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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 Meg Bowles, and in this hour, we have four stories from our moth events in El Paso, Houston, and Austin, Texas. A little context on the Lone Star State, it boasts a population of almost 29 million people. It's home to the Alamo, the birthplace of Dr. Pepper and jalapeno pepper jelly. Its official animal is the armadillo, and the state sport is rodeo.
Our first two stories come from an open mic story slam we hosted in Houston. People from Houston seemed quick to point out how sprawling it is. 647 square miles. Our first storyteller, Alyssa Ladd, who grew up there, said you can drive for hours and still be in Houston. Another big claim to fame, Houston was the very first word spoken on the moon. From the warehouse live at an evening sponsored by Houston Public Media, here's Alyssa Ladd live at the Moth.
Growing up as a kid, I went to summer camp, evangelical Christian summer camp, for a month every summer for 10 summers in a row. And it was exactly every stereotype you're thinking about right now. But I loved it.
I was not evangelical Christian. I grew up Catholic, so it was kind of weird that I went there in the first place, but it had turned me into a freakishly religious kid, and I was obsessed with the idea of being a better Christian than everyone else around me.
They had this award at the end of camp every year called the "I'm Third" award, which meant that you put God first, others second, and I'm third. So essentially it was who was the most holy and the most selfless, and I wanted to win that goddamn award so bad.
So because it's like evangelical Christians, like the main tenet of holiness is purity. And so they're obsessed with purity. All forms of touching the opposite sex were off limits at camp. You could only give a three second side hug. So like only the side of you could touch their side. None of the good stuff in the front.
So we just bought this whole like purity package, like hook, line, and thinker. I'm like 14 years old this one summer. I'm trying to be the best Christian, the most pure, the most selfless. And this girl comes along. She's like popular and pretty. So everyone listens to her. And she tells the entire camp that she's going to wait until her wedding day to have the first kiss of her life.
Okay, do you understand that? Like, she's up the ante. We've all signed a purity pledge, but she's not going to kiss anyone until at the altar on her wedding day. So now this purity has become competitive, and everyone else starts pledging they're going to do the same thing. And like, how am I going to win this award if I don't do the same thing, right? Well, there's a problem. And his name is Seth.
So we've been a camp boyfriend/girlfriend for like three summers now. I'm not sure he had much to do with that. I just saw a very timid 12-year-old boy who was like blonde and could do a backflip and I was just like, "Mine. We're dating now." But here we were three years later and we'd been spending the entire
past year on AOL Instant Messenger talking every day plotting how we were going to have our first kiss at camp that summer. So here's how we were going to do it. Once a summer they take you to a water park and if our cabins could go on the same day then one of those slides was for a two-person inner tube and if we could get in the same inner tube then a few seconds of that ride were enclosed. So we were going to kiss...
It was gonna be our first kiss as a couple, his first kiss of his entire life, no pressure. We did not factor in how fast water slides are. So the minute or the second I turn around to kiss him, we both fall out of the tube, but he is still like coming in hot for these lips, okay? So he bites my upper lip, draws blood, not romantic, but definite lip contact, so we counted it as a first kiss.
So a week goes by, I hear nothing. And then I hear over the whole camp intercom, Alyssa Ladd come to the camp office. And I had to meet with the camp disciplinarian, who, by the way, is like 23 years old. But it was very scary at the time. And I'm freaking out because I want to win this award. I've never been in trouble. I'm a goody two-shoes. But I get there and he's nowhere to be seen. So I'm like, they don't know about this kiss. And she's like, we know about you and Seth. And I was like, don't panic.
Just like, reveal nothing. She will tell you what she knows. Because that was a good freaking plan. There's no way anyone saw us on that water slide. And so I just said to her, well, if we're both in trouble, where's Seth? And she says, oh, well, Seth's not in trouble because it's the girl who makes the boy stumble on his walk with the Lord. Okay, that sounds about right. Okay.
