The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Truth and Power - Global Stories of Women

Episode Date: March 12, 2024

In this hour, stories of female strength and empowerment. Independence at any age, refusing to participate in sexist societal conventions, and the complicated layers of motherhood. This hour is hosted by The Moth's Executive Producer, Sarah Austin Jenness. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Storytellers: 95 year old park ranger Betty Reid Soskin squares off with an intruder. Purity Kagwiria chooses a name for herself. Timothy Bell discovers that there are more layers to his mother than meets the eye. Musih Tedji Xaviere attempts to get her first novel published. Nya Abernathy discovers who gets lied to the most: pregnant women!

From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin-Geness. It's been more than 50 years since the UN General Assembly adopted the convention to eliminate all forms of discrimination against women. But I recently heard Melinda Gates say, while introducing a Moth event, that based on current rates of change as measured by the World Economic Forum, U.S. women won't gain equality with men for another 208 years. We're making progress, but it's slow going. So the five stories in this hour are all about women claiming power.

Our first storyteller is Betty Reid-Suskin. Betty's one of the oldest storytellers to grace the moth stage. She told the story with us when she was 97. The story happens when she's 95 years old, and her friends and family were telling her that she shouldn't be living alone and independent any longer. Here's Betty Reid-Suskin, live at the Moth in Missoula, Montana. The year was 2017,

and my friends were settling for Friday Night Bingo at the senior center and I was a full term permanent park ranger at Rosie the River Homefront National Historical Park in Richmond, California But I had reached that age with problems that meant that I was, I'd outlived my sense of future and was involved in a grand improvisation. I was making up life one hour at a time. I was meeting with my attorney, going over end of life issues in the morning, going to work, and then coming back to an exploding life. It was intense.

I spent my days as a ranger, doing things that rangers do, guiding tours. I was being involved in trainings. Of course that takes most of our lives as rangers. Trainings in CPR, in which I was most often the victim. Trainings with that deeper belated on the wall just in case one of my visitors got in trouble. But also answering phones. And that was tricky for me because I would answer the phone, Rosie the Riveter Home but National Historical Park to a visitor or a potential visitor wanting to make reservations to hear one of my programs

because I was in the theater three to five times a week doing programs involving the history of that great place. They would say my mother or my grandmother or my grandfather heard this woman and was excited. And I want, and they would go on and on. And I would feel more and more embarrassed. And Betty would go more into the third person. And by the time the telephone was over, I would have gotten to the reservation books,

which is incidentally usually two or three months in advance. And I, they would say, to whom am I speaking? And I would say, Helen. And this became a joke among my colleagues. So much so that on one of my birthdays, someone, my supervisor, had a new brass IG tag that I wore above my other tags, which said Helen. And Helen became the persona that did all the things that Betty didn't have the nerve enough to do. And Helen was to become a strong feature in my life. My family was involved in concern and I was involved with those end of life issues and

wondering whether living in an apartment alone was something I needed to go on doing. I had become a park ranger at the age of 85. I mean, who does that? But my sons were deeply concerned about my back that I was living alone. I'd given up driving because my site was failing. I didn't want my kids to have to wrestle my car keys out of my hand. So my life was becoming more and more constricted, right? But on June 30th, I woke in the night to a presence. I realized that there was someone in my bedroom and I turned to see a man standing, not six feet away,

with a small flashlight looking through my things. I reached over to the nightstand where my cell phone was. Anyone would do that, right? You call the police. But my turning signal him that I was awake. And within seconds, he had leaped across my bed, had wrestled me out of the bed, and flung my cell phone across the room, and I remember feeling grateful that neither of us was armed, because had it been a gun, it wouldn't have lasted

more than six seconds. We wrestled in that room, the stranger and me. I screamed as loud as I could scream. He pinned my arms. My back was against his chest. And I remember for some strange reason, realizing that my chin, my head ended at his chin and that he was probably 5, 8, 5, 10. It's amazing what comes to you in times like that.

