The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: You Can't Go Back

Episode Date: November 22, 2022

In this episode, bold attempts to revisit the past. A quarterback makes a trip back home, a wife attempts to understand her husband's past, a young man discovers the rodeo, and an adult is cast in a high school play. This episode is hosted by Moth Senior Director Jenifer Hixson. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Jenifer Hixson Storytellers: Ivan McClellan discovers the Black Rodeo. Rachel McCormick attempts to understand her immigrant husband's past. Steve Peebles is offered a role in a high school play, despite being an adult. Kimberly Reed confronts her past, and future, when she is forced to make a trip to her hometown.

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 from PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host Jennifer Hickson. In this hour, stories about putting fresh eyes on the past.

Returning to the scene and finding new details you may have missed the first time around. Whether you see your past through rose-colored glasses or one of those magnifying mirrors that highlights every blemish whisker and scar, The passage of time always sheds new light. Our first story is by Ivan McClellan. He told this in Jacksonhall, Wyoming, where we partner with Center for the Arts. Here's Ivan. I was born and raised in Kansas City, Kansas.

Go chiefs. The neighborhood that I grew up in had many sides. It was urban and country at the same time. It was beautiful and sometimes it could be terrifying. My sister and I would run around in a five-acre field behind our house all summer long and we would play and we would eat black berries until our fingers were sticky and then we'd run home through the thistle pickthorns out of our socks on the front porch and then it's white light the lightning bugs would come out and we'd scoop them up in mason jars throw some leaves in there screw the lid on tight poke holes in the top so they could breathe at night some

nights gunshots would ring out on the block. And my sister and I would lay on the floor and look up as the police helicopters lit up the street looking for suspects. There were a lot of gangs in the neighborhood and they would walk around with pit bulls and whenever they ran across the rival gang member they would fight their dogs. I wasn't in a gang, I was a nerd and a church kid, but when I ran across this one guy, he would sick his dog on me. And I would go running and all the backs of my pants got eaten up and I got really fast.

My mom worked two or three jobs to keep us fed, and we were latchkey kids, and we determined it was unsafe to go outside so we quit going out in that field and playing. As I got closer to the end of high school my prospects were kind of slim. I could go be a delivery truck driver, I could be a pastor at Monkel's church or I could go work at the assembly line at the Ford plant. I didn't really want to do any of those things. I wanted to be a photographer. And so I decided I was going to figure out a way out of Kansas.

I never felt like I fit in there and I knew somewhere there was a community where I belonged. So I saved up $500 that summer and I just up to move to New York City. And that money was gone in a week. And I just like worked any job that I could get. I didn't know anybody so I like handed out flyers, I blew up balloons, I played guitar in the park, anything I could do for money.

Until some way through a bunch of luck, I got a job as a photographer and a junior designer at an ad agency. I didn't know anything that anybody was talking about. They would say ROI, SEO, KPIs, and I would just nod my head and Google what they had said. And I did that long enough that I actually started to get pretty good at my job, and I got promoted. I went from junior designer to designer and I went from designer to senior designer and from senior

designer to art director. Every time that I got promoted I saw a few warm fewer black people around. Until I got a job as a creative director, I moved to Portland, Oregon and I hardly ever saw black people at all. Like, I was in this sea of white men at work, and I was never a culture fit. Like, I understood their culture, but they had no clue who Luther Vandross was. Or, they had never stayed up till 2 a.m. watching Showtime at the Apollo. But they had no idea why it might be afraid of dogs. This led to a case of imposter syndrome.

I felt like I didn't belong in the rooms that I was in, that I was gonna be found out, thrown out in the street, forced to move back to Kansas. One day I was at a party. I didn't know anybody there except for the person whose birthday it was, and so I was just drinking by myself and sulking in the corner. Somebody tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around

and there's a tall black man with a salt and pepper afro. And he introduces itself. He says his name is Charles Perry. Says he's a filmmaker. I say, oh, I'm a photographer. What are you working on? He said, I'm working on a movie about black cowboys. I said, what, like a Western? He said, I'm working on a movie about black cowboys. I said, what, like a Western?

