The Moth Radio Hour: Growing Pains
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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 Chloe Salmon, one of the directors at The Moth. As a kid, I found myself watching a lot of TV shows that implied I was just one after-school special moment away from growing up. And once that moment hit...

No more uncertainty. No more bad choices. Only me being magnificent from that point on forever. I turned 30 this year and I'm starting to suspect that I will still be figuring it all out, sometimes with dignity, but more often awkwardly, for the rest of my life. Growing up is hard to do, but discovering who you really are is worth the mess. In this hour, stories of growing pains and the transformations that follow.

First up is a slam story from Jennifer Lubin, who told it in Washington, D.C., where we partner with public radio station WAMU. Here's Jennifer live at the Moth. So the happiest day of my life was the day that I realized that my mom was not going to give me up for adoption.

Now, mind you, my mom was never going to give me up for adoption, nor did she ever threaten to do that, but I was a seven-year-old drama queen in the second grade at the time, and I had managed to convince myself that the possibility of her giving me away was going to be real. So why did I think that? Well, the young lady that triggered my fear was known by many to be one of America's sweethearts. To me, she was a sneaky rascal.

a tap-dancing red-haired one, otherwise known as Lil' Orphan Annie. Now, for the record, I did not dislike Annie from the very beginning. I actually loved her a lot when the 80s version of the movie came out on video, and she quickly became one of my heroes, along with Wonder Woman, She-Ra, and Punky Brewster, of course.

Now we used to watch the movie regularly on the weekends and the problem was after a while I started to think that my mom thought that Annie was cooler than I was which is why I started to resent her.

So the thing is, as a kid, I considered myself to be the apple of my mom's eye. I was a good kid. I got good grades. I did as I was told. I didn't get into any trouble. So when my mom started referring to Annie as her little girl, it struck a chord in me, and I felt like she wanted to swap me out for Annie. So...

She would say things like, "Oh, you know, Annie is so adorable and well-behaved," while we'd watch the movie. And I'd be like, "Well-behaved? You mean like how she basically plays practical jokes on all of her caretakers well-behaved? Don't you mean that she misbehaves?" Which, need I remind you, I don't do.

So my mom is like, you know what, you need to stop trying to compare yourself to Annie and focus on the more important things in the movie, like the messages of love and compassion that are depicted in the movie. I don't buy it. So I'm like, you know what, mom, I'm going to ask you flat out. Do you want to be my mama or don't you? Okay.

So she laughed hysterically at this and basically told me that I was being ridiculous, which to me was dodging the question and basically covering up her true intentions. So I set out on a mission to memorize just about every word to all the songs in the movie so that I can rehearse and sing them for her so that she could realize that I too was talented and that I deserved to remain in our family home.

So now, my little brother, who's 18 months younger than me, didn't realize that I was freaking out about this, and I needed to get his support. And so I had to corner him one day after school, and I was like, look, David, clearly you are not paying attention to what's happening in this household these days. And if I were you, I would start paying attention better because this is not just about me. Do you see the way mom's eyes light up every time she sees Webster on TV on Thursday nights? You're next, little homie, and you're screwed.

Now I got room for one person on my limited edition, red, blue, and gold Wonder Woman bicycle with the little lasso bell. So I'm not going to be able to take you with me when I hop onto it and ride myself over to the Girl Scouts of America headquarters to apply for adoption asylum. And let me tell you this, even if I could take you, they're not going to let you in because you're a boy. So good luck with that and don't say I didn't warn you. Now my brother, of course, was freaked out for all of two minutes as I tried to brainwash him and then he just...

started ignoring me again and playing with his G.I. Joe figures. I was bummed for weeks. I would go to school trying to get support from my friends, but everyone was like drinking the Annie Kool-Aid. They were like, oh, did you see the Annie movie? Wasn't it so great? I think I'm going to be Annie for Halloween. And I'm like, this is, I'm not getting any support. So I was bummed out, and I felt like all hope was lost until something miraculous happened. Our VCR broke. It just stopped working one day.

wouldn't even turn on. So of course I'm like, "Hey mom, it's a hard knock life for us. It's a hard knock life for us." Of course she didn't find that to be very funny at all, but for the record, I didn't break the VCR.

