The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: The Ties That Bind

Episode Date: July 4, 2023

In this hour, stories of the struggles, support, and safety the bounds of family provide. Hosted by The Moth's Artistic Director, Catherine Burns. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: Sharif El-Mekki wants to follow in the footsteps of his Black Panther father. NeShaune Lasley receives unwanted encouragement from her father. Caitlin McNaughton's feminist parents don't want to get her a Barbie. Rebecca Barry frets over her mother's health. Warren Holleman must unlearn his family's lessons when he has a baby.

This is the Moth Review Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns and today we're going to hear stories about the ties that bind. It's a topic that seems to come up a lot with them off, dealing with our families, a subject that generates story after story First up the writer Sharif El-Meckey He told this story in the community workshop. We did with the William Penn Foundation and Funders Network here live from Philadelphia Sharif El-Meckey Good evening from early on I Good evening. From early on, I knew my parents and teachers had the expectation that I was going to be

a revolutionary. My earliest dreams were about protest and civil unrest and boycotts. They should have been nightmares. I was a kid. But they were just dreams of a child who knew he was supposed to be a revolutionary. My parents met and got married in the Black Panther Party. I was enrolled in a school that was founded by activists and revolutionaries. It was called Nithamu Sasa, it was in Queen Lane. We didn't have a gem at that school. We had martial arts. And Bob Achanga, my martial arts teacher,

would always say, if you're going to speak the truth, you've got to be able to defend the truth. By the age of 10, I had met some of the most amazing revolutionaries who were not locked up and still alive. Angela Davis, Sonya Sanchez, members of the Wilmington 10, move members. In the playground, it was really a parking lot. In the back, as kids, we would chant. We are soldiers in the army. We're going to fight, although we gotta die.

I remember being 10 in my kitchen. My mother showed me a picture. And as I looked at the picture, she said, this is your dad is in this picture, and I'm looking at it. And the first thing that stood out to me is aphoros and seven guys and handcuffs. And I felt such pride. I had a lot of emotions. I was proud that I was the son of this handcuffed revolutionary who I knew stood for something and stood for social

justice here and his friends. I also had rage. I had rage that someone had did this to my father and his friends. And also in the picture, what really got me upset was a police officer with a shotgun. And you could tell he was yelling something. And I just imagined that he was yelling something foul and racist to my father. I was angry. So I grew up and I continued to be really upset, furious actually about all the social justice issues that I would see. But I was also really confused because I didn't know how to become a revolutionary. So meanwhile I graduated high school, I got a full academic scholarship to a state college. One day, an October after I graduated from college, me and some friends were playing pick-up football

in the field, actually barging in high schools field in Southwest Philadelphia. And we were playing, and quite often, I would channel my rage through football because that's what men do. And at some point, I tackled someone really hard and I celebrated. And all of a sudden, I felt something just blow in the back of my head.

And when I looked up, everyone from the field was running. And so I turned around and find out what were they running from. And I had a gun in my face. He didn't like being tackled like that. And so he had got a gun from his friends who happened to be in the stands, waiting for something to jump off. I grabbed the gun and we're wrestling with it.

And he just starts pulling the trigger. I was shot three times. It's severed in our artery. I was shot three times. It's severed in our artery. So I was in the hospital for a month and 20 plus surgeries to try to save my leg. Periodically, I would talk to my father who was in jail, and my mother would come visit me.

But I couldn't find any answers as to what to do next. And I would think about the person who shot me. Because I, I revolution in training, I figured I would get shot by the police or something one day. But the guy who shot me did not look like the police officer in that picture. The guy who shot me looked like me. Eventually after getting out of the hospital, a group called Concerned Black Men had a contract with the school district, and they were looking for black men to become teachers. And although previously I had never thought of being a teacher,

I thought about the young man who has shot me. And I said, I'm going to do this. So I became a teacher. And I thought about all the times when I was younger and just said, there's something wrong with the planet I'm in. Like, God had it all wrong. I wasn't supposed to be born in 1971. I was supposed to be born in 1951s.

