try to land the door, but I catch a real fast because I'm raised right. And I just like paste around my room. And I'm looking at, I need to release this anger. So I see the wall right beside my window. And I'm just, I'm getting ready.

I draw back, smack the wall, expect it to hear that same pop. But instead of hearing that pop, I feel my fist give a little. And I realized that instead of cinder blocks and wallpaper, that was the walls of my old apartment, this house had a dry wall. And I learned about its existence the hard way. And I step back and I just look at my fist and my first thing is to go wash my hand and then go wash a bathroom. Out of just fear of what would happen if my mom found me in apicryonsine.

My second instinct was to figure out how I was going to tell her because I didn't want her to find me, find out and then find me, I'd rather break the news to her gently. But at the same time, I'd rather break the news to her gently. But at the same time, I thought we were just racing. I couldn't imagine what would've dispense me to do this because I'm not a nating kid. And something from a high school class, it's just clicked in my head. And I rushed downstairs to go catch my mom before she leaves for the store. A tap on her window and she rolls down and I'm like, Mom, I had to tell you something.

I think I'm going through puberty. Because I was mad that you told me to clean the bathroom when it wasn't my week. And I punched a hole in the wall. And I didn't see her face because I was really, really focused on the ground. But I just see her say, I will do what you and I get back, and that she rolled out the window and peels out.

And I just stumble back into the house, just a 15-year-old shell of a boy. Just abjectly terrified of what's going to happen when she gets back. So I go upstairs and I finish cleaning the bathroom, I go to my room, I finish cleaning my room, and slowly this unintentional plan starts forming in my head, where I go help peace and truth with their room,

and then I go downstairs, I help praise with the kitchen, I start cleaning the refrigerator, I clean the stove, I clean the counter, I clean the dining room. And then I go to the living room, sit down, and just open my Bible and hope that my mom will find me like that. A couple of hours later, she pulls up, and I stop praying at Dashasite to help her with the groceries. And she's noticing a couple things that are different.

And she's like, oh, that refrigerator, who cleaned that? And I was like, that was me, mom. And she noticed the dishes and she's like, that one's a little dirty, was that you? I was like, no, that was praise, that was praise. That was praise. And she sits me down and instead of me getting the anger and the wrath that I deserved for punching

a hole in a house that still smelled like Home Depot, she gives me love, which was unexpected. And I think it's the thing that shaped me most outside of the routine, outside of my apartment, outside of my siblings. It's made me slow to react, it's made me think about what I do, it's made me quicker to smile than to react and anger because things that are done and anger, I can't take back so easily. So I didn't escape the routine, I didn't escape my siblings, we didn't leave the apartment, but more importantly, I did dodge the war being that could have stopped me from being six four.

Thank you. Thank you. That was Hope E-O-I. Houston-born and Nigerian raised, Hope now lives in Chicago. And by the time you hear this, he will have finished his final year of medical school. You can usually catch him cycling through the city on the hunt for the best Korean barbecue Chicago has to offer, or teaching himself new skills, like catching drywall.

To see a photo of the Aieuai family, again, that's hope, peace, praise, and truth, plus their mom, Adesua, head over to themoth.org. Our next story is from Anesha Roy Chowdury, who found herself looking for support in a place where things are usually everyone for themselves, the New York City subway. She told this at a virtual main stage, which means she took the stage from her living room. Here's Anesha Roy Chowdury live at the moth. So it's a cold rainy November evening, and I am sweating profusely. And that's because I am currently entrenched

in that very specific hell that is lugging heavy groceries on a subway to get home. Luckily, I force myself onto this crowded F-train, but I find this coveted spot by the back doors. So I get there, I'm able to put my bags down and lean up against those doors, and I hate this big sigh of relief because I think I'm home free. But the next stop, this guy gets on the train, and he's holding a Bible in one hand, and he just launches into this really hateful monologue.

He starts talking about how some people, based on who they love, they're going to hell, other people based on where they're from, what they look like, they're probably going to hell. I mean, this monologue is going on for a while. The basic gist, though, that I'm getting is that there are a whole lot of us and we are all going to hell. And my fellow New Yorkers and I, we do our job, right? Like, we do our job of ignoring him.