I would have been, my mom would have killed me if I did something like that. Broke anything electronic at the house that she would have brought. In our Haitian household, any deliberate destruction of property as a result of a temper tantrum would have not worked well for me. But needless to say, with the VCR on the fritz, I felt like I had a whole new lease on life. I felt reborn, if you will, invigorated. I was literally running around the house singing, the sun will come out tomorrow.

And of course my mom would be standing around slow-capping like which was fine for me because I just knew that mom That Annie was not gonna take my mom away. So as time progressed life was good I felt like I had won and I and I tried to incorporate the the lesson that my mom tried to teach me of not comparing myself to others so that I could feel empowered and do and be whatever it was that I was gonna be in life and it worked for the most part and

Until years later when The Cosby Show came out and there was Rudy. Jennifer Lubin lives in D.C. with her pandemic puppy, Leroy Bartholomew. She works as an attorney recruiter and is also a writer. She recently finished her first book, which is based on her experiences as a Haitian kid growing up in the United States. Jennifer says that 80s TV shows played a really big role in her childhood.

Her mom raised her and her brother practically on her own and placed a lot of emphasis on shows and books that reinforced the life lessons she taught them about the importance of family and being a good person. Jennifer would often imagine being friends with the spunky, smart girls she saw in these shows, and she still remembers them all fondly. To see photos of Jennifer as a child and with her mom, Jessette Madeline Lubin, head on over to themoth.org.

Our next story comes to us from a time in life that is rife with growing pains. The summer after graduating high school. Ann Stewart told this at a Story Slam in Boston, where we partner with WBUR and PRX. Here's Ann. I'm in high school, and I'm thinking a lot about what I'm going to do when I go to college next year. All my friends, my family, my teachers, everybody assumes that I'm going to go into journalism.

And this isn't surprising because my dad is an editor at the local newspaper. Both of my brothers are interested in journalism. One's studying to be a TV photographer. The other one wants to be a sports writer. And I myself have been the editor or reporter or writer on every school newspaper and newsletter and yearbook all the way through school. So it's really not surprising. But I sometimes think maybe I don't want to join the family business anymore.

Maybe I'd like to do something else. Maybe I would like to be an English professor or a veterinarian. I like animals. Or maybe go into politics. But still, when my dad tells me that there is a part-time after-school job down at the newspaper, I am thrilled. Thanks, Dad. I jump at the chance because I can try it out. I can see what it's going to be like to work in a newspaper environment and see if it's something that I want to do.

Now, it's actually kind of a crappy job. It's not in the newsroom. It's not even on the same floor. It's kind of downstairs in a corner in a closet, and it involves answering the phone.

And specifically it involves answering the switchboard. So all the calls to the newspaper come into this one central number and the switchboard operator, in this case me, sits there with a headset on and flips a button as the calls come in and then takes the line and plugs it in to whatever slot it's supposed to go to on that switchboard.

So if somebody calls in and they want to place a classified ad, it goes up here. And if they call in and complain that they didn't get their paper, it goes over here. And if they call in and they've got a news tip for the newsroom, it goes up here. But I quickly learn in this job that people call the newspaper for all sorts of other reasons. This is decades before the internet. There's no CNN, there's no 24-hour news radio, at least not in central Michigan, where I live.

And so when people get the news, they get it when the newspaper lands on their doorstep in the morning or on the 6 and 11 o'clock news at night. And if they want to know something in between times, they often call the newspaper, and they'll get me. So they'll call and they'll say something like, we want to go on a picnic this afternoon. It's looking kind of iffy weather-wise. What's the latest forecast?

So I put them on hold and I call up to the newsroom and then I'll come back and I'll tell them, well, 20 minutes ago the latest from the National Weather Service said sunny and clear, so you're good to go. Have a good time. Or they'll call and they'll say, I had to miss the Detroit Tigers game. Can you give me the score? And I'll call upstairs and I'll ask the sports desk, you know, what was the score? And I'll go back and more often than not, I'll tell them that the Tigers lost again. It was a really bad year for the Tigers.

And every once in a while, usually late at night, on a weekend night, someone will call in and say, "I see all these strange flashing lights in the sky, and I wonder if anybody else has reported seeing UFOs." So I put them on hold and I call up to the newsroom just to be safe. And then I invariably come back and tell them, "No, sorry, it's just you." But the summer after my high school, the summer after I graduate from high school, I start getting calls about something different. It's about something that's happening hundreds of miles away in Washington, D.C.