We wrestled across the floor and when we got to the door of the hallway, I suddenly realized even though he's still screaming, but my screams were being muffled by the fact that his arm was over my mouth. And I was to learn later that no one was hearing me anyway because the Johnston Department was empty. But as we got to the doorway of the hallway, I reached out and kicked his leg out from under him, and we both fell. I fell with my back on the floor, and he was straddled with his knees on each side of my body, my torso. And his hands were freed up,

and he was trying hard to keep me from screaming. So he was pummeling my face with his bare fists. my face with his bare fists. And I suddenly realized my hands were free and that he was wearing what was probably pajama pants because there was a drawstring that I could feel which meant that the family jewels were exposed. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered this magical thing and I reached in. I grabbed his balls and I squeezed as hard as I could. And magically he toppled over in a heap. And I was suddenly free. I was right next to the bathroom door.

I plunged my way through the door and sat with my back against the laboratory. And my feet propped against the door so he couldn't get into me. And suddenly, suddenly I felt safe. I listened. I couldn't hear him. I couldn't hear anything. I don't know how long that session ended, but I suddenly realized that under the lavatory was my electric iron.

So I reached in, I pulled it out, stood up long enough to plug it into the wall and turned it up to linen. I was going to brand him for the police. It was still silent. And as soon as I felt it was safe enough, decided that he was gone, that my intruder was no longer there. I went in calmly, got myself into some clean pajamas, went out the front door, still with the iron in my hand now cooling, pounded my neighbor's door, neighbors I had not met pounded on and suddenly Arthur Hadley, my neighbor who I'd never met, arrived That night, I think I received a gift that was unintended because when the police arrived and the city officials with them

and the police department was there because I'm a pretty noted figure in my city, they offered not only counseling, but to relocate me if I needed that to happen. And I suddenly realized, despite my kids' fears, or even my own, that that intruder had given me a gift, that for the first time in my life, I knew that I'd been tested, not only survived, but prevailed.

And I'm now 97, still living along. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. That was Betty Reed-Suskin. Betty lives in Richmond, California and her remarkable life of nearly 10 decades has included being an author, a composer and singer, political activist, historian, public speaker, mother,

grandmother, and great-grandmother. She's consistently reinvented herself and she's one of my heroes. Betty was named Woman of the Year by the California State Legislature and one of the nation's ten outstanding builders of communities and dreams by the National Women's History Project. After she told her story, I spoke with Betty in the green room in Missoula, Montana. Can you tell me a little bit about some of the special items that were in your jewelry box? Oh the most important thing was that there was a small velvet bag, drawstring bag, into which the coin, challenge coin, containing the presidential seal that had been presented to me at into which the coin, challenge coin,

containing the presidential seal that had been presented to me at Christmas tree lighting ceremony in Washington, DC that Christmas before. That was a crushing blow when I realized that that little velvet bag was gone. I think this was an impulsive thing on the intruders part. I think he picked the little velvet bag was gone. I think this was an impulsive thing on the intruders part. I think he picked the little velvet bag up because it obviously had some coins in it, but that I thought at the time

would have been irreplaceable. Now within about six weeks the White House replaced that coin. It came with a personal note from President Barack Obama. What did it say? It mentioned the intrusion, how sad that he and shall we're at what happened, that he knew that I would survive it, best wishes, and that is framed now on my wall. I also asked Betty if anything else surprised her in the aftermath of the attack. I was surprised by how quickly the trauma left. I went in for two sessions with a highly recommended therapist and realized that the control was really mine,

that I was only going to get over this if I chose to, that I wasn't going to allow anybody or anything to interrupt the life as I was living it. And I called the mayor and told him I didn't want to be relocated, that I felt probably safer in those few weeks after that attack than I had ever in my life before, because everybody that knew me was looking out for me.

