The Moth Radio Hour: 50 Shades of Black
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This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows from New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more. The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.

To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon. From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Suzanne Rust. Here's a quote I've always liked. Saying something is pitch black is like saying something is green. What kind of green? Green like my bottles? Green like a grasshopper? Green like a cucumber? Lettuce? Green like the sky is just before it breaks loose to a storm?

While night black is the same way, may as well be a rainbow. These are Toni Morrison's words from her novel Song of Solomon, and they remind me of trying to simply sum up the African American experience. It contains multitudes. Its vastness and richness cannot be confined to the shortest month of the year. But we still take Black History Month to reflect, and what better way to do so than to share stories?

I hope that whether you see yourself in these stories or discover something for the first time, you'll find that the most well-rounded understanding of ourselves, others, and this country's history comes when all kinds of stories are honestly represented and celebrated. Our first story comes from Harold Cox, who told it at a slam in Boston, where we partner with PRX and WBUR. Here's Harold, live at the Moth. I'm from Texas.

And we talk loud, long, and we're confident about everything that we say. And these were definitely the skills that I needed when I was working as a radio announcer on my college radio station.

One morning when I was doing my set, I got a telephone call, which is a little unusual, but I got a telephone call from this guy who said, "Look, I'm listening to you and I really like what you're doing. I work at a professional radio station," he said, "and we have a classical music program and we like to invite people to come and to sit in with us and to actually be announcers." I stopped listening to him at that moment and I went into my own head and I thought,

I have been discovered. I am going to be a radio personality. I'm going to be wealthy. I am going to be able to leave graduate school. I don't have to be here any longer. And then I went back and I was listening and he was continuing to talk and I said, when do you want me to come? He said, tomorrow. So the next day,

I went to the radio station. He again told me what he was doing and that he wanted to consider me to be on the air. And he said, "Before we put you on the air, we want you to work with one of our professional radio announcers to learn some things." So I did. So for about three or four weeks, I worked with this guy who taught me a lot about using my voice, about what the show was about, and et cetera. And then he said, "You know, there are two things that you do that we don't do here.

The first is that you say Debia as in P-Q-R-S-T-U-V Debia X-Y-Z. He said our call letters are B-U-R and we don't say Debia B-U-R. So I first thought it's going to be impossible for me to unlearn what I've already learned, but I did and eventually I learned how to say W-B-U-R.

The second thing is he said, "Look, you have this banter with the audience and we really like what you're doing, but every once in a while you say some things that we don't really know what you're saying." So for instance, you say,

"This is not the only fish worth frying. I don't know what you're talking about." So I said, "You know, it really has to do with opportunity. You might have this fish, but then you might have a whole bunch of other fish. Or you have this work opportunity, and you have a bunch of other work opportunities as well." He said, "Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah. We're not going to do that here."

So I said, "Alright." Now it's 45 seconds before I go in the air. The sound technician checks everything, everything's fine. 30 seconds before I go in the air, I remember the things that I have been practicing now for the last four weeks. 90.9 WBUR. B-U-R 90.9. I say this when I get up in the morning, when I take a shower, when I drink my coffee, even when I answer the telephone. "Hello, 90.9 WBUR."

All right, so everything's fine. 15 seconds, I readjust my headset and everything. Now he begins to count down, 10, 9, 8, and then he points to me, and I am supposed to talk, and he finishes up, 3, 2, 1, and I said, nothing. Nothing.

Because for the first time in my life, I am completely frozen. I cannot remember what to say. I do not know how to say anything at that moment. And he said, you've got to talk because there's dead air. I don't know what dead air is, but you've got to talk. And I made my head and my mouth go together, and it came out something like, nya-nya-nya-nya-nya-nya.

And I said, "Okay, so maybe what I should do is just announce some music." So I said, "We will now have music by Aaron Copeland." I do not know who is Aaron Copeland. The man's name is Aaron Copeland. So then I decided, well, maybe what I should do is just talk about the fish we're frying. I know they don't want me to do this, but I'll do it anyway.

So when it's my time to start talking, I said, "Well, we're gonna go out and catch a mess of fish." I do not know what I'm talking about.