And even though this event is partially being televised, people are so anxious about what's happening that they're calling the newspaper for the latest news, the latest nuggets, the news in a nutshell. And they get me. So I find myself saying things like, "The Supreme Court has ruled that President Nixon has to release his secret tapes." Or, "The House Judiciary Committee just voted to approve the second article of impeachment."

Or we've just learned that there's this new tape and they're calling it the smoking gun. And it proves that the president knew about the Watergate cover-up. And then I find people calling and saying, is the president going to resign? And I say, I don't know. We don't know. And then one hot day in August, people start calling and saying, when is the president going to resign? And I tell them, I've written out a little script, and I say, the president will address the nation on live television at 9 o'clock tonight.

We expect that he will say that he is going to resign tomorrow, and Gerald Ford will be our next president. I am 17 years old. Two months ago, I was in high school, and now I'm telling people about the biggest news story of our time. I'm telling one at a time over the telephone, but I am telling them.

And when I go off to college a couple of weeks later, I am so grateful for that crappy little job because I no longer have any question about what I'm going to do. I'm not going into politics, no way. I'm not going to be a professor. I'm not going to be a veterinarian. I'm going to go into the family business and be a journalist. And that's what I do for the next 30 years. Thank you. That was Ann Stewart.

During her career, she has been a staff writer and editor for several magazines, a reporter for daily newspapers and the Associated Press, and a teacher. She and her husband, who met while they were working together at their college newspaper, live near Boston. I hopped on the phone with Anne to chat about her experiences with growing pains, and I asked her what advice she'd give to her younger self.

I guess I would say, you know, whatever you decide, it's going to work out. You'll decide what you decide. And if you like it, you'll continue doing it. And if you don't, you'll do something else. At the time, did you feel like there was kind of a gauntlet hanging over your head? I know that like end of high school, going to college time in life is one that's filled that feels extremely high stakes.

Yeah, it does. And it's, you know, everybody asks, what are you going to major in? And it's the first thing everybody asks. They want to know. And when you're on the campus, what's your major, you know? And I had this idea that you have to know that before you get there and you can't change it, you know? So it was really important for me to know what I was going to do. Anne found her passion for journalism during that summer job and committed herself to telling people the news for many years to come.

Coming up next, a young boy hopes for a miracle both on the baseball field and off 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 Chloe Salmon. Our next story about the trials and tribulations of growing up comes to us from Stephen Farrell.

He told this at a slam in New York City, where WNYC is a media partner of the Moth. Here's Steven.

So I was 10 in the summer of 1994 in Hiawatha, Kansas, when I stepped into the batter's box with every intention of getting on base. See, I had been playing Little League for about five years at that point. And yes, I had never hit a baseball, but I had great on-base percentage. I don't see if you can tell, but I was born with cataracts.

which means that I can't see in one eye and I really can't see in the other. So when I first started playing baseball it became very clear that hitting a ball was never gonna be possible but being hit by a ball was totally in the realm of possibility.

So it was the bottom of the fourth when I cozied up to home plate knowing that all I needed to do was just turn inward, get beamed, and I'd be able to take my base. The first pitch came, I turned, strike one. The second pitch came, I turned, strike two. Now I wasn't gonna take the strike three with my back to the ball so I turned out. The third pitch came, I closed my eyes and I swung.

There was a ping sound the moment the ball met the bat. And I've never seen something with perfect vision, but I saw that ball fly through the air with 20/20 vision right over the second baseman's head and land so softly in the right field.

I ran to first base and that's all I remember. But the moment I got on base, I started writing the epic that I was going to tell my mother at the hospital the following day. She had been battling melanoma for a number of years, but it was a case of pneumonia that had brought her into the hospital for her most recent stay. By the time I had gotten to bed that night, my story had grown a little grander. It wasn't a ping, it was a thunderous crack.

I didn't actually watch the ball fly through the air because I kept my head down. I ran right out of the gate just like Pete Rose. I was even gonna tell my mom that once I got safely on base that I tipped my cap to the crowd in honor of her. It was a little after midnight when my father called my older sister to tell her that my mom had taken a turn for the worst and that we should get to the hospital for her possible final moment.

