The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Underpinning

Episode Date: January 4, 2022

In this hour, stories of tradition, codes, regulations — and breaking them wide open. A foul-mouthed boater, a long-forgotten toy car, and a foray to Florida. This episode is hosted by Moth Senior Director Meg Bowles. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Meg Bowles Storytellers: Michael Steinberg, Sam James, Frimet Goldberger

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 Meg Bulls and in this hour we bring you three stories of history and tradition, or more specifically the ways people are often restricted

by these legacies, especially when they're dictated by law. Attorney Michael Steinberg told this first story at an evening we produced at St. Anne's and the Holy Trinity Church in Brooklyn, New York. Here's Michael Steinberg told this first story at an evening we produced at St. Anne's and the Holy Trinity Church in Brooklyn, New York. Here's Michael Steinberg, live at the mall. In 1997, I was appointed legal director of the ACLU of Michigan. It was the honor of my life, but I had considerable anxiety about whether I was up to the task. You see, I view the ACLU as being the organization responsible for keeping our country true to its stated values of freedom and equality and democracy.

And it was a tall order, and there's a lot of pressure. Plus it seemed like the ACLU legal directors of other state affiliates were all graduates of Harvard or Yale Law School and then he had already argued cases in the US Supreme Court. Me, I had been a high school teacher and a soccer and basketball coach and I did a little political organizing before I went been a high school teacher and a soccer and basketball coach, and I did a little political organizing before I went to a state law school and started a very small private practice, and I had no idea how it ever matched the accomplishments of my colleagues. My worst fear was I would do something stupid, And they'd laugh at that imposter in Michigan, but being the coach that I was I decided to give myself a pep talk and I said Steinberg you may not have the fancy credentials of your colleagues, but there's nobody

Nobody who works harder than you or cares more about social justice than you, and sure you're going to be working around the clock for little pay, and you're not going to have any fun. But this is your opportunity of a lifetime to make a difference. So stop lining and get in there and kick some civil liberties butt. And I said, OK, coach, put me in. I'm ready. And everything went great for the first year. I was defending affirmative action at the university.

Michigan in the case that eventually went to the US Supreme Court. I was fighting for racial justice and women's rights, and LGBT rights and immigrant rights, and everything was going as planned until in the summer of 1998, I get a call from this guy who says his name is Timothy Boomer. And he wants our help because he was charged with a crime for swearing. And I roll my eyes and I said,

this is not why I came to the ACLU. But he insisted on telling the story and he was canoeing down a river in northern Michigan when his canoe hit a rock and he capsized and his friends were laughing at him and he was playfully splashing them and he admitted to using some choice words. And then out of the blue blue another canoe comes paddling up and it's a cop and he issues him a ticket for swearing in front of women and children. At this point I thought the call was a practical joke and it wouldn't have been the first time that France had called up and pretending like they wanted my help.

But he seemed serious, so I said, okay, Mr. Boomer, somebody will be back and touch with you. And when I hung up, I did some quick research and sure enough, on the book Still in Michigan, was a law from the 1890s that made it a misdemeanor punishable by up to 90 days in jail for using improper, indecent, or immoral language in the presence of women or children. And I called Boomer back and I said, this is outrageous. We're going to make these criminal charges go away. And I tell myself, we're going to make him go away quickly so I can get back

to my real cases. I call up the prosecutor and I said, what are you doing, charging this man with this ancient law that's clearly unconstitutional? I'm with the ACLU and we like you to dismiss the charge. He said, the ACLU, I've never gotten a call from the ACLU before. I'm sorry, we can't dismiss the charges, but we'll make Boomer deal. All he has to do is plead guilty and not get in trouble again for a year and we'll have the judge dismiss the case.

So I call Boomer up and mind you, when I call potential clients, I'm usually urging them to stand on their principles and fight the power, but this was a different case. I say, Mr. Boomer, this sounds like a pretty good deal. You can be done with this fiasco and you won't run the risk of having a criminal conviction following you around for the rest of your life. Boomer pauses for a minute, and he decided to stand on his principles, and he said, let's fight this thing! And I'm stuck representing him. So, I call up a volunteer lawyer, one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the state, and luckily he readily agreed to help, because I thought he would take care of

most of the work, and I could focus on my important cases, and maybe the case would go away quietly. But then the media got wind of the case, and it began to blow up. I had been used to doing interviews with local press about ACLU cases, but this case instantly became a national sensation. And mainly I think because they dubbed Timothy Boomer the Cussing Canoas. So I'm working away one day and I get a call from MSNBC. So I'm working away one day and I get a call from MSNBC and they want me to come down to this studio in Detroit late that afternoon to do a live show about the Custon, Canewis

case. And I said, I'm sorry, I took the van pool to work today. And if I come down to do the interview, I won't be able to get home. And they said, oh, don't worry. And they sent a stretch limousine to pick me up. I had never been in a limousine before. They whisked me down to the studio.