He said, no, like a documentary. I kind of laughed. I was like, oh, this is not enough black cowboys to make a whole documentary. Like, I knew a thing or two about cowboys. Like I grew up watching Bonanza and Gunsmoke and Lonesome Delivery runs. Like, my school choir used to sing the National Anthem

at the American Royal rodeo in Kansas. I viewed the cowboy to be the archetype of American independence and grit. But black cowboys, the only black cowboys I knew were Sheriff Bart in Blazing Saddles and cowboy Curtis on Peewee's playhouse. So, we kept talking and he said, well you got to see it for yourself man, come with me to a black rodeo in Oklahoma this summer. I said absolutely, it was exactly the opportunity that I had been looking for. Like, I had never felt more separated from black culture and it going to a rodeo seemed like the furthest thing

from working at a computer that I could think of. And so I went home and I bought my plane ticket, and it just sat there for the next few months anticipating what this could possibly be like. In my head, it was like soul-training, but everybody was on a horse. LAUGHTER So August came around and I caught my flight to Oklahoma City.

I drove an hour and a half to Okomogi. Parked my car, got out, and got just suffocated by 105 degrees. It was 105 degrees. It was 100% humidity. As I was walking through the grass, chickers were biting my ankles, and there were grasshoppers jumping up on my clothes There was just a haze a barbecue smoke over the entire lawn. I couldn't breathe and Everywhere I looked there was a white course trailer glistening in the sun and There was R&B music and gospel music and hip-hop coming out of the trailers.

And everywhere around me there were black cowboys, thousands of them. I saw young men riding their horses with no shirt, a gold chain, basket ball shorts and Jordans. And they were walking up, hitting on women and talking trash to the other riders. And I saw old men just sitting stoically on their horses and they had precise stetsons and trim moustaches, pinky rings, and their shirts were so starched, you could hear them crunch when they moved their arms. And the women bedazzled from head to toe, bedazzled hats, bedazzled shirts with fringe, bedazzled jeans, and they had long braids

and acrylic nails, and they were settling down these muscular quarter horses, and they were gonna be riding 40 miles per hour in the barrel race later that afternoon. Like, I couldn't have fit in any less. I was wearing khakis and wingtips, but I felt so welcomed by this group of people. Everybody was so eager to share a smile.

Let me take their photo and share their story. A man named Robert Kriff, Robert had this leather raising of a face. And he had this beautiful horse named Summertime. He pulled on her reins and she put her legs down on the ground like she was bowing. It was so elegant. And he shook my hand. He had these 12 grit sandpaper hands.

My uncle started to bleed because I've got dragon fly wings for hands from working in tech for so long. And he offered me a bottle of water, which I desperately needed at this point, because I'm like soaking wet. He's not a bee to sweat on his face. In fact, nobody else at the rodeo was sweating at all, and I looked like I had just gotten baptized. So he was wearing a Kansas City hat,

so I said, where are you from? He said, I'm from Kansas City, Kansas. I said, I'm from Kansas City, Kansas. Where about? He said, oh, I live just off of 58th in Georgia. I grew up off of 57th in Georgia. It turns out that he lived on the other side of the five-acre field, from where I grew up. I never saw a horse back there. I never met Robert Kriff. But he knew my grandma. He knew my

pastor. We went to the same high school. In fact, he told me to have for the people at the rodeo come down from Kansas City every year for their family or unions. I was embarrassed. I felt silly because this entire culture was right under my nose. My whole life, and I knew nothing about it. And I felt kind of ripped off because I was hanging out with these criminals chasing me with their dog, and I could have been hanging out with Cowboys, a field away. It immediately changed my perception of home away from a place of pain and poverty and violence to a place of independence and grit in cowboys. I was proud to be from there. The rodeo started and a rider rode around

