The Moth - Walking Right Behind Them: Iman Ahmed & William Nour

Episode Date: December 3, 2021

This week, two stories about holding onto departed family members. This episode is hosted by Director of MothWorks Kate Tellers. To see the extras for this episode, visit our website: themoth.org/extras Hosted by: Kate Tellers Storytellers: Iman Ahmed & William Nour

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 slashordSlashHuston to experience a live show near you. That's theMoth.org-FordSlashHuston. Welcome to The Moth Podcast. I'm Kate Tellers, your host for this week. Sometimes faith or a belief in some higher power can help people to accept things they can't fully explain. in some higher power can help people to accept things they can't fully explain. Religious teachings and rituals guide those who believe in them through difficult moments,

especially moments of loss. But what happens when customs are questioned and traditions are at odds with the expectations of modern life? This week we hear two stories from storytellers who confronted the dichotomy of old and new head-on. Our first storyteller this week is Iman Ahmed. Iman told this at a showcase in New York City where the theme of the night was, across the divide. Here's Iman, live at the Monde.

So I'm standing in the parking lot of a mosque in Long Island and I'm watching my mom debate taking one or two blood pressure pills. She cranes her neck down the street looking for a hearse, but it doesn't show. She takes both the pills. I'm at my dad's funeral and he's not there. And I don't know where he is, which is weird because for the past three years, I've always been by his side. My daddy had polycythemia vera. It's a type of blood cancer where your body makes too many red blood cells and your blood can clot. He struggled with his illness for way more years than his doctors expected. I didn't realize how bad it was until one day I came home

from a fashion magazine internship. And I walked on the hallway. My stiletto was clacking down the hall. And I found him, my protector in this life, who taught me how to box and who held my hand when I crossed the street. He was lying on the kitchen floor, unable to get up. And seeing him like that, so defenseless and alone, it traumatized me.

So I exchanged my high heels for sneakers and at 23, I became his caregiver. On the days when we didn't go to the hematologist and remove like a half liter of his blood, we'd go check walks. And I would walk behind him like a paranoid shadow waiting to catch his thin frame if he fell. And when it was too cold out, we'd go to the gym and I'd strap his feet into the bike pedal and give him some space. And I'd go walk on the treadmill, but I had to choose the one with the mirror in front of it so that I could watch him behind me. My neighbors, especially the elderly ones, told my dad he was so lucky to have such a good daughter.

And that was something I rat myself with, that title. Especially, it was hard, especially when I saw my friends get married and go to grad school, they're all lives moving forward while I stood still. I couldn't take the looks of like pity on their faces, so I avoided contact with them and just saw them less and less and went out less and less. Months passed without incident.

And my dad, he wasn't really thrilled like my neighbors about me being such a good daughter. He was the head of the house and what he said goes. So the street lights are on, you better be home. You got a 95 on the test, go study. Skirt too short, don't even think about going. He was a social, charismatic guy, and he had this thick head of gray fluffy hair that women would literally stop him on the street to touch.

And me following behind him was kind of cramping his style. LAUGHTER This life isn't really what he wanted for me. There was like a power shift that happened because he was always in control, but as he got sicker, he didn't really want to accept his decline. There were canes and walkers in my house that just went untouched in the closet.

So I became even more paranoid. And I realized there were so many things that I had taken for granted, like playing music on my headphones, or closing my bedroom door, or just leaving him alone. Months passed without incident. And I kind of was fed up watching all the family reruns on Tuesday afternoons. So I got a part-time job at a real estate company as a receptionist. And my first day I put on my high heels once again and I just

I felt normal. I was so happy when I got back because I actually had a day to talk about. I get to my building and my dormant, he sees me and he's like, oh, your dad just left. And I looked at him like he was new, so I was like, I think he's mistaking me for somebody else. He doesn't know who my dad actually is. He's like, no, the ambulance just took him. And my family, they didn't want to ruin my day

by telling me my dad had a mini stroke. He was fine, we were eating sushi the next day, but I felt like somebody ripped that good daughter rap right off of me. He never actually told me that he wanted me around and I didn't really realize that he wanted me around. And I didn't really realize that he appreciated me until we had kind of a hard day where we saw a nephrologist, a hematologist,

and worst of all a mechanic. I was helping him into bed and his weight was leaning on me and he was surprised at how securely I held him. I was pulling up the comforter over him. And he looks at me and he says, he man, you're strong. And I knew in that moment that he appreciated that I was there.

