The Moth - What's YOUR Story: The Moth Podcast

Episode Date: February 13, 2026

Our stories define us and shape us. They’re beloved treasures passed down or secrets that we hide. Stories can be personal legend or family legacy. In this episode, a little of both, about the memories we leave behind and some of the lessons learned. If you'd like to tell your OWN story, we're publishing a journal called "My Life In Stories," and it has over 150 prompts that will help you sift through your memories and shape them into narratives. You can order it wherever you get your books: https://themoth.org/my-life-in-stories-a-guided-journal-from-the-moth This episode was hosted by Christina Norman. Storytellers: Maxwell Pearce learns some lessons from his grandmother. Adelle Onyango goes to her first protest. To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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Welcome to the moth. I'm Christina Norman. What's your story? It's the question you're asked on every date, around the dinner table, at a job interview. How'd you get to be you? Our stories define us and shape us. Their beloved treasures pass down are secrets that we hide. Stories can be personal legend or family legacy.

In this episode, a little bit of both about the memories we leave behind and some of the lessons learned. First up, Maxwell Pierce, who told his story at a New Yorker. York City main stage where the theme was owed to joy. Here's Maxwell, live at the moth. In the third grade, I fell in love with art, and that passion was compounded once my parents put me on a basketball team. It's very true. I found so much freedom to be creative within both of these spaces. I will put a mini trampoline right under my hoop in the backyard and try to imitate my favorite dunks from the college dunk contest and the NBA dunk contest. Then I'm going to go back inside the house and draw for another two or three hours,

but once it was time for me to learn more than how to play sports in recess or draw figures in art class, I began to struggle academically. I was a really shy kid who was too afraid to raise his hand and answer a question in class. I didn't feel a connection to the curriculum, and I didn't see a value in my schoolwork. And this is so ironic because I am the grandson of a former director of the American Federation of Teachers. And this was a woman who I very much respected. So whenever my grandmother would come into the classroom to teach about black history, I became invisible. My grandmother, lovely hill, and yes, that is her real maiden name, five foot two on her absolute best day, Bambi Bambi Bambi,

please don't kill me for saying that. She would dress in these uniquely patterned garments that she collected from all over the world as she traveled as a model and as an educator. This woman would send me postcards from every single city that she was in. And the only thing that really intrigued me about those postcards was the front

because there was art on it. This lady drove around in a beautiful green jaguar playing CDs that had music from the 1960s on them. My grandmother would pick me up every single day from school, but this was a problem for me because I needed to avoid all grandmother to teacher interaction as much as possible. It felt like I was performing some kind of government-level diversion tactics, but one winter evening, my grandmother comes to pick me up from school. My teacher opens the passenger door and I sit inside.

My heart immediately sinks into the engine of the car. the engine of the car. This lady had the nerve to snitch on me. She told my grandmother that I was on the verge of failing her class and my grandmother was devastated. My grandmother drove her straight back to her house and she told me to wait here in a car while she went upstairs to grab a few things. I sat in that car in a total panic. I lived to impress this woman. My grandmother came back downstairs and we drove straight to a local restaurant called garlic and pepper. This was a Thai restaurant that had the best chicken centers and fries that you would ever have in your entire life. This was the place to be when I was a kid. They had several

TVs that would display sports highlights and they never said no when I asked to play some of my favorite cartoons. My grandmother picked out a table in the back corner where I could eat in peace and do my homework. But only we didn't open any books that day. She reached in her cluttered purse and pulled out some photos of our relatives and she said, Did you know that your great uncle, Abram Hill, was the founder of the American Negro Theater? Did you know that your dad's dad was a boxing promoter who worked with Muhammad Ali, George Foreman, and several other greats? We only retain information if we care enough about it. I didn't quite understand this, but it was enough to open my mind.

I suddenly felt this feeling that there was a sense of wonder stuck in the back of my head. For the next two years, my grandmother and I would go to this very same table at garlic and pepper. My homework scattered all over the place and we'd dive into the past together. Every one of these homework sessions showed me just how deep my grandmother's collection of stylish purses was. Anytime my grandmother would reach into that purse, it felt like waiting for lottery numbers to be called.