And, of course, she didn't know about the water slide. I was in trouble because a counselor had seen Seth and I holding hands the night before and turned us in. She told me that holding hands with Seth was not saving myself or my future husband. And if we were caught fraternizing again, I and I alone would be in trouble, and I would go to the Hilton, which is the ironic name for the tent in the woods where you went if you were bad.
And you ran up and down hills and hosed out trash cans and worked in the kitchen and I was like pretty sure God didn't have a problem with me holding hands, but I really didn't want to go to the Hilton. So Seth and I broke up publicly. I never did win the I'm Third award, but Seth and I kissed like three more times at camp and I never got caught. Alyssa Ladd went to camp, which she has left nameless, from ages 7 to 17.
Her last year, she and Seth were elected by their peers as leaders of the camp, so she doesn't think holding hands tarnished their reputations too badly. They stopped being a couple when they were 14, but they're still friends. He now lives with his wife and son in Chicago and works as a journalist, and Alyssa is a corporate lawyer in her hometown of Houston. She says she's no longer trying to out-Christian everyone. She's just trying to be a good person. ♪
Our next story, also from our Houston Story Slam, comes from Chris Gorman, who moved from her small town in Beaumont, Texas to the big city of Houston in 1989. She says it feels like everyone in the city is from somewhere else. Between the Space Center and the Texas Medical Center and the different artistic and business communities, there are people from all over the world. But in spite of its transient culture, or maybe as a result of it, she says there's a surprisingly strong sense of community.
Here's Chris Gorman live at the Moth. I don't like nice easy things so when I went down to the SPCA to pick out a dog and I saw one in a cage that just said unwanted I thought that one might be a fit and then when they called me in a week and said he was on rabies hold that's when I knew that was gonna be my dog and let me get this straight right at the start I'm not a dog mom I've looked deep inside I'm not a nurturing person
But at the time I was turning 40 and I looked around for my friends and there wasn't anybody there. So yeah, I was going to get a dog and as soon as they said I couldn't have that dog, I wanted him twice as much. And as soon as I got Big Boy home, he let me know right away why it said unwanted on his cage. Big Boy had two things that get dogs returned to the shelter in a hurry. He had fear aggression and separation anxiety.
Fear aggression just meant that he would bite you if you looked at him. If you looked at him or if you weren't looking at him. And separation anxiety meant that I got a phone call from the police. My neighbors called the police because Big Boy was in my apartment making a noise that you could hear from outer space. And the police were just curious as to what kind of animals I was sacrificing inside my apartment.
So I ran home from work and I popped open the door for the police and I said, "Look, he's just watching TV." And he was, and he was making a noise that you could hear from outer space. So I dialed the vet and I held the phone up and I said, "Listen to this." And she said, "Oh, you don't have to hold up the phone. We can hear it from here."
And I said, "I can't keep this dog." But I knew I couldn't really take him back either. Dogs that go back to the animal shelter very seldom come back out again, and I had failed at most things I had tried up to that point. So this needed to be a win for the both of us. So I sat down with the vet, and I said, "I don't know what to do." And she goes, "Well, I can recommend our mental health care program."
And I said, "Mental health." And she goes, "No, seriously, we have dogs that come every day to our mental health care program." So this became our lifestyle. Every morning I would pack big boy up like he was a luggage going to the airport. I'd take him to the vet, drop him on the carousel, go work nine hours, and then come back in the evening time to pick him up. He'd run joyously out of the back from where the cages were straight to somebody else.
I would take him from them and take him home. I did that every weekday for five years. And then he got sick. And he was at the vet for a real reason for a change. And he's back there in a cage with his name on it. I mean, he came there every single day. And there was a new vet. She wanted to try to get to know him a little bit. And she went back there to put her hand in to pet him. And a worker stopped her and said, oh, no, don't touch him. That's big boy. He's not nice.