I could have been part of the struggle of my parents and all these heroes. But on the first day of school, I realized that there were no mistakes. My revolution was to be a black man by a black board in Southwest Philadelphia, in the same part of town where that young man had shot me. I am a revolutionary. That was Cherifo Mechie. in my revolutionary. APPLAUSE That was Sharifo Mechie. Sharifo spent more than a quarter century as an educator. For the past 10 years, he's been the proud principal of the shoemaker campus branch of Mastery Charter School

in West Philadelphia. He's married with six children. The events in the story took place nearly three decades ago, and I asked Sharif what he thinks about it all now. He wrote, I guess the only thing that added the story is it has never escaped me that Derek, the young man who shot me, could have had a different story. He could have become a teacher. I believe there are plenty of young men who, if supported, might choose to leave classrooms and schools.

To that end, Sharif has worked to launch something called the fellowship, blackmail educators for social justice. To see the picture of Sharif's father, the emichin in the story, go to the moth.org. Next we have a story from Nishan Lazley, whose nickname is Bid. She told it at her open mic story slam competition in Louisville, Kentucky Repartner with Louisville Public Media. Here's Nishon Lazly live at the mall Open up your arms, relax your stance, spread your legs, keep going. Oh My god daddy if you don't shut up. I'ma come across this fence and show you how

relaxed I am. Mind you I'm in the middle of a 400 yard dash, which I don't know how anybody dashes, 400 yards in high school. And mind you this is also a race, I did not want to run, but because I was kind of fast but not super fast, I got to run the 400 yard dash. So I didn't want to go the person who was supposed to be there just didn't show up, which I was kind of wishing I had done at that moment, but I was there. And from the moment I stopped to my place in line to the starting little thingies, runners,

my dad was there yelling, open up your hands. Open your stride, go for an A, go. And I went and heard for it the first couple of laps. But there's something you need to know about my dad. He has always been my cheerleader. Like he was just, he was a coach. So everything he told us came out like, and go, you can

do it, do your best. And he always repeated everything. Like I can tell you everything. He always told us, keep your eyes wide open. Expect the best from people, but be prepared for the worst. He told us the same thing over and over, but it was all to make us better people and to encourage us. I remember one time when I came home from college, my dad was sitting in a living room watching a documentary on Beyonce. So this was pre-Queen B status, but I was still diggin' there.

So I sat down to watch with him. And we were just enjoying it, just sitting down like fathers and daughters do, I guess, watch Beyonce. Um, and at one point, Beyonce tells when her birthday is, and I'm born in 1981, Beyonce was born September 4th. Everybody knows it, right? 1981. Um, and so at that moment, my dad, like, just looks over at me,

like, looks back at Beyonce. He looks at me again like, looks back at Beyonce. And he looks at me again. And he looks back at Beyonce. And he's like, she's the same age as you. I'm like, yeah, we just both hard in 1981. And he looks at me. You know how many millions she's made? So I looked at my dad and I said, you realize her dad is her manager, right?

But, you know, being my dad, he kind of laughed at office. He's like, no, I'm just trying to get you to understand. She's the same age as you. You know, she was a little girl and then she grew up and, you know, she followed her dreams. You know, she was a little girl and then she grew up and you know, she followed her dreams. You know, but now you can do anything that you want to do. Anything you put your mind to. But back to that race. I am running begrudgingly, but it seems like, if you know how you run track, it's a circle, right?

But there are like corners. If you're running, that's the way it helped me break it up to think of it as, you know, little corners. And I would count the corners. And that's how I know how soon I would be done. And in every day I'm corner, there is my daddy. He's like 50 years old. I promise you, at every corner. And I'm running as fast as I can. I'm like, how do you just turn? And now you're here. And telling me, gov'n a go. So I really wanted to yell, shut up daddy, like just let me run.

But I just like, OK, the best way to shut him up is to run. I was way behind to start because I did not want to run. But he's still there, and he's just yelling, go. Go so I just start going. And I mean, I'm just cooking and booking, like, I can't wait to get to the end of this thing. So I can tell him to leave me alone. Don't ever do that when I run again.