My neighbors, my friends, my coworkers, everybody. I had a sense that I couldn't have been more better protected, that there was no place in the world where I could have been safer. And to this day, I still feel that. That was Betty Reed-Suskin. To see a photo of Betty at Rosie the Riveter National Park and the Iron Woman mug that her colleagues gave her, go to themoth.org.

When we're back, a Kenyan woman wonders why her name has to be so complicated. And a son tells us how his relationship with his mom changed only after her death, when the moth Radio Hour continues. 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 Sarah Austin-Genesse. We're hearing stories of women in this hour. What is in a name?

Well, our next storyteller, Purity Kaguiria, grappled with this question for the first 20 years of her life. In Kenya, where Purity is from, it's common for people to have three names and for children to be named after the elders. But that's not exactly how Purity's story unfolded. Purity told this in a Moth Global Community Workshop that we taught along with the Ford Foundation during a convening of women leaders from around the world. Here's Purity Kaguiria live at the Moth.

When I was seven years old, I needed to get baptized. All this time I knew I had one name, Kaguiria, but at the church they said I needed two names. I went home and asked my grandmother what name I should be baptized by. And she said, pick my name. Be called Elizabeth like me. And I said, that's too old. I'm still very young. I need to find a cooler name for myself.

I went back to church and the teacher's daughter gave me her name. She said, after all, I was just baptized two months ago. So her name to me sounded very fresh. Therefore, I was baptized as purity kagwiriya. Four years later, maybe five years later, I needed to do my high school final exam. And when I went to register, they said I needed a third name. And this third name had to belong to a man. I needed to show that I belonged to someone. And all this time,

no one had ever brought up the issue of me having a father. I knew that my grandmother's father was my father. After all, we all called him Baba. But then I knew that I couldn't kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. Kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. Kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. Kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. Kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. Kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. Kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. Kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa. Kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa I sat on the pavement in Nairobi and said to myself, what could this man's name be? And I guess his name must be Stephen.

So I put Stephen Muchua as my father. And by the masses of God, that was his name, so I got my ID back. When I decided to get married at 29, I again had to decide what name I was going to go by. Kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa the ones that I really chose for myself. This is Purity Kaguiria. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. That was Purity Kaguiria. Purity lives in Kenya and is the executive director of Akili Dada, a leadership incubator for young women who are passionate about social change. Purity is also the mother of two boys. Here's what she wrote to us.

I chose my son's names with a lot of thought. Each of my sons has four names, so if they want to drop any, they have plenty to choose from. I named my second son after myself, which is not a common practice here, but I did this as a feminist political act. Women are mostly excluded in their children's lineage

because the children are only given the father's family name. And that's what I wanted to change. Our next story is a different angle on women and power. It's about powerlessness and a deeper understanding of a woman that came only after her death. We met our storyteller, Timothy Bell, in a Moth community storytelling workshop that we produced along with the Seattle University Project on Family Homelessness.

He was homeless as a child before entering foster care, where he remained until he was 18 years old. After the storytelling workshop, Timothy developed the story for a moth night with the theme Home, Lost and Found. Here's Timothy Bell, live at the moth in Seattle, Washington. So it's the middle of a bright sunny Seattle day and I'm clicking away on my computer and I'm planning a vacation and I get a call from my brother and from the other end of the line I hear she's gone dude.

It takes me a second to figure out what he's talking about but he's talking about our mom. Our mom has passed away and I get off the phone with him and I finish planning my vacation. Things were always pretty complicated between me and my mom. I remember a time when I was 12 years old and I was sitting in a department store toy aisle just sitting on the tile floor there. I was playing with some action figures I think I was testing like their their hip strength or something raining on their legs and I was humming to I think I was testing their hip strength or something, rainy on their legs, and I was humming to myself and I was singing songs that I had learned in

school and all of a sudden I feel this presence come up behind me and I feel this pain in my arm and it's her and she's grabbed me from behind so hard that it leaves marks. All of a sudden she bends over and whispers into my ear, when we get home, I'm going to hit you for drawing attention to us. And this is just sort of how it had always been with us. I grew up absolutely terrified of her like she was the boogie man, just absolutely terrified throughout all of my childhood that I had done something wrong that she was gonna hit me again. And so in this moment, I say, you're not going to hit me. I'm going to knock you down, and I'm going to burn the store down around you.