the arena carrying a flag, a pan-African flag. It's the American flag, but it's red, black, and green. And a singer belted out, lived every voice and sing, and she sang it with so much sincerity and so much energy that I heard it for the first time. She said, sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught us. Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us. And that to me was what this rodeo was about. What we have been forced to do in slavery, work the land, work with animals. We can now do in a celebratory mood for our own profit and our own entertainment. I photographed that rodeo with absolute joy. And I got home and I looked at the photos and I was just blown back by all of the vibrance

and all of the energy and the fashion. It was like I had gone to Oz, clicked my heels back to Grey Hamajan as Portland, but I had proof that I had been there. My favorite photo is of this rodeo queen. Her name is Jasmine Marie. And I asked her to take her photo and she stands there and throws her hair off of her shoulders. And she's standing there with her chin up and her hair blowing back and her crown is glistening in the stadium lights. And she looks like actual royalty.

I love all of these photos. Whenever I'm feeling separated from the culture, I just open them up and look through them and I'm immediately taken back to Okemogi. And I go back every year. I've taken my family with me. I've been to dozens of black rodeos around the country. My work has been featured in museums. It's been featured in magazines and published in a book. And I've seen the figure of the black cowboy elevated in film and television. And it's become a part of a narrative about identities in the West. But I do this so that my kids,

when they draw a picture of a cowboy, they'll color it in with a brown face. And I do it so that I'll never again forget that this is a part of who I am as a black man in America. Thank you. That was Ivan McClellan. Ivan is a photojournalist and designer.

His current photo project, eight seconds, focuses on the stories of black cowboys around the country. Ivan lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and two children. Between May and October, he takes pictures of rodeos around the country. To see some of his beautiful photographs, visit the moth.org. Ivan said he's discovered a bunch of trail riding clubs in the community where he grew up in Kansas. Now when he goes home, he always hangs out with black cowboys. He's mostly on the ground taking pictures, but sometimes he even gets up on a horse. He might even be developing some calluses.

In a moment, a woman celebrates her honeymoon without her new husband, and a grown man finds himself somewhat reluctantly back in high school, when the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media and Woods Hole Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jennifer Hickson. In this hour, stories from people revisiting the past. In this next story, a new bride finds a unique way to walk in her husband's shoes.

We met Rachel McCormick when we did a storytelling workshop for students at a high school in the Bronx, where she was a teacher. She told a story to model the form for the students, and we were so intrigued, we asked her to share more. Here's Rachel McCormick, live at a community showcase in the Bronx. Woo! Woo! I spent my honeymoon in a tent in the desert alone. It was the summer of 2010 and I just

married the man of my dreams. He was funny, smart, and caring. He didn't really speak much English, but I figured, hey, that was something we could work on. We had met four years earlier on a soccer field in Pekip, Seen New York, as I ate a mango on a stick and nursed a sprained ankle. When the game was over, Edie V came up to me, and he heaved me over his shoulders, so I wouldn't have to limp through the mud.

And I was in love. I later learned that EdieB had come to the United States from Wahaka, Mexico one week before September 11, 2001, and he had come here by crossing the desert between Sonora and Arizona on foot. Because of this, some people call him illegal. Other people say that he doesn't have papers. I mean, he has plenty of papers.

A birth certificate, diplomas, tax returns, but none of those papers authorize him to live in the United States. Because of this, Edvi can't travel. He rarely leaves the confines of New York City because he fears deportation. Fear is a big part of Eadb's life and it's rooted in several near-death attempts to cross the border. In the months leading up to our marriage, we would sit on the couch and he would tell the stories of having to drink all sorts of nasty things to stay alive in the desert,

like water from car radiators, and water from cow tanks, and even water from his own pee. He told this one story about getting lost in the mountains, and having to slaughter a goat from somebody's ranch, and roasted over tumbleweeds under the light of the moon. Knowing all of this a few weeks before a wedding, I told Idbi that I wanted to honeymoon alone in the desert on the border in the same place he had nearly died several times. His reaction, like most other peoples, was, why? Well, on one level, I wanted to have one last adventure before I had a bunch of his beautiful babies. And I figured that traveling to the desert