And we're going to cook them up in some canola oil or maybe some vegetable oil or maybe some Crisco. I do not know where this is coming from, but I can't control it. And I am so scared. And it just continues to get worse and worse and worse still. And finally, I push myself away from the place and I rushed home on my answering machine. There were messages from my friends who said, well, just keep on trying.

Needless to say, the radio station did not invite me to come back and do it again. And I thought it was going to be impossible for me ever to find another job that I would enjoy. But indeed, over the rest of my career, I found many opportunities that I have enjoyed. And the thing that I learned about that was that radio station, as good as they were then and as good as they are now, they are not the only fish worth frying.

That was Harold Cox, a professor at Boston University's School of Public Health. He says that while he doesn't use the phrase, this is not the only fish worth frying much anymore, he still believes in it, and he knows that life has many adventures to explore. And we'd like to send a special shout-out to our friends at WBUR for being good-natured and supporters of our Boston slams. To see a photo of young Harold around the time of his story, go to themoth.org. ♪

A little encouragement and a lot of moxie go a long way. This next story was told by Danielle Smith at a Martha's Vineyard main stage at Trinity Park Tabernacle. The theme of the night was holding on and letting go. Here's Danielle. You guys got me feeling like Ricky Henderson out here. So you got to figure it's 1988, 1989. I'm in my early 20s.

And importantly, I'm broke. Like, brokity, broke, broke, broke, broke, broke, broke. I was at UC Berkeley. I had to drop out. I couldn't afford it. So I had a lot of jobs. So my grimy job was at Copy Matt. I will change your toner for you right now. My fancy job was at Saks Fifth Avenue. Hence my everlasting champagne tastes.

I also worked for the California Youth Authority, which is a fancy way of saying juvenile hall. And all of this was hiding, like this desire that I had to write. I had no idea how to go about it. And I really missed being in school. I had this great professor at UC Berkeley. His name was Dr. Charles Muscatine. He's gone now.

And I battled to get into his class as an underclassman, and everyone was saying, "You'll never get in. Dr. Muscatine's class is so difficult, you'll never get in." And my ego, which I still maintain, would not allow me to believe that. And so I got in the class. It was an introduction to writing narrative nonfiction. So fancy! I was getting A's and A's and A's, and he gave me an A- one time.

So I stayed after. I had questions. So I was like, "Dr. Muscatine, hello. What's going on with the minus?" He said, "Danielle, you know what? You shouldn't really be so concerned about the minus. What you should be concerned about is the fact that I think... I think you can make a living at this." I mentioned I was broke.

So I marched myself over. I couldn't figure out what to do, but I did figure out with some help from like my stepdad and from some of my friends to go over to the Alternative News Weekly of San Francisco, the San Francisco Bay Guardian, and say, hey, I just lied. I go to UC Berkeley. Lies. I had dropped out. Lies. I want to be an intern. I'll work for free. Considering I had three jobs, right? I could afford it.

They started me out writing photo captions. I really should have won a Pulitzer for my photo captions. And then because I was good at the photo captions, then they started me off going to like stuff that no one else wanted to go to, which is an intern's job. So they sent me to the olive oil convention. Let me tell you something. I was asking all kind of deep questions about everything like, oh my God, so it's Greece and it's not Italy? Tell me more. And so then they sent me to the mayor's convention. Sounds boring. Not to me.

I'm nosy, I'm a natural and trained reporter. I had all types of questions. So what's really going on in Albuquerque? I must know now. The best thing about being an intern at the Guardian was I had a business card that said I was an intern at the Bay Guardian and I used to flex by going to nightclubs and concerts and being like, "I'm covering the show, can you let me in free?" And they let me in. These were the cute early 20 days it was happening.

I started seeing this man at all the shows and he's looking at me and I'm looking at him and he looks really professional and scary and he says, hey, why do I see you at all the shows? And I was like, because I'm a very important intern at the San Francisco Bay Guardian. And he said, I'm actually the music editor of Duna, the East Bay Express, which was like the evil enemy of the Bay Guardian.