The problem is this guy, he is not following the rule. So like the unspoken rule is you get on a train car, you say you're crazy shit, but you keep it snappy, and then you like move on to the next train car down, and then you say you're crazy shit there. Everyone understands that this is the unspoken rule except this guy. He did not get the memo, he keeps on going and going. And the longer he's going on for The more the atmosphere in that train changes And I think a part of that might be because this was only a couple weeks after the 2016 presidential election

There'd been this uptick and hate crimes even around New York City and these shared public spaces that I had started to take for granted would just be safe. It suddenly felt less safe. And in this moment I really started to feel this deep need to do or say something to make him stop. I know my fellow New Yorkers did too. There was one guy who just told him to shut up but of course that didn't work. And the longer this is going on, the more the sensation, the closest thing I can explain it as it's just like this full body itch starts growing. But alongside this itch, this need to say or do something.

Comes this really old mantra that goes a little something like, it's not that big of a deal. Keep your feelings to yourself. Don't make a scene. It'll be over soon. And this mantra is so familiar because it's been with me since I was a kid. See I was that kind of kid where all through elementary school my teachers would tell my parents she's really well behaved, she's quiet, she's thoughtful, and it's true, I was really well behaved, but that's only because all of the not well-behaved feelings, thoughts, the anger, the question, the frustration, I mostly kept to myself, or I funneled it into these quiet private spaces, like, diaries. When I was a kid, I also used to go to Florida every summer to spend time with my mom

side of the family. And Florida meant a lot of really great things, a whole lot of rule bending. I got to stay up late, I got to eat a whole bunch of sugar, got to set out fireworks, but it also meant my uncle Bill. Now, my uncle Bill didn't believe in what he called mixed marriage and because my father is Indian and my mother's white, he didn't approve. And what this actually looked like is he just never spoke to me, he didn't look at me, he didn't acknowledge me. And this made for some pretty awkward family dinners, at least for me. And there were a lot of things sitting across that dinner table from Uncle Bill that I wanted

to say or do. I think mostly I wanted to grab him and shake him and just make him look at me, but I didn't do anything. Instead I sat there, maybe I closed my eyes and thought, it's not that big of a deal. Don't make a scene. It'll be over soon. I think I was afraid that if I actually expressed my feelings or ask questions, I wouldn't feel supported by those around me, and I would end up feeling more alone and alienated than I already did. And so that's kind of how it went, every summer in Florida, and those feelings stayed there, but they became sort of like old furniture and a familiar room, so that I was aware of them and as much as I

moved around them but that was about it. It was just there fading into the background. The real problem is that that inability to express my feelings when I most wanted and needed to followed me into adulthood. And I'm going to give you just like a snapshot of what that looks like. And I'm going to give you just like a snapshot of what that looks like. So I'm in my early 30s and I am hanging out with a good friend of mine who had just so happened to have a massive crush on. And I know I need to tell my feelings for him. And so we spend this amazing day together, you know, it's coming to an end, he walks me home, we hugged good night, he turns to go, and I'm like, okay, now's the moment.

Don't let it go by. So I say, wait, and he turns. And then I watch as though outside of my body as I go in for a high five. Yeah, so I gave my friend a high five instead of telling him that I had feelings for him. So all of these moments for my past are just like running in my head as I'm still on that crowded hot train.

It's like the world's shittiest, this is your life movie montage. And I feel convinced that if I do not do something in that particular moment, I'm just going to be condemned to repeating these moments and I don't know, probably dying alone. Like all of that is happening in my head. And so I get this idea. And as soon as I do this younger version of me is like, oh, there's no way we're doing that. And so I know I have to get ahead of this younger version of me.

So I just look at this guy who's still hateful monologuing and I'm like, if you don't stop talking, I'm'm gonna start singing, which as soon as I said a lot, I was like, oh no, now I actually have to do it because I said I would. And so of course he keeps going. And I start singing, ro, ro, ro, ro, your boat because it is literally the only song that I could think of in that moment.