But in the next breath, the worker said, "Yeah, but you're going to fix him, right? You're going to make him better, right?" She didn't have any idea what was wrong with him. It was like being on an episode of House. Every day there was a different differential diagnosis and another $400 bill. And then it got severe. And she called me and she's like, "Hey, I think you should take him home. There's not much we can do for him here." So they sent me home with an IV bag and a broken dog.
And I remember I went in and I laid him on the kitchen floor and I hung the IV bag on the kitchen cabinet and I sat down with him and I said, "Sir, I'm sorry. I don't have any special skills. I got nothing for you here."
But then I took all the love that I had inside me. I mean, for things that I love, like ice cream, fireworks, my sister. And I remember I put it in my hands. And it was weird. It felt kind of like a warm substance. And then I just applied it directly to the dog. And then I took him back in a couple days. She took him to the back and she comes back out and she goes, he's better?
So let's fast forward to today. The vet did find out some things that was wrong with big boy. He's in triple overtime now. And he's blind. And all the things that used to make him so angry and frightened about the world, he can't see them anymore. I have a nice dog now. And what's weird is I feel really nostalgic for those times when I had all that adrenaline, when we were just trying to be together.
But I know that if I have a three-day weekend or an extra day off, we're going to take him on his last trip to the beach again. We've taken him so many times now. And I know that once I get him on the beach, I'm going to sit down with him and I'm going to say, "Big boy, even though I was never your mother, I really enjoyed being your lawyer and your publicist, your Uber driver, and your hazmat team.
And I know that we'll just keep taking him on his last trip to the beach until it's his last trip to the beach. That was Chris Gorman. Chris works as a pharmacy tech in Houston's 3rd Ward. And she may have been a loner, but when she first met her dog, that all began to change. Big Boy introduced her to a lot of new people.
For meeting the folks at the West Alabama Animal Clinic, whose support made it possible for her to even adopt him in the first place. To friendships made at the dog park where she would take big boy to socialize and run around. One of the friends she made there became a best friend, who also happens to be a fan of our open mic story slams in Houston, where Chris has since met a whole new community. ♪
Coming up, the story of a little-reported NASA security breach when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.
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This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bowles. Our next story comes from El Paso, Texas, which stands on the Rio Grande across the U.S.-Mexico border from Juarez. And a few miles north is the border with New Mexico, where our next storyteller grew up. Robert Olguin is a journalist and local news anchor at KFOX14 in El Paso, and he shared his story at a mainstage event we produced with a grant from the National Endowment for the Arts.
The theme of the night was eyewitness. Here's Robert O'Gean live at the Moth. Space travel used to be a pretty big deal. I mean, it's still a big deal. But back before Sir Richard Branson started talking about space tourism, going in and out of Earth's orbit was newsworthy. People paid attention, especially when it came to the space shuttle. In the 1980s, this thing was revolutionary. It blew people's minds. It blew my mind.
So imagine when I'm 12 years old, I get a phone call from my uncle and he says, "Hey, you want to go see the space shuttle land?" And I was like, "What?" And he's like, "Yeah, the space shuttle, it's going to land at White Sands tomorrow. Do you want to go see it land?" My uncle was a state policeman in New Mexico. He was in charge of the governor's security. So the governor and my uncle were going to see the space shuttle land at White Sands Missile Range the next day and they were asking me if I wanted to tag along.
So for a sixth grader who was a big fan of Star Trek, this was a no-brainer. Of course I wanted to see the space shuttle. But for my parents it wasn't quite so clear-cut. You see, I wasn't a very good student. Truth be told, I was a pretty lousy student. I never did my homework, I always talked in class, I never studied for tests. So my parents didn't want to reward this kind of behavior by letting me skip school. Even if it meant that their son would get to see a spaceship land in the desert.
