The Moth - The Moth Radio Hour: Young Adults

Episode Date: September 27, 2022

This week on The Moth Radio Hour, stories about being young. Hosted by Jenifer Hixson. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by The Moth and Jay Allison of Atlantic Public Media. Hosted by: Jenifer Hixson Storytellers: Muthoni Garland Joann Kielar Moses Storm Laura Gilbert Diamante Ortiz Christine Gentry Javier Morillo

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 Jennifer Hickson. In this hour, we're going to visit the realm of teenagers and young adults, as told in

story slams all over the country and abroad. As we review Moth's slam stories, we've noticed that many people choose to tell stories from these years and their lives. What is it about being a teenager that remains so vivid and feels so story worthy? Maybe it's that everything matters so much when you're a teenager. Our first story is set in Africa. Nairobi, Kenya to be exact,

but I was struck with how very familiar this story sounds like it could easily be said in Nebraska or Denver or New Jersey, where I'm from, like maybe if I didn't have impressionable young children, maybe I'd have a very similar story to share. Muthoni Garland told this at our story slam in London when she was visiting from Kenya. Here's Muthoni Garland live at the moth. Hi.

Wow. I want to tell you about a story that happened where I grew up in Nairobi, which is a fair distance from here. And I'm going to take you back almost 40 years ago. It's always shocking to me when I realize how old I really am. But anyway, anyway, I was a teenager. 1977. And I was crazy about an American musician. And her name was Millie Jackson.

I don't know if any of you know Millie Jackson, but she's the one who sang, if loving you is wrong, I don't want to be right. You know, I mean, I can't sing it, but, you know, I'll adore that song. And I don't know why, because I was very sweet, well, brought up Catholic girl and all that. But there was something about that song

that just spoke to something in me, you know? Anyway, 1977. And I hear in the news that Billy Jackson is coming to Kenya to perform. We'd never had of such a thing. We didn't even know if it is real. It's one of those corner people, doing something. But we decided, and this was a whole neighborhood committee

where we lived, that we were going to sneak out. And it was the first time we'd ever done such a thing. But we were going to sneak out, I was 16. And we were going to sneak out and go and see the show. So lots of plans are put and I tell it was serious planning, okay? And because where we lived, it was like a row, I don't know how to describe it in English terms, but anyway, it was like a row of major nets.

Does that make sense? In a way, it's the two, you know, double story height, but they all connected to each other, yeah? And we were about six different houses on the row that were, you know, that we all going to break out that night, okay? And we all had plans because, you know, I don't know if you know this, but Nairobi used to have a reputation. Thank God it's kind of died away, but it used to be called Nairobi. It was very unsafe. So all the houses, you know, there were very high walls, you know, the very, very high

walls. And when I say high, like 10 feet high, at least. And so sneaking out in vote, removing the glass from the louvers on the second floor, which I never know. Because in the UK, I think second floor is fast floor. It's mezzan, I don't know. The floor above this one. Anyway. So anyway, so we had to remove the louvers in the afternoon very gently so that we don't break any of them.

And then tie these sheets from our bed. Oh, this was planned it. Anyway, so tie these sheets from our bed. And somehow propel ourselves, which now I understand is called up sailing. But propell our cells through these louvers and onto this sort of wall that sort of dissected up you know that the house is so onto these wall and then lower the sheet such that we would be able to reach it when we come back. Anyways, so get on to this wall.

And somehow, you know, so I can't remember, there was a guy who lived next door, was lame, his foot was six inches shorter, one leg was so short. And I can't remember why it was him who was responsible for lowering us once we got onto the wall. He had to hold us up. Cut a long story short. We all made it. That says something about the power of neighborhoods that worked together. We all made it. There was a few little risky ones. We had to go help a bit more, but we made it.

Anyway, so we go off to this concert and it was in the new Katna International Conference Center and it was this huge fall. And the turnouts, I think, the Americans were estimated the ability of Katna's to sneak out. Our parents were not the type to say yes to, you know, this kind of foreign, you know, disruption of our culture. Okay, so, so we got to what people paid a lot of money for and we were right at the front

and we danced all night. It was fantastic. I'll just say this, we made it back. It was long, it was hard, it was odd, yes, we made it back. At least in my family we did. One did get caught. But in my family we did.