I didn't say, except I love you after I ran my hands through his soft hair. Two more years had passed and we kept checking walks and going to the gym and watching Archie Bunker breathe the meathead. Until one day, a few months before my 26th birthday, my dad fell and I wasn't there to catch him. He was in a coma for three weeks and my family, we broke up the day into shifts and I took the night shift. So I would put my headphones in his ear and play Frank Sinatra's My Way, which was his favorite song, hoping the lyrics would wake him up.

It didn't work. And the doctors, they called the time of death at 7.52 a.m. And at 7.53, the countdown first funeral began because Muslims have to be buried the same day they die. And the hospital didn't really understand the urgency of the situation, and I really didn't either until my mom looked at my dad and was like, don't let him be put in the fridge. And I knew that it didn't matter that we didn't plan he had to be buried today,

this had to get done. Muslim funerals, one-on-one, don't wait till your dad dies to plan the funeral. So what do you need for a funeral? You need a Muslim funeral home to prepare the body for burial. You need a Muslim cemetery space to be buried in. You need friends who will pray for your dad and to hug you when you cry.

So we spent time just trying to get all these things done. And eight hours later, there I am back in the parking lot. No idea where my dad is, calling the driver, a spot call is going straight to voicemail, and my mom and I are just like heartbroken, I'm watching her with these blood pressure pills. And I have no idea where my dad is in the 60 miles between my Queen's apartment and the only Muslim cemetery in New York. And he has to be buried today, but it turns out that cemeteries have our spot operation. And the cemetery equals at five. It's four o'clock. And the cemetery director is like, you know, I think we need to do

this another day. And just one look at my mom, I knew she couldn't take another day of varying her husband for 30 years. So I tell you know what, we're on the way. Just we're like so close and I guess I'm not a good liar because she's like, you know, I think we need to cancel your father's funeral. I'm like, no, before we do that, I will pay $500 to keep the men there who will bury my father another hour. And she talks to them and they agree to my bribe. And the hers finally arrives.

And after a quick service where I pray that everything works out in my father's favor when he meets his maker. We head over to the cemetery and the call to prayer, the same one that he whispered in my ear when I was born is being recited. And once again, for one last time, I'm walking behind my dad. That was Iman Ahmed.

Iman is an Egyptian American writer. Her play band premiered off Broadway in September 2021 at Theater Row. She has participated in multiple writing fellowships, including the Writer's Guild initiative, where she was selected to have her one-act plays read at their annual star-studded gala. In addition to her writing, Amon created the first-ever database of Arab-American screenwriters. To see a photo of Imann at the Moth Ball, head to the extras for this episode on our website, themoth.org slash extras. Our next storyteller is William Neuer. William told this at a story slam in the Twin Cities of Minneapolis

St. Paul, where the theme of the night was Mama Rules. Here's William live at the month. Thank you. Good evening. So I was in third grade at Sisters of Nazareth's Catholic School in Haifa in Palestine, and we were preparing for first communion, and our father Augustine, our parish priest, came to see us at the school, and he told me that I was not ready to go through first communion maybe next year. I went home and told mom and she was livid. Next Sunday after church, she cornered him in the office. I was standing by her side as her deputy.

And she said, Father Augustine, why is my son not going through first communion with the rest of his classmates? A little nervous could hear. And he said, looked at me and he said, oh, he's not ready. Not all fruit ripens at the same time. And she said, oh, but all fruit equally are nourished by the same tree at the same time.

And then he looked at her and said, what, you give your baby milk. And then when it gets teeth, you give it bread. She said, teeth, you should see the way he eats at home. I can't keep up with him. He is ready. I stood there wondering why they were talking about me, but talking about food. And she said, well, tell me, father, why is he not ready?

He said, he does not understand the mystery of trans-substantiation. He doesn't know what communion is. And he looked at me with a piercing look, and he said, who puts Jesus in the bread, my son? Who puts Jesus in the bread? I was going, who puts Jesus in the bread? And I looked at mom, she said, God puts Jesus in the bread.