So I begged, I pleaded, I made promises about changing my ways, and they relented. So the next morning, on March 29th, 1982, I was on a date with destiny. I was in the backseat of an unmarked police car, my uncle John was driving. We finally arrived at headquarters at White Sands Missile Range, about two hours north of my hometown there in New Mexico. And there was my uncle's boss, Governor Bruce King. You can imagine he was a big, boisterous politician,
I remember he was wearing a polyester suit and cowboy boots. He was working the room, shaking everyone's hand. He shook my hand. It was a big day for Governor King. This was about the future of space exploration. Now, back in those days, there was only one space shuttle, the Columbia. It had been in space for seven days. It had a crew of two, and it was supposed to have landed at Edwards Air Force Base. It always landed at Edwards Air Force Base in the Mojave Desert. But the landing strip there had been rained out.
So the secondary site, an alternate site, was White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico. Now, White Sands wasn't dealing with rain, but it was dealing with wind, like intense wind. The kind of wind that sent grains of white sand deep into my eye sockets and ear canals. The kind of wind that would make it very difficult for anyone to pilot and glide a 165,000-pound spacecraft back down to the desert floor.
I remember being fascinated by that particular element. The space shuttle would glide back to Earth. No second chances. You had to get it right the first time. So anyways, we stood there. The hours kept slipping by. The dignitaries had gotten sandblasted off the aluminum bleachers and they had retreated to headquarters. I remember feeling a sinking feeling in my stomach because I could see the military guys talking to my uncle. They were talking about the wind. They were saying it was just too strong. And then finally...
Several hours later, the official word came on my uncle's radio. The landing had been canceled. The mission was scrubbed because of the winds. I remember learning that word that day, scrubbed, and it seemed appropriate because for a 12-year-old with a NASA vest from Kmart, it felt like my heart had been scrubbed with a wire brush. The guys from NASA said, don't worry, they're going to try again tomorrow. They're just going to extend the mission by one day. They'll try to land again tomorrow. Hopefully it won't be as windy.
On the car ride back home, I was heartbroken and I was silent because it didn't matter that NASA was going to try again tomorrow because I knew that my parents weren't going to let me skip school for a second day. So my uncle dropped me off at home. He said, good luck with that. He knew what was up. I, uh...
Went in the house, and my parents had already heard the news, on the news, that the landing had been delayed by one day. And before I could even begin my sales pitch, my dad was like, nope, no way, it's not going to happen. You're not missing school again. Missing school wasn't that big a deal, but remember, I got terrible grades. I'm the one that refused to study. So even at 12, I knew this was on me. This was my fault. So I retreated back to my bedroom, stared at the ceiling, and daydreamed about what a landing might have looked like.
And then in the kitchen, I could overhear my sister coming to my defense. She was lobbying on my behalf. And that was an interesting development because brother-sister relations weren't exactly good back then. But I heard her say a short speech, something about the historic significance of the event. And then she said, kind of wrapping it up, which translates roughly to how sad. And
The shame worked, I suppose, because eventually my mom came around and then my dad let up and so they let me go. So the next day I was back in that unmarked police car on my way to White Sands Missile Range. When we got to the landing strip, the weather was perfect and I decided to strike out on my own. And that's when I started to notice all of the photographers and all of the cameras and all of the reporters and all the people holding microphones.
I started to notice the stages that they had built in the desert with lights hanging from rigging. The world was watching. You could tell the excitement was building. Then the official word came over the loudspeaker. The Columbia was coming home. The photographers trained their lenses to the sky. Everyone started to point. There it was off in the distance, just a tiny white speck. We heard the thunderous sonic boom, which again, I thought was thunder, but the shuttle was traveling faster than the speed of sound.
As it made its descent, it was flanked by two fighter jets, and the Columbia looked nothing like the fighter jets. They were sleek and agile. The Columbia was kind of bulky and cumbersome and silent as it made its final approach and landed effortlessly in the desert. It whizzed past us, and I broke out my Instamatic camera and took some photos. Then I noticed that all of the photographers and reporters that I'd seen earlier were standing way off in the distance, much closer to the shuttle than the rest of us.