The only thing is the following morning, my father's reading a newspaper at the breakfast table. I don't recover. Is this Millie Jackson? morning, my father's reading a newspaper at the breakfast table. I don't recover. Is this Millie Jackson? And she's wearing a white sort of suit and big sweat stains. Big sweat stains. And my father is just saying, how terrible this in people

come, look at the culture they bring is disgusting. Look at it, it's all bad, bad, bad, bad, bad. And we're just fascinated that the photograph, because right there in the front, all of us, all of us, I recognize every single person on that road cheering on Millie Jackson. And that's my story, thanks for sharing. That was Muthoni Garland, live at the Mott's Story Slam in London.

Muthoni says that her father never discovered the truth about the concert, and she said that she didn't save the newspaper article and photo. She was too intent on destroying the evidence. I spent a little time looking for it. Maybe someone out there can find it. Let us know and we'll add the photo at themoth.org. Muthoni says the year was 1977 and the paper was either nation or standard. When she's not scaling walls as a mille Jackson fan, Muthoni Garland is an author.

She's published over 40 books for children, two novellas for adults, and several stories in literary journals. If being right means being without you, I'd rather live a long do a lie. Next up, we visit a story slam in Pittsburgh, where we partner with Public Radio Station, WESA. This is a story that might illustrate why parents worry so much. It's a dangerous world out there. Quick warning, the story involves a predatory individual.

Here's Joanne Keeler. Applause If you live in Pittsburgh, you know the North Side. And yeah, if you know the North Side, you're probably familiar with the Garden Theater. When I was little, my big brother used to take me to the Garden Theater on Saturday mornings. They showed 101 cartoons on Saturday mornings.

I'm old. And when I was a little older, that's where I saw my first Clint Eastwood film, fistful of dollars. But by the time I was a teenager, the Garden Theater was a porn joint. And about that time, our neighborhood was kind of being dissected to make room for 279 North. And out of high school, I worked at Allegheny General Hospital, which is down there by the

Garden Theatre, and I used to walk home on North Avenue, turn onto my street. Walk home. It was a long street. And the day I'm thinking of, I was probably dressed in a little white uniform, and I had some platform shoes that I shouldn't have worn to work, but I was a secretary at the hospital. And I started walking down our street. And by that time, the street was nothing but a hillside with a lot of empty houses

except at the end where I lived, because people had moved out. And the other side was a big, cinder block wall that sort of blocked us from the construction. So I'm walking down this street all alone. And at one point I sort of looked behind me and I realized somebody else was coming behind me. I kept going. And I don't know if something made me look back again.

And the person behind me was a little closer. And I don't know how old he was, maybe 30. He looked old to me because I was 18. He looked shaggy too. Didn't look like a good person to be behind me. And the third time I looked, he was much closer and I started walking faster. And when I looked again, he was close enough that I could see. He was stringy hair, greasy cords. Now I could hear him. And he said, I'm coming from the Garden Theater.

You know what kind of movies they show there. I knew what kind of movies they showed there. He said, won't you help me out? Rungy Greasy, Corde Royce, the kind that have the cords wearing off. And now he's kind of working the front of his pants. And he says, you know, you're a pretty girl. I probably was at that time. And he said, come on, give me some help.

He said, give me a hand here. I don't know what to do. First of all, I had the platform shoes on. I couldn't run. And my house was still over the ridge. And nobody would have been home but my mother watching her soap operas. No cell phones in those days.

Just me and the wall and the hillside and this guy. Well, I do have my own particular sort of resourcefulness, and it came to me. It came to me. It was the muse. I don't know how I did it. I don't know how I made myself do it. But I turned around. I looked at this pathetic creature right in the eye

and I said, you know, I'm coming home from work. And I always walk home this way. And about this time of day, my brother usually comes out on the porch. He worries about me. He's a cop. And he's seen a lot of bad things happen to young women. If he doesn't see me coming on time, he gets the dog and he starts walking up here to meet me.

