The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: When the World Shifts

Episode Date: May 24, 2022

In this hour, stories of seismic changes and subtle shifts—and the aftershocks left in their path. New perspectives on faith, family, and one's self. This episode is hosted by Brandon Grant, Director of Marketing at The Moth. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Brandon Grant Marlon James discovers his talent as a junior exorcist. Hannah Brennan learns there is wisdom in her body. While going through a divorce, Tricia Rose Burt finds comfort in her art. Kim Sykes recalls growing up in New Orleans with a complicated father.

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 Brandon Grant from The Moth, and I'll be your host this time.

In this hour, we bring you four stories about seismic moments and subtle shifts. An expectant mother finds power in trusting her body. A young artist follows her heart through divorce. A woman recalls the impact of a hurricane. And in our first story, a claimed Jamaican author Marlon James reflects on his time as a junior exorcist. A quick note, there is some reference to sexual awakening in this story. Marlon told this at a mock main stage in St. Paul where we partner with Minnesota

Public Radio. Here's Marlon James, live at the mouth. So it's teenage Christian summer camp. But I'm not the I'm not a camper, I'm the camp marshal. And what that usually meant was that whenever there were congregations of people of different genital, genitalia, I would show up at a ruler and just go, make space for Jesus. And my genius was that I could appear anywhere. If somebody with male genitalia ended up anywhere near someone with female genitalia,

and then move within 11 inches of each other, I should have in between an element, make space for Jesus. And I was pretty good at this, but it wasn't until one service where I realized what my true talent was. It was six o'clock, it was a second service, it was two services because we were a devote like that.

And in the middle of church, in the middle of this service, a 14-year-old girl, 14-year-old girl, starts screaming. She's screaming, she's hollering, she's running around the church. If you know anything about my church, that is normal behavior. But she's screaming at a pretty high volume and the guest preacher who's from Texas, so I figure he knows his stuff. He comes towards her to touch her and she just yells and runs straight out of

the church. She dashes out of the church and And without even thinking, I dashed straight after her. And she collapses. She collapses to the ground and I catch her and I'm holding her down. And the pastor comes up and says, you know, bad, bad, a power of Jesus, I cast you out. And this is a 14 year old girl developed a strength of a linebacker.

And I am holding her down and he's praying and he's casting out demons and he's saying bad spirit of Jesus, I cast you out and she looks at me and goes, I'm not coming out. And before I could lose my shit. The pastor says, no, about the authority of Jesus, I cast the oath and he does some more authorizing and, and, and, Liz hands. And she squeal, she squeals, she screams, she shout. And then she just sort of collapses in my arms and opens her eyes and she looks straight at me and straight at the pastor. And she was fine. She was a 14-year-old girl again.

And with that, I became a junior exorcist. Now, there are things you need to know about demons. Demons don't possess you. They influence you. Most of the time, they can't read your thoughts. But most of the time, when they're talking, you think it's you. Most of the time they can't read your thoughts, but most of the time when they're talking you think it's you and demons don't need you to believe and I was very good as a junior exercist. I

I was the devil driving muscle and But even during that and and becoming really really good at this, there are always things that were plaguing me. And things I was struggling with. And it's two o'clock in the morning and you're on a website, you shouldn't be on. And you're, you know, I am having all these feelings and I'm having these things that I'm seeing and I'm seeing all these men and they're always naked and I'm thinking I'm having all these these struggles these demons and I'm thinking you know

I can't wrestle from all the sexual sense so it must be demons and There's this abundant life. I'm supposed to living in church and I'm not living it demons. And I am thinking of George Clooney and he's not wearing any clothes. It must be demons. And more than that, more than that, I realized something that I wanted to be a normal person so badly. Actually, that's not true. I didn't want to be a normal person at all.

I wanted to want it. I didn't want marriage and a family and kids. I wanted to want that. I didn't want to be acceptable. I wanted to want acceptance. I didn't want to wake up in the morning with my family and we're eating cherries, and I asked how's band practice. I wanted to want these things.

And I wanted to be normal so badly. It didn't care if I wasn't happy. And I got to the point where I realized, as a junior, exorcist that I needed to be exercised. So I called my best friend at a time who conveniently was a pastor. And I said, you know, I think I need to be delivered because in charismatic churches, we call them deliverances, not exorcism. I know you thought squeal like a pig.