was the only thing I could do ethically while my new husband stayed at home working 12 hour shifts as a busboy. I also wanted to see with my own two eyes this border that had transformed Edvie from a human being into an illegal alien. So in honor of Edvie's struggle, I packed a bag and I went to the desert south of Tucson, Arizona to volunteer for two weeks with the organization No More Deaths, which among other things seeks to end human suffering on the US-Mexico border. When I got there, I thought I knew what to expect based on the tales that

each being has friends had told of their perilous journeys. I had even written my senior thesis at Vassar about narratives of violence on the US-Mexico border back in those days when I thought I knew everything. But I was not expecting this. What lay south of the airport and the urban sprawl of Tucson looked more like a cross between a science fiction movie and footage from a foreign war zone than the country I thought I knew. Don't get me wrong, it was absolutely beautiful. Not

sand like the Sahara, but bright maroon soil and prickly green plants and animals that howled. As I pitched my tent in the middle of this beauty, I started to notice other things, too, like the helicopters that constantly flew overhead and the border patrol agents that would jump out of bushes and point their guns at anything that moved, including me. Their weapons should have scared me, but unfortunately I realized that as a white woman, I was probably safe, whereas somebody browned like E2B certainly wasn't. In those two weeks in the desert, I thought a lot about E2B. He was my only real connection between what was happening on the border and was happening at home in New York.

I thought about E2B as he danced at our wedding, and I also thought about him as he cried at our wedding because none of his family could be there. And it wasn't just Edvie that I thought about. I thought about the millions of other people who had made the same decision as him to leave their families behind and walk north. In my first week in the desert I didn't actually meet any

of these migrants but I saw signs of their presence all around. I saw their footprints in dry riverbeds and discarded backpacks everywhere filled with red bull and children's toys and photographs. And in the middle of all this my task was to work with other volunteers from No More Deaths to leave jugs of water in different spots in the desert. Because if you decide to walk from Mexico over the mountains to some US interstate to get picked up, it's physically impossible to bring enough water with you to survive. So the volunteers and I would spend the daylight hours leaving hundreds of gallons of water in different places,

hoping that people would find them and drink them and stay alive. At night, we would sleep under the stars as the desert came to life with habalinas and rattlesnakes and so many different people from so many different places walking north. It wasn't until my second to last day in the desert that I actually met one of the people I was trying to help. I had been walking a trail with a couple

of other volunteers when we heard this faint groan in the bushes to our right. As we got closer to the noise, we could see that there was a man there lying on his back and struggling to keep his eyes from rolling into the back of his head. As I got even closer, I could see that his lips were cracked and his complexion was nearly gray. I was in shock. All I could think to do was to stare at this man and to check to see if he was alive. And as I looked at his face, I could have sworn that I saw Eadby, my new husband, so far from

home and yet so close to death. And on the flight back to New York, all I could think about was this man And on the flight back to New York, all I can think about was this man, where he had come from, where he had even going, had he survived the damages of dehydration and exposure. And I wondered how he had eaten to be survived. I'll probably never really know, but frankly, I'm just glad that he did. Thank you. That was Rachel McCormick. Rachel and Edvi are still going strong. They live in the Bronx with their two daughters Sarah and Anna. More than 20 years after crossing the desert to come to the US, Edvi is still undocumented because of complications with the US immigration laws.

Rachel says she believes no human being is illegal, and that another world is possible. To see a picture of Edvi, Rachel, and their daughters visit themoth.org. In one photo, their young daughter holds a sign that reads, please don't deport my dad. The non-profit Rachel traveled with, no more deaths, is still fighting the uphill battle to prevent fatalities in the desert. Do you have a story about putting yourself in someone else's shoes about revisiting your past, seeing things a bit differently?