You didn't quite know what was going to be pulled, but you knew something good was coming. The sound of her bengles, clinking together as she wrestled through that purse, became one of my favorite sounds in the world. Because this meant that I was about to learn something new about how special our family is, and that really meant a lot. And this wasn't the boring history that my teachers yapped about for an hour in school every day.

This history was alive, and I had a real connection to it. This was enough to make me ask about my grandmother's past. Lovely Hill was born in Harlem in 1932, so she's pretty old. She was one of the first black models for Pepsi and Clarol. She was also on the cover of two Jet Magazines. I took this new love and connection with history, and I brought it back to school with me.

And the next few semesters, I became an end. and B student. I couldn't wait to get my next report card because I really wanted to show my grandmother. I remember running up her stairs with a totally different pace than I normally did. I got to my grandmother's kitchen table as I began to read the comments on this report card. I can see my grandmother in my peripheral vision sitting on the edge of her chair. Anytime I read the words Maxwell has improved, I could physically see my grandmother step out of the chair and start to dance. This was the most rewarding thing that I could have ever imagined.

More rewarding than any pizza party or video game that you could give a kid. So all throughout high school, she was right there with me. By the time I got to college, I was personally invested in becoming the keeper of our family's history. I began to keep and save these items that she would handpick any time that we would meet up. Sometimes they would be newspapers, and she would write my name on the top of an article

that she thought would pique my interests, and other times it would be a piece of art that she saved from when I was a kid. And I thought this was such an honor for her to keep these artworks from me that I didn't even remember making. I knew that the rest of my college career, I would be thriving.

So by the time I got to my senior year, I was able to compete in the college slam dunk contest. This contest was on ESPN and this was what I was dreaming of when I was a kid. And I didn't win, but I made a really good impression and the Harlem Globe Chowders happened to be watching. So one day, I realized that the Harlem Globe Chowders had called and left a message for me and I couldn't wait to share the news in my family. I orchestrated for us all to meet in my mom's living room, which is the typical gathering place, for family functions.

Here is my grandmother, yet again, sitting on the edge of her seat waiting for me to read whatever it is that I'm about to read on this contract. My grandmother has this tendency to try and finish your sentence when she gets really excited about certain things. But on this day, I said something

that I never said before. I looked up from the contract and I said, I am now officially a member of the Harlem Globe Drivers. And as my family started to cheer, I couldn't help but think about that younger version of me that was jumping off the trampoline. I started to think about my place in my family's history, the legacy of the relatives that I constantly learned about. I spent the last 27 years listening to my grandmother give flowers to relatives like Marian Anderson, who is in fact a relative of ours, and we are currently in the Marian Anderson Theater right now, and several others.

what I really thought about that day was how can I give flowers back to my grandmother? And this is when I had the idea that I would create a collection of artwork that would honor my grandmother's legacy. So one day while I'm pacing back and forth in my Cincinnati apartment, I call my grandmother and I ask, can you tell me more about your magazine covers? She shared a story with me that was so striking, I didn't even need to write it down.

In the 1950s, my grandmother was at the pinnacle of her modeling career. Once she had her first daughter, she retired and fully went into education. And one day, she went to the doctor, and the doctor basically told her that her ovaries were, quote, unquote, bad, and that they needed to be removed. Sterilization of black women at this time was rampant in the country, so we don't really know how true this diagnosis was. But nevertheless, she got on the schedule for the procedure. And two days before this procedure, Ebony Magazine called and asked if she would come out of retirement to model this new cover for hats with the millinery association. My grandmother skips the procedure, shoots this cover, and shortly after, got pregnant with my mother. So this Ebony magazine quite literally saved my mom's life and therefore my life and my siblings' lives.