But so I call, and my exorcism date was set up, and I headed to another church, because word couldn't get out that the exorcist was being exercised. And so I went to this other church, and there was a room, it was a small like 12 feet by 12 feet room, it was beige, there were small windows at the top, it looked like prison and I was thinking even at that point I can leave, I can go, I can get out of this space, nobody will know, nobody will care. And just when I'm thinking that, a man and a woman come in and they sit down and looking at them sitting down, made me look at the floor.

And on the floor were two big black garbage bags. And the man says to me, tell me about yourself. And I have a script when everybody, anybody asks me that, I go into how I love my dad, but I hate him. And we're not together, we're not close. And I've come to a certain point of acceptance of him

and I don't hate him. I just dislike him very much. And I was very, very pleased with this answer. I was sexually confused, dude, with daddy issues, like half of the audience here. And I was very satisfied with this answer. And then he said to me, tell me about your mother. And I had no, I froze. It never occurred to me at all to think about my mother.

And it just came all at once that everything I was living at that time, the lay I was living, the ways in which I was not being myself was all in this effort to never disappoint my mother. And I realized at that point, my entire life was built around the sham of not de-pleasing my mom. And I opened my mouth to say all of this and the scream came out.

And I couldn't stop screaming. I couldn't stop bawling. I was crying. I was shaking. And the two pastors immediately jumped up and started speaking tongues, I've never heard. And I started to cry and choke so much that I started to vomit and they grabbed the first garbage bag.

They were screaming, they were laying hands out sometimes and pulling hands off, and I just couldn't control myself. And I said, you know, if people knew the real me, you know what it would love me. And he was like, all love is in Christ. And that's a life from the pit of hell. And then I'd say, there is no life of the man in a church. You're all morons.

And he was like, that is a life from the pit of hell. And so on. And then I said, he sees men naked every time he prays. And that was the first time it was my voice. It was coming out to my mouth, but it was spoken in the third person. And that's when literally all hell broke loose. They grabbed me, they started to again,

purriently, hands, I am crying, I'm choking. And at one point, the woman who, up to this point, has not really said anything, looks at me and says, you have to cast them out. And two things hit me. One, as an exorcist, I'm usually the demon caster. So the idea of casting up my own demons made no sense. And the second thing is she said them.

He says, yes, you have many demons in you. You have to cast them out. And she led me in a sprayer and I went, you know, by the power of Jesus, I cast you out, by the power of Jesus, I cast you out, by the power of Jesus, I cast you out. And I said that eight times, because there were eight demons in me.

And afterwards, when it was all done, she just held my face in her arms, in her hands, and smiled. And the male pastor said, it's over. And he said, you know, you're free. You're going to go home now. And I want you to purify your life. I want you to not give the demons entryway. Because another thing about demons, once they leave you, they come back with seven.

And so I went home to purify my life. I got rid of TV, which was the first time I found it that my cable was canceled four years earlier, so that really wasn't very hard. And then it said also, get rid of that demon rock music. And that was horrible. But, you know, Patty Smith had to go. Elliot Smith, go.

Kirk Cobain, gone. Pearl Jam, they could stay. LAUGHTER And I felt really, I actually did feel pure. I felt pure, I felt cleansed. I, you know, I walked in my hand, hand held, head held high. I was really, I really actually did feel better.

And then the demons came back, lust and thoughts of sins and Jake Gyllenhaal, naked. And but something was different because one of the musicians But something was different because one of the musicians I did not throw away was David Bowie. And David Bowie has a song called Rock and Roll Suicide. And the really magical thing about that song is everything you hate about yourself when that song starts becomes everything you love about yourself when that song starts, becomes everything you love about yourself when that song ends.

And I realize something. Demons can't possess you, they influence you. Demons don't need you to believe. Do I believe in them? I did believe in them at a time. In the same way, I believe that Gabriel Garcia Marquez's realism is no magic. It's real.

And what something else was different, you know, I think, yeah, sure, maybe they're demons, but maybe you have a chemical imbalance, or maybe you're a boy who likes boys, or you're a girl who likes girls, or maybe you realize that biology isn't destiny. And maybe you realize like I did that, maybe the thing I needed to exercise for me was my church. Because, you know, normality in a lot of ways, you know, is a myth. And I was so obsessed with, you know, obsessed with being normal.