And then suddenly I look up and I realize, oh crap, like, I'm close. Like, I can win this thing. Like, the girl that's supposed to win, here's everybody else. I don't even know how this happened. And then, but I'm like, there's no way I'm beating her. Like, I wasn't close to her though, right?

Like, she's up there, but it was just me and her, right? And so then I heard my dad, come over there. You could take her. You could take her. And I'm like, no, I can't. Daddy, like, she's up there. But I just, I was like, OK, whatever, forget it. I'm gonna do it.

And so I just start booking. And I'm like, OK, daddy said I could do it. I can do it. It's always been true my whole life. I could do it and sure enough like we're told to tell and home girl looks over me like hold up Like where'd you come from? Like this is my race Like she was taking all the things my daddy was saying and like my name's Vinay right and so I'm just going and I'm like I can do this and I promise you it was like something you see on TV like it was hurt

Then it was me and it was hurt then it was do this and I promise you, it was like something you see on TV, like it was hurt, then it was me, then it was hurt, then it was me, and then I hear my daddy, go, Vinay, go, and so I went, and it just so happened, like there was the line. And I was, so, thank you. I was so pumped, and I'm really super duper sad

to tell you that my dad passed in 2008. And you know when I think about on all those times that he repeated things to me, it got on my nerves and I'd be like, daddy shut up, you tell me that every day you always tell me that. But I feel like somewhere in him, he must have known or got new that I was going to need those things because I lost him when I was 27 and he was, he's not there to repeat those things to me anymore, but I don't have to worry because every time I get

to a corner and I think I'm not gonna, I think I'm not gonna make it. I can hear the most beautiful voice in the world, saying go, Venego. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. That was Nishan Phanay Leslie. She's a wife and mom. She wrote us, I'm a teacher by trade, but somewhere inside is a writer and speaker trying to be all God wants me to be.

Nishan wanted us to share that when she set off for the story slam, she wasn't sure she was even going to tell a story. But on the way there, she heard the Bill Withersong lovely day on her car radio. It's a song she used to sing with her father. She said, he bust out his old moves and made me dance with him, I pretend to hate it. But in the car, she just kept replaying the song until she arrived at headliners in Louisville. Sitting in the crowd, the memory of the story just came to her like it wanted to be told. the memory of the story just came to her like it wanted to be told. Coming up, Barbie dolls and needless worry when the Moth Radio Hour continues. I know it's gonna be A lovely day D'A-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D-D 3D-O-LR from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns. In this show, we're hearing about families. And our next story is about the long-standing tradition of kids trying to get their parents to buy them a coveted toy.

In this case, a Barbie doll. We met our storyteller at a story slam competition in Melbourne, Australia, where we partner with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation. Here's Caitlin McNaughton, live in Melbourne. Mum and dad banned Barbies, and my sister and I wanted a Barbie more than anything in the world. Mum, a feminist, thought that they created unrealistic beauty standards for young women. Dad, a maths teacher, was an affair of the Barbie slogan, maths class is tough. Let's go shopping. LAUGHTER

So instead they tried to distract us with other forms of entertainment. Mum tried reading me the Lord of the Rings trilogy. We didn't get past the Council of Al-Rond. Dad would throw a ball at us, sometimes we'd throw it back. We had a lot of mass-based computer games in our house. Number Munchers was my favourite, which was basically Pac-Man, except instead of eating delicious fruit you ate prime numbers.

So despite all of their best efforts they couldn't quouch our overwhelming need to have a Barbie because in the 90s if you didn't have a Barbie. Because in the 90s, if you didn't have a Barbie, you were nobody. There were all kinds of Barbies. There was gymnast Barbie, workout Barbie, cool shopping Barbie, princess Barbie, babysitting Barbie. I would have taken any Barbie. I just wanted a Barbie. But I mean, I get it now, obviously. I mean, I was a scrappy little brown-heared, freckle-faced, big bone, short-legged, flat-footed kid. I was never going to be a Barbie, and I guess my parents didn't want me to feel like I had to be.