And I was really hoping that would come out like strong and powerful even though it was kind of a silly song, but it was really hoping that would come out like strong and powerful even though it was kind of a silly song, but it was just like I'm not a great singer, so it was just kind of like weak and sad and weird. But I'm like okay, you got to commit. So I'm singing. This guy looks at me and he, it's like pity, like he pities me and I'm like oh god, how is this gonna end? This is gonna be bad. But I, you know, I'm like, I committed to this. I gotta keep going.

I get through like a couple rounds of robo, or your boat on my own. And then I lock eyes with this kid who's in a stroll or a cross from me. And I notice he's clapping. And I get to like, merrally, merrally, merrally, merrally. And he starts singing. And I feel such relief.

I'm like, okay, it's just you and me kid, but we got this. But then the fact that he's singing gets his parents in the mix. So then it's the four of us singing. So this guy, he has to get a little bit louder. I'm feeling a little bit better. And then I notice there's a other guy who's at the other end of the train.

He's like in his 20s. He takes down his beats, headphones, and he's like, oh oh yeah, all right, I'm in. So he starts singing. This other guy who's like a divinity student who earlier had been like, have you even read that Bible to the guy he starts singing? And before long, every single person pretty much on that train is singing, ro, ro, ro, ro, you're boat with me. And that guy, he's trying to keep up with us and get louder, but it's nearly impossible because there's so many of us. We're singing and we're singing. I start to get cocky.

I start rounds. We are singing ro-ro-ro-ro your boat in rounds. And this guy, as much as he's trying to match us, he just can't and he gets off the train. We keep singing because it's just this magical moment in which we've reclaimed the space without even having to address this guy directly. I can feel my face hurting because I'm smiling so big because here's this moment where I spoke up and I was afraid that I would just be alone, but I was backed up by this whole crowd of strangers.

And even though it was still hot in that train, and even though that song was off key, it's still one of the most beautiful songs I've ever heard. Thank you. That was Anisha at Roy Chowdury. Anisha told that story for us once before in person, at a pre-pandemic main stage at the New York Historical Society.

While we couldn't quite cart an audience into her living room for this virtual version, we thought you might like to hear the love that she got from the crowd after her last line that night. Feel free to clap along. And even though it was hot and cramped and totally off key, it was the most beautiful song I've heard. Thank you.

Applause On Aisha, Roy Chowdury, is an author and educator, and she calls herself a strategic troublemaker. Her book, The Marginalized Majority, claiming our power in a post-Truth America, was named one of the best books of the year by Kirkus Reviews. She lives in Kingston, New York, where she is learning with varying degrees of success

how to refer Bishop House that was built in 1903. Oh, and I. Ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro-ro When we return, an unprepared triathlete and a TMI mother-daughter moment for the ages, 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 Chloe Salmon. We're listening to stories of finding grace where it's least expected. This next story comes to us from Gregory Brady, who told it for us at a slam in New Orleans, where we partner with Public Radio Station, WWNO. Here's Gregory, live, Atomah. Applause. I'm a heroin addict.

In recovery, I started shooting heroin in 17, and I did it for years and years and years. In 1999, was one of my worst years, worst experience. I was shooting dope every day. I got a car accident. I was half blind. I had broken my shoulders. The doctors gave me perkidin and volume and I still had my dope and I was losing time. A judge put me in Bridgewater State Prison, which was a place where they put heroin addicts for 30 days

just to get the drugs out of your system. It was probably the closest I came to death in my whole life. I get out of there and I'm in my living room in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. It was probably the closest I came to death in my whole life. I get out of the air and I'm in my living room in Stockbridge, Massachusetts. I was living in the Berkshire Mountains and I'm with my best friend Marilyn and my daughter Bianca. My daughter at this time is 11 and Marilyn was reading the paper and she was talking about the Josh Billings and I said well what's the Josh Billings? She said it's triathlon, you go 28 miles on a bicycle, five miles in a canoe, and seven miles on foot.

And so, Bianca said to me, daddy, you should do the Josh Billings, and it was a big joke. And I said, one second, I said, I'm gonna do it. Okay, so I did. I began to train, okay, little at a time. My body mended, I came back to life. I thought it was great. The brook shares, the foliage, the mountains, the lake. Marilyn

had a bike. It was an inch smaller than others, but that was okay. And she had a great big canoe. That was okay. We duct taped it together. We tried to make it proper for the race. And I had my converse basketball sneakers. And so I trained and trained. And I finished first every night that I trained in my mind. You know what I mean? I could not be defeated.