They put powder on my face so it wouldn't shine. They miked me up. The bright lights come on. And all of a sudden, I'm on national television. And I'm nervous at first, but I begin to hit my stride, and I talk about how un-American it is to have speech police lurking in the bushes. And how dangerous it is to have the state

criminalize a whole range of speech that's commonly used by most Americans. And the interview went well, but the press kept calling. National Public Radio, the New York Times, my mom called me and she said, hey, I heard you talking about the Custon Canewis case on the BBC. But then I started getting calls from other state ACLU legal directors. And they said, what are you doing in Michigan? I'm getting calls from people in my state, they say, that want me to represent them on swearing cases and who the hell is the cousin Canua? And it was my worst nightmare come true.

I felt like I was an embarrassment to the ACLU, to my colleagues, but I didn't have much choice because we had already committed to Boomer and we had an ethical duty to continue. And besides, the media storm began to subside. Until I get a call from an attorney from court TV. And he says court TV wants to cover the case from gavill to gavill.

And he just wanted to make sure that I didn't have an objection to his motion to bring TV cameras into the courtroom. And I thought, of course I have an objection to his motion to bring TV cameras into the courtroom. And I thought, of course I have an objection. This case is ruining my life. But I told him the ACLU as an organization that treasures freedom of the press and transparency does not have an objection. And so on June 10th, 1999, with considerable dread, I walk with Timothy Boomer and our volunteer attorney

into the so-called courtroom for the trial of the Cossin Canoas. Despite thinking that this is the most absurd case in the history of the country, I had to protect and air of seriousness because the judge and the jury was taking the case seriously and the fate of our clients lay in their hands. The trial started out great until the prosecutor decided to call his key witness. It was a man who was canoeing with his wife and child near Boomer on that faithful dead.

And eventually he asked the witness, okay, sir, what did Mr. Boomer say when he fell out of the canoe? And the man who had been very shy up to that point looked up at the judge and he said, your honor, I can't say those words, I'm a Christian man. And the judge looked back at him and said, it's gonna be okay, sir. I'm sorry, but you don't have any choice. You're under oath, and you must tell us what Mr. Boomer said when he fell out of the canoe. So this supposed shy man, without being prompted, decides to stand up in the witness stand.

And he starts screaming at the top of his lungs. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. And the prosecutor says, okay, sir, okay, sir, you can sit down now. How many times did Mr. Boomer use that word? 50 to 75 times. At this point, I couldn't take it any longer. And it was biting my hand as hard as I could to prevent me from bursting out and laughter. And Core TV was eating it up.

Every commercial on Core TV for the next week was a replay of this man standing up in the witness stand and screaming, bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep. Unfortunately, based on that testimony, it didn't take long for the jury to find boomer guilty of using improper language, and the judge actually sent and sent him to four days in jail. We appeal, and the Michigan Court of Appeals in the unanimous published decision struck down

the improper language law as unconstitutional and reversed the conviction, and the case called people of the state of Michigan versus Boomer. And rather than being the laughing stock of the ACLU, we actually started a trend and other state ACLU legal directors started getting involved in these cases until prosecutors stopped abusing their power and charging people with a crime for swearing. In the end, Mr. Boomer was thrilled that he decided

to stand on his principles and didn't plead guilty to an unconstitutional law. And me, I learned that not only can you defend constitutional rights, but you can have a fucking good time doing it. University of Michigan Law School, where he's the founding director of a legal clinic called the Civil Rights Litigation Initiative. Michael says the vast majority of the cases he worked on at the ACLU raised much more serious and weighty issues than the Cussing Canewis case. Though he did want successfully represent a man who was arrested for flipping off a