I remember being at the time concerned, but only to a certain point. See, this wasn't her first final moment. She had been battling cancer for so long that I don't remember a time when my mother wasn't sick. And she had been given so many death notices that she just lived through all of them. Her cancer was this gnat.

that you'd swat at it with a round of chemo or another month-long hospital stay, and sure, it would come back, but to a stupid 10-year-old, cancer just seemed manageable. And I realized that wasn't the case the moment I went into the hospital room that night. She was gasping for air, deep, heavy breaths, and her eyes were on the ceiling, and they were filled with panic.

We all took places around her bed and being 10, I just followed what everyone else was doing. I rubbed her and I said, "It's okay, Mom." But I don't really know what I meant by that. Her dying wasn't okay. My forced acceptance of it wasn't okay. None of it was really okay. All I really wanted to shout was, "I hit a baseball. There can be two miracles tonight, Mom." But no, I said, "It's okay."

And then suddenly, her breathing became normal, and her eyes went from the ceiling down to the family that surrounded her. And one by one by one, she took every single person in, and she ended on me. And I stared back at my mother. The cancer had taken so much from her. It had taken her hair and sunken in her cheeks. But those eyes, those eyes were free of any cancer or any pain.

And the fear was gone. And her eyes widened and she smiled. But it was with that smile that she took her last breath, that they pronounced her dead. Dead wife, dead sister, dead mom. And I was still, even days after her passing, still focused on those eyes. What had she realized that, what had she discovered that just suddenly made it so easy for her to just let go?

And I was actually still thinking about this about a week after her funeral when I was sitting on her front porch and a kid from my grade named Mitch Schmidt came up to me and said, "Heard your mom died." I nodded with my head down. "That sucks. Wanna go play baseball?" And suddenly I saw what had become so clear to my mother right before she passed.

She smiled that night because she looked out and she saw this family that she had made, and she knew that we would be okay, that I'd be okay, that I would keep playing baseball even if I never hit a damn ball again. I looked up at Mitch and said, sure, let's go play. Thanks so much.

Stephen Farrell is a middle school theater teacher based in Brooklyn, New York, where he lives with his wife, their two-year-old daughter, and their miniature dachshund. On most summer afternoons, you can find him listening to a Kansas City Royals baseball game on the radio and recounting his Little League glory days to his family. While he never got the chance to tell his mom about his first home run, Stephen remembers another special moment they had together before she passed.

One day, deep into her battle with cancer, one of his mom's doctor's appointments ran long and Stephen missed baseball practice.

She saw he was upset about missing out, and as soon as they got home, she grabbed a ball and insisted that they play catch together in the yard. He says looking back, he knows now that she must have been in a lot of pain as they tossed that ball back and forth. He also cherishes the moment because it shows how fiercely his mother must have loved him to decide that she wasn't going to let cancer stop her from playing ball with her son.

To see a photo of Stephen with his mother, head on over to themoth.org. Next up is Esther Gumby, who transports us to the school days of her girlhood. She told this story for us at a Moth Global Community Show in Washington, D.C., where we partnered with the Aspen New Voices Fellowship. Here's Esther live at the Moth. It's visiting day, and I'm waiting for my one pair of uniform to dry.

I only have one pair of uniform because my parents, who are teachers and farmers as well, are investing everything they have for my education. After what seems like eternity, finally, my one pair of uniform dries. I grab it, I wear it, and I quickly jet out of my dormitory. I glance the crowd.

I don't see my family. Where's my mother? What happened to my mother? I'm beginning to get sad. Tears are flowing from my cheeks. Suddenly my mother appears. There she comes, dressed in a hot pink dress. She looks beautiful. Oh, that pink just pops against her black, beautiful face.

I run into her and I grab her and I hug her and for two minutes all we are doing is embracing and hugging each other. I hold her hands and I lead her to a beautiful place. We sit down and we start to catch up. She asks me, "My daughter, how have you been doing?" "I'm doing very well." But deep down I know I'm lying. "Been doing well."