And I was so much feeling life. And so I'm playing the stones in my ear, earphones, and I'm listening to stones by ear, earphones, and I'm listening to Daddy, you're a fool to cry. And I'm coming right over to finish line like this. And it was just absolutely awesome. The day the race came, OK? I go to the race.

Now I got my little bike, but it's OK. And I see people clipping their shoes into the pedals of their bikes. And I'm like, my God, that's dangerous. Look what are these people doing? And so, first is a mile uphill. And I'm passing people, and I feel good, man, man, I might not finish last.

This is great. And then going down the hill, they went, right by me. They flew right by me. And so little by little I was starting to understand how much I was gonna where I was gonna finish this thing. So I got to that I get to the lake I get to the canoe and there's canoes everywhere on the lake and I was so excited because all I wanted to do was finish and not be last. That's all. And so I get my canoe and it's like a family canoe

I have a milk crate in the center of it and and I'm rolling it you know kids are flying by me and kayaks with with their eyebrows shaved and head shaved Flames on their boat and all that and and I'm in like the Titanic and And I'm a pilot everybody on my milk crate. So I scream, is this moving? And I'm in, answered me. He said, yeah, you're moving. I can see that you're moving.

He said, look at the hell, you'll see that you're... He took the question literally. He thought I was really asking if I was moving. So we go around the lake, and go around the lake, and go around the lake. You have to go four times. I think I went five. I we go around the lake and go around the lake. And go around the lake. You have to go four times. I think I went five.

I might have gone five because we get to the end. I got a quarter mile left. Maryland's waiting for me at the end. And the lake is like ice. And I'm the only canoe on it. And so I go like hell. I go like hell. That's all right.

That's all right. I'm going to finish. I'm going to finish. I might not be last. I get to the end that's all right, that's all right. I'm gonna finish, I'm gonna finish, am I not being last? I get to the end, I say, Marilyn, give me the water, give me the water, she said, I drank it all. She said, she said, you took so long that I got thirsty. So I get my water and then I'm off. My snake is wet now because I screwed up in the water and I'm one off my snake is a wet now because I I screwed up in the water

And I'm running my seven miles to Tango wood not a race ends a Tango wood which is an outdoor theater in the Berk's And the Boston Symphony plays there all summer and when the race ends Everybody parties up there and so I'm running and it's like post apocalyptic I'm running and it's like post-apocalyptic. There's tables, nobody, there's chairs, nobody. There's just glasses of water there waiting for me. I was kind of losing it a little bit. And I get to the entrance of Tango Ward and there's all people there.

I thought they would have been gone by now. And they were all there, they were all partying. And then I looked and the finish clock was still running. The grid be clocking and it's like four hours and 42 minutes. And I fell down. I hit like a pothole and the thing and I fell down. And I was going in and out of it.

And I couldn't, I couldn't, I, sounds are coming in and out. I heard somebody scream, get him an ambulance, make him stop. And then the man came over and he put his hand on my back. And I felt safe. I just felt safe. And he, uh, his wife walked around me and poured water on me. And I didn't, I couldn't look up.

I looked at, I was looking at their $500 running shoes. And I had this attack of shame. And he said to me, listen buddy, he said the guy that won this race in two hours and three minutes. Next week, nobody's going to remember this guy's name. He said, if you can get up and get yourself over the finish line, it says four hours and 43 minutes. He said, you're gonna be a story for grandchildren for years to come. And I went, oh my God, and I kept getting up and staggering and falling. And I could see Marilyn and my daughter at the finish line. And Bianca Lynn, my daughter, she was looking at me and she just had that awful look on her face

and she was scared and she was looking at me like she had been looking at me my whole life. I was always in that kind of frigging condition. And so I got up and I fell in the mean state with me and this wife kept pouring the water and all of that and you know it was just to me it was just like a whole failure. And then Bianca got right up in front right next to the clock and she clinched her little hands and she stuck her chest out and she screamed, that's my daddy. And my God.