But that didn't mean anything to me then. I mean, I was sure that feminism was great, but also, gymnast Barbie could move her limbs I mean, I was sure that feminism was great, but also gymnast Barbie could move her limbs in literally any way. And like... I mean... So, to me, my parents were just these villains

that were doing everything in their power to stop me and my sister from being happy, essentially. But my childhood wasn't as tragic as I'm making out. Perhaps in their biggest attempt at distracting us, my parents took us to Disneyland in 1995. And looking back, I would like to query my mum's thoughts on the feminism of the Disney franchise. But anyway, we went to Disneyland. We went to Disneyland and it was amazing.

I went on this, it's a small world ride and the tea cups, probably a log flume, but the best part of it was the Disneyland gift shop. And my parents said that my sister and I could each pick one thing. So after hours of deliberating, making pros and cons less and narrowing down our options, we both arrived at the checkout with our choices. And she had in a big clear box, Mary Poppins doll. aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, aftain, triumphant grin. We had just orchestrated the Trojan Horse of child dolls. Because when you took off Bows, Plain, Blue dress and white apron and Mary Poppins' red and white it's a jolly holiday dress. Underneath was the unmistakable one-inch waist, five-inch thigh gap, and the feet permanently set as a high heel of their very first Barbie dolls.

So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome.

So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, you're welcome. So, an arts administrator from Wellington, New Zealand. Even though Caitlin doesn't currently own any Barbies and considers herself a pretty good feminist, she still occasionally clashes with her parents over her love of the TV show, The Bachelor. Our next storyteller is Rebecca Berry. She told this story in an evening we produced in Ithaca, New York, where she lives with her family. Here's Rebecca, live at the mall.

So, I'm a warrior. I worry about my kids. I worry about my husband. I worry about the planet. I've been doing it for a long time. I'm really good at it. But the person I've probably worried about most in my life is my mom. And it's kind of ironic because my mom is really one of the strongest people I know. She's been a psych nurse for most of her life and in her 70s she decided to go to prison to teach nonviolence.

And her volunteer work is driving people to and from jail who don't have cars to see their loved ones. And it's not just what she does that makes my mom so amazing. It's the way that she is. She's kind of like Buddha. She has this really calm and compassionate way about her that really quiets people down and makes them feel really safe and calm, except me, as I'm her daughter, and I worry about her. And I've been worried about her health. My worry about her was always about her health because my mom was overweight for most of my life, and she had high blood pressure, and she worked on a psych ward where there was a lot of second-hand smoke. And I worked in New York writing and editing for magazines. So I was reading all these studies about how

obesity and second-hand smoke and high blood pressure are really dangerous. And so I'd worry. And my mom thought that was funny because she doesn't worry at all. And I think, which I think is easier when you have somebody to do all the worrying for you. So she's driving all over the place. She's going to Africa on safari. She goes to China. She does all this stuff. And I'm kind of following her around saying,

Mom, you know, do you need to be so busy? Mom, could you slow down? Mom, if you got in check for diabetes. And she's like, oh, Becky, I'm fine. You worry too much. And we're both kind of right. Like, there were times when she ended up in the hospital because she was doing too much and she had a surgery

that nearly killed her. And but for the most part, she's okay. But we were locked in the stance. And then she got diagnosed with kidney failure. And kidney failure is manageable. You can live with it for a while, but it's a chronic disease and it will kill you. The thing that can happen is when your kidney is really stopped functioning is you can stop eliminating fluid and you can fill up with fluid and drown from within. And so one day I get a call from my dad saying,

mom's in the hospital and she was having some shortness of breath and they think they found fluid in her lungs. And I leave the house and I go to the hospital. And I get there to my mom's room right around the time that my dad is coming back from the cafeteria and he's got a little sandwich in a plastic bag and I've got my purse and we sort of meet at my mom's room and the doctor had just been there so we come in and I think at that point my dad and I were both sort of hoping that it was maybe her medication or something

and so we go in and we say my dad says says, well, what did the doctor say? What is it? And my mom goes, it's the progression of the disease. And my dad goes, what does that mean? And my mom just looks at him. And he looked at her. And they looked at each other for a long time. And it was such an intimate look. I almost felt like I shouldn't be there. It was two people who have been married for 50 years, looking at each other, and I'm thinking what it means is this is the beginning of the end.