In fact, they were standing really close to where the astronauts would be standing. And so I began to wonder, why are they over there and we're over here? I decided I was just going to walk over there with them. I had no idea that you had to be credentialed to be in that area, or at least an adult. But I just decided to walk right alongside those cool photographers and reporters I'd met earlier, and I walked right into the press conference.
It was a chaotic press conference, if you can imagine, out in the desert floor, two astronauts trying to answer questions. So I just kind of weaseled my way up front, and before I knew it, I was standing right next to the pilot, Gordon Fullerton. And I started snapping pictures with my little Instamatic. And he's trying to answer questions, and I decide, "Hey, I want to ask a question." So I chose my moment, and then I said, now remember, he's standing right next to me, "Hey, what did it feel like to be in space?"
A confused look came over his face. Remember, Gordon Fullerton had just re-entered the Earth's atmosphere, so he's trying to come to terms with why a 12-year-old is asking him questions. He didn't answer my question, he just sort of laughed. And that's when NASA security noticed that a 12-year-old had entered a restricted area, and they escorted me right out of the press conference back to where everyone else was standing, far from the action. I didn't get a quote, but I did get a photo, a fairly decent photo of Gordon Fullerton.
The Columbia would go on to take part in several missions, but the Columbia would fall off the front page. The missions became routine over the years until February of 2003. That's when the Columbia disintegrated over the skies of Texas. I was coming to work that day. I was working for a TV station here in El Paso.
And the assignment desk called me and told me about what had happened. It was a national tragedy, but to me it was personal. That same spaceship that I had seen land effortlessly in the desert just evaporated like a falling star. All seven crew members were killed. I remember going through my old photos of the Columbia to try to show them on the news that night. I remember that day at White Sands to me signified the space program's ability to adapt, to overcome, and come out on top.
But not on that day. The Columbia story would end in disaster. I would have one more opportunity to cover the shuttle program. As the shuttle program was coming to an end, I was a television reporter in Los Angeles, and one of the last surviving shuttles, the Endeavour, was being turned into a museum piece. But first they had to get it to the museum. So the only way to do that was to drive it through the streets of LA, like a four billion dollar parade float. I remember working with a photographer that day,
His name was Steve and he was one of those cool cameramen just like the ones I had met out in the desert in 1982. He and I couldn't stop, we couldn't stop but laugh at the spectacle of what we were seeing. We were seeing a spaceship cruise through the streets of South Central. But on that day everybody was celebrating, everybody was happy, everyone cared about the shuttle again. As the Endeavor passed by, I grabbed a selfie of myself with the Endeavor in the background.
It was better than the photos I took of the Columbia, but the idea was the same. Everyone else was watching on TV, but I was right there, next to the action, and I got my shot. Robert Olguin is a journalist and filmmaker and currently the evening news anchor for KFOX14 in El Paso, Texas, just down the road from Vedo, New Mexico, where he grew up.
Robert said he was surprised he got choked up when telling his story, but talking about that memory in front of all those people, he was suddenly hit by emotion, thinking of the lives that were lost.
Recently, some of the artifacts from the Columbia shuttle were transported to the University of Texas, El Paso, so students can study the disaster. Robert has asked for permission to view the artifacts so he can research and hopefully tell another chapter of the story. You can see a picture of Robert with the space shuttle Columbia on our website, themoth.org. Coming up, a man's answer to a call for help turns his own life upside down when the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪
The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org.
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Must be 21 years or older. Please enjoy responsibly. Terramana Small Batch Tequila, 40% alcohol by volume. Imported by Siete Bucks Spirits, White Plains, New York. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Meg Bowles, and our last story, told live on stage in Texas, comes from Christopher Scott.
Christopher grew up in Oak Cliff, a neighborhood of Dallas. He describes himself as the baby of nine siblings, spoiled rotten. He said they didn't have a lot, but he remembers making toys together with his brothers and sisters, go-karts and slingshots, and they were always so proud of what they made. From the Paramount Theater in Austin, Texas, here's Christopher Scott live at the Moth. Sundays in my home was like this. We washed cars.