And she looks at me kind of surprised and takes a step back and walks away and starts mumbling something about going to go get security and this is I knew in that moment I had lost that battle this is just sort of one of her moves was to like always get like authority figures adults on her side and then and then turn them against me and threaten me with like juvie or or just like you know say that they're gonna like take me to jail or something like that and in this this moment, I just knew I had to go. I knew I had to be gone. I knew I had lost, and so I ran.

And I ran out the front door, that department store, and I hopped on the first bike I could see. And this was not my bike, this was just somebody's bike, just the first one I thought I could pedal off on. And I'm pedaling just as fast as I can because I know I have to make it home before her and I know that I have to be able to get all of my stuff and go before she gets home before,

who knows, before the police arrive. And at this point, I should mention that we had been homeless before. And so packing all of this stuff together in kind of a go bag, that was no problem for me. I knew how to do that. I had what I like to think of as like perverted Boy Scout skills, and I knew how to live on the streets.

I knew what I had to do to survive, and I knew what I had to grab and go. And so that's what I did and I spent the next three months of my life homeless as a 12-year-old before I was eventually picked up and put into foster care. And so I can imagine your surprise to find out that I canceled my vacation, to find out that I am driving to her apartment that I walk into the front office of the apartment manager and I ask for the key. And I'm a little surprised at myself that I care this much because Up until this point we had all had almost no contact with one another I might see her like once maybe twice a year just to check in on her

And I don't I don't know why I continue to check in on her But I guess like I kind of look in on her like she's the little lady next door that you're kind of worried that is Like lifting boxes that are too heavy for her and so that's that's sort of our relationship at this point for for for many years and I get the front I get the the key from the apartment manager and I'm I'm not quite sure what to expect I haven't I haven't seen her you know and maybe over a year. And whatever I was expecting, that's not what was there. When I walk in the front door, I'm just sort of horrified. There is just stuff. There is stuff on top of stuff. There is furniture on furniture,

and there's papers and like newspapers andouts stacked on top of one another. There's stuff from floor to ceiling and piles with seemingly no order to them. And I'm just a little bit horrified by all this because this is going to be days of work for me. And another thing I find is that there are these narrow pathways around our apartment to get from room to room and so that you can like You know shuffle your way through all this stuff and I make my way to her bedroom and that's where like there's this bare patch of floor

That I'm able to work from and the reason that there's this bare patch of floor is that they They they had to cut out and by they I mean mean the coroner's office had to cut out the carpet around her body so that they could take her away. You see, she had been in her apartment and no one had noticed that she had passed away for several weeks, and so they had to cut this carpet out just so that they could perform a proper autopsy and taking her away. And this space was the only place that you could really get anything done, that there was any way that you could sort through anything. And so I'm in this space and I'm getting a little bit

pissed here because I'm here for days and my keep pile of stuff is just it's not growing very fast. And my throw away pile, that's growing pretty darn fast. And I'm starting to throw more and more stuff away when I come across this pile. And this is like, this is my pile. This is my stuff. And so I take a little bit more notice of this stuff.

And I start to open boxes and there's like my baby teeth. And there's like my baby blanket. And there are like these Valentine's Day cards that I had written to her that say, Mommy, I love you. And that was like the first time, I think, in my entire adult life, that I realized that our relationship as I remember it hadn't been the way that it always had. That at some point I loved her and that she loved me. And then I find another note. And this note says simply, I'm bad.