Have you looked at life from both sides now? We'd love to hear. You can pitch us your story by recording it right on our site or call 877-799-MOTH. That's 877-799-6684. The best pitches are developed for math shows all around the world. Our next story was told by Steve Peables at a story slam in Chicago where we partner

with Public Radio Station WBEZ. The musical he mentions is My Favorite Year. And just for context, in the movie version, the lead role is played by Peter O'Toole. Here's Steve Peoples. So I'm playing Templeton the Rat in a production of Charlotte's Web. It runs two shows a week for $30 a show, but it's not really the way that I thought my career was going to go. I'm two years out of college.

I was a serious actor. Here I am. I get a call from a buddy, Jonathan. He says, hey man, you do want a show right now. I'm wearing the rat costume, and I'm like, not really, what's up? He says, main South is looking for an immediate replacement for my favorite year.

You'd rehearse three days next week, you go on Friday, Saturday. If you don't know, my favorite year is a musical about a TV variety show, and main South is a high school. And I kind of focus on that detail. I said, Main South is a high school and he's like, yeah, the kid playing Alan Swan got caught drinking at a party. But they open tonight, so he's on this weekend and then you're on next weekend. And like, I'm a full adult. I'm not trying to do high school musical, let alone an actual musical, at an actual high school. And I'm like, okay, so what does this high school want to

pay me to learn a show in a week? And he was like $2,000 and I got in my car and I got a copy of the script and I went to the show that night. And guys, it's a great show. Okay, so, so Alan Swan is this old Hollywood icon who gets called in last minute as an emergency replacement as a guest host on this variety show. And when he shows up, he's an alcoholic mess, which like, out, but okay, that's in my wheelhouse.

And he's ruined his career, he's ruined his life, he's estranged from his daughter, and all he's got to do is pull it together in this week to do this show. And he does this musketeer sketch where he sings and he fights with a sword. And he wins his daughter back. I'm excited.

And I go to meet the music director who was my contact. And I said, hey, I'm Steve. We talked on the phone. She said, hey, you're saving my life. When was the last time you played this role? I said, no, I just got the script this afternoon. And she leans in. She narrows her eyes.

She says, the only reason I got the board to agree to let me hire an actor. As I said, I would get somebody who would play the part before. So when was the last time you played this part? And I was like, last summer at my college, she was like, good answer. Let's go meet the director. So like Alan Swan on the back burner,

I've got two hallways to figure out how to play Steve Peoples who has totally played Alan Swan before. But can't do any of the things associated with having played that part. So I meet the director, we go over some schedule and he's like, is there anything you want to change from the way that you did it in your last production? And I was like, no, this guy's good.

I want to respect his choices. And the fight choreographer is, how are you with a sword? And it's like, in my production, we did it with daggers, which is not a good life or a musketeer fighting play. And then we go into another room and we meet the cast and crew who have all been assembled Which is not a good life for a musketeer fighting play. And then we go into another room and we meet the cast and crew who have all been assembled and the director says, hey guys, this is Steve, he's going to be taken over his Allen. And that's the sound you hear.

And it said, hey guys, I saw you showing tonight. I'm really excited to jump into this with you. And that is the exact response that I get. Because I'm not the understudy in the situation. I'm the outsider who's shouldering out their friend. And I was prepared to do it to show it a high school. I was not prepared to be in high school again. So I go home and I slam a script through my ear. Because if I don't show up memorized ready to go,

these kids are never gonna give me an inch. And I do it. And I show up on Monday and I'm playing and I'm singing songs about losing my daughter and destroying my life and they're playing with me. And then it's Friday and if you've never gone on as an understudy, it feels a lot like this. You don't really know what's gonna happen next,

no matter how much you've rehearsed. It's blind adrenaline. It's like catch me if you can. It's just two hours of me being like, do you concur? Do you concur? Do you concur? And thank God they keep concurring. And we take our bow and the audience really erupts because they're so glad their kids got to do their show again. And they're so glad that I'm not a disaster and It really feels like I gave a thousand dollar performance and I have to do it again the next day And I'm a little more loose and I'm having a lot of fun and I'm climbing the 15 foot ladder to go swing in on this rope At the end of the show and I'm up there for a while so I got time to reflect and I thank man this stupid gig