And then around Thanksgiving, I call my dad to see how she's doing, and he says, not well. And this time I say the words. I've never dared say and I say, dad, is she dying? And he says, yes. The doctors say she won't make it to Christmas. And I thought, damn it. Like the thing I've been worried about my whole life is finally happening and it's awful. And I said, um, Dad, what are we going to do without her? And he said, I don't know, Becky, I don't know.

So I got off the phone and I was up all night, you know, I'm making like 25 million deals with God. Like, I will never say a bad word about anybody again. Please, please, please let my mom stay past Christmas, please. And, or just five weeks, I don't care, just make her live longer, I'm not ready. And the next morning I'm trying to get my kids ready for school. And my younger son won't get ready, he won't get dressed. And my younger son has a way of sort of gauging this dress level in the house and then reacting to it by sitting down and refusing to put his pants on. And so he's standing there. And I can kind of roll with this. He's been doing this for a long time and I can kind of roll with it, but this morning I'd been up all night. I just got this news that my mom's

dying and I can't handle it. And so I just lose it. This kid is sitting there, he won't get dressed and I'm just, I lose it. I say, Dawson, get your pants on. What's wrong with you? How can you be a nine-year-old who doesn't know how to dress himself? Get ready for school. You're going to be late.

I can't do this today. I just can't. And Dawson's standing against the radiator in our hallway and he's not looking at me. And he says, is grandma Ma OK? And I looked at him and I just said, just go to school. And Dawson put on his backpack and he walked out the door. And I watched him walk away and he had this sort of resigned

nine-year-old walk like adults are so stupid. And I watched him go and I thought, I didn't handle that. Very well at all. What did I just do? You know, that's my kid. It's not his fault. And he left his lunch at our house. So I thought, okay, I'll take the lunch to school and I take it to school and I go in to the front desk and then the secretary is there and I thought, okay, I'll take the lunch to school. And I take it to school and I go into the front desk and lay the secretaries there and I say, can I see Dawson, I have his lunch? And she's like, oh, sure, I'll take it.

And I said, no, I need to speak to him. Can you please bring him? Can you send him in? She says, sure. So Dawson comes out and I give him his lunch and I lean down next to him and I say, listen, Dawson, I'm so sorry, I yelled at you. Are you worried about grandma Ma? And he goes, yeah. And I said, listen, Dawson, I'm so sorry, I yelled at you. Are you worried about grandma Ma?

And he goes, yeah. And I said, oh, me too, you know. And I put my arms around him and we're both crying and we're hugging each other. And the woman at the front desk says, do you two need a room? So we go to the room, this break room, and there's a microwave and all these different kind of big, low teas, you know. And I sit down and I say to Dawson, you know, it's true, and there's a microwave and all these different kind of big low teas, you know. And I sit down and I say to Dawson, you know, it's true, your grandma isn't doing well, she is 80 and it's sad, but, you know, there's a lot of love in our family and we're going

to be okay, you know. I thought that was kind of a chore. And Dawson looks at me and goes, yeah, but I don't want to hear anything more, any more details about being sick or dying. Because then you're spent all this time being sad before you need to be sad, and being sad before you need to be sad is the worst. And I look at him, and I'm like, leave it to the kid who won't put his pants on. It's a 47 year old woman what she needs to hear, you know't put his pants on. It's a 47-year-old woman, what she needs to hear.