Who else? And he looked at her and he said the priest my daughter puts Jesus in the bread when he prays over it and she mumbled something about God has nothing to do with it of course and then she looked at me and she goes okay ruffled my hair and she said he knows it don't you know it honey he knows it can he go through first communion? and said, he knows it. Don't you know it, honey? He knows it. Can he go through first communion? So two Sundays later, I was at church kneeling there,

all scrubbed up. And Jaleh, looking with a bow tie that I had hated, she had loved it. And I was so excited and scared. Look, everybody else on my friends around me, and we were like, oh, we're going to eat the blood and drink the eat drink the blood and eat the drink the wine of Jesus. And then we were so scared like I'm scared right now and and she

And so We had it and it's like, oh my God, what's all the fuss? It's like cardboard. So then I start to think if other Augustine could put Jesus in the bread just by praying over it for a few seconds, how much more was mother doing in the kitchen for hours and on end? So I started to sneak into the kitchen just to see what she was up to. One day I was tiptoeing in there and I tripped on this box. It had hairy legs with hooves and a jumbled mess of intestines. I think it still had some shit in them.

And so I look on the stove. There was a big fat bubbling steam coming out. And there's mother, her hair tied up. And I must have startled her because she turned around with a big kitchen knife and screamed. And then I start to scream because I saw right when she moved. There was a head of an animal on the counter. She must have skinned it. The teeth were showing. And ears were cut off. And she was gouging the eyes. I thought, what kind of sorcery is this woman into?

And I'm like, father Augustine was praying, Jesus into the bread. Who was she praying to that foot? Who's body and blood have we been lapping up at the table all these years? I was like, what is that book on the table? Is it magic?

Remember I was eight. I was like, and wait, wait. Was she working for the dark side? Where is that part of the animal that normal people eat? So flash forward, 50-some odd years. I'm at home here in Maniniaapolis, digging back of the freezer and I find this bag and I look at it, it's like, oh my God, Easter! It's cookies! Oh, oh my God, these are the ones mom made.

Like, I'm brought it to me two years before she died. They've been in the freezer and I thought, oh, I'm not gonna eat them. I'll take them to my brother's house. I won't tell them. At my brother's house, he's making Arabic coffee and I take the bag out, put it on the table. He goes, you made Easter cookies?

Oh my God, Easter cookies, I love these. And he goes, oh, mm-mm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, you made these, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, mm-hmm, Well, two years in the freezer, remember, still tastes like her cookies. What magic is that? So he takes two cookies and he walks to his unsuspecting boys, two of them slouched on the couch, watching cartoons, nine and eight year old Torek and Malik. And he says, boys, take these, eat them, data made them, remember her? Tarek shot off the couch, he's like, Tata's dead!

So yes, Tata is dead, but every year at Easter time, we resurrect her memory, and we bring out down her recipes and pray her into her favorite cookies. That was William Newer. William is a Palestinian Arab born in Nazareth. He grew up in Haifa, where he attended Sisters of Nazareth Catholic School. He moved to the U.S. and graduated with the B.A. in English at Augustana University in South Dakota. William is an actor, poet, doom-beck drummer, bird watcher, and gardener.

He lives in Minneapolis with his husband of 26 years. His father taught him to read and to love, his mother, everything else. To see some photos of William from his first communion, head to the extras for this episode on our website, the moth.org slash extras. That's all for this episode. As we enter a month full of traditions for many of us, I hope yours bring you comfort, renewal, and connection. I'm off to dust off my Christmas sheet music, as my father has just sent out the

part assignments for our caroling and once again, I'm the alto. All is calm, all is bright. From all of us here at The Moth, have a story-worthy week. Kate Tellers is a storyteller, host and director of Mothworks at the Moth. Her story, but also brings cheese, is featured in the Moth's, all these wonders, true stories about facing the unknown, and her writing has appeared on McSweeney's and in the New Yorker. This episode of the Moth podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Jones, Sarah Jane Johnson, Julia Purcell, and me, Davie Sumner, with assistance from Jason Richards.

The rest of The Moth's leadership team includes Katherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bulls, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cluche, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Gladowski, and Aldi Kaza. All Moth stories are true as remembered by storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story and everything else, visit our website, TheMoth.org. The Moth podcast is presented by PRX, the public radio exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.