It wound up being a lot of fun And I thank, man, this stupid gig won't be in a lot of fun. While I'm reflecting, I think that this stupid gig actually taught me everything that I was supposed to know about being a professional. That was Steve Keedles. Steve is still a professional actor and is an artistic associate with Shattered Globe Theatre. He wasn't able to dig up a photo of himself playing Templeton the Rat or his character from the musical, but did send us a picture of himself backstage, doing one of his all-time favorite plays, Spamalot. I have something in common with Steve. In college, I also played Templeton the Rat in a production of Charlotte's Web, such a fun role.

But then my college contacted my hometown newspaper and sent in a picture of me in costume. The caption read something like, Jennifer Hickson plays a sniveling rat, which was cute, except that the photo that ran right next to my rat portrait was a beautiful headshot of our neighbor's daughter, announcing that she was accepted into the London School of Economics. Perfect. In a moment, a kid graduates high school and leaves Montana behind, but returns many years later to reveal a huge secret when the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented

by PRX. Our final story is from Kimberly Reed. She told it in New York City, where WNYC is a media partner of the mosque. Here's Kimberly. So I get a phone call from my mom and she tells me that my father is about to get on an emergency life flight from our home in Montana to go to Denver to get an emergency liver transplant. My mom is kind of perennially optimistic and she's telling me, don't worry, it's gonna be okay.

We're gonna pull through this, it's gonna be all right. But I know something is really wrong. So I get the next flight I can to go from where I'm leaving here in New York, hoping that I get there before my father dies. And I'm really glad I got that flight as fast as I did, because I was able to spend a couple hours with my father before it passed away.

And before I know it, I'm at this side of his hospital bed with my mom and we're sobbing because he's passed. My dad was a strong silent type. He was a, grew up on a farm and he was the one of two town eye doctors. So he could fix anything. He could fix tractors or eyes. He could no matter what. And he was always doing it behind the scenes.

He never wanted to take credit for it. It was apparent that my mom and I and my two brothers were going to have to be fixing things ourselves this time around. And the first thing my mom did was to call my two brothers. One's a year older, one is a year younger, and it was going to be really comforting to see my younger brother. We were really close. It was going to, he was really going to support me.

It was going to be much more complicated seeing my older brother. We'd always had a really complicated relationship. And there was something really big about me that he did not know. And that's that the last time he saw me, years and years before, I was male. He was not aware that I had transitioned from female to being female. And I always wanted to tell him, I was trying to find the right time, the right place, trying

to get up the nerve. I was worried about his reaction, maybe that, you know, he was a bit conservative, he had a temper, I didn't know how it's going to happen, and I just kept putting it off and never found the right time. And here we are, at the time where I have to deal with all this stuff. Mark wasn't the only one who didn't know my story. My whole hometown didn't know about me either. And I was trying to find a way to tell Mark. I just kind of figured with my hometown,

I just never went back there again. So my mom calls my brother, and in one fungal, tells him that he lost his father, and then he now has a sister. And I have to say, Mark was really great. He got off the plane, we met him at the airport, he gave me a hug, but it was awkward, as he can imagine. And I think we did what a lot of families do at times like that. You just kind of fall back on tradition.

And we wanted to do something that my mom and dad had always done over here. Because you see it was my father's birthday. He had passed away 20 minutes before his 65th birthday. So we all went to Applebee's. And we got a slice of sizzling apple pie, put a candle in it. And my brother Mark, who really worshiped my father, got the honor of blowing out the candle.

And when he was blowing out the candle, I still remember the expression on his face. He was trying to process my father's passing. He was figuring out why it had been so long that the two of us hadn't talked, something that really frustrated him. And it was this all kind of coming together. I took a business card out of my purse. It was for this job that Mark didn't even know I had. I had my new name on it. And I wrote my cell phone number on it and I gave it to Mark.