You know, he's like nine. And so it didn't actually stop me from worrying. I think I'm kind of wired that way, but it did really help me shift that sentence. I need to spend as much to enjoy my mother as much as I can because she doesn't have much time left to, I want to enjoy my mother because I love her. And so, once a week I driver to dialysis and that doesn't sound like much fun and in some ways it's not. But the great thing about it is that I get to have all these hours to talk with her. And it's just made it so clear to me and reminded me that the

thing that I think is so amazing about my mother, aside from all the other things, is that she is the kind of person that you cannot, you cannot sit down next to her without telling her everything that's in your heart. You see people at a party and mom will sit down and they'll say, Hi, I'm about to get a divorce, you know. It's like, you can't do it. Mom just says, yeah, OK. And the other day I went over there. It was a snow storm. And I spent the night at Mom's house, which is the house

I grew up in. And my son, my husband took the kids home. And so I'm there with my mom and my dad. And we're in the stove room, which my dad put together in the 70s. And my mom's in her blue chair that she likes to sit in, and I'm on the couch. My dad's in a rocker, and mom and I start talking.

Dad goes to sleep. And we started talking, I was telling her about how, I see all these other mothers who are so good with their kids. You know, they're so patient and soft, and she said, you're a great mother. It's just, you have, your talents are different. You're special. And that got us to talking about marriage and raising boys.

And then that got us into fixing up old houses. And then we got on our favorite topic, which is psychological disorders and who has them, which we can talk about for hours. And then it was two in the morning. And I go, Mom, I gotta go to bed. Like, I have to drive you to Diasis tomorrow. So I go to bed and the next day we're driving. And I say to Mom, I can't believe how late we stayed up

last night. And Mom goes, I know. I felt like a school girl. I felt like I was in college. And I said, I know, I felt like a schoolgirl. I felt like I was in college. And I said, I know, that's how I felt too. And it made me think, you know, all that time I was worrying about her, what I meant was, don't die. I don't want you to die because if you die, who will be the person that I will just be able to sit down next to and say, what's ever in my heart? Who will do that?

Don't go. Stay as long as you can. And I didn't say that. I said, why don't you try water aerobics? Which is not the same thing. So. But I can say it now. When you go, I will miss you so much, but you're here. And I see your brightness and it's so beautiful.

It lights up the room. Thank you. That was Rebecca Berry. Rebecca is an artist, creative coach, and the author of two books, Recipes for a Beautiful Life, and Later at the Bar. She is currently working on illustrated novel and stories for children based on a letter subscription service she created called Veronica the Cat. As of this recording, we're thrilled to report that her mother is still alive and in good

spirits. Rebecca tells us that she still drives her mom to dialysis once a week, and it's completely transformed their relationship. She writes, We've gotten to know each other much better as women. The other day I was dropping her off at the house I grew up in, and I realized that mom and I are friends. It felt like a small slash big, magnificent gift. A man raised by a mother who doesn't believe in cuddling babies must figure out what kind

of father he wants to be. That's next on the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Katherine Burns. In this hour, we're hearing stories about how our families can influence the way we see the world. Our final story was told on stage of the beautiful majestic theater during the San Antonio Book Festival. Here's Warren Holman.

My mother believed that it was wrong to hold a baby. She said, holding babies makes them soft, it makes them weak, and it makes them dependent. She said, cribs were much better, they fostered independence and self-reliance. To her, life was hard, and parents did their children no favors by coddling them. The job of the parent was to toughen up the child. If we went out in public and she saw a young couple kissing and cuddling with their children, she would just get so irritated and agitated. If she saw them holding a baby for more than two or three minutes, she'd say,

they need to get a crib for that baby. She didn't believe in kissing either. I never saw her kiss my dad. If she kissed me, it was just a peck on the cheek, which isn't bad if you've been pecked by a chicken, that's what it felt like. But it didn't exactly feel like a kiss. What I later learned was a kiss. She thought kissing was bad for your health

because it spread germs. As for my father and his side of the family, there's a very telling story about my dad's return home from World War II. It pretty much says it all. He's been away for three years. He's anxious to get home. The war ends. He has to take this long boat ride across the Pacific Ocean. Then he has to take this long train ride across the

United States. And on top of that, he has to walk 40 miles through a snowstorm. He was supposed to take the bus, but the buses weren't running because the roads were closed because of the snowstorm. He wants to get home. He picks up that big duffle bag and just starts walking. And two days later, after dark, he arrives at the home place. The family is not realizing he's about to show up. They're eating dinner.