All this time, I thought that the greatest contribution that my grandmother had given me was riding the garlic and pepper and watching my grades improve or dancing in her kitchen or going to my basketball games and giving me back my artwork. But in reality, the greatest thing that my grandmother, along with my parents, has given me, was me. and my grandmother was a Globetrotter, and so am I. Thank you. That was Maxwell Pierce. Maxwell is an award-winning artist and a member of the Harlem Globetrotters,

who not only plays basketball, but challenges how we perceive humanity in and out of sports. If you'd like to see some of Maxwell's art, we'll have some images on our website at the moth.org slash extras. When Maxwell told that story, someone very special was in the audience to hear it. his grandmother, and we just had to talk to her and hear what she had to say. Say hello. Do you want to introduce yourself and tell us where you are?

Lovely Hill Billups, and I am Maxwell's grandmother, Maxwell Pierce, and also very senior. And I was the first black model for a lot of very major things, Clare-Roll and Petricola. and even cigarettes, so I never smoked. Wonderful. So kind of standing or sitting in the theater tonight and hearing Maxwell share your story, what did that feel like? It was just exhilarating. I didn't know, and he's so calm.

I had no idea that he had organized all of that in his head. But he's always been a magnificent, even as a child. It's just something beautiful inside of him. So watching him blossom. He was a great basketball player, you know, and then the lobe trotters. Then also this art, he would draw on things all over the place. Hi, hi, hi. Thank you.

Yeah, I'm fine. And thank you. And so it was doing his homework sometimes he'd draw along the side. But, you know, I'm not thinking that much of it. But then when it exploded in him, you know, with the, the globe charters and all of that. And his art, for him to use, to have such realistic artwork with no paint or pencils or sketching.

It's all athletic materials. What a concept. I'm very proud of him. I'm so glad we got to talk to Maxwell's grandma. At The Moth, we've shared thousands of stories from people all over the world. And they often start out with someone saying, but I don't really have a story.

And then you find out that their grandmother was a jet cover model. I mean, come on. Well, what are your stories just waiting to be told? We've published a new book, and it's our first journal. It's called My Life in Stories, and it's the perfect place for you to tell yours. Inside, you're going to find over 150 prompts that will help you sift through your memories

and shape them into narratives. I hope you get it wherever you get books. it's going to be a beautiful addition to your library, and all because it's the story of you. Up next, another story about learning from your family. We'll be back in a moment. Welcome back. Our next story is from Adele on Yango,

who told this while hosting a main stage in Nairobi, Kenya. Here's Adele, live at the mall. Okay, but I was thinking about the theme tonight, which is daring to hope. And I was thinking about when that daring energy was awakened in me and I was pretty sure that the catalyst was my late mom. We were more of best friends as opposed to the traditional mother-daughter relationship. I mean, when I was a teenager, we shared shoes, we shared jewelry, we shared clothes,

we shared a phone. We read poetry together. We even liked the same music. I remember once a few days to a man. math exam when I was in IB. Mommy came home and asked me, why didn't you tell me Shaggy was coming to perform? Shaggy was a big deal for us, not only because of his music, but we both found him to be kind of cute.

So she scrambled and got tickets, and while my classmates were studying for math, I was ugling at Shaggy with my mom. But back to this daring energy, it's 2007, and me and my older sister, Amanda, at the foot of mommy's bed and mummy's tucked in bed, and we are glued to the news because post-election violence. From the safety and comfort of our home, we're watching unrest spread across the country,

and then mommy sits up abruptly and says, I am going to the protest tomorrow. Now, as a last born, also known as your mother's handbag, and also because while watching the news, I was feeling a bit of guilt for, not using my voice and my body to stand up for what I believed in, I quickly said, me too. Amanda was the rational one in the home,

so she quickly told us that this was a terrible idea, and then she stormed out of the room. And she was right, because at the time, Mommy was knee-deep in cancer treatment. So a protest was the last place she needed to be in. So D-Day came, and we woke up to silent treatment from Amanda because she couldn't believe that we're still going ahead with it. And I was wearing jeans, a T-shirt and sports shoes.

And Mommy was wearing a long, flowy Kitanga dress and ballet flats. We each had a bottle of water and a face towel because Mommy said that's going to combat tear gas. And then Mommy's driver, Peter, came to pick us up, and we would go to the first meet-up spot that was a little out of Nairobi CBD, and from there we would make our way. into the heart of the city.