Actually, instead of studying hard, I've been talking with the other students. I'm not studying at all. Then she tells me, my daughter, do you know the gift that you, your poor mother can give is the gift of education? It is a tool to end poverty. I say, yes, ma'am. It's 4 p.m. and she must go home because she's

She traveled three hours to get to my school. I hug her and off goes my mama in a hot pink dress. Three weeks later, we do our end of semester examinations and the results come out. I am positioned 38 out of 100. Clearly reflected what I've been doing all semester long. I look at my report card. Clearly I cannot take it home.

I cannot take this report card to my mama. So I look at the numbers. There's a 3 and 8. I quickly think, perhaps if I take an eraser, I can erase the 8. Behold, I'll have a 3. I do just what my small brains tells me. Grab the eraser, I erase the 8, and I have a 3. Now I've jumped from position 38. I'm the third in my class.

It's a quick fix. I take my report card and I go home. I give it to my mother. She looks at it. She says, "Thank you, my daughter. Congratulations." And I go on to enjoy my holiday. Three weeks later, it's opening day. And the night before, my mother calls me. She says, "My daughter, I want to accompany you to school tomorrow."

Hmm, this is something out of the ordinary because my mother has never ever taken me to school. Why all of a sudden she wants to accompany me to school? Perhaps something has changed. Morning comes and we take off with my mother. We go on our three-hour journey. When we get to school, I'm expecting another warm hug from my mother and then I'm expecting that she'll say, Bye, my daughter. She says,

My daughter, by the way, I want us to go to your headmistress' office. I'm beginning to get nervous. I'm thinking, something is wrong. So we go, we get to the headmistress' office, and the headmistress welcomes us, and she gives us a seat. My mother sits right there, and I sit right here. Before I know it, my mother pulls her report card, and she puts it on the front of my headteacher's table. She says, can I...

know how my daughter did in her examinations. So my mother has a 3, my headmistress has a 38. Clearly my lies have come to an end. By now we are three of us who know this lie. I'm crouching, I want the earth to swallow me alive. I'm expecting a few blows, a few slaps. Instead, my mother with tears flowing through her cheeks

She gently looks at my eye, straight through my eye. She says to me, my daughter, I believe in you. When I brought you up, you were an intelligent girl. It's not too late. Rise up. As soon as she stops talking, something snaps. A flip, a switch has been flipped. My mother believes in me, even after I have taken her through this ordeal. Yes, she believes in me.

And by now I want to prove her and prove myself and the headmistress that it's not too late. I start waking up at five. I go to the class. I go and start reading. I start asking questions in my class. I begin to get curious. I begin to ask for more homework from my teachers. And by now I have a new nickname at school. I'm called a book warmer because I'm spending time

every minute, every second with a book. I'm reading. End of semester comes, we do our examinations and when the results come out this time, I am position three. Hooray! I'm paid! My hard work paid off. So I don't want to rush, I want to get to my mother, I want to go and show her my report card. Semester after semester, I continue to do well.

Eventually we sit for our high school national examinations and when the results come out I am the best girl. I go to college. I can't get enough of books. I'm learning farming, agriculture and doing science. And on a beautiful summer day I walk across the stage and I receive my doctorate degree in entomology. On that day

My mother could not join me. She sends me the most beautiful letter. It reads, My daughter, even though we are separated by distance, we are with you. When you wear that prestigious gown, you deserve it. It's yours. And she attaches a picture of me when I was young. She says, I began to trace your deeds right from when you were young. You looked intelligent.

When you went to high school, your teachers worried about you. You emerged the best. When you went to college, you graduated earlier than your mates. Congratulate yourself on our behalf. I love you dearly, Mama. Today, I'm a researcher, I'm a scientist, I am a mentor. And when I'm moving around and wearing my hot pink dress and inspire other farmers, I'm

I look into them through their eyes. I say, "I believe in you." Thank you. That was Dr. Esther Gumbi. She is an author, researcher, and educator who has served as a mentor for the Clinton Global University Initiative and President Obama's Young Leadership Program. She has a deep commitment to Kenya, Africa, and beyond.

While young Esther's plan to improve her class ranking wasn't quite foolproof, maybe you can relate to her quick thinking to avoid getting in trouble. If you enjoyed Esther's story and would like to share it, you can find a link at themoth.org. You can also find us on Twitter and Facebook at The Moth and at Moth Stories on Instagram. Do you have a story about some growing pains of your own? Or how about just a time of change in your life?