We washed clothes. And also we watched the Dallas Cowboys play. But this particular Sunday, I got a phone call from a friend of mine that was struggling with drugs. He had a real bad problem with drugs. And I told him then, whenever you need to talk to somebody about drugs and your addiction, to give me a call to somebody that doesn't use drugs. That night I didn't want to leave my home, but I did. Because just imagine,
if this guy came to you and told you he was struggling and you would have been the last person that he talked to if anything had happened to him or he did something to someone else. So I left. I drove to my friend's house. I pulled up in his driveway. He got in my car. We rode around the block a couple of times. And I was telling him, "You have to do better because drug addiction is serious. It kills people. It ruins people's lives.
I never did drugs because I knew exactly what it did to people. It destroyed a lot of lives that I knew of. So we drove to 7-Eleven and got a couple of sodas. On the way back to his home, driving down the street, a helicopter flying over pushed the spotlight right on top of my car. And I'm wondering, like, what's going on? As I'm continuing to drive, we pass a cop. The cop does a U-turn.
So we drive up into my friend's yard and go into the house. Next thing you know, the house is surrounded by cops. We see a lot of flashlights shining inside of the windows. I'm wondering what's going on. I don't know. Eventually, we let the cops in. They escorted all of us out of the house. As they lay us on the ground, they go get random African-American men that looks like me and lay them on the side of the ground with me.
Eventually, the cops walks up to me, points and say, "You, come here." I get up. I walk to the van. I hold my hands out. They pour some liquid substance inside of my hand and it drops into a bag. After that, they arrest 25 of us. They escort us to the police station. When we get to the police station, they put 25 individuals on one side and have me on one side by myself.
shackled and handcuffed to a bench. I'm sitting in front of a big glass window. A female officer walks the lady up to the window. Now, I couldn't hear her, but I could read her lips. She said, "This is the man that killed your husband?" And she said, "Yes, that's him." I had never seen this lady a day in my life ever before. The cops take me to interrogation room. They question me.
"Where do you get your drugs from?" I tell him, "I'm not a drug seller." And they ask me again, "Where do you get your drugs from?" "Sir, I'm not a drug seller." They say, "Yeah, we found out that you was a drug dealer kingpin." I say, "No, sir, I'm not a drug dealer kingpin." "What drug dealer kingpin do you know work at a local grocery store?" "I don't know any." And then I ask him,
Just go outside and ask the officers that's in the hallway. They will vouch for me. They come and shop at the same store that I work at. I give all of these officers fresh fruit and fresh vegetables, but they still don't believe me. A matter of seconds later, they're saying, "You're being charged with capital murder."
I said, "Capital murder? You mean I went from being a drug dealer kingpin to having a capital murder case?" So I go to trial, go in the court building, and the judge tells me that I'm being found, I'm being convicted of capital murder. But understand this, those same officers that I said vouched for me came to my trial.
and said there's no way I could have committed this crime. Even the ballistic report came back to show I never fired a gun. Never fired a gun. But I was still convicted of capital murder. The judge looked at me and slammed the gavel down hard. Said you are now sentenced to capital life sentence in prison. You will be eligible for parole in 40 years.
And I thought about it for a second. Like, why am I in this position? Why is this even happening to me? How am I going to be able to tell my four and five-year-old kids that they will never see their dad again? So now I'm on my way to prison. It's cold. It's raining. It's dark. And I pull up. I see a big prison with a lot of windows. As I exit the prison van, I step out. I'm shackled.
handcuffed like a slave. I look up into the sky. I see a correctional officer on a gun tower with an AK-47 pointed directly at me. And I looked at that prison again. I said this, "I would never ever leave this prison again." My first day there, I walk into the shower. As I'm walking into the shower, I saw a guy get stabbed at least seven times.