I said, look, we haven't talked for so long, but here, anytime, any place, no barriers, call me, any, we can talk anytime you want. And my mom started crying because her children were reuniting. And also because for years, she had been running interference between the two of us and using every excuse in the book to explain why I wasn't getting back to him or why packages to me were being returned

because they had the wrong name on them. And her job running interference was over. So Mark was in shock. We were all in shock. I was in shock because I was thinking about the fact that nobody in my hometown knew. And I'm wondering if I can go back for the funeral, if I should go back, if my mom and my brothers really want me to really deep down. And I'm thinking that, you know, I never even thought I was going to go back to my hometown and now I'm being pulled back

right into it. As contradictory as it may seem, as soon as there was a reason to go back, I had this really deep, strong yearning to go back. I mean, I had gone to school in New York in San Francisco and traveled all over the world in this place that I thought of as home that I think I really repressed knowing that I couldn't go back there, right? I don't need to go back there, but as soon as there was a reason for me

to go back there, very strong reason, I really, really wanted to go. I wanted to see the only house I had ever known growing up. I wanted to go back to my hometown and these people that comprises the community that I thought of as home. And my mom reassured me that she wanted me to be there, that she in fact needed me there for support. My brother's too. And my mom had a plan to get us there. Our family had been separated for a long time. So she had the idea for all of us to rent a car and drive the 20 hours from Denver back to Montana.

So before you know it, then we are in the car. My brother hasn't seen me for years, especially not as female and here we are. And we had so much to do. We were planning his serve at my father's funeral service. We were writing his obituary. My mom wanted to figure out, and I did too want to figure out how we could introduce the information about me while still keeping the focus on my father.

So she had me drive it out across Wyoming 70 miles an hour. She had me take dictation of her friends, and she wanted to invite them over for tea. So she had this really strategic list. It's like you invite Judy and she's going to tell all the people in the arts community that my mom was involved in and you're going to tell June and June is going to tell all the people that dad's office and we'll find somebody else and she's going to tell everybody at the church. And the next night, there they were, 18 of my mom's best friends, and the minister from the church

where the service was gonna be performed. They're drinking tea. And my mom says, you all know very well by now that I've lost my husband. And I know a lot of you have wondered what happened to my middle son, who seemed to disappear.

What? And she said, I want you to know tonight that, I have a daughter and her name is Kim. And this is my child and I love my child and I hope you do too. And we can focus on this tonight. We can talk about this tonight. You all are my ambassadors. If someone has questions at the funeral and I'm caught up in things, I'm going to point them to you and let you tell this story because you can talk about it in a sensitive way. And she took a couple questions from the people there.

And the whole tea party ended slightly different than the tea party we hear about in the news. The whole thing ended with everybody raising their tea cups and saying, hip hip hooray for Kim, hip hip hooray for Kim. There were a couple A-men's and some applause. And then everybody went home and I swear there was a brown out from all the simultaneous phone calls. There were being made dispensing the information, right? So then the next thing, there was a viewing of my father's body at the funeral home. And I had elected not to go because, you know, I didn't want the focus to be on me. I was going to keep it on everybody and keep it on my father.

But my best friend Tim from high school was at the viewing and he calls me up. He had only known the new me for a couple days. I hadn't even told him. But he knew me really well and he knew I was chickening out. And he called me from the funeral parlour and he said, hey, I got a lot of people here. They really want to see you. I should probably tell you that the people he's talking about are the football team. Because that used to be on the football team.

And so a flaws for that. And so Tim says, where are you? I've got a lot of people I want to see. I'm like, yeah, I don't want to go. And I want to keep the focus on my dad. I don't want to be the thing. He's like, yeah, yeah, whatever. Either you come down here, or we're going to come up there.

What's it going to be? I said, I've got you. They come up here or we're gonna come up there, what's it gonna be? I said, I think, come up here I guess. So before I know what the football team is at my front door. And a couple of them have cases of beer under their arm. One case gets tossed in the snowbank to keep it cold. It's just like high school. And all of a sudden they're in my living room. And it's this wake instantly. And this show of support for me and for the memory of my father.