And he says, "Why don't they have you covering shows? I see you having a great time. Seems like you know the words." Lee is always such an encourager. He gave me an assignment to write about Natalie Cole coming to Oakland. It's where I'm from. It's the best city and the best state in the United States of America. It is what it is. He said, "Yeah, I want you to go review Natalie Cole." Natalie Cole, Mr. Melody, this will be

the daughter of the great Nat King Cole. I'm 23 and you want me to review Natalie Cole, my mom's favorite artist? Absolutely. I did all the research. I knew all the songs. I didn't even know what to wear to the Paramount Theater in Oakland. It's like the fanciest theater in Oakland. I borrowed some really ugly burgundy boots from one girlfriend.

I borrowed a really ugly, lacy, like, Apollonia 6, Vanity 6 outfit from another girlfriend. And I got there early. I wrote down everything. I wrote down everything that was happening with the velvet of the seats, the velvet of the drapes. I wrote about what everybody had on because I'd struggled so much with what to wear.

I heard people talking about how they could barely afford to be at the show but they got their pennies together because they wanted to go to this fancy show in Oakland. Oakland was struggling at that time. It was the crack wars. They were counting murders in Oakland at that time on the evening news. Listen, Lee had asked me to write 800 words. I filed 1,600. If you were a journalist in the paper era, you know that's not what you do. You just couldn't do it. Lee ran it though.

He ran it. He did. And just like with Dr. Muscatine, I had to go to Lee and say, "Lee, why did you run it though? Why did you run it?" He said, "You know why? Because you told a whole story." He said, "You told a story you just didn't talk about, Natalie Cole, on stage at the Paramount Theater. You talked about the city of Oakland. You talked about the people of Oakland. You talked about yourself. You talked about what it means to a town." And that's what we call Oakland, the town.

You talked about what it means to a city like Oakland for somebody like Natalie Cole to have that on her tour schedule. He said, "I found it engaging. I think that's called having a style. You should refine it and continue." A couple months later, I get a call from Bill Adler, who was then the publicist for the great group Run DMC. Please applaud. And Bill says to me, "Ma'am, listen.

There's a job opening in New York City. I had to let go of Oakland. It's the R&B editor of Billboard. Go out there and get the job. I said, "There's no way I'm gonna get that job." I got on the plane and I got that job. You know I got that job. I did. And after that job, I started writing for Rolling Stone. I started writing for Spin. I started being a music critic for the New York Times.

I became music editor of a new magazine called Vibe Magazine, if you've ever heard of it. I was quickly promoted to editor-in-chief of Vibe Magazine. I have a book in the stores now. It's called Shine Bright, which is what I'm trying to do. It's a history of black women in pop, and what I do is that I try to tell stories about these women in pop music, and I put myself in it. I put the history of their towns in it. I'm doing what Dr. Muscatine said.

He said, you can make a living at it. And I'm making a living at it. Thank you. Danielle Smith is a native Californian and author of the critically acclaimed Shine Bright, a very personal history of black women in pop, coming out this month in paperback. She's also the creator and host of the Spotify original podcast, Black Girl Songbook.

And if you've never heard Danielle's first moth story about an encounter with the rapper Foxy Brown, do yourself a favor and look for it on our website. You can also see a photo of a young Danielle there. In a moment, a young man's struggle with his racial identity 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 Suzanne Rust. And in this hour, we're featuring stories that talk about the diversity of the Black experience.

When you grow up rarely seeing yourself reflected or represented in your community or in popular culture, it isn't always easy to get a strong grasp on your identity. You get there, but sometimes it just takes a little longer. Our next story was told by C.J. Hunt. He shared it at a Moth main stage in New York City, which he produced in partnership with the Northern Manhattan Arts Alliance. Here's C.J., live from the United Palace Theater in Washington Heights. ♪

My dad is black, you know, and I say, you know, you don't know. My dad is black and my mom was Filipino, which means that I spend most of my time looking Dominican. We have Dominicans here? Yeah! What's up? If you're Dominican, you may have seen me on the subway locking eyes with you and being like, you and me, buddy, Blasians, right? Am I right, Blasians? You're like, nah. But it's weird. I mean, you know, for anyone else, it is weird. It is confusing experience growing up ambiguously brown.