I don't think you want to meet my brother. I don't know where I got the courage to do, but I turned my back on him and I kept walking. When I got up to the ridge where I could see my house, I turned around. And I don't know how fast that guy had walked to catch up with me, but he must have gone twice as fast to get away from me. Because when I looked, he was like way down the street somewhere. I got myself, I was never so glad to see my mother and the guiding light. Let me tell you. And that day, that day I said to myself, if I ever have kids, I am going to tell them every

scary fairy tale in the world. Because there really are big bad wolves and they're in the woods and they will eat you up. And I'll tell you something else, there are giants who will steal all your money, so they can live in a palace while you're starving. And you know that. But what I learned that day was that a story can make you cry, can make you laugh, it can entertain you. But that day a story saved laugh, it can entertain you. But that day, a story saved me. It saved me. And I love being here.

And I thank you for listening to my story. That was Joanne Pula. She still lives in Pittsburgh and has worked in the arts for her whole life. She says, her children and grandchildren are her pride and joy. And she fills their heads with stories as often as she can. Coming up, more teenage stories about love, nerds, and fashion when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

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 Jennifer Hickson, and we're showcasing stories from and about teenagers. Our next storyteller speaks to another right of passage, the massive and all-consuming crush. You remember those? Moses Storm told this story in Los Angeles, where we partner with Public Radio Station KCRW. Here's Moses Storm told this story in Los Angeles where we partner with public radio station KCRW.

Here's Moses Storm. When I was 13 years old, the family business was yard sales. And two questions come up with this is, how does the family of five live off yard sales alone? And the answer is we didn't. We were very poor. And two, how do you have a yard sale every week? Like eventually you would run out of stuff, right? It's like simple supply and demand. What we would do is we would go to rich neighborhoods and when they would throw out stuff,

that was basically garbage, we would fix it up a little bit, clean it up and then sell it back to them. Yeah, kind of like a modern day Robin Hood. If Robin Hood had no trouble going through people's garbage. So one day we're in Blue Water Bay, Florida, and we come across this a particularly good pile of junk. And I know it's a good pile because my mom always had a saying.

My mom would every time we come across like a good pile, she'd always be like, look at me and be like, sometimes it pays to be poor. And you're right, that doesn't make any sense. But the sentiment behind it was that we had scored big. So we're at this pile, and this girl comes out that lives in the house, and she's like, oh, I have more stuff to give you guys. And she finally sets this stuff down, and it's honestly the most beautiful girl that I've ever seen.

Her name is Caitlin, and she's 17. I'm like shaking as I'm thinking about it now. And she's honestly that kind of beautiful that just like your whole body vibrates, and you feel amazing, and you feel like you want to throw up. And she's the kind of beautiful that makes you want to do just stupid things. So I immediately retreat back to our van,

and I'm like, hiding in the van, because I don't want my future wife to see me like this. Because you never hear that story at a wedding like, oh, how'd you two meet? Oh, he was going through my garbage, and no. So a couple of minutes, goodbye. My mom comes back with all this stuff in her hands. She's like, I got a little stuff up.

Go back and get her number. What? She's like, you got to get her number. When her parents get home, she's going to give us more stuff. So that's the first time I got a very beautiful girl's phone number under the worst circumstances. And I eventually developed this relationship with Caitlin. She would call us and check in with us,

make sure we were doing okay, and I would look for any excuse to talk to her. So when she asked us if we could be her senior project that year, she was the kind of beautiful and major stupid things. So of course I said yes to this, and to celebrate, we went over to our house, we're with our family, and we were gonna celebrate this,

and they were gonna cook us a dinner, and I go over to our house, and it's like, nothing I've ever seen, she got this huge house. It looks like a different planet that had been decorated by bedbath and beyond. And of course, the other rich family just looking at us like we're animals and people close as we're eating.

And I'm like, what's the little fork for? Little food? And but me and Caitlin actually like hit it off at the dinner. We have like some inside jokes already about panda bears. I'd tell you guys, but you wouldn't understand. So after the dinner, we all take a photo together with all the gifts that she's given us. And this is like part of her senior project. She took a sound for the holiday. So, we all take a photo with her, and a couple days go by and we're talking on the phone, I say, hey, you should

send me that photo. And she's like, oh, wait a couple weeks, I got a surprise. And I'm like, oh, cool. I know, this is about she's probably going gonna like frame the photo and like a heart frame or something or a panda bear girl's stupid I get the photo in the mail and it's attached to a paper To be more specific it's attached to the paper and to be even more specific It's on the front page of the paper our local paper with a large headline over it that says, local poor family gets saved by high schooler. Surprise! I just like, impossible to look cool in front of this girl and like, and after that she invites us to her homecoming game and,