I'm alone. I'm so sad. I wish I were dead. And this was the first time that I think I have ever thought about my mom as an adult in any way other than that boogeyman, something to be terrified by. And so in this bare patch in this increasingly empty apartment, that's where I started to find home again. whom he describes as the best. Tim has gone on to use these struggles from his early life

to improve child welfare systems across the US. He now works with KC Family Programs and the International Foster Care Alliance, devoting his time to children, youth, and families at risk of child welfare intervention. I asked Tim what he kept from the studio apartment and he still has his mother's meticulous records from when his mom's parental rights were terminated. Here's what he had to say about that.

The case files I read are really heavy but they have sort of given me a new perspective on my childhood. As I read through them I learned more about her side of the story. She had traumas of her own and she had so many health issues. Better understanding her side of things, though, puts me in this funny position because while I don't forgive her as my mother, I do forgive her as a person who was just struggling to get by. That was Timothy Bell. To see photos of Tim and his mother mother go to themoth.org. When we're back, our final two stories.

A young writer and Cameroon struggles to have her first novel published, and a new mother dispels the myths of childbirth. Watch out. 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. You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Sarah Austin-Geness. We have two stories left, and the next is all about inequalities that still exist. Music-Tegi Xavier, our storyteller,

was part of a global community workshop where we work with advocates in Africa and Asia to craft personal stories. Xavier told us at a Moth Mainstage in Nairobi at the Kenya National Theatre. Here's music, Teji Xavier live at the Moth. Growing up in Cameroon, all I ever wanted to be was a writer. My parents' plan was for me to become an accountant and then get married in that order. But writing is the best way and sometimes the only way I know how to express myself. In school I looked up to authors such as Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde and Chino Alchebe, most of whom were Western authors. కికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికిక� I wanted to be just like these men when I grew up. I was 24 years old when I finished writing my first novel.

I'd been writing the novel for about five years, and I had to save money to pay for the publication of this book, because in Cameroon, self-publishing is the only option available to writers. We don't have book publishers. What we have are printing houses where the writer pays for the cost of printing. Writing this book was the hardest thing I'd ever

done in my life. Because at the same time, I had to keep up with my studies at the university, stay up nights trying to perfect my craft, and working part time at a beverage company in order to save money. The pay was not good, by the way. కికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికిక� I understood why my parents felt that way. They were concerned because writing is an unusual path to follow, especially for a woman in my culture. Regardless, I knew what I wanted and I wanted to be a writer.

I am the sort of person who believes that hard work and determination can get you anywhere in life. When I had saved up enough money, the first thing I did was to rush to a printing house with a lot of excitement. The manager of the printing house gave me this doubtful look and said, he wrote a novel, what's it about? I said, it's a coming of age story, exploring the life of a young girl

in an all-girl West African boarding school. He said, wow I would love to work with you but you see company law does not allow me to enter into contract with a woman without a male representative. I was confused I said and I said I wrote the book, and I have the money to pay for the cost of printing. So what are you talking about? First of all, there are no laws in Cameroon that prohibit women from representing themselves. There are certainly no rules that state that a woman needs a male representative in order to sign a contract. kwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa mwa written the book and saved the money. I needed a man to sign my contract for me. We argued for a while, and then I got angry, and I left.

And I kept saying to myself that if you did not want to work with me, then I was going to find another printing house that I was willing to. Having someone else's name on the contract that was supposed to be about my hard work would have taken away my sense of accomplishment. So, I pushed on, but two months before printing houses and four rejections later, I started to doubt myself. I started to wonder if hard work and determination was actually what it took to get anyone ahead in life. And I felt as if I was, I had overestimated myself. And then one day I confided in a friend of mine.