Partly because all of my politics are very black and all of the things I want to talk about on stage are very black. And when audiences hear those words, I think they go, "Who is this fragile Mexican teenager? Which struggle is he referring to? Why is he talking about the Middle Passage? He is confused." And they're not wrong. You know, for a long time I was very confused. My dad insists that, you know, until I was four, that I didn't even know I was black.

Which, side note, dad, if you're watching, whose fault is that? But he tells a story that we were walking down the street in Boston because I lived with my Filipino mom. Shout out to Filipino moms. I lived with my Filipino mom in Boston and my dad came to visit and we were walking down the sidewalk and I looked right up at him and I said, hey dad, why do black people think they're so cool? Which is a question that horrifies me now, especially thinking about

White children who may have asked their white fathers that same question throughout history with equally horrifying answers. But my black father looked down at his confused mixed child and said, "Siege, I am black." "What?" "And you are my son and therefore..." "Therefore what?" "Therefore you are also black." Which is a sentence that hit me and made me think, "Oh, oh, cool." But knowing something as a fact about yourself, as a biological fact, doesn't mean that you are immune from becoming confused again.

Especially if you are in a community, say North Port, Long Island, where most of the people do not look like you, where most of the kids are white. And in 1996, I was living in North Port with my dad after the death of my mother. And in 1996, if you remember, the coolest thing, the hands down coolest thing to have was a blonde bowl cut. Y'all don't remember the power of a blonde bowl cut?

Let me refresh you, it was like the Jordan 11s of white kid haircuts, okay? I'm talking about the Macaulay Culkin hair.

You know what I mean? I'm talking about that Jonathan Brandis hair. I'm talking about that hair that effortlessly falls like two little pieces of silk and perfectly frames your face as you hold a soccer ball and pose for a photo that will then be photoshopped to make it look like you are on the cover of Sports Magazine. I'm talking about that type of bowl cut.

And if you don't know those references, that means you grew up in a community that reflected who you are. But I wanted that kind of hair. I wanted white kid hair. I wanted my hair to be cut with a bowl. I wanted to walk into my dad's black barbershop, and when they asked me, do you want a one or a two or a three, I wanted to hold up a picture of Tiger Beat magazine and say, make me look like all of the boys in Home Improvement. I think about...

how my dad brought me to his black barber shop in Huntington. And I wonder what must have been going through his head as he sat me down in the chair and looked the barbers in the eyes and said, my son would like blonde hair. And the restraint, the superhuman self-control it must have taken to sit there for the entire period that it takes to turn a black boy's hair blonde and not say anything. And I think he didn't say anything

I don't know, maybe out of respect. Maybe he was too angry to open his mouth. Maybe he knew that if he opened his mouth just a little bit, the words would just come spilling out and he would grab me by the shoulders and start shaking me and being like, "You're black, black man in this world, son! "Stop all that white shit! "If you weren't chasing so hard, son, "you'd realize you were already home." I think maybe he would shake me and say that, but he didn't. He just held his tongue and he said,

Looks good. Let's get in the car. And I think maybe he held his tongue that day because he knew that eventually time would teach me that as soon as I got to college, that hair would be long gone. And as is the case for some mixed folks who grow up in very white places on Long Island, all of my wardrobe became either like outlines of Africa or a black power fist. That was all my shirts for like four years. He knew that in time, I would figure out

how to start adjusting that thermostat of my own identity, dialing it up and dialing it down. But no matter how much I dialed up and down my own blackness, there was something that still didn't feel whole, something about me inside that didn't feel at home in this skin. A few years ago, I went with my mother's brother to visit the Philippines, where our family's from. And we were in this place called Tagaytay City, and we went to the top of a mountain,

to this place called the People's Park in the Sky. And it's exactly what it sounds like. I've been in spaces before that, where there are no white people, but it's always temporary. You know, it's an intentional space in college or among filmmakers, or it's a place in New York that I'm just passing through. But what struck me about that day that looking around, not only were there no white people, but on this normal afternoon, in the full sun,

No big deal being made of it. Every single person I put my eyes on was brown, was brown like me. Not black with a footnote. Not, oh, well, you see, my mom is and my dad actually was. So that's why I look. It's just brown who look exactly like me. And it made me realize how hungry all of us are for that. That there are some things that aren't real to you until you see them reflected back to you in your world. And standing up there, looking at everyone brown like me,