as she invites me to the homecoming game, of course I say yes to this, I'm like, sweet. And she invites us to the homecoming game, and of course I say yes to this, I'm like, sweet. And she invited the game, and she's like, yeah, we'll tape off some seats for you and your family. And I'm like, oh no, we don't got to bring them. You pretty much got what they're all about from the dinner and stuff, and they might feel weird

because we have this connection. Pandas. So we go to the homecoming game, and we're being recognized left and right. People are like, hey, it's local poor family. You know, like the worst case scenario. And I'm like hiding my face as much as possible and telling my siblings to like, let's just like break it up.

Like, don't at least not stand in the same order we were standing in the photo. It's kind of little separation. Kaylyn comes up, she's in a letterman's jacket, and of course she looks amazing, and she's like, I got a surprise for you guys. And I'm like, oh, these are never good. And she's like, I got us a great spot for the parade. I'm like, all right, whatever.

There's a homecoming parade. The parade goes like, it's like the marching band, the football team, the king and the queen, the guy on the track. So we go out to the track. Me and I have a very great spot. We're like, right by the band. I'm actually joking to my sister. I'm like, well, he's such a good track. So we got to the track, and we had a very great spot.

We're like, right by the band, I'm actually joking into my sister, and I'm like, well, you're such a good spot. People are going to think, we're in the parade. It's at that point that I'm handed a banner. Yeah, we're in the parade. Just then, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, the parade starts. And if you were there that night of the homecoming game,

you could have seen an entire football team, an entire marching band, a king and a queen being led around the track by a very reluctant local poor family. And I get off the track and I'm that kind of embarrassed and like that is like so real inside. I'm just like walking off like the second of a loan, I just know I'm gonna cry, I just know it. And I've never felt worse.

And I'm walking out and Caitlin walks us out at the end of the night and she thanks us for coming out and she tells me that it meant a lot that we came out and we helped her out with this project. And she gives me a little kiss on the cheek. And I don't know what it was, but like everything, she was just like so beautiful. And like everything melted away.

All that embarrassment was just gone. Because like the most beautiful girl in the world kissed me on the cheek. I got to half base. And I didn't even matter that she like immediately got into a boyfriend's Mustang. I remember driving back in the van and I was so pleased I just never think it meant. Sometimes it pays to be poor. Thank you guys. That was Moses Storm in Los Angeles. Moses tells me that he's lost touch with the girl in the story.

But since he's now a comic and often on the road, hey, maybe their paths will cross. Moses often stages social experiments that poke fun at narcissism. These days, Moses is not taking stuff from the curb, but admits that every time he passes a trash pile on the street, it still catches his eye. To see a picture of Moses as a teenager at one of his family's yard sales, visit theMoth.org where you can also link to his website to see where he's performing. Our next story is all about awkwardness. An awkwardness so deep, it speaks its own language.

Laura Gilbert's story ends in adulthood, but starts when she's still a teen. Here's Laura, live at a story slam in New York City. In the anatomy of a computer program, there are three parts. There's the input that the user has to put in, and then there's the processing of that input via whatever algorithm is in place, and then the program hopefully produces some kind of output. So when life here gets overwhelming or messy, which is pretty much always, sometimes I like to frame things in relation to these three steps, for instance, I'm on the train and someone says hi to me, that would be the input.

And then I process it via my own algorithm, which is somewhat Dr. Suss machine-esque, and I think, okay, well, I haven't seen this person in a long time, but I'm getting off of the next stop. So any conversation I start is going to be kind of meaningless, but how do I convey to her that I actually do care about what she's been doing? Maybe I should suggest coffee, but that'll sound like an empty promise, which it probably is, because I'm a huge flake, because I can't keep, you know, that's why we haven't talked to each other in so long, because I've let this friendship dive, because I can't commit

to anything. That's why I'm wasting the best years of my life in this dead-end job and I can't. And now I have to say something because Shishinoy, I'm having an existential crisis on the out train. So that's the algorithm. And then I produce the output, which is, oh hey, so. So perhaps this does not demonstrate my ability as a computer programmer, but I am apt when I program in Java because I took a lot of computer science classes as a high school. I went to computer programming competitions and I just loved the irrefutable logic of code in what is otherwise like this anarchist,