I said to him, this whole thing is giving me a headache. Maybe bringing in a man to sign the contract would be easier for me. He said, before you give up, I know this other printing house వారికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికిక� to withstand another no. But I decided to give it one last try. I had to take a six hour bus ride from the Northwest region to the Central region of Cameroon, in order to find this place. I arrived in the morning. It had rained and the road was wet and slippery, as I walked up to the building

where the printing house was. When I knocked, I heard someone say, come in. I pushed the door open and sitting behind the desk was a woman. I had gone there expecting to find a man, but when I was taken by, when I saw that the proprietor of the place was a woman, her office looked more like a living room. The place smelled like food, and there were three little children playing with toys on the floor, and she was yelling and trying to feed them.

I immediately started thinking to myself, oh God, she's a woman, maybe she'll help me. వారికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికికిక� daughter, what can I do for you?" I said, I wrote a novel and I want to print. She looked at me and said, he wrote a whole novel by yourself, but you're so young. I would love to work with you, but in order for that to happen, you know that you need a man to handle the contract for you, right? And then she went on to tell me that her husband had just passed away that is the reason why she was in charge of the business until her son was mature enough to take over. I was in tears when I said to this woman I said look you are a woman like me you of all people should understand why I am

reluctant to have someone else speak for me This is my dream and I want my name on my contract. I Had hoped to appeal to her emotionally But she still ended up saying no So I stood up and I walked to the door. I Don't remember a time in my life when I felt more defeated. I was seriously considering giving up for writing,

writing for good. I was tired of chasing a dream that clearly wasn't going to happen for me. And then this woman said, "'Zavier, come back.' I came back and I sat across from her. She gave me this intense look kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa kwa said, we have never signed a contract with a woman before, but I will make an exception for you. It took me a while to digest her meaning, and when I did, I was filled with all these emotions that made me smile and cry at the same time. I could not believe that it was finally happening. I honestly cannot remember anything the woman said after that. My hands were

shaking when she reached into a draw and brought out a printing contract for me to fill out and sign. I know that my story does not compare to signing a book deal with a known publisher. But for someone like me, considering where I grew up, signing that printing contract was a first big step for me. That woman's decision to go against company rules, just to give me a chance when no one else would, taught me never to give up. Her actions taught me that in addition to hard work and determination, that we all need a hand every now and then. My parents still don't get it.

But recently they stumbled across positive reviews of my novel and they seemed proud. This was six years ago and that woman's son runs the printing house now and I am happy to say that he now works with male and female writers and that the rules and traditions are changing. Slowly but surely more women writers have a chance. Thank you. Music Teji Zavir is a Cameroonian writer and gender activist. Almost 2,000 copies of Zavir's first book, Fabiola, have been printed. And now she's working on a collection of true stories of women and girls

with a fellow storyteller from the Moth Global Community Workshop. How cool is that? The plan is to compare the challenges faced by women and girls across the African continent. To find out more about Xavier's work, head to themoth.org. Naya Abernathy is our last storyteller in this hour. She shared this at an open mic story slam in Washington, DC, where we partner with public radio station WAMU. The theme of the night was love hurts, and she took the theme literally.

And a note of caution, if descriptions of childbirth might bother you, come back to us in a few minutes. Here's Naya, live at the Moth. So, who do you think gets lied to the most? I'm gonna tell you who gets lied to the most. Pregnant women get lied to the most. I was told, you're gonna love being pregnant, they said. It's gonna be amazing, they said.

You're gonna forget all about all the feels of giving birth, they said, and I tell you, they lied. I was a little more than nine months pregnant, and I was miserable, like in an inhuman way, never felt that miserable in my life. And if I had the ability, I literally would have reached into my body and pulled my child out because I was ready to not be pregnant.

We had done all the things. I'd read the book about, I don't even remember what it's called, something about birthing naturally, basically telling you you could do anything. I read this book and I thought I could give birth in the top of a tree if I had to, by myself. I am awesome, I'm a woman, I'm amazing. I was ready to kick labor and delivery in a teeth.