I can imagine what my mom was thinking. That if she was here, she'd be putting her hand on my shoulder and saying, see, this is what I wanted you to see. If you'd stop all that chasing, you'd realize you were already home. In six days, my first feature film is going to come out to the world. And anything written about that film describes me as black and Filipino filmmaker. I'd never seen those words in print before about me. And I look at those words, black and

and Filipino filmmaker. And I think, yeah, that's cool. Thank you. That was CJ Hunt. CJ is a New York-based comedian and filmmaker and the Emmy-nominated director of The Neutral Ground, a documentary about monuments and breaking up with the Confederacy. CJ has served as field producer for The Daily Show with Trevor Noah, and he is also one of our beloved Moth hosts.

In his story, CJ talks about learning to dial the thermostat of his identity up and down. I wanted to hear more about that. I don't think I'll ever stop feeling the need to fiddle with a thermostat. I think that's just part of being biracial in America. But in the past five years, what has changed is I've started asking those internal questions that I've been struggling with. I've been asking those explicitly out loud in my work.

And it's been really reaffirming and freeing to see how people respond to those questions, right? Like my film has a scene in it towards the beginning where my dad is recounting some of the same stories that I recount on stage at the Moth in this story. And I've had Black people come up to me during film fests and be like, hey, I actually didn't know I was Black when I was a little kid either. And a guy I know in New Orleans who looks a lot like me

sent me a picture of himself as a preteen with bleach blonde hair surrounded by his smiling white friends at camp. And there's something really comforting about that, knowing that a lot of us have struggled with not enoughness and that a lot of us are still fiddling with a thermostat and trying to figure out who we are and feeling at home with who we are. That's CJ Hunt.

In a moment, a story from Hesna Muhammad, who takes us for a swim, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Suzanne Rust.

When I was about five years old, I was so enthusiastic about water that I jumped into a pool without knowing how to swim. Mom dove in and grabbed me, which was a good thing because dad did not know how to swim. Now, I don't actually remember this incident, but my parents sure did. And they signed me up for swimming lessons right away. From then on, I was always in the water until my fingers pruned up. And even now, if there's water, I usually want to be in it.

So does our final storyteller, Hesna Muhammad. She told this story at New Haven's College Street Music Venue, where we partner with Manic Presents. Here's Hesna, live at the mall. I learned to swim in summer camp when I was five or six years old. I held on to the edge of the cement pool. I put my face in the water and blew bubbles. I turned my head from side to side to breathe, lifted my feet and kicked my legs behind me.

I had to let go of the wall to learn to tread water and to float, first with someone's hand at my back and then all by myself. I moved my arms and legs to get from here to there, and there kept moving from someone's arms a few yards away to the middle of the pool and then the end of the pool where my feet couldn't touch the bottom.

In pictures of me as a little girl, I am in a bathing suit. I'm standing by a pool, jumping in a pool, diving in a pool, laughing and giggling with my brother and sister, with my father's arms nearby. I wasn't really swimming, but I was having so much fun. And now I love to swim.

Over time, I learned how to really swim. And now I swim laps for fun and exercise. I swim in open water, but most times I swim in pools. I swim in public pools, private pools, indoor pools, outdoor pools, 25 yards, 50 meters. I swim every chance I get in any pool that I can. My dream swim is

is in the center-most lane of an outside Olympic-sized pool. It's 80 degrees and sunny outside. There's a blue sky and wisps of clouds overhead. And I am doing the backstroke. I am all by myself and completely naked.

I had to let go of the inhibitions about my body in order to swim. My breasts turn into my belly. My belly turns into my butt. I have a varicose vein down the entire length of one leg, and my thighs rub together when I walk. But I am out there in my one-piece competition bathing suit, letting it all hang out.