You can pitch it to us by recording it right on our site or call 877-799-MOTH. That's 877-799-6684. I love listening to pitches. It's one of my favorite parts of my job. Some advice? Tell us the whole story. A two-minute version of it, of course.

Editing down is hard, but if you can fit it all into those two minutes, it's more likely that we'll give you a call. No cliffhangers, please. Happy pitching. After the break, a father tries to convince his daughter to accompany him on the trip of a lifetime 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. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Chloe Salmon. Our final story of the sometimes uncomfortable process of growing up comes from a slightly different angle.

becoming a parent and learning to navigate that very special relationship. Ernesto Quinonez told it at the Majestic Theater in San Antonio, Texas, where we partnered with the San Antonio Book Festival. Here's Ernesto. So one day I'm doing the dishes, listening to Paul Simon's Graceland album. When the lyrics, my traveling companion is nine years old, he is the child of my first marriage, speak to me.

These lyrics speak to me in this subliminal manner that I cannot describe, only feel. And my daughter Scarlett at the time was nine years old. She was a child of a union that dissolved. And I connect with people I love through song lyrics. And it just made perfect poetry to go out and live that line. I had to go to Graceland.

So I left the dishes, and I excitedly knocked at her door. She said, come in. And her room was full of posters of kittens and puppies and plants. And she was sitting in the bed with her iPad, and she was building something on Minecraft. And I said, Scarlett, let's go to Graceland. And Scarlett said, what's that? And I said, well, it's where Elvis lived.

Now, she knows who Elvis was because I played her everything. I played her Fania All Stars, I played her country, I played her jazz, classical, reggae, I played her everything. And in fact, when she turned five, I didn't give her a Barbie doll. I gave her an Elvis doll. And she took that doll and she destroyed it, took it apart and then threw it out the window.

And something like that was happening with this idea of going to Graceland. So I went in damage control and I said, "Scarlett, in Graceland, there's this room. It's got all these stuffed animals and elves used to play music there. It's called the Jungle Room." And she goes, "Wow, a jungle room. Why don't we just go to the Bronx, Dad? They have a whole zoo." So I closed the door and let it be, and I plotted. And I decided that when she was with me because I shared custody of her,

When she was with me, I was just going to play the Graceland album. That's it. It was going to be the Graceland album. When we would wake up to have pizza for breakfast, it was going to be the Graceland album. When we came back from Central Park or the museum and we were going to have pizza for lunch, it was going to be the Graceland album. When we had pizza for dinner in the background, it was going to be the Graceland album. The Graceland album was going to seep into her DNA. And that's what I did. And then one day,

She's opening her laptop to watch this YouTube video of this Minecraft wizard called Stampy that she was really into. And as she's doing this, I hear her sing to herself. She's a rich girl and she don't try to hide it. I say, ah, I know, that's from the Graceland album. It's not Graceland, but that's from the Graceland album. So it's working. And I say, Scarlett, let's go to Graceland. And she goes, what do you want to go to Graceland so bad?

I said, "I think there's something there that's going to speak to me in some spiritual way, and I want to go, and I want to go with you." And she's not really into it. I can see how her shoulders kind of dropped. And for some reason, I said, "You know what, Scarlett? It's very American."

And I think she put two and two together. She goes, "Is this a road trip, Dad? 'Cause you don't drive." I said, "Yes, Scarlett. We're New Yorkers. We take cabs. But we can take a cab from the hotel to Graceland." I said, "No, we're in the sun." I said, "They're driving. They're traveling." She goes, "No, Dad. They're driving 'cause they're looking at the scenery. So he has to be driving." I said, "Well, they could be on a train." She goes, "No, they're on a highway. The song says they're on a highway." And I said, "No, Scarlett. They're trains that go parallel to the highway." And then all of a sudden I realized, you don't want to go to Graceland.