acid trip, completely abstract thing of high school. So it should come as no surprise that my first and only relationship in high schools with computer science boy, and it went exactly as you would imagine. We only communicated in binary, and we would hold hands, but while we were petting my dog,

so we would just kind of submerge in the fur and then touch hands and then freeze. And the kissing function, we had not debugged yet, so we didn't do a lot of that. And the input was me looking at him and the output was furious, blushing. And I just remember being floored that someone liked me, and so that translated into this kind of enormous overwhelming foreign data that I couldn't really process. And so when we split up because we went to different colleges, I was not devastated because I just remember trying to figure out this algorithm for how I was going to process like

how did this mystery, this data, like how did he like me and what, you know, the thing about the funny thing about computers is that they don't need to be loved and the funny thing about people who relate to computers is that you start to subscribe to the same view. And so I carried that unprocessed data all through college, except no new input, thank you very much. And then that leads us to what I like to call the syntax error incident of 2012, where I was at my cousin's wedding, and I was adjoining the anonymity that comes with being a guest at a wedding,

because nobody really cares what you say at a wedding. They ask questions, blah, blah, blah, what do you do? Who are you? Immediately forget what they're saying. So I'm pretending to be wildly successful, and they ask what I'm doing in New York City, the big apple, and I'm not saying that I'm wearing a hand-me-down dress for my mom's friend,

and I'm definitely not saying that my shoes are from a literal thrift store, and then I meet the sky the sky and in his introduction he's a friend of the bride, he says that he's a Java developer who works at an online investment company that was the input. And no matter how many times you run yourself through test cases, you're going to come upon situations where you produce a wildly unexpected outcome. Errors is what we call those. And an outcome that makes you immediately

quit the run of the program. And you go through your personality line by line and you figure out where in the sand hill did this happen. And so he gave me the input. And without missing a beat, where did this algorithm come from? I responded with my output. And I said, realizing this handsome stranger

was also a computer programmer. I said, oh, well, system.out.printline parentheses quote hey and quote and parentheses semi colon. And which I spoke to him a line of code that would literally print the word hey and then I entered an infinite loop of regret And I so I exited the conversation swiftly and I turned around I walked away and I thought to myself, okay, well that occurred and And then you but when you kind of have an experience where you are So yourself like that you have to stop feeding yourself that bullshit input that's like my algorithm needs to be changed in order to be lovable.

And you start to feed yourself this thing that's like, okay, well, I'm the kind of girl who opens flirtatious interactions with a line of code. And possibly that's lovable. And I don't even wanna tell the end of this story because the point has already been made that everyone has a lovable algorithm. But incidentally, this boy is now my fiance

and we're writing this error-filled short-start-getting program line-by-line, but we're debugging it. Thank you. That was Laura Gilbert. Laura is a dancer and writer who lives in Brooklyn. Our next story is from an actual, real-life teenager, Diamante Ortes. Diamante was attending the Young Women's Leadership School of Brooklyn when the Moths Education team came in

to do workshops. She developed her story in school with our instructors and later performed it at a Moths High School Grand Slam at the New York and Poets Cafe. Diamante is going to touch upon another of the important pillars of teenage development, autonomy of personal style. Here's Diamante.

Wow. OK. OK. Oh, I'm not Beyonce, but hello, everyone. Wicked nervous. OK. Yeah. Yeah.

Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Ever since I was 12, I always asked my mom this question, mom, can I please have purple hair? And I would always get the same response wait until you're older. So I saw this as a definite maybe.

So one day, I just had enough of the same over pie. So I saw this as a definite maybe. So one day I just had enough of the same overpile. So I came up with another question. How old? And she says, well, you have to give some time and thought into it. And until you're 16, then maybe we could talk about this. So then I'm like, okay. So fast forward to my 16th birthday last year where I did nothing at all, except ask my mom this question, mom, can I please have purple hair? And she said, well, you've given it some thought

and you've probably wrote it 40 times in your journal. So yes, you can have purple hair as your birthday present. And in that moment, it was like the combination, like 4th of July fireworks, So, yes, you can have purple hair as your birthday present. And in that moment, it was like the combination, like, Fourth of July fireworks, and I want to do that dance, like, in a polian dynamite, where it's just like, and it was amazing, and we worked out the logistics.