That's because I am a swimmer girl and I love to swim. Now, I live right near Danbury, about 35 miles from New Haven, and I swim three or four times a week at one of two Ys in Connecticut, and that gives me a choice of four pools. And when I swim,

I don't ever see anybody who looks like me swimming laps for fun and exercise. Now I'm not talking about water aerobics. I'm not talking about wading in the water with your sunglasses on. I'm talking about swimming freestyle, backstroke, breaststroke, butterfly, back and forth a mile at a time.

counting yards, practicing drills, racing the clock, swimming long, hard, and fast for about an hour. I don't see anybody who looks like me swimming laps like that. Now maybe I have to go to a different pool on a different day or at a different time because black women do everything, everywhere, all the time. I cannot be the only one.

I was raised by two staunch, hardcore artists and activists. And I was raised during the vortex of the Black Power Movement, the Black Arts Movement, the Women's Live Movement, and the Civil Rights Movement of the 20th century. So being Black and seeing Black and female is my lens for everything.

So when I am in my car getting ready to go for a swim in Hawaiian, Connecticut, and this black man driving a black Volvo SUV with a black girl as his passenger pulls into the space next to mine, I take note. We get out of the car together at the same time, and we say hello to each other, and inside I'm saying, yes, black people!

I forget my mask in the car, so I go back. They go in the building. I lose track of them. But when I get into the women's locker room, I see the girl. She's about 13, 14 years old. She's tall. She's got a crown of hair over her head. And she's standing at the end of the bank of lockers, frozen still. But she's wearing a bathing suit, looking down at the swim cap in her hand.

This girl is going to the pool. This girl is going to be swimming. This girl better not take up my favorite lane.

I say hello to her again and I make a mad dash to the locker, do a Superman change so that I can get the lane that I want, close the door, turn around, and she's still standing there. But this time, she's stuffing her dry hair into her swim cap.

And I want to say to her, "Baby, you gotta wet your hair before you put on your swim cap. That way the water gets in the cuticle, you put a little conditioning in there, then you put on your swim cap. That way the chlorine doesn't damage your hair that much." But I didn't want to embarrass her. She looked so uncomfortable, like she wanted to be invisible. So I kept my mouth from a stranger closed. I said, "Have a good swim." She mumbled something back.

And then I went on and I took my shower. When I'm wetting my hair, I'm thinking, you know, maybe I should have said something to her about her hair, but she'll see that my hair is wet and then she'll learn that she should wet her hair too. I get poolside and this girl is in my center lane. She obviously did not take the obligatory shower you're supposed to take before you get into a pool.

All the other lanes are taken except for the one right next to her, so I claim that. And I want to say to her how happy I am to swim next to her, somebody who looks just like me, albeit 50 years younger. I wanted to tell her, ask her, did she know that there was a time when black people weren't allowed to swim in pools? When even with the submersion of one toe, the pool was emptied?

that most black people don't know how to swim and most people who drown are black and brown. But I didn't want to interrupt. Her father was squatting on the deck talking to her and she was listening to her father. She was listening to her father but she was looking at me. And it's not the look that I get when I come on deck and all eyes scatter.

It's not the look that I get when I talk about swimming in standard English. It's not even the look I get when people see that I tan, like all over. This girl was looking at me to see how I navigate this space. She was looking at me to see how I be in this pool.

So, she watches me as I pull out my fins and my kickboard and my pole buoy and my paddles and place them on the deck. She sees me cup my forehead with my swim cap and tuck my wet hair in. She sees me put on my goggles and straighten the strap. And then she watches as I slip into the pool and glide streamlined into the liquid cool.

My skin awakens all at once. My legs are straight, my toes are pointed, arms with my ears, my hands are stacked. The only thing I hear is my exhale as the water parts to let me through. I see the reflection of the water shimmering above me. I see the shadow of my body passing over the bottom of the pool that gradually deepens below me.

I start an underwater stroke, and when my body signals the need for air, all my chakras tingle. So I rise up and take a breath and come back down, rise up and take a breath and come back down. And when I'm about a foot from the wall, I curl my body into a ball and flip over. Bubbles swarm everywhere. I'm upside down. My knees are bent. My feet are on the wall, and I push off.

roll over and start to swim. By that time, the girl is swimming too. And we are swimming laps, peeking at each other over the lane dividers. She's faster than I am, but I'm steadier than she is. And I see a lot of bodies in the water.