And they're in my living room. This living room I never even thought I would see again. And people are either laughing or crying, mostly laughing. And I remember looking around the room and there's Kevin. He was one of the co-captains of the football team with me. And I look over there, and there's my brother's mark and Todd. And we were all very close in age, so we had friends in common and they're telling stories about my dad. And there's a look over on the couch, and there's Frank.

Probably should have told you that not only was I on the football team, but I was quarter back. I don't have a football team, but I was a quarterback. And so I look over the couch and there's Frank. He's an offensive lineman. It's the job of an offensive lineman to protect the quarterback. And Frank is protecting me once again, 20 years later, under very different circumstances. And he's got his arm around my girlfriend. They're laughing and knocking back cans of cheap beer.

And that was the moment that I knew things were going to be OK somehow. And there was one more person there that night. And that was one more person there that night, and that was my mom. And she told me something that we ended up repeating quite a bit that weekend through the services. She came up and she said, you know, dad was always fixing things and it looks like he fixed this too. She said, you know, even though your father has died, you've been reborn.

Thank you very much. That was Kimberly Wig. About a year and a half after her father's funeral, Kim went back to Montana to attend her high school reunion. She brought her camera and her award-winning film, Prodigo Suns, documents that trip. She also directed the feature documentary, Dark Money, which explores political corruption in Montana and elsewhere in the US. She also co-wrote an opera that's been performed all over the world.

Recently, I got a chance to catch up with Kim about life since her math story, which she first told in 2011. When you went back to Montana that first time and subsequent times, I'm wondering wondering what did you expect from people? I tended at that time in my life to presume what other people's reactions to me were going to be instead of letting them have their own reaction. And I was wrong about a lot of people. I thought that there would be rejection there, and there wasn't. I had sort of set up this barrier that wasn't really there. And the fact that that barrier got broken with my father's death, and then the subsequent reunification

with my brother that happens. I'm just so glad that that happened because if it hadn't, and if we hadn't kind of documented that and told those stories, I don't know that I ever would have figured it out. And there's a lot of people that don't, and I think that that said,

there's a flip side to all of that. I think what happens to me is, and the story that I tell for the month, is a really beautiful story of re-enification and love, and it's still warms my heart to think of it that way. That's not everybody's story. I think it's important to tell my story and to tell stories of trans joy and love and just the fact that we're just kind of like everybody else, as boring as everyone else.

And I mentioned earlier that we've come a long way in the way that our society accepts LGBT, and especially T folks. But there's a flip side to that, and that's that there's been more talk about trans folks in our society. There's been more talk about trans folks in our society, but that also comes with kind of a dark underbelly of reaction and blowback and especially violence against trans folks. And that's an important thing to acknowledge as we take in these stories of how far we've

come. in these stories of how far we've come, it's also creating a lot of blowback in certain sectors of our society. I mean, half of the states in the country have laws that are designed specifically to target trans folks and to remove rights that we have right now. So, especially when you're talking about medical treatment for trans kids, I think it's like especially targeted and cruel. And it sort of feels like we're becoming, it sort of feels like we're becoming

the latest social wedge issue. So two steps forward, one step back, you know, just keep moving forward. Well, I'm so glad we have your story of how a family can react that hopefully will lead the way for other families. Open their hearts up to it. Yeah, that's why we tell these stories, right? That was Kimberly Reed.

Visit the moth.org to get a link to the trailers for Kim's films and projects. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us next time and that's the story from The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Katherine Burns and Jennifer Hickson, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show along with Larry Rosen. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, a social producer and a link couch. The rest of the Moths leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin, Janess Meg Bulls, Kate Tellers,

Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Klucce, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Gladowsky, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Moths' stories are true, is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in this hour from Bill Frisell, Rye Kuder, Irving Berlin, and Soran Mula. 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 pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, TheMoth.org. you