So I would get my purple hair the first weekend before school started. So I would come in with like a whole new head of hair and a whole new me and it'd be really awesome. And I get to the place and my hair appointment is at 12, but I come in at 11.30. It's just pre-hair excitement. I just made that thing. And I see my hair stylist and I only talk to him over the phone,

and I didn't like see him in person. So I see him, and he has blue hair. So I'm thinking, OK, I'm in good hands. And during the process, you have to bleach your hair first and then put the purple dye in. So they put all this aluminum foil in for two hours. So I end up looking like a satellite dish, and I could get like HBO and like maybe Pandora.

And then they wash out the hair, and then they towel dry it. So after they towel dry it, I go from the washing station back to the salon chair, and I take off the towel, and in that moment I am blonde, and in that moment I actually don't see myself. I see my sister.

And I have two sisters, one of my mom's side and one of my dad's side. And my sister, on my mom's side, has blonde hair. And her and I, we both look really similar. We have similar facial features and everything. The only difference is that she has blonde hair. And now I did too. And it was weird, because when I looked in the mirror, I saw her, and I didn't want to be her.

Not saying I don't love my sister, I love my sister to death. She is the most amazing person ever right up there with my mom and dad. And I was just freaking out because it was an out-of-body experience because it wasn't me. As I was aspiring to be someone else, I was just freaking out because it was an out-of-body experience because it wasn't me. As I was aspiring to be someone else, I was copying someone else and it was weird. And my hair stylist saw how freaked out I was, so he was like, okay, we're going to put

the purple dye on, just breathe in and out. Do you need a paper bag? I was like, no, I'm fine, let's just get this purple on. So then they finally put the purple dye in, and from two o'clock to six o'clock, I finally have my purple hair and I'm finally completely complacent and happy with it. And my mom takes 40 pictures as she's doing right now. Like it's the combination of prom and graduation as she's probably like, ah, I made a que preciosa, it's a muy bella. I love you, Mom. And it's finally me.

I finally saw myself the way I want to be seen. And I could show people how I want to be seen rather than a perception of how they want to see me, just like a weird girl, but now we're a girl with purple hair, so it's So then the next day I go to my sister's house in the Bronx and I didn't tell her that was getting purple hair So I knock on the door first ever and then she opens the door and she's like hell up And she speechless for about 10 minutes.

And then she has three kids. So I have two nephews and one niece, five-year-old, four-year-old, and one-year-old. And the four-year-old has the first reaction. And he says, and I quote, I kid you not, is anyone gonna love you like that? But then my five-year-old nephew says, don't worry, Mante. Let's win.

I love you like that. And then my one-year-old niece just goes, ha, ha, ha. Like, I'm probably a my little pony in her head or something. And then my sister finally comes around and has her reaction. She's like, oh, wow, you have purple hair. Mom must really trust you. At that age, I could only get blonde hair.

So you're like two years ahead of where I was. And it was really weird. And like, thinking about it to this day, I didn't really think much about it. It's just like, OK, it's purple hair. It's going to turn black anyway. And I think I answered like my own like thought where it's high school and it's my time to actually have purple hair because I know when I get older, I'm going to go off to college

and be more professional and start wearing gray clothes like corporate America. And my mom actually trusted me enough to express myself and actually be who I want to be, not how others would perceive me as what they wanted me to be as. And it was something that I never fully realized until I look in the mirror every day. And my sister taught me that. And of course, I became the petting zoo on Monday at school. And there was a line of people just touching it. It's like, oh my gosh, you got purple hair. I thought it was a myth.

You can't really trust these seven graders. It's just like spreading rumors all around. And it was like, it was amazing because in that moment, I felt like it was actually me. And it reminds me of this essay hinting quote, you still have a lot of time to figure out who you want to be. And I'm actually glad that I'm still figuring it out with the purple hair. Thank you.

That was Diamante Ortez. She's currently studying political science and community development in college, and I'm happy to say her hair is still a beautiful shade of purple. To see a picture of Diamante and her violet mane, you can visit themoth.org. Next up, what better place to reflect on your teenage years than on Facebook in the months leading up to your 30th high school reunion? That and a father who throws a wrench in all your romantic plans, coming up next on the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org.