police officer. He called that the middle finger case. Michael still works with the ACLU of Michigan as a volunteer attorney, but as an educator, he says that he feels like he's back where he's supposed to be. He takes great pride in preparing the next generation of civil rights attorneys and social justice advocates. You can see a picture of Michael and Timothy Boomer, aka the Cussing Canewist, on our website, themoth.org. Coming up, a story of the world's worst time capsule 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 Meg Bulls. Our next story comes from Samuel James. Samuel is a composer, musician, and journalist writing about racial issues from one of the whitest states in America, Maine. His great grandfather was a musician born into slavery. His grandfather, a blues guitarist. His father, a renowned jazz pianist, music and storytelling are deeply entrenched in his DNA. Samuel traveled to New York City

and shared this story live at Alice Telly Hall at Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts. Here's Samuel James. My parents used to drop me off at my grandmother's house every Friday afternoon. Grammy was a tall, regal woman. She stood five foot ten with ballerina posture, even into her seventies. And she kept her hair in that semi-short curly style popular amongst grandmothers. I'd spend the night on Fridays and she would let me stay up late and watch our favorite show, The Dukes of Hazard.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. It's good. She even gave me a little car that I would drive through the air and mimic the sounds of its Dixie car horn. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. My car was not anything like the car from the show. The car from the show was called the General Lee. And it was bright orange.

It had 01 racing numbers on its doors. And its entire roof was one Confederate flag. My car, my little General Lee, was one solid color, Carnation Pink. It was a hollow shell made from a mold that had no moving parts, but to my small child's mind, it was exactly the same. So every Saturday morning, she would bring me back to my parents' apartment and she would come in, we'd all have breakfast together and she would get up to leave and I would start to cry.

And she would come over, make sure I had that little pink general leave and she'd say, hang on to this, take good care of it, and I'll see you on the weekend. We can stay up late and watch our favorite show and she would leave. And then 24 hours would go by and I would have lost that car. Come Friday I would get to Grammys and somehow she would have found it and I would have it in my hand ready for when our favorite show came on. This little pink generally is in all of my memories of Grammy, including the time that I lost it under her couch, and I jam my arm under to get it, and got my arm stuck.

And really freaked out. But then along long comes Grammy, with a smile, and one arm, lifting up the edge of the couch, saving the day. I grabbed that thing like it was Indiana Jones's hat. And then there was the time that I was simulating one of the general Lee's famous jumps by throwing this car across the room. We're at landed perfectly.

Between Grammys left eye and her glasses. Then there was the time that I was five years old, and I was laying on my stomach on the floor between my parents' kitchen and living room. And Grammy and my parents were having breakfast at the table. Grammy liked to have a little sip of whiskey in the morning. She said, a little sip. LAUGHTER

She took a little bite of banana. She started to say something, and then she fell backwards out of her chair. And my father jumped up and he caught her. And he later on the floor and I ran over and her glasses had fallen off and she looked so strange without her glasses had fallen off and she looked so strange without a glasses and her mouth was open and her eyes were wide but they had rolled back so they were entirely white and eyes start screaming.

And my mother picks me up and she brings me to the other side of the room and she has the phone cradled in her ear and she's me to the other side of the room. She has the phone cradled in her ear and she's talking to 911. But the ambulance did not arrive in time. Grammy willed her house to my mother. And we all moved in. And this was a very old, old house.

It was built by Grammymys, father, who had been a veteran of the Spanish American War. Everybody who'd ever lived here was still kind of there. You open up this closet, and there'll be threadbare monogrammed uniforms. And in this drawer is old sepia-tone photographs of people forgotten to time. And in this drawer, see old rusted tools

probably used to build this house. When my mother died, she left the house to me. But I moved away in my father's state. And I think these ghosts comforted him, because he'd ever changed anything about the house. Every time I would come to visit it was the same. Our visits were almost always the same. I would bring a guitar and he would sit in front of the piano and we'd trade songs and

we'd swap stories and we'd sing old songs and we'd swap stories. And on and on until I would go home. But this one particular day, he gets up to get a glass of water and I get nostalgic and I go up to my old room. My old room also had not changed. My very same pretentious music and movie posters were still on the exact same walls that were painted the exact same color I painted them in high school. Black. The bed was still in the same place. Now this had been Grammy's room before it had been mine and the bed frame had been