When we got to the meetup spot, she was just so relaxed, talking to people, and I, on the other hand, was panicking. This was my first protest, so I was excited, yes, but very scared.

And out of the blue, this guy who I didn't know, who is holding a bunch of red ribbons, walks up to me, grabs my hand, and ties one of the ribbons around my wrists.

No introduction, no hello, nothing. And so I ask him, what are you doing? And he says, this is in case if at the protest you get injured or killed, we will carry you with us because we'll know you're one of us. Killed?

And before I had time to wrap my mind around this thing, we were being rushed into our cars because the protest was on. And so we're driving to the second meter point, which is Hilton Hotel in Nairobi, CBD. And as we get closer, Mommy turns around to me and she says, you have your phone, right? You have Peter's number. Now it's every man for himself.

And with that, she jumps out of the car. And I hop out too because I'm like, last-born handbag, fast protest, what do you mean that every man for himself? And we're at the front of Hilton Hotel with many other protesters, across us at the riot police and these tension on both sides,

and this uneasy silence, and then I hear Mommy scream. What have we done wrong? We're just here to have tea. And before I wrap my head around that, there's a loud bang, which to me, as a novice protester, sounds like a gunshot. So I get scared, and I drop my bottle of water.

Everybody's running. And then I remember that I'm going to need that water for the tear gas thing. So I run back into what I think is smoke, but then my eyes start watering and itching, and I'm coughing. This is that tear gas thing. I pick up my water, and I start running. I don't know where mommy is. And so all I have to follow are the red-ribboned wrists.

And over the next few hours, the policemen engaged us in running battles around town. I learned so many protest chants. I made so many new friends. And I didn't know where Mommy was. So she was right. It's every man for himself. And then time came for me to call Peter. He came to pick me up.

And guess who was seated at the front seat? Heavy breathing, sweating. saying, mommy. But her long, flowie-tengue dress was intact. Not a rip. I don't know how she was running in that thing. And when I got into the car, she was laughing and joking around about, how did I find my first protest?

And then she just casually started making phone calls, updating people on how the protest went. And in the stillness and without the destruction of tear gas, I could finally identify what I felt. First, I felt exhausted, and then I felt the sting that I'd never felt before from my feet. But I also knew for sure that I am my mother's daughter, and that despite the fear, I dared to stand up for what I believed in. That's my daring to hope story. Thank you.

That was Adele on Yango. Adele is the founder of Legally Clueless Africa, a media company where she creates well-nosed. programs and produces a popular podcast which amplifies African stories. We met Adele through the Moth's global community workshops, and she's a regular host of the Moth in Nairobi and beyond. To hear many other stories of Adele's and other stories from our global program, go to the Moth.org. That brings us to the end of our episode. Thanks so much for joining. We'd love to hear your story, and you can tell it at the Moth Pitch Line, or maybe at a story slam, or you can pick up my life and stories, a guided journal from the moth and get started

there. From all of us here at the moth, have a story-worthy week. Maxwell Pierce's story was directed by Jody Powell. Adela Niengo's story was directed by Sarah Austin Janice. Christina Norman is the chief creative officer of the moth, a native of the Bronx. She lives in Brooklyn and you can find her most Saturday mornings in Prospect Park with her husband and her Ridgeback Pepper. This episode of the Moth podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Jonesse, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Salinger. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Gina Duncan,

Christina Coulche, Marina Clucay, Jennifer Hickson, Jordan Cardonnale, Caledonia Cairns, Kate Tellers, Suzanne Rust, and Patricia Urreña. The Moth podcast is presented by Odyssey. Special thanks to their executive producer, Leah Reese Dennis. All moth stories are true as remembered by their storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, the moth.org. Ever listen to The moth and thought, I have a story to tell? We'd love to hear it.

The moth pitch line is your chance to share a two-minute pitch of your true personal story. Record it right on our site at the moth.org, or call 877-799 moth. That's 877-799-66-844. Here's the thing. We listen to every single pitch. Your story could end up on our podcast, our stage, or inspiring someone who needs to hear it. Share your story at themouth.org or call 877-799 Moth. Everyone has a story worth telling. Tell us yours.