You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX, I'm Jennifer Hickson. This next story is about being teenage in Texas and negotiating with a very strict parent. Christine Gentry was raised in Texas but told this story at the Boston Grand Slam where we partner with WBUR and PRX. Here's Christine. So I'm sure a lot of you think that your dads make dating worse than the intrinsic nightmare

that it already is, but y'all didn't grow up in Texas, okay? My dad is a couple inches taller than I am, but probably one of the most intimidating men on the planet. He's an ex-Air Force Vietnam vet who became a mechanic because he was much better with his hands and he was with his heart. He's allergic to feelings. So my dad started running romantic interference very early in my life. I remember a night when I was five or six, and we were having dinner at the

closeted gay music minister's house. And I was down the hall playing with his son, and we were playing KISS tag, which, I'm sure you can imagine, is tag with kissing. As soon as my dad found out, he came to the back room, he grabbed me by my ear and drug me onto the hallway, and said, you ain't never to play that game again. And I said, why dad? He said, because kissing is where babies come from.

Okay. Like all good Texans, my dad didn't let me date until I was 16 years old and I clearly remembered the day that this rule was set. I was 16 years old, and I clearly remember the day that this rule was set. I was about 13. This really cute boy at school had asked me to meet him at the mall, swoon. And I had to ask my dad for permission, but he was changing the oil on the suburban.

So I went out to find him, and I had to ask his knees, because he was under the car. And so I kicked the ground and asked him if I could go to the mall, and he didn't respond. There was just some grunting. And then he shimmyed out from under the car, grabbed that pan of dirty oil and started walking right up back to the house. And I tottered after him, like maybe he didn't hear me. And he gets to the port where this like bright cluster of daffodils had just bloomed. He locks eyes with me and pours that dirty oil all over those

flowers. And he says, absolutely not. Not to your 16. OK. And I was crushed imagining this boy at Spencer's with another girl. So I didn't have my first real date until Junior Year of High School was homecoming dance and I was like, okay, this is it. I'm going to have my first kiss tonight. We're going to get married this summer after graduation.

We'll start having Christian babies, it's the way the God wants it. And of course, it had a poccaliptic rain to the night before this dance. And so our crappy front yard was just a mud swamp. And my dad's solution was to criss-cross some two-by-fours between the sidewalk and the porch. And so this poor boy had to balance beam it to our front door. And then once he got in, it was just four walls of guns and dead shit. And my dad sat him down and he put tube socks on both of his hands. Instead, I don't want these coming off all night. Pulse a shotgun off the wall.

Opens it, real casual like, and asks the boy to look down the back of the barrel to see if it was clean. Needless to say, I did not get kissed that night. I was home by 9.30 and I cried myself to sleep. I was like, I am never going to get married. That's it, like this is it. In the 20 years since that night, I have brought literally two humans home to meet my father. The first one might as well not have had a name because he was only ever referred

to as noodle arms. This includes all in-person interactions. The second one hadn't even been in our house for five minutes when my dad sat him down and handed him a grenade. He had emptied the powder from the grenade, but of course the boy did not know that. He sat down next to him, pulled the pin and said, got a couple questions for you. I'm going to go back to the point where I didn't want to talk to my dad about who I was dating or anything personal going on in my life. And my last breakup was awful. It was like one of those eviscerating ones that make you lose sleep and wait and hope and mankind. And I called my mom, sobbing, told her about it.

She said, do you want to talk to your dad? I was like, no way. And the next day, I get a call from the front office. And they said, I have a package from 1-800 flowers. And I said, that's weird. And I went to get it and it was from my dad. And I said, that's weird. And I went to get it, and it was from my dad. He had Googled his way to my work address

and had this adorable little bouquet of multicolored tulips sent to my school. And the card said, just wanted to cheer you up, just thinking of you. Miss you, want to cheer you up, just thinking of you. Miss ya, wanna kiss ya. And it was all in one run on sentence. And I'm an English teacher. And it was the smallest, cheapest bouquet I have ever received.

But as far as I know, my father has never sinned flowers to anyone. Not mom, not grandma, no one. And it was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Thank you. That was Christine Gentry. She holds a PhD in English education from Columbia University and currently serves as director of teacher development for a

network of public high schools in Boston. To see a picture of the bouquet her dad sent visit themoth.org. Our final story was told at a grand slam in Minnesota. The theme was breaking point. Here's Javier Morilla. August 2015, there wasn't a hint of resentment or awkward self-awareness when I accepted the invitation to join the Facebook group of my 30th High School reunion. And I thought, you know, this time I think I can go.