But when I see her brown arms and legs piercing the water, doing freestyle and flip turns, I feel like a proud mama bear. And she stops to watch me too. She stops and treads water and watches as I pick up speed and start to sweat and focus on my workout.

When I take a break between sets, I notice that the girl and her father are gone. And once again, I am the only black person in the pool. I finish my workout, do my cool down, then I play like that kid in camp. I make angels in the water, dive backwards, swim upside down, do flips and handstands. And then I run to the shallow end, pack up my gear and get out.

And that's when I noticed that the girl and her father are back. She's in her street clothes and he's braiding her hair. And as I pass them, I want to ask, have you ever heard of the Harlem Honeys and Bears? Have you ever been to blackgirlswim.org? Do you follow those black Olympic swimmer girls? But I don't want to intrude.

So I just smile at them like I smile at everybody else on my way into the locker room. When I'm in the shower, I am kicking myself for not saying anything to that girl. There she was, somebody who looks just like me, was swimming right there. And I didn't say any of the things that I thought to say. My mother would have said something. My grandmother would have said something. But neither of them knew how to swim.

I'm an educator, and I missed the opportunity to teach this child. And when I'm getting dressed, I'm thinking, well, maybe she didn't want to hear anything I had to say anyway. Maybe she's just a Gen Z teen unburdened by the racist history of black people and swimming.

Maybe she doesn't want to be seen as black. Maybe she doesn't identify as a girl. Maybe she just wants to be a spiritual being, having a human experience, swimming. I mean, isn't that what it's all about? Just being? When I get to the parking lot, I see that black Volvo SUV and I decide I'm going to tell her everything.

And maybe she waited for me because she felt glad to swim with me because she gets those looks too. Maybe the lifeguard made her prove that she could swim before he let her into the deep end. That's what he did to me. By the time I get to the car, I see that the girl and her father are not in it. And they don't come even though I linger before I pull out and drive away.

Every time I go to that pool, I look for that black swimmer girl. I haven't seen her yet, but I know that she and other black women and girls who love to swim are out there. I know because I'm not the only one, and there will be more. I know.

Because for about an hour on a Sunday morning at a Y in Connecticut, there were two black swimmer girls swimming laps for fun and exercise. We were defying the assumptions about black people, black girls, black women, and swimming. And it didn't matter what I said or didn't say to this girl. She saw me.

And I saw her, even if no one else did. I wasn't alone. We were together. And we both belong, even if just to each other. Have a good swim. That was Hesna Muhammad. She's a writer, visual artist, and educator whose work focuses on family, social justice, education, and the human condition.

She's also a photographer and recently published her first book, "Breath in the Sky: Poems, Prayers, and Photographs." Hesna is currently working on a memoir, "Places to Stand," about her experiences growing up as the daughter of two legendary actors and activists, Ozzie Davis and Ruby Dee. Like Hesna, I grew up often being the only Black girl in many places.

And honestly now, I'm often the only black woman in many spaces. And while you can get used to it, dealing with this onlyness can take a toll. So I asked her how she manages it. There are certainly significant historical and social circumstances that cause us to be the only black person in a space.

And we can wear the circumstance of being the only one in many ways. With fear, containment, disappointment, fatigue, challenge, inspiration, motivation. I choose to wear the circumstance of onlyness by claiming my presence, by normalizing the occupation of my space, by being seen and by speaking up.

just by being me and making sure that I create enough space for someone else to do the same. I also had to ask Hesna about the most magical place she ever swam in. She said that so far, it was in a hotel pool in Beijing, China.

She said the room was dimly lit and decorated with lush plants, statues and sculptures, and that the pool itself had a non-linear shape, which allowed her to swim the curves. To see photos of Hesna diving in, go to themoth.org. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. Sharing stories takes courage and exposes our vulnerability.

Listening well involves humility and a willingness to change your opinion when introduced to new information. So thanks for listening. We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Catherine Burns, and Suzanne Rust, who also hosted the show. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick. Associate producer, Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Catherine Burns and Jody Powell.

The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Leanne Gulley, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Caza. Moth Stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Keith Jarrett, Catalyst, Snarky Puppy, Alabama Shakes, and Sky Swimming.

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.