And there's a TDC officer guard watching the whole thing and didn't do anything. Not one single thing. As I walked more into the shower, I heard a grown man scream so loud, so perverse, it scared me. When I go back to my cell that night, I laid in my bed thinking, "Am I going to lose my sanity? Will I be the same man again that I came in as?"
I actually had to think about survival. What am I going to do? What's going to happen to me? I didn't think I was going to survive. I couldn't even sleep that first night. The next, that same morning, about 4:30, I come back to my cell from breakfast. It's time to go to the fields. And the fields is where we got to go do our work. They gave me an Aggie, which we all know is a Grub and Hope. They gave me a bag.
and some seeds. So we turned over the soil, we plant the seeds, cover back up the dirt. My hands are covered with blisters because I didn't know how to hold the Aggie. They was raw. I mean like really, really raw. As I go back into my prison, an inmate stops me and give me some advice about what I should do. So eventually, I save up enough money
to buy me some gloves from the commissary to protect my hands because they didn't give you gloves there. I started writing letters to my family and my family never visited me while I was in prison because I didn't want them to. Because you know how they say, out of sight out of mind. They life didn't stop because mine stopped. They life kept going and I was in prison. I started writing and working on my case as soon as I was eligible.
Five years into my sentence, my brother wrote me a letter stating that he had information of a guy that actually committed this crime. This guy was on the same unit as my brother because my brother was incarcerated for criminal mischief and criminal trespass. So this guy came in a barbershop where my brother worked.
boasting and bragging that him and his friend had robbed and killed a Hispanic drug dealer. And there was two other guys in prison for that crime. Little did that guy know, he was confessing to my own brother. The guy said, "Well, I didn't think that they was gonna charge him with this case, but I still was found guilty." So my brother convinced the guy
to sign the affidavit to help me go free. But once we sent to our district attorney's office, the district attorney said, this case has no DNA in it. We don't want to ever hear about this case again. This case is closed. So don't ever reach out to me about this case ever again because it's over with. I questioned God on a regular, like, why you put me in this position? What did I do so terribly?
that I have to struggle and go through this. My mom prayed for me. My church prayed for me. And my mama, see how we see it. If you had a faith the size of a mustard seed, it would move mountains. Because there's one thing about hope in prison, it's a commodity. You gotta have it. You gotta have it. Eventually, we got the first African American
District Attorney in the state of Texas history, which was Craig Watkins. I wrote Craig Watkins a letter, told him about my case, and he took it to the University of Texas of Arlington. Maybe a month later, I get a letter from the District Attorney's office. And when I opened up this letter, I was so terrified.
because I knew my life was inside of this letter. Either I'm going to spend the rest of my life in prison or I'm going to go free. So I opened up this letter and I had a glimmer, not a lot, but a glimmer of hope. After I read that letter, I sealed it and put it up under my pillow. Two weeks later, I walked into that visitation room and I saw my mom. She had gotten older.
had this tired look on her face, but I always had this bright beautiful smile that lit up the room. I never ever wanted her to see me in this place or be in this position. So when I walked up to her, I embraced my mom with a good hug and a kiss on her cheek. And it reminded me of being a kid when I was going to school. I remember this perfume that she used to wear. It was called opium.
Now, a lot of y'all probably don't know about it if you're 21 and younger, but if you're 50 or above, you know what opium is. That's a great perfume for older ladies, I'm sorry. But my mama told me this, and this is the first time I ever had hope that I was gonna get out of prison. She said, "Baby, you're gonna take a polygraph test, and you will be home." Mama would never ever see her baby boy in this white uniform again.