Grammy's. And it was the same white and gold matching set from Sears as the dresser that was also still there. And opening the drawers to the dresser inside, you'll find Grammys jewelry and old letters and hundreds and hundreds of photographs, at least a hundred of which are of her and I, and they perfectly reflect my memory of Grammy. And I'm taking right back to this perfect moment of Grammy joy. She also has a closet. Now, I never spent very much time in this closet because it always felt like Grammys, but this particular day I walk up and

It smells Musty and there's cobwebs and there's old coats hanging up and my grandfather's tuxedo and Grammys wedding gown and then on the floor This is a walking closet. It's built under one of the eaves So you kind of have to duck down if I get to go all the way in There's a plastic bag, and it's an old, biodegrading plastic bag. But it's the only plastic in this room,

so I walk in to look at it. And as soon as I set foot in here, I feel like a kid again. But like when you're a kid and you're gonna get caught. Like any minute, someone's gonna come around the corner and be like, hey, what are you doing? And kneel down and I open this bag and inside this bag

is probably 150 little pink general leads. Right, right, right, I'm with you, right? It's like somebody gave me the setup for the joke, and then waited 20 years to give me the punchline. I'm just laughing, I thought that like, she had found the one singular perfect toy for only singularly me. She was probably at a church rumored sale and saw a bag of pink cars for a dollar and thought kids lose stuff. So I grabbed this bag in full Grammy join, I run downstairs and I'm like, Dad, Dad, do

you remember the little pink general league? Cause here's 150 of them. And he does remember them. But there is no Grammy joy for him. There is he's not laughing, he's not smiling. He looks half disappointed and half confused. And he begins to tell me how his relationship with Grammy had been very different than my own. Grammy's family has been in New England as long as there has been in New England. She was a pillar of her community, she was a sheriff's widow and she was the very proud and protective white

mother of a white daughter who had brought home and married and had a child with a big southern black man. She was never forthright in her expression of her opinion of my father's race, but she let him know in other ways, in more passive aggressive ways. For example, she would introduce his small black child, me, to a television show that whitewashed and glorified and romanticized racist symbolism of the South. She would go a step further by encouraging that same black child to run around his house literally singing

Dixie and she did this full well knowing exactly how he felt about it. And so there I am standing there with this nostalgic grin fading from my face, holding the world's worst time capsule. Thinking about how she had found the one perfect singular toy, just for only me, but it hadn't even been for me. And then my father laughs just this smallest amount. And he explains how every Saturday night he would wait until my mother was asleep and until I was asleep. And he would come into my room. And he'd take the little pink general into the kitchen and he would throw it into the trash. So I take this bag a little pink general, he's back up to Grammy's closet and I put it back

where I found it. And I stop and I look at those pictures of her and I again. And they still reflect every grandmother's love for her grandchild. It's still true. But I also know that taking through the house a little more we'll find you a very gold water campaign pin and a little personal size Confederate flag. She was a loving grandmother there's no doubt about that it's absolutely true but she was also a cruel person who would manipulate her own grandchild in order to make his

father suffer for their race. Both things are true. I'm standing there thinking about how it's easy to love a child while I am the exact same size and shape and color as my father and I move through the world how he did and it reacts to me how it reacted to him. I went back downstairs and we played some more songs, but we didn't talk about Grammy ever again. About 10 years after this, my father died and I went back through the house. And it was still the same. The closet still had those threadbare uniforms, and the drawers still had the sepia-tone photos

and the old rusty tools. And up in my old room, those photos of Grammy and I were still in that dresser. And the closet still had my grandfather's tuxedo and her wedding gown. But that bag, a little pink generalize, was nowhere to be found. Thank you. That was Samuel James. You can find links to his writing and music, which you're listening to right now, on our website.

His father, Mike DeFiett, died on December 30, 2016, three days after his 71st birthday, and Samuel said it was many months before he was able to go back to the house. When he finally did, he said it felt strange, like a black hole. All the evidence of his father's existence was still there. A blanket tossed over the back of the couch like he just got up from a nap. All his stuff was still there, but not him. All these years later, Samuel is still going through the house, cleaning it out, trying to determine the value of things, not monetary value, but emotional.