So I stood right up and I walked over that finish line and she jumped into my arms and she said, I love you so much, daddy. Thank you. Thank you. Applause. Gregory Brady now lives in Worcester, Massachusetts, and has written and published a book called Suicide Watch. He has a recovered heroin addict and provides opiate education through storytelling. When I reached out to him about airing this story, he made sure to tell me all about how proud he is to call Bianca his daughter and asked if I could give her a

shout-out. I couldn't say no to that, so hey there Bianca, thank you for being such an important part of this story, and for reminding us all to give our dads a call. To see some photos of Gregory and Bianca together, head on over to themoth.org. But they're not our only need. I just say it, you're a fool. Daddy, you're a fool, you cry. You're a fool. Sometimes saving graces come as lightning bolt moments. And sometimes, like in our next story, there is small and beautiful as a reason to laugh again.

Charlotte Klein told this at a London Grand Slam, just a note that this story involves a funny misunderstanding about a part of the female body. Here's Charlotte live at the mall. We didn't have a lock on our bathroom growing up, which meant that there were often three or four of us in there at once, two in the bath, one on the toilet, and my dad's soaping his bristles at the sink. They say that the kitchen is the heart of the family home, but in my house it was the

bathroom. As we got older, my sister Robin taught me how to wedge the dirty laundry basket behind the door. Mae'n 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 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 gweith i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r amdwch i'r sgwth i'r cyfod. O'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r mynd i'r gwyff, y ffleimd i'r gwyff, ac ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd. Mae'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymwyr i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r cyfodd yn ymw i'r But despite his best-flashing efforts, my dad appeared at the door, Winnie the Pooh style, a shirt on his top half and completely naked from the waist down. And luncheonally went for a sleepy wee, well, Gryfftlay utterly horrified in the bar, and tried to act like he was cool with it. The rest of the house was always fairly lawless and alive, yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwybod yn ymwch i'r gwyith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r

gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaith past between us, mother to daughter to mother. And she said, in the most British way possible, when you think you have spontaneously lost your clitoris at the local swimming pool. Oh, Charlotte, I think something terribly important

has fallen off. So she squeezed it and it squished and she held it up for a closer look. It smelt of strawberries. The pink mystery blob was in fact a piece of strawberry hubba-bubba-bubble gum. Mae'r pynch ymwyr i'n gwybod yn ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r fyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrithio'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. Mae'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 gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r gwaith yw'r As I held it in my fingers, I realized something terribly important to fall enough and decided to keep it that way. Thank you. Charlotte Klein is a graphic designer who lives in Brighton, England with her husband and seven-year-old twins. Beyond the visual story she creates with her work, she also aims to make magical life stories that her kids will remember.

She says that her parents are still rocking the same 70s avocado green decor, and that the family continues the tradition of lockless bathrooms and the beautiful madness that follows. To see photos of Charlotte and her sister's children, visit themoth.org. Right after the break, a creative and courageous fight against the book burning of the Chinese cultural revolution.

When the moth radio hour continues. The Moth Radio 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 Chloe Salmon. In this hour, stories of saving graces and the surprising places we find them. Our final story was told by Wang Ping at the Mesa Art Center in Mesa, Arizona. Here's Wang Ping live at the Moth. When I was six, the cultural revolution spread to the island where I lived. It was in the East China Sea. It crushed my dream to read every good book on Earth.

Everything was shut down, stores, factories, schools, libraries. My father was exiled. My mother arrested for teaching western music. As the eldest child, I had to feed my family. My grandma, two sisters and a brother, I raised chickens and grew vegetables in the backyard and walked six miles every morning through minefields and bullets to look for food for the family. Two years went by, my dream seemed to be more and more dangerous and impossible. One early morning, I took out my stove to light a fire. This little stove cooked three meals every day for my family.