And I realized something. I realized something, and it hit me almost like a whisper, that maybe the reason you're not normal is that you're not here to do a normal thing. That one I learned in church. Thank you. That was Marlon James. Marlon is the author of several award-winning books, including The Book of Night Women,

A Brief History of Seven Killings, and Black Leopard Red Wolf. His newest novel is Moon Witch Spider King. As a fellow Jamaican who grew up in a pretty religious family, You're a rock and roll suicide. As a fellow Jamaican who grew up in a pretty religious family, Marlon's story brought back many memories from my childhood. I never felt at ease knowing I was different. It wasn't until I came to peace with who I was as a gay man that I started to feel less at odds with everything around me. My perspective shifted, which allowed me to step into the world as my true self. You got your head off, hang on love When I'm walking on the mic again Oh, no love, you're not alone

No matter what I'm who you mean No matter where, no way you've seen All the nights in the lecture range are right I've had my share of help you with a pain You're not alone Just turn on with me And you're not alone Let's turn on with me

Turn on the wall Give me a hand Can you walk on the wall Give me a hand! Give me a hand! Give me a hand! Give me a hand! Give me a hand! Give me a hand! Give me a hand! Give me a hand! Give me a hand!

In a moment, we'll hear a story about the birth of a child under unlikely circumstances, 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 Brandon Grant. This hour is all about turning points and new horizons. Hannah Brennan told this story at a Moth Community Engagement program showcasing Brooklyn. The evening was presented by our friends at the Kate Spade New York Foundation. Here's Hannah, live at the month. I lower myself heavy and hot into my favorite yellow armchair. I am a'r amdwch chi. Mae'r amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'n amdwch chi'ch chi'n amweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gwyngor am ymwch i'n fwyngor am yma.

Mae'n fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am yma yn fwyngor am fwyngor am fwyngor am fwyngor am fwyngor am yma yn f o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio o'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gweithio'r gwech i'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r fyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn. Mae'r ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn fffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrn yn ffwrnr ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffwrdd am ymwch i'r ffmwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ym Mae'n gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaith it too, you are going to have to get out of your head and trust your body's wisdom. Trust my body's wisdom. Trust the wisdom that doesn't come from my head. What does that mean? How do you do that? As I reflected more childhood memories began to return. As a child and a teen, kids had ruthlessly teased me. Teased me for being sensitive and overweight, treating me like something comic and unfeeling. Because I was overweight, men would shout mean things at me in the street.

No one in the magazines or on TV looked like me. I received the clear message that I was neither valuable nor desirable. This indelible part of me that everyone could see, my body, I considered a failure, a liability. And I was angry and I was confused and I was really hurt. So I decided to be smart instead. And long after my body began to change physically, those messages stayed with me and being smart and having a plan and being in control became key to my identity and my feelings of success. And then becoming pregnant and my body is growing and changing in ways that I don't understand, it still felt pretty important to have a plan and be in control. i'n cymryd i'r cymryd. Mae'n cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd. Mae'n cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd.

Mae'n cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd. Mae'n cymryd i'r cymryd i'r cymryd. Mae'n cymryd i'r cymryd. Mae'n cymryd i'r cymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymwch ymw in me to be the expert in my body and in giving birth. I started to trust that if my body could make a brand new human being, it probably knew how to get it out. But here I am, in Mae'r gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith She presses her hands gently but keenly on my ankles, checking the level of swelling. After careful observation she says, there is no indication that this baby is in distress. Nor is there any indication that you are in distress. All the signs suggest that your body is moving towards birth. Just very slowly.

We can go to the hospital or we can wait a little longer. It's your choice. We sit in silence. Te now, surrender to my body's wisdom. I'm hot, I'm tired, everything hurts, and I'm not feeling too wise right now. I'm telling myself that my body knows how to give birth and I want to believe it. Am I fooling myself? Am I risking my baby's safety? I'm not supposed to be this far past my due date. Is something wrong? Mae'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaith i'n gwaithio'r gwaithio. Mae'n gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gwaithio'r gweithioedd yn ffyrdd.