He says that all this stuff meant something to somebody at one time, and now he's just trying to figure out what it all means to him. He says he'll probably keep holding on to the house because the ghosts of his family are still there, and they're loud. Part of why I love Samuel's story is the way it unravels and reveals how perception changes. How when we're young, we have this childlike understanding of things, but as we grow older, we fill in the blanks

and realize how incomplete that understanding was. Like family, relationships, issues of race, it's complicated. Samuel shared this story in several cities across the US and without fail, there was always someone who would come up and say, but your grandmother would have loved you now, right? You forgiven her or your father forgave her, right? There was this tendency, this desire to center his grandmother. They wanted the story to be about white redemption. When actually it's a testament to just how difficult racial issues are in America, it's complex, it's hard.

For Samuel, the story is more about black resilience and the weight of racism. And who carries that weight? And how easily it's hidden in plain sight. Redemption, forgiveness, exoneration is not the conclusion. It's about seeing and acknowledging the truth. Coming up, breaking the confines of tradition at a water park in Florida when the Moth Radio continues. The Malth 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 Meg Bulls. Our next storyteller from at Goldberger grew up in a community bound by history and religious doctrine. She's a writer, and while sharing her stories has been a freeing experience for her, Fremet Goldberger grew up in a community bound by history and religious doctrine. She's a writer, and while sharing her stories has been a freeing experience for her, it's also come with a lot of inner conflict. Fremet told her story at an evening we produced in partnership with 3C DC at the Anderson Theatre Memorial Hall in Cincinnati, Ohio. Here's Fremet Goldberger, live at the mosque. So I'm a Hasidic woman from one of the most pious Hasidic Jewish communities in upstate

New York. Growing up, all forms of secular influences were strictly verboten, TVs, movies, the internet, newspapers. We were expected to keep the highest standards of modesty. I wore shirts that covered my elbows, collarbone, skirts covering my knees, and thick, thick stockings from the age of three. This was the uniform of my childhood and my people. I knew of nothing else and I cared for nothing else. When I would catch a glimpse of someone in shorts and a tank top, I would think,

ew, why would you want to expose your private parts? Snias or modesty was a concept so well ingrained in our minds and in our existence that we couldn't fathom why anyone would want to dress and eat differently. And I was a good girl, a wide eyed Haseric Adelmedel, but I didn't always want to be, and I had a few transgressions under my belt,

like the time a friend and I went to Walmart and filled our bins with trashy romance novels. And I would hide them between my bed spring mattress, and my friend and I would devour these titillating tails, as if we were breaking the Yom Kippur fast. Marriage was my ticket to freedom, away from the prying eyes of parents and matchmakers. I met my husband for the first time in my parents' dining room. I was 17 and pining for a strapping man to fulfill my norroroberts' inspired dreams.

He was 21 and just trying to clear the way for his two younger siblings waiting online. They couldn't get married before he did, as is the custom in the Hasidic community. My mother thought it unsuitable for her young good girl to marry an older boy, but I begged and cajoled and she finally relented and agreed to this shiddakh or arranged match.

I had heard through the grapevine of Vientus that he wasn't in Yashiva full-time that he smoked and he drove. I at also heard that he moonlighted as a theater goer and that to me was downright sexy. So for the Bixot or the half-hour ten-hour meeting between a prospective bride and groom, we were ushered into my childhood playroom. And I broke the ice by asking him about his family, the number of children and grandchildren, even though I knew them quite well.

His sister was my classmate. His other sister is married to my first cousin. My brother is married to my first cousin. My brother is married to his first cousin. And two of my sisters are married to two of his other first cousin. It's a doozy. So after a while, my mother pokes her head in and she's like, no, did you make a decision? Now there were trays of cakes lined up on the kitchen counter, cakes that I had baked that day for a potential engagement party, and no one wanted to see them go to waste.

And there was no good reason for either one of us to say no, but I desperately wanted confirmation that he was indeed dabbling in secular matters. So when my mother left, I boldly asked him if he listened to the radio. And he blushed, and something about his blushing confirmed it for me. I knew then and there that he was my knight in shining side curls.

LAUGHTER We were not supposed to speak during our engagement, but he further confirmed his renegade status when he sent his phone numbers scribbled on a note through mutual acquaintance. And I would call him every Thursday evening, hiding behind the clothes in my closet, so my mother wouldn't over here. We were married on a cold December evening, hiding behind the clothes in my closet so my mother wouldn't over here.