And my due date came and I went to my doctor because my due date fell on my doctor date and I was like, tell me, because I had been waiting. I actually was waiting at like 36 weeks when they were like, well, you can have her anytime. I'm like, can I have her now? Is that possible? So I go to my doctor and I'm like, and she's like, you're like half a centimeter. I'm like, you know, don't tell, I don't want to talk to you.

I don't want to talk to you anymore. So my wonderful mother was visiting me and I was like rolling on the medicine ball because I was so uncomfortable. And she was like, why don't we go get a massage? I'm like, fine. The wonderful man who gave me a massage, she said, you're pregnant. When do you do? I was like two days ago and he was like, I'm going to massage you in all the ways that tell us not to massage pregnant women. I'm like,

God bless you. And that night, I went into labor and I was ready. I was like, I've read the books and I watched the videos and I talked to all the ladies and I read all the right labor and I was ready. I was like, I've read the books and I watched the videos and I talked to all the ladies and I read all the right blogs. And I know that you're supposed to breathe this way and you're supposed to stand. And my husband was my coach and he was like, rocking with me and rolling with me.

And I was good. Like I got in the bath when we got to the hospital. I waited at labor at home. I did all the things right. And I'm like, I'm gonna make it. This is awesome. I was like, and I'm gonna go all natural. Bump the the drugs don't nobody know drugs. I could get birth in a tree I don't need drugs

And I was doing all right I was you know, I was you know, I was rolling I said they One of the things they tell you is you you feel the contractions a wave and you just write, ride the wave of the contractions. And I did that for the first time many hours and I'm like, yeah, it's good. It's all right. It's good. It's fine. And then I hit transition. And if you've ever given birth, when you hit transition, that's right, girl, who said it?

You better... I need to throw a handkerchief, because you better preach. It changes. I was like, I'm good. We're gonna do this. His baby's gonna come out. No drugs.

Nothing. I hit transition. I said, oh, that's why you asked for drugs. That's why. Okay, I understand. And, I mean, I was so ready to meet my child. We didn't find out where there was board. Girl, I didn't know who I was meeting. I was so excited. I was, oh, I just can't, just want this baby to come. I'm so excited.

So I'm going and going and I hit transition and I've been cool, right? Like, I've been like, all right, I'm just gonna walk around the room. I hit transition. I'm grabbing onto the bed. I'm rolling around on my back and on my side. My eyes are bulging, and I literally look at my doctor, and I'm like, make it stop! Please, just make it stop! I really thought I had things together, but... So, after a lot of pain, pushing, and tearing, I got to hold this little child who completely changed my life.

It really is like having your heart walk on the outside of your body. And I remember right after while my doctor is stitching me up, I looked at my mother and I said, if I ever tell you I want to do this again, remind me of how I feel right now. Because I'm not doing this ever, ever again. And I made it a point to remember the pain, because I don't care what them ladies say, you're going to remember this, I'm going to remember. But I have forgotten.

And though that hurt, the love of the second love of my life after my husband is so worth it. Worth it enough that I'm crazy enough to be thinking about doing it again. That was Naya Abernathy. Naya is founder of the Dignity Effect, where she helps people build a healthy emotional legacy through storytelling, coaching, and workshops. She lives in Atlanta with her family, and she says she feels infinitely more powerful after giving birth. At the time of this recording, Naya's daughter was three and expecting her little brother to be born any day. You can find a photo of Naya and her family at the Moth.org. So in closing, in this hour, all about women and power, we at the Moth want everyone to be part of the conversation

around gender equality, not just women. Together, we can change the story. So that's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. Your host this hour with Sarah Austin-Genesse. Sarah also directed the stories in the show with additional coaching in the Moth Community program by Larry Rosen. The rest of the Moth's directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson and Meg Bowles, production support from Emily Couch.

The Moth would also like to thank the Ford Foundation and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation for their support of the Moth's global community program. Moth Stories are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift, other music in this hour from Dave Douglas, Ngu Baga Yoku, Blue Dot, and Michael Hedges.

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. 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.