Mae'r gweithioedd yn ymwch i'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd yn ymwch i'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd yn ymwch i'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd

o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd o'r gweithioedd So knows that in over 40 years of practice she has rarely seen a woman go this far. She looks at me with such love and says, it's okay. You can trust yourself. Mae'r gwaith My midwives' model of care is to stay out of my line of sight. I barely see them, but I know they are there monitoring me and the baby. My body labors as it needs to, and when it's time for birth, they are there with me. Their quiet presence makes me feel completely supported and that my body is completely in charge.

And it's like my mum has always said, o'r ymwch yn ffyrddio. Ond y ffyrddio'r ffyrddio'r ffyrddio. Mae'n ffyrddio'r ffyrddio yn ffyrddio'r ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio

yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio yn ffyrddio to our ten-pound four-ounce, healthy, happy, beautiful son.

And I am different. I'm a different woman. My body is neither liability nor failure. My body is a source of great wisdom, and I trust it more and more every day. Thank you. Hannah H. Smith-Brennan, PhD, is a sociologist, educator, and author who focuses on childhood, youth, and families. Hannah's storytelling skills were mostly honed while growing up in London, late on Friday nights around the family pool table. Hannah and her midwife are now working on a book of birthing stories and are developing an educational program together. She says quote, the birthing person and the baby are at the

center of this process. And that when we care for this process as a community, we can make a culture that is healthy, strong, and thriving. I was in the crowd the evening that Hannah first told this story. I was transfixed. It made me think about witnessing childbirth myself. One of my sisters decided on a natural birth for her first child. I was there throughout the entire birthing process and I have to say I was amazed at how strong she was in the face of something that I found so utterly daunting. I'll never forget the look on her face as her son was placed into her arms for the first time. Everything shifted for all of us at that moment.

She became a mother, I became an uncle again, and this little human entered the world. In a moment, surviving heartbreak and hurricanes when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Mawth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is Amoth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Brandon Grant. We continue this hour with a story from Trisha Roseburt. Trisha told this at Amoth the Story Slam in Boston, sponsored by PRX and WBUR.

Here's Trisha. Cheers. Cheers. Cheers. Cheers. Cheers. Cheers. Cheers.

I was raised that I should get married, that I should defer to my husband, and that I should rely on my husband to make me happy. I can tell you firsthand that this is inherently flawed. When my husband and I separate after five years of marriage, he stays in our home in Sudbury in the suburbs right outside of Boston, and I run an apartment in town in Back Bay, and as it turns out without knowing it, I moved directly across the street from the woman my husband's been having an affair with. Now for months, I'd suspected he was having an affair, but he kept denying it and telling

me I was imagining things, and so I just felt crazy. So a couple of months after I moved into the new apartment, I thought to myself, I said, you know, God, I just don't want to feel crazy anymore. So if he's having an affair, please let me know it. And if he's not having an affair, please help me trust him. And three days later, I'm driving to the school of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, where I'm a part-time art student, and I see my husband's car on the

side of the road. It's this little white Alfa Romeo, you can't miss it. And there's a woman putting something in my husband's car. And the first thing I do is throw my hands up in the air and say, thank you God, I'm not crazy. And then I pull over. And I say, hi, that's my husband's car. And she says, well, I don't know what you're talking about. And I said, but that's my husband's car. And she says, well, I guess you're just going to have to talk to him about that. And I said, you know's my husband's car. And she says, well, I guess you're just going to have to talk

to him about that. I said, you know, give me a break. I've been married to the guy for five years, and that's my husband's car. Where's my husband? And right at that moment, he rounds the corner with an overnight bag. And I say, you know, I think we need to talk.

And he says, well, where do you want to talk? And I say, how about across the street, at my apartment? I live at 304 Beacon Street, and she lives at 309 Beacon Street, which he knows. He convinces me that it is not a physical affair, but a spiritual one. Ha, ha, ha. And a dear friend says, Trisha, that's worse, plus he's lying to you.