The first agenda of business, the group polls a question. 30th reunion, 2017. Puerto Rico are the United States. Most of the class of 87 now lives on the mainland, maybe out of a sense of duty or nostalgia. We've all left as part of the brain drain on the island, but it surely can use our tourist dollars. And so we decide altogether that it will be there.

I joined the group without even thinking about it. I could barely even remember why it felt so stressful to even contemplate attending any of the prior reunions. And on the Facebook group, our back-and-forth is interrupted for a second. You may wonder, like, what's my role in this? Where did I find this? So I was the bilingual kid who considered himself very, very deep. You know, the kind of kid who read 1984 in 1984 without a hint of irony.

You know, everything was very, very serious, as serious as my flock of seagulls inspired haircut. I was a tortured teenager and my torture was important as important as a moracy lyric. Yes. I listen to the Smiths and the Clash and the Cure. So we are going back and forth on the Facebook group about where to have the reunion and such when all of a sudden it's interrupted by a screech, a primordial scream, all caps.

Fuck you all, you damn homophobes. At those look at Los Camisieros Daniel, all of you hurt me, I hate you, class of 87, a big FU, all of you except Brenda, and maybe Rosemary and a few others, but the rest of you, a big FU! Meet Ricardo. Ricardo's Facebook page did not have any pictures, not even an avatar to suggest who

he is, but I know who he is, we all do. Ricardo, and we all knew that this rant, which seemingly came out of the blue, actually made perfect sense, he was this kid who, even though he'd gone to Antilles' entire schooling since elementary school, he never was comfortable in English, he didn't get good grades, and didn't have a lot of friends, and all of them were girls. That's what I knew about him. But it wasn't much. It was very long time ago, I had decided to not know a lot about Ricardo. Now, as long as I had known him since the fourth grade, Ricardo could never do what I could when I felt scared, just sort of make myself invisible or blend in. Digardo always stood out. Even in, we were like eight years old, kids would call him pato. In Spanish pato just means duck, but in Puerto Rico

and only in Puerto Rico, it's also a slur, it is the slang word for faggot. And Ricardo, I think about it for a second and answer a comment on his page and I say Ricardo, they will say this personally, but I think it's important, I say this publicly. I've thought about you so much these many years since Antilles because I too am gay. And I think about all those times when I saw people being unkind to you.

And I feel deep shame that I never spoke up. I then sit back and retreat to adolescence and waiting to see how many likes my comment will get. People, there's a lot of activity on the page. People start apologizing to Ricardo Ramón, an army brat like me, he apologizes to Ricardo, and then to me, he says that he regrets so much how he treated us, that he now has taught his kids to stand

up for others who are being bullied. Ricardo messages me privately and says that I have nothing to apologize for. He says you were always kind to me. We remember things differently, I think, as I recall all those times that I saw him being bullied and walked in the other direction. Our reunion is next year in spring. I message Ricardo and ask him, well, I see you there.

We'll see, he says. Thank you. Applause That was Javier Moria. Javier is a labor union leader and activist in Minnesota. As president of SEIU Local 26, he fights hard for everyone he represents. He also created, wrong about everything, a podcast that brings together two conservatives and two progressives to dissect the week's news. Now about Ricardo.

Javier said that he was touched to learn that many of his classmates had reached out to Ricardo personally. Boys who had bullied him apologized to him directly, and he had long conversations on the phone with a few classmates. Javier said that he is forever grateful to Ricardo for his strength and for charting a path for being different way before he was comfortable doing the same. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us next time for the Moth Radio Hour. Your host this hour with Jennifer Hickson, Jennifer directed the stories in the show along with Maggie Sino, Catherine McCarthy and Michaela Bly. The rest of the most direct-toil staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin, Janess, and Meg Boles, production support from Timothy Lewley.

Moth stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in this hour from Millie Jackson, Blue Stolly, the album leaf, Stelwagan's symphonet, Gustavo Santalala, and Penguin Cafe Orchestra. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allyson, with Vicki Merrick, at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX.

For more about our podcast, for information about how to pitch your own story and everything else, go to our website, TheMawth.org.