We were married on a cold December evening, the first snow of the season blanketing the streets. The next morning, my mother showed up to shave my head, all of it, down to a stubble. As is the custom in this very stringent Hasidic community, everyone did it. All married women were required to shave their heads monthly for the duration of their marriage. And we settled into married life for as best as you can settle in as two strangers.

And after three days, I decided it was time my husband knew me better. So I bebecked our little kitchen table in this dollhouse size apartment, and I whipped out a two by two inch DVD screen. The next day, he won up to me with a box of Yankees Perfenelea, and a computer that he kept hidden in his parents' home. We were a match made in heaven, except we were practical strangers.

We watched movies, and we went to the library every Friday afternoon, and we would have to look right and left and back before making a beeline for the buckbuster door or the library door, because no one could see us heretics. And after a while, about two to three months, we decided it was time to take our rebellion on the road. My husband suggested Florida, and this place he had heard of, called Wedden Wild Water Park. wild water park. Now, I had never been to the beach.

I had never been to a water park. Never really traveled before and certainly never flown on a plane. So you can imagine I was excited. In preparation for this trip, we went shopping. I owned a bathing suit, and this bathing suit was called a Shvimklaid. It's the kind of garment I imagine Mother Teresa would wear, when and if she allowed herself a dip in the water. This Shvimklaid hats sleeves, and it had a skirt reaching down to my knees and I knew it was unsuitable for a water park.

So we went shopping. I can still feel my heart buckle when I think of the way we crisscross those bathing suit racks at Walmart and darted every time we saw a familiar Hasidic face. They all looked equally immotic to me. My husband picked up this backless one piece. And I am in this cramped woman's dressing room imagining a thousand eyes peering in from under the door slit. And I strip out of my clothes and I pull on this bathing suit that simultaneously reminds me of hell and also of a delicious piece of vodka. And I turn to the mirror and I am seeing my beer arms and beer legs full length, possibly for the first time. And this backless bathing suit has a sun rising from the Nether regions.

Which kind of sounds like a metaphor for my life. And I look at myself in the mirror, and I imagine that this is what it must feel like to be on the covers of one of the magazines, I peruse. I am young. I am perky in all the right places and I know it. We were giddy for days leading up to the strip.

We told everyone about this strip and we told no one about this strip. My mother called a few days prior to Wyshah's farewell and we packed warm clothes. Do we know that it's warm in Florida and I laughed? She had no idea what we were up to. So we landed in Orlando and we visit Universal and Disney and we missed all popular cultural references. I mean, I marveled at this thing that was parts by her part human.

We were so sheltered. We felt like aliens walking around in those parks, except I can assure you we did not know what aliens were back then. And I am, then came the big day, wet and wild water park. I'm wearing a bathing suit for the first time. We are newly weds, fair skinned, who had never used sunscreen before. I mean bodies covered from head to toe literally have no use from sunscreen. And on my head I am wearing a chillinth wig with a Yankee sun visor, securing it. My husband was a fan, and of course that meant I was too, even though I'd never heard of baseball before I hope.

Some wandering around on my husband's tail, awkling, this bevy of bikini clatchixes in all their tanned glory. And I keep my arms on my chest, and alternating between that and my thighs and knees and elbows until I realize I am practically in the nude and I just walk around in a self-conscious days. My discomfort was so palpable, a constant reminder of the griefveston I was committing. I felt like everyone around me could see right through my shame. I might as well have been curtsy in front of the grand rabbi.

It felt so wrong to expose all these parts of my body that I was taught to keep hidden, and yet, yet it felt so right and so darn liberating. So we make our way through the park and up the tallest ride in the park down a winding tube into a shallow pool. And I am having the time of my life. And as I get into the shallow pool, and I bob my head out of the water, I feel a muggy breeze. And I turn around to the guy

man in the pool and he's holding up my wig with a limping soundifier. And he's like, man, man, did you lose this? I was moritified. But more than that, I was afraid. I feared that someone would recognize me and report me back home to the authorities. And before you know it, my mother knows and my neighbor's Bubby knows and my mother's heart is broken and my good girl facades stripped from me

and my future children won't be accepted into the only school in town. I risked losing a lot. So I grabbed my wig and visor and I start heading out of the pool when I feel eyes on me. And I turn around and they're pitiful eyes. They must have thought poor woman, poor poor woman with cancer. I was relieved. They didn't know me. Cancer sounded plausible. And I'd

rather they believe I have cancer than know my shame. That way at least I can hide my shame behind their pity. So I grabbed my wig and visor and I head out of the pool and I'm both mortified but kind of also owning my pity and my husband is completely traumatized and will leave the park soon after and thankfully no one back home did find out. We've been married for 16 years, nearly half of our lives. We just celebrated our 16th wedding anniversary last December. Thank you. Thank you.