My husband and his girlfriend don't last. We start going to marriage counseling, and I plunge into a very scary depression. I'm pacing along the Charles River crossing the bridges and walking the same circle over and over again. I keep looking at my arms because I'm convinced I have sores all over my body. My throat is so tight I can only eat mashed potatoes and chicken broth, nothing crunchy. So I'm incredibly thin and I look like I should be hospitalized. The only way I can get out of bed is to figure out how many hours until I can get

back in it. I can concentrate for about five minutes at a time and my nerves feel the way sunburned skin feels when you open up a really hot oven. With the help of a bevy of therapist and heavy medications, I'm able to continue working and pay my bills and keep going to art school. And art school is what gets me through this separation. Art school and church. And both places challenge how I was raised in very different ways, but they're saying the same thing. You have a voice, listen to the voice, and become who you're being called to be, and you're going to be happy. Now as an emerging artist, I craved anything that art school had to offer.

And so I went to Ireland with the museum school on a painting trip. And I chose Ireland because I wanted mist and rain and tragedy. I was looking for drama and angst. Instead, the sun shone every day for three straight weeks. It was the first time in 20 years they had a stretch of sunshine for that long. One day, it was hotter in Ireland than it was in Greece.

Right before I left for Ireland, there was this slightest chance my husband and I could reconcile, but with distance brings clarity and I realized I couldn't even write that guy a letter or much less be married doing. So I went into this little church and I said, you know what, God, I am so happy to be alone. I don't want a husband. I don't even want a boyfriend. All I want is to make art. And I mean this from the bottom of my toes. And I don't know it at the time, but I meet my future husband that night. I'm standing on this one of those Irish stone walls and I'm looking at

this amazing sunset and I'm having a hard time getting off the wall because I have these pretty but stupid shoes on and things look kind of precarious and out of the blue I hear someone say, gee, you need a hand. And I look down and there's this incredibly handsome Irishman. And I'm confused because I've just announced how happy I was to be alone. And then I say, yes, yes, I do need a hand. And he helps me off the wall and we start walking down the road together. And I know that I would go through all that pain all over again if it brought me to this moment.

Thank you. That was Trisha Roseburck. Trisha and the incredibly handsome Irishman have been married for more than 22 years. She's also the host of the podcast No Time to Be Timid, which helps aspiring artists find the courage to make their creative work. To see photos of Trisha and her husband on their wedding day in Ireland in 1998, visit the moth.org slash extras. While you're there, you can share your story with the moth. Visit our pitchline to leave us a two minute version of a story you'd like to tell.

Some of the most classic Moth stories started on the pitchline. Head to the Moth.ive and by tickets to Moth Storytelling events in your area through our website, the Moth.org. There are Moth Events year round. Find a show near you and come out to tell a story. You can also find us on social media. We're on Facebook and Twitter, at a moth main stage in New York at City Hall. A quick note that the story was told over 20 years ago when we never imagined the moth would have a national radio show. So our audio recordings weren't the greatest, but we think you'll be fine with it. Here's Kim, live at the month.

I was saying yesterday that I think I'm the only sub-owner who doesn't have an accent. And that's because I think I spent the first 20 years in my life trying to erase everything suffering about myself. And then of course I spent the next 20 years in my life trying to remember it all. Again, all that. Sorry, just the rest of that right. Should I repeat what I just said? Here's a bitch.

Here's a memory. When Hurricane Betsy was coming to New Orleans, my daddy, he took me and my brothers and sisters all seven of us, eight of us actually, and my mother, out to Lake Pontchetrain, to watch Betsy arrive. My daddy, he sat on the living and he liked to look out at the sky and the lake. The sky, the longer we stayed, the blacker and the blacker, and the lake looked like a sheet of black granite.

It was so silly, you can almost walk on it. My mom, you know, she was so angry. She wouldn't get out of the truck. She sat with her back to my father and the lake, refusing to come out. She turned around every once in a while, and said, well, it's time to go home. And he'd say, in a minute, bye.

And he'd sit right where it was. The kids, all of us who were too busy, haven't fun to want to go home. We ran around the decorative fountains that would shoot water up into the air and the lights would change the water to colors like blue and then yellow and then red. My father, he didn't want to come home but my mother finally grabbed the keys and she says, well, I'm taking these children home

And she headed for the truck who started to laugh because everybody knew mama couldn't drive And then he take us home Sit down on the levy Watching a hurricane approach must have been looking into a mirror, like looking into a mirror for my father. They told me my aunt Evelyn told me that his anger, silent and intense like an oncoming storm, but then burst forth violently at my mother and older brothers and sisters destroying everything in his path. My aunt, Ellen, told me that while trying to save her life one day, my mother picked up a pair of pinkie-shears and stabbed in the chest nearly killing him. But I never saw any of that. And he never hit her again. Back at my house, aunts, cousins, I never even knew. uncles all came to my house when the hurricanes would come.