Maybe a month later, I walk into this court building. The court building is filled just like this room right here. Filled to the capacity. It wasn't enough seats in there because majority of all the newscasters was there to see the first person to ever be exonerated without knowing DNA and Dallas County's history. Next thing you know, the judge hit the gavel
Mr. Scott, you are found actual innocent. You are free to go. Thank you. Thank you. That 13 years I did for a crime I didn't commit, that 13 years of pressure, that 13 years of burden was finally lifted. As I walked outside thinking it's finally over, I finally have my freedom. And there's one thing that I wanted to do is make sure
I would never ever be put in this position ever again. I wasn't the same man when I walked into prison as I walked out. I was more focused. I was more dedicated. Before I went to prison, I didn't cherish the smaller things in life. But now that I had my freedom, I was able to go to the refrigerator when I wanted to, go to the mailbox when I wanted to, take a long walk outside when I wanted to,
Christopher Scott is the president and founder of House of Renewed Hope.
When Christopher was in prison, he met other men with the same story as his, who looked a lot like him. And so he, along with some fellow inmates, started investigating cases to help find evidence that might exonerate other innocent people.
They also identified laws that should be changed to prevent this from happening to anyone else. And they vowed whoever got out first would start lobbying. Christopher was released in 2010, and that's exactly what he did and continues to do through his work with House of Renewed Hope. Samuel James, who's a journalist and frequent Moss storyteller, shared the stage with Christopher that night in Austin, and he talked to him more about his story.
On October 24th, you have a big anniversary coming up. Oh, yeah. And, you know, it's a big anniversary like twice that month because October the 9th is like my 50th birthday. So I've been to celebrate that out in society. And then that same month is my anniversary of Rome for Conviction. Now, it's crazy. My birthday, October the 9th.
You know, I got exonerated October the 24th. So October is a big, you know, is a great month for me. So I try to cherish and celebrate October that whole 31 days. It's good you got a long month to celebrate it. Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm not sure I changed. I got 31 instead of 28 or 30. I got 31 days in my month. It's pretty good. Yeah. Earlier you were telling me about...
about how you get up in the morning. And it'll be 10 years in October. Right. But it seems like, in some ways, it doesn't feel like 10 years to you. No, the time has went by so fast because I've done so much in a 10-year time frame that it seemed like, man, I just got out two, three years ago because time has went by so fast. I can't believe it because one minute I'm just getting out,
you know, thanking the judge and my attorney and the law student that helped me get exonerated. And not only them, my attorney, Michelle Moore, as well. Now, you know, it's all the same because a lot of these people are still in my life. So it makes that transition that much better and that much easier because having the people that saw you and helped you get exonerated 10 years ago instead of have them around, it's an amazing feeling.
I can't imagine. I can't imagine. You were also saying that you're an early bird. I'm up about, man, about 5, 45, 6 o'clock every morning. What? Why do you get up so early? I still have that prison-like schedule as waking up early in the morning. Whoa. Having things that I have prepared for that day. So I've just been stuck on that same schedule. I'm still stuck in that time. Yeah. Wow. Wow.
I mean, it's like that alarm clock goes off and boom, I'm up and I'm wide awake. Like I said, that's the most time I do my best thinking. That's when I'm like the cases that I work on. I can pay a lot more attention to them because really at that time, that's the time I do my most thinking and better thinking as in the morning times. Because in prison, that's when the time that's when prison was the most quiet prison.
That early in the morning. So it gave you a sense of peace. And that's what I look for in the morning when I get up. I just want that peaceness and I want that calmness about me and about, you know, the world. But it's one thing I do do.
I usually walk out of my back door and the first thing I do, I always listen to a bird chirping because it's like they know exactly what time I come out every morning. And it's like those birds just be sitting right there waiting on me to come out. It's beautiful. You can hear more of Samuel James' interview with Christopher Scott on our website, themoth.org.
You can also re-listen or share the stories you heard in this hour and find out about upcoming live events. That's at themoth.org. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us again next time for the Moth Radio Hour. Your host this hour was Meg Bowles. Meg also directed the stories in the show. The rest of the Moth directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Ginness, and Jennifer Hickson. Production support from Emily Couch.
Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Charlie Hayden and Hank Jones, Duke Levine, Smoke and Joe Kubik and Benoist King, Keith Jarrett, Jan Gabarek, and Paule Danielson and John Christensen.
You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, 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 on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.