I opened a door and saw a cha-cha. She was reading Maus book under the street light. Her face smeared with tears. Who would weep over Mao's words these days? Let alone Jiaja, the apathy girl from Beijing who had been axled to the island was her father, waiting for the verdict from central government, either to go back to Beijing as a general

or go to Mongolia to die. I tiptoed over and peaked. I gasped. The book she was reading had nothing to do with Mao. It was Han's Christian endosons, little mermaid. The story I had heard on the radio a year ago that sparked my dream for good books and go to college. I had backed my mom to let me go to school a year earlier

so I could read on my own. My mom agreed and even promised she would buy me a whole set of endos stories if I got good grades. But the cultural evolution began. Her students became Chairman Mao's little red guards. They shaved her head along with other teachers, paraded them on the street. They came to our homes, took all our books

and burned them on the street. I'd raped every book pile before burning, hoping to find my mermaid, but no luck. Now I found her in Jia Jia's hand, wrapped under Mao's red book cover. Jia Jia was so engrossed with her story. She didn't know I was reading over her shoulder until she heard me sobbing. She jumped little mermaid clutched her chest. Her eyes told me she would fight me to death

if I dare to report her. We glad at each other. Suddenly we laughed, pointing at each other's tears, tears, tears, tears, face. We know our secret is safe. I begged Jia Jia to loan me the book just for a few hours. I would read it in the confills. Grandma would pound me for not bringing food home today, but I didn't care. Jia-jia shook her head, walked back home. I said, wait, wait, I have something to trade with you. She's nodded and kept walking. I don't blame her.

Why would she believe that I would have anything worse while for her? I have, I was spurt. She passed. I took my time walking to the chicken coop to retrieve my book. I knew she would be waiting because Icheh Ling Yi aka the Arabian Knights was the most banned and most difficult book to get. I had found it outside Uncle Shers' apartment.

When he died of TB, his family throughout everything including his book collection on the street, hoping the records would burn it for them. But nobody would touch his stuff. The book had been grained upon yellowed by the sun, but I didn't care. The stories had brightened to my gloomy days. Ah, Ruby and I,

I sang, waving the book to Jia Jia's face. She snatched book and, from my hands and thrust a little mermaid into mine. Oh, and where did you get this? She screamed, I smiled. We, underground book traders have this rule. No question asked. We agreed to return next day, to return the books

all renewed, but two weeks went by. I couldn't finish the book. I had to feed my family for a morning till night. And besides, I had no finish the book. I had to feed my family from morning till night, and besides, I had no place to read. I shared the bed with my siblings. My grandma also slept in the same room. I tried to read in trees, in the public bathroom, in the cornfields, but I almost got caught a few times.

So Jiaja finally led me in her bedroom. We were all around on her bed, reading, chatting. I finally confessed that Little Mermaid had inspired me to find every book and read and go to college. And Jiajia confessed that she had been practicing dancing like Little Mermaid. We fantasized that someday would love to form our own underground Little Mermaid book club,

so we would have endless books to read, but we would need more than just two books in our hands right now. One of my chores was to raise chickens. My favorite, I have 10 hands and one rooster. My favorite was silky. Silky had white feather and black face, even her bones, her meat, and blood or black,

Grandma told me, and the best tonic for human. So whenever Silky went into hatching mold, my mom would order me to kill her and for the meat. I had managed to save Silky a dozen times, but this time I knew she was determined to hatch her eggs. So I started digging a nest for her behind the chicken coop to keep her way from weasels and mama. A few strikes.

My pickaxe hit a wooden box. A brush the way the muds and pry the open the lid, music sheets of Chopin, Beethoven, underneath books, Shakespeare, Huckleberry Finn, Dezel, Warren Peace, and to my disbelief, the complete fairy tales by Hans and Christian Anderson. On the first page, Mama's handwriting to my stubborn ping. So Mama had actually fulfilled her promise, but she couldn't give me the book before the cultural evolution began. I ran to Jia Jia and dragged her over to the treasure box. We screamed, ran around like headless chicken and chanting our little mermaid club, our little mermaid book club. And Jia Jia found a bunch of her friends who also asked out to the island with their families.

They each had a cache of band books. We gathered in the woods, cut our wrist, mixed our blood together to swaying as little mermaids. Now we have hundreds of books to read. Stories, poetry, history, philosophy, math, physics, even military training menus. We were careful if we got caught, we would go to jail, including our families.