The door flies open, and there stands my dad, Carl Holliman. And here is how his mother, with her rich North Carolina accent, welcomed her son home from the war. Why there's Carl, we got plenty of food in the kitchen, put your stuff down and go in there and get yourself a plate, and come join us. And that was it. There were no hugs. There were no kisses. No nothing. Now, don't get the wrong impression. My parents, my grandparents had many fine qualities, but they were not the warm and cuddly type. And I think the way that affected me is that as I went through adolescence especially, I had a lot of trouble with hugs and kisses. A lot of embarrassing moments, a lot of awkward moments. And I found

myself longing for this something I couldn't even name at the time. I later learned it was warmth and tenderness. My friends, it seemed to come easily to them, not so easily to me. And I got lucky and met this wonderful woman we got married. A few years later, we're in the delivery room, and she's about to give birth to our first child. It's June 1987. The midwife turns to me, she says, get ready. As soon as I catch this baby, I'm handing her to you. Because, and then of all the things she could have said to me,

because it's your job to hold your baby. So my head is doing this. It's your job to hold your baby. So my head is doing this. Part of me honestly wants to give it a try. I'd seen my wife's family do it. And I thought it was one of those life experiences everybody should have. But honestly, those tapes were still playing in my head of my mother and I guess my grandmother. I muddled through. That's about the best I could say.

And would you believe that of all the names we could have chosen for that little girl, we chose Annie. I'm sure it was influenced to some extent by the musical, but the real reason was that's my mother's name. So, the nice thing about having your baby birthed by a midwife is that you get this special private suite for the next 24 hours in the maternity suite of the hospital. And it had some nice name like the family bonding room or something like that. And that was the perfect place for me. I got 24 hours of practice learning to hold that baby, defying my mother every single minute. But what my wife and I realized was that once that 24 hours was over, we would have to leave that wonderful cocoon and we would have to leave that drama, that drama of wonderful new beginnings, and become a part of a second drama. And it's a drama I haven't even told you about yet. I mentioned 1987, I

mentioned, well, that we'd be going home to our apartment and our neighborhood. That drama was, of course, the AIDS epidemic. How we lived in Montrose, the so-called gay neighborhood of Houston. And at that time, it seemed that every young man we knew was wasting away and dying. And it just seemed so wrong. I'm talking about young men who were in their 20s and 30s. There was a Walgreens pharmacy on Montreux Boulevard. It's still there. Over the next few years, it would sell more AZT

than any other drugstore in the entire United States. So we were in the middle of what would be recognized over the next few years as one of the worst epidemics in American history. Of course many of our friends and neighbors were dying of this disease, but the one we knew and loved best, excuse me, we'll call him Charles. Charles shared an entryway with us in our apartment on Clave and we spent many great times together. When he got sick he moved into a home hospice arrangement. That was a few blocks away but we continued visiting and at first even going out to

dinner together. He was so supportive when he found out that my wife was pregnant. Honestly, I think more supportive than I was. He was so emotionally connected to the whole thing, in a way that I didn't even comprehend at the time. But looking back, he was a mentor for me through that process. And he was so excited about the baby and getting a chance to meet the baby. Well, there was a rule that after the baby's born,

there's a period in which the baby needs to develop its immune system. So we were going through that. And we were nearing the end of that, when one day the phone rang. And this was our friend Martha, who was the friend who was coordinating Charles' home hospice care, and she said,

I got some bad news. She said, he's taken a turn for the worse. I said, well, we'll be there tonight. She said, I need to warn you, something's happened with his mind. He won't even recognize who you are. So she said, that's particularly bad because he was so looking forward to meeting your new baby. And the other thing she said she needed to warn me of was that she said his mother, she kind of whispered in the phone, his mother, she's here and I knew it that aunt. So we went that night and we took her baby. And it was as it always had been, Charles was in the

center of his living room, lying on his back on a hospital bed. His shirt was off and in the corner of the room as far from her son as she could possibly be was his mother. She was sitting on a folding chair, and the chair wasn't even facing her son. It was turned sideways. And if she ever looked toward our way, it was just a stare at the floor. And I tell you, that seemed so wrong to Martha

had told us that she was afraid to touch him because of the disease and because of her prejudice against his hymn being gay. So, and as for Charles, it's true, he did not recognize us. But the thing was, we barely recognized him. As I said, he was lying there with his shirt off, and you could see every bone. He was a skinny, his person can be and still be alive. He had these awful sores in his mouth and breathing. Every breath was a struggle.