We are no longer a Hasidic. We moved out of the community a little over a decade ago with our two children. And what a decade it's been. It's been a decade of heartache, both for us and for our families. And it's been a decade of loss, loss of a community of people, a lifestyle. The only life we ever knew and the only life we were taught was worth living. And we've made every effort along the way to be respectful of our families, their customs,

and their traditions. And even though I know that my mother doesn't understand my choices and she doesn't appreciate the life I live and that I have veered from her beaten path, she has come a long way in learning to accept me. the life I live and that I have veered from her beaten path. She has come a long way in learning to accept me. And for that, I love her dearly. I no longer cover my hair with someone else's natural hair.

I am not obligated to wear long sleeves or skirts reaching my knees. I am also no longer obligated to be a Yankees fan. My son stepped into those shoes and we've returned to Orlando several times since, but I can never bring myself to go back to that park where I imagine a thousand eyes are still steering at my bald head. Thank you. For Met Goldberger is an award-winning writer and investigative journalist. For Met has written a lot about growing up in an insular, hecetic community. She's currently

working on her first novel, which she jokingly says you can look for on bookshelves in 2080. After Firmett shared her story, she talked with Moth producer Emily Couch about what it was like to leave her community. They were confused, understandably. My mother asked what's wrong with this community, why do you have to leave? Whenever I wanted to do something that was outside the norm, it was always my mother that gave me pause. Like, should I do it? I'm gonna break her heart.

Even now, when I write and I stand up on stage and I'm always thinking on my mother, I think, this woman does not deserve it. She did her best and she's been through so much in life and I think it's my Jewish guilt speaking. Are you still in touch with your mother and the rest of your family? Very much so, yeah. But in the past few years, I have strengthened my bonds

with my sisters and my mother. And we have really made every effort to be respectful of them. And they've come to accept us. But as time goes on, I am constantly revealing another part of me that they didn't know before. And I find that they are okay with it. Like I met my sister.

We had a my nieces wedding in Montreal. And everyone was so surprised that I traveled all the way there to attend the wedding. But I wanted to be a part of it. And in between the celebrations, the wedding, but I wanted to be a part of it. And in between the celebrations, the wedding, and we went, we just went on a few outings, my husband and I, with the children, and we were at the old Montreal court for a fabulous boat ride. It was through the records. It was so fun. And of course, I'm wearing shorts, you know, and when I come out I change into my jeans, a short sleeve shirt and hair, like regular clothes, right?

And my son comes to the room and he's like, your sister is here. And I freaked out because they have never seen me in pants in short sleeve shirt and my hair and I am taking a breath and I'm going to face them. There's no hiding. I can't stay in this little cramp, you know, toilet. So, so I exit and there she is with her grandchildren and her husband and they're just smiling at me, and they're like, hi, oh, you're here. And it took me a moment. I'm like, oh my goodness, they're totally fine with it. Nothing happened. It's really nice that you have that sort of like neutral respect and understanding. It's wonderful. Yeah, sometimes I say, you know, my family is special, or my mother is special for that. But then I think, you know, my family is special or my mother is special for that. But then I think, you know, isn't that what it should be?

That was Fremet Goldberger talking with Moth producer Emily Kouch. Fremet says that it's been a long, exhausting path to where she and her family are today. Although she's confident that she made the right decision, she often wonders whether the trade-off was worth it. She says despite best efforts to reconnect, she will always be on the outside looking in. You can see a picture of Firmett on that fateful day at Wet and Wild Water Park on the Moth.org. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us again next time for the Moth Radio Hour. Your host this hour was Meg Boles, Meg directed the stories in the show along with Larry Rosen.

The rest of the most directorial staff includes Katherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin, Janessa, and Jennifer Hickson, production support from Emily Kouch. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift Other Music in this hour from Blue Dot Sessions, Samuel James, and Oscar Schuster. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Mothradio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media and Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Mothradio 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 TheMawth.org.