A year went by, Jiaja got ambitious. She wanted to expand the club so we had more books to read. I told her to wait. Something bad was books to read. I told her to wait. Something bad was about to happen. That night, I dreamed a monster picked me up by my braid and threw me into a fire pit. I woke up in pain. Mama was dragging me out of the bed and into the kitchen,

Henderson and Henderson's book in her hand, where and how did you get this? She screamed and hissed. I looked at her. She knew them well where I got this book. I wanted to know how she found this book. I have hidden it under grandma's mattress. The last place she would look because the two of them were constantly fighting. My mother's left, my face was the book, my mouth opened from inside, I tasted blood. Go get a whip, she said. Her whip was made of bamboo skiing and a hurt more than leather belt. And we had to bring it to her as part of the punishment. You want to kill us all? You stupid girl.

I'm going to kill you first. She whipped. I covered my face with my hands, the pain was unbearable, not from the whipping, but from knowing that I will never see my mermaid again. Bring, go bring the stove she ordered and open the window. Then she watched me tear the book page by page and feed it to the fire. I could hear a little mermaid scream and she turned into ash. Where is the rest she asked? I knew she had to find everything from the box and destroy them before they destroyed us, but I had sworn to protect my book with my life.

Mama threw down her whip and started searching, pulling up floorboards, mattresses and drawers. She knew where to look. She was my mama. Soon, a huge pile gathered by the window. She sat down and watched me burn every book. When all was gone, she went back to bed. I walked to the chicken coop. Silky came over with her babies, nudging my hand for food. I looked up, no star, no moon, no hope. The book club had been my only joy in now, it's gone.

I was choking with tears. When a voice came, go to the mountains, little pink. Tell your story to trees, birds, and your mermaid friends. They could burn your books, but not your story. I stood up, I knew what I was going to do. I finished my chores that day as usual, then went to the woods with cha-cha. Nobody said the word.

The bruises on my face said everything. We look at each other for a long time. Suddenly, words flew out of my mouth like stars forming a constellation of little mermaid who beauty encouraged to go after a dream at any cost. Everyone was listening as if it were their first time. This is how we started our story, telling club. We would tell stories to each other in the woods, to our siblings at home. Then we moved to the yard, children, and adults gathered over fire.

Everyone would bring a piece of wood. We were hungry and cold, but we had stories. Soon when we finished all our stories from our collection, we started making our own, and people loved it even better. When Jiaja turned 14, I saw her big party. She was living the island with her father to Mongolia. I told the story that sparked our friendship five years ago. The story about a girl from the sea who had kept us alive all these years.

Over the blazing fire, I spotted Mama. She had tears in her eyes as she listened. My heart quivered with joy. I might have lost my book battle with her, but I had won the war. No, we had won the war together. Our books have been burned, but not our story, not our hope. That was the moment I realized.

My college dream would come true, even though it still seemed dangerous and impossible. Thank you. That was Wayne King. King was born in Shanghai and came to the U.S. in 1986. She is the founder and director of the Kinship of Rivers Project that builds solidarity among the people who live along the Mississippi, Yangxi, Ganges, Amazon, and Nile Rivers through exchanging gifts of art, poetry, stories, music, dance, and food. Her poetry book, my name is immigrant, is out now.

Ping remembers the first bookstore that opened near her at the end of the Cultural Revolution. She saved for months and finally had the money to buy the first book she'd ever legitimately owned. After so much time, serotonously reading worn copies of books with missing pages, she says holding a brand new book made her heart beat fast. One of her dearest treasures is an old print of Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales. The Little Mermaid is still one of her favorite stories, and she tries to pass on the mermaid's spirit, persistence,

and dream to her sons, one of whom is named Ariel. This hour has been about saving graces. My tiny wish for you is that one taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it. Thank you to all of our storytellers in this episode for sharing with us and to you for listening. We hope that you'll join this next time. Your host this hour was Chloe Salmon who directed the stories in the show along

with Meg Bowls and Catherine McCarthy. The rest of the most directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Geness and Jennifer Hickson, production support from Emily Couch. Special thanks to the Hollywood Foreign Press Association which provided sponsorship for the August Pacific main stage where a nation Roy Chauduri told her story. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the drift. Other music in this hour from Bruce Coburn, the young lions, jazz cat Louis,

the rolling stones, Mark Orton, and Derek Feichir. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay 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 Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX for more about our podcast for information on pitching us your own story and everything else go to our website, themoth.org.

on pitching us your own story and everything else go to our website, themoff.org.