It would take about three efforts to raise his chest and then it would collapse down. And you just knew it would be the last. And you kind of hoped it would be the last. And he wouldn't have to suffer anymore. And as for his mind, it was clear that the Charles we knew was no longer there. He just sort of babbled, it didn't make any sense. So in a short period of time we realized he

wasn't there, so we stood around him and talked over him to each other. And after a while though, he started doing this one thing that made some sense. I was standing there holding our baby, doing a good job, and like this. And he would look at her out of the corner of his eye. And in time, he started looking more. And I could swear, it was almost as if he was trying to flirt with her. And one by one we started recognizing that, our conversation ended because that was so much more interesting than whatever we were talking about. And then we got curious, what does his mother think

of all this? She was sitting over there, staring at the floor. She didn't even, her son is sort of making this connection with our child, but she is making no connection at all. And that just seemed so wrong. We, even I, by that point, I mean the only thing I wanted to do was to hold and touch our child and she was afraid or unwilling to do that. So my wife and I were frankly kind of offended by his mother. And we felt sorry for her, but we were also offended. So we had the same idea at the same time. It's just one of those things. We took our baby, we thought we got to do something about this. So we laid our baby face down, her chest on Charles's chest, her face fit right in the cavity of his long neck. He was six foot five inches tall

when he, before he got sick. He was the best looking, friendliest, and humblest person you could ever meet and the funniest. Everybody loved him. And of course, now that's why we didn't recognize him. So we placed our baby there and we stood there and her little arm sort of dangled over his boney chest. And we stood closely by because we really didn't know what would happen. And what happened at first was actually scary.

He started doing this. And then we realized he's having this spasm because He doesn't he's trying to remember how to use his arms. He hadn't used them for a while But in time the spasm he got control of it and those scarecrow arms Started doing this and then he got good control and they formed this arch over our baby. And then his arms just relaxed. And they relaxed around our baby. And as his arms relaxed, his breathing relaxed, the painful expression on his face went away, and we actually recognized that old Charles

again. And he looked so contented. And I've often said, if that's all that had happened that night, it would still be one of the most amazing or memorable experiences of my life. But one more thing happened. This time Charles spoke and his words made sense. he said, came to see me, Annie. Sorry. So we went home that night, went to bed. Middle of the night I woke up, I had this huge jolt of energy. I couldn't get back to sleep. I went outside, sat on the back steps with our dogs.

Sun came up, phone rang, and it was our friend Martha. Again, the same one from yesterday. And she said, I wanted to call you earlier, but I thought I should wait till the sun came up. She said, I wanted to let you know. That it, excuse me, at four o'clock he died. Charles died. Now, I've had 30 years to think about this. And I still don't understand how a young man who has severe advanced dementia,

awakens out of that and has a moment of perfect clarity, just hours before he dies. But I know what I believe, I'll always believe that it has something to do, sorry mom, with the healing power of human touch. Thank you. Warren grew up in Eastern North Carolina, pretending not to listen to the stories. His father, uncles, and other, quote, old people told as they hunted quail. He says it recently dawned on him that he's now one of those old people, retelling those stories in a few of his own.

That's it for our show. We hope you'll join us next time for the Moth Radio Hour. This next time for the Moth Radio Hour. Your host this hour was the Moths artistic director Katherine Burns, who also directed the stories along with Maggie Sino and Larry Rosen. The rest of the Moths directorial staff include Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Janess, Jennifer Hickson and Meg Bowls, production support from Timothy Luley. Moths stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in this hour, from Stelwagon's

symphonet, Bill Withers, and Iban Resendies. The Malthus produced for radio 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 podcasts, for information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, thumb off. dot org.

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