They all agreed that it was the only time the housing projects was the safest place to be. The kids, all of a set in the living room under covers and blankets telling ghost stories, scaring each other half to death, while the adults at the kitchen listening to the radio and smoke and sereness, Fettie was maybe an hour, hour and a half away, but outside you can hear the rain and the wind screaming,

screaming down the street, big chunks of metal and wood, clinkin' and crashin'. The adults would run into the living room, peeking out the curtains, trying to pass the tape and wood that was boarded over the windows, and they'd be whispering things to each other, trying not to scare the kids.

You're already half scared to death. By the time the eye of the hurricane hit, everybody was in the living room. The radio was going, all the lights had gone out by that time. We'd listen to some crazy newsman or weatherman who they sent out to the eye of storm. If you yell at the wind's really blowing hard! It's so scary!

Laughing, fool. I was crying! Laughing! Cool! By the time Betsy had come and gone, I fallen asleep, thank God. We walked out the next morning and the first thing I thought was that it looked like a war, except minus the bodies. Trees had been snapped in half and cars turned over and dragged down the street. On TV, we watched families and kids who were stranded on top of their houses because the water had risen so high. But we were safe.

Just like I was safe from my father's brutality. We were safe. Just like I was safe from my father's brutality. I never saw the worst of my father's violence. I saw a man who was kind to me an affectionate. I saw a man who would sit me on his knee and say, all you want for Christmas is your two front teeth. A man who would take me with him to take my mother to work and my mother in her clean white uniform would get out of the truck to go to the house that she had to clean. And she'd walk towards the door and door would open and these two little white kids would

run out and their arms stressed, running toward, they'd grab her around her knees and she'd bend down and grab them and, oh God, the pain and jealousy and hatred I felt for those two kids and my mother, God, and my father's hand resting on my shoulder and on my knee, and he knew how I felt. Every day I struggle with the memory of those kindnesses and the history of his abuse. I can't hate him, but I've given up like him. My father planted trees and flowers for the city of New Orleans, on the city-owned land. He planted all the trees in the projects. We had a big fat oak tree right in front of our house.

Our backyard looked like a little small English garden. It had roses, my hydranias, and daisies, and petunias. You know that we had it. He'd bring home sod too. And he'd lay the perfect green little squares and the front and back yards, and he used to lie on the grass and make angels like the treats up in the north did in the snow. It sounds so good. But there's not a date that goes by that I don't think about, willy and violent.

My parents, my father's been dead for almost 20 years and my mother for about 10. But every time I look in the mirror, I think of them. My mother's eyes and smile and her gestures. I keep looking for Willie. I wouldn't know him if I saw him. I never knew him really. But when I see a tall oak tree,

a gray, brown, cracked trunk, I think of my father's hands and how he used to bring home flowers from my mother's garden. Thanks. Kim Sykes is a writer, actress, and painter living in New York City. She's been seen on episodes of Homeland, Bull in the feature film, Pariah, and his busy writing, Screenplays and a novel. As I mentioned, Kim told that story over 20 years ago.

We asked her what sharing it was like. She said she was still wrestling with her family's history and that listening back, she can hear the struggle in her voice. She went on to say that New Orleans has been the scene of many devastating hurricanes that have torn her family apart, but at the same time brought them closer together. To see photos of Kim and New Orleans alongside of Tall Oak Tree that reminds her of her father, visit themough.org slash extras. We hope this hour inspired you to share your own true stories.

At the dinner table with family and friends, with the stranger sitting next to you, or on a moth stage. And that's it for this episode. Join us again next time for the Moth Radio Hour. This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Catherine Burns and Brandon Grant who also hosted the show. The stories in this hour were directed by Meg Bulls, Larry Rosen and Joey Zanders. Co-producer Vicki Merrick, Associate Producer Emily Couch.

The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Joneskate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Klucce, Suzanne Rust, Inga Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in this hour, from David Bowie, Alex French, Quivine O'Reila, and Scott Hamilton. We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts,

and presented by PRX for more about our podcast for information on how to pitch us your own story and everything else, go to our website, TheMS.org.