And she doesn't want to say no, so she just like cowers a little and smiles a little. I said fine. What happened with that day when I was doing the dishes,

and the song lyric, my traveling companion who's nine years old, was that it took me back to the past. It took me back to when I was a teenager and these musicians and these songs would speak to me in more powerful ways than my parents or any teacher could. I remember when I first heard Springsteen sing You Ain't a Beauty by Hey You're Alright. This gave me hope because if the boss...

can get away with such a terrible pick-up line. I can do better, man. It took me back to listening to Hector Lavoe saying, "Yo soy la fama, y si tú quieres aprender, levántate de la cama." It's like, if you want something, you gotta work, man. You gotta get out of bed, man. You gotta chase it. It took me back to listening to Roy Orbison in the dark when you're 16 and full of self-pity and excitement all at the same time. In fact, my daughter is connected to this kind of music that I love.

In better days, in better times, her mother and I would play Scrabble, listening to Bob Dylan's Rolling Thunder review. But it wasn't so much Dylan that captured us, but the fiddle player. Oh, the fiddle player. And her mother and I looked up who it was in the liner notes, and there it was, Scarlett Rivera, Latina. That's the baby's name. And I think my daughter kind of understood this, because when I would play Dylan,

She didn't exactly like it. You can see how Scarlett would cringe at this terrible voice, you know? But she somehow knew that her name was tied to this guy. So she always put up with him. But Graceland? She wanted none of it. Nine came and went. Blink of an eye. Ten. Eleven.

By 12, Scarlett was listening to her own music. She always had her earpods on, iPhone, whatever she's doing she was listening to music. So I would basically play whatever I wanted. Sometimes she actually would make fun of my music. Like for example, when I first played Neil Young, she said she laid on the couch and she had her head dangling. She goes, "Helpless, helpless, helpless." She said that Neil Young sounded like he was singing from his deathbed.

Only once did she ask, "Who's this, Dad? Who's this?" And I got really excited because I said, "Earth, Wind & Fire, you like them?" And she went, "Ah, so, so, so, so." So I pretty much gave it up. Then one day something magical happened. And I do not know why because I wasn't listening to Paul Simon. I was actually listening to George Harrison. And I realized that Scarlett was 12.

but that the meter, the syllables of those lyrics were still intact. My traveling companion is 12 years old. That still works. The syllables are correct. And not only that, but Scarlett is now 12, and music is speaking to her the way that it spoke to me back then and continues to. So maybe she'll understand. So I thought, you know what? Let me go for it. My traveling companion is 12 years old.

So I knocked on her door, she said, "Come in." And her room is now full of posters of Taylor Swift and Selena Gomez and Ariana Grande. You know, and she was doing a watercolor and I said, "Scarlett, let's go to Graceland." And her face just dropped like this again. I thought this had died with the Disney Channel that I no longer watch. And I think she saw my expression, my panic or my disappointment, my sadness, whatever it was that she saw. Because then her expression changed.

And I became very gentle. And she said, "Dad, all things must pass. All things must pass away." And I got really happy because that's a George Harrison line. And I don't know if that was playing, but she had always been listening. And more importantly, she was speaking my language. So I closed the door because there was hope. Scarlett is now 14, going on 15.

And we also live in Ithaca, New York, because I teach at Cornell University. And you have to take a bus to go from the campus to the downtown where our apartment is. And one day, about a month or so, two months ago, I'm on the bus, and I saw my daughter in the street. And she was with two other friends, and they were laughing up a storm. And they were giggling and talking, being girls, being teenagers, as it should be.

And it was freezing. There was smoke coming out of their mouths like dragons, but they didn't care. And I felt very happy for her. But at the same time, I couldn't help but to feel this painful nostalgia of when it was just me and her. And I realized that the Graceland thing was also telling me that, you know, we lose them. As soon as they are born, we start losing them.

First the onesies go, then the diapers go, then preschool's over, then they lose their teeth. You try to save the teeth, but no, for what? They decompose, they just become stains. And then grammar school's over, middle school's over, by high school, the child is gone. And Graceland was me wanting to live out this rock lyric that meant a lot to me before I completely lost her.

You know, all my friends say, "Don't worry, don't worry, the kid's come back. She'll come back, she'll come back. You guys will be pals again, you know. She'll come back." And, you know, I know this, I know this. I know this. And I'm hoping that some years down the road, that maybe these lyrics will speak to her the way they speak to me, or the way they spoke to me and continue to. And maybe one day, in the future, the phone will ring, and it will be Scarlett. She'll say, "Dad?"

I have reason to believe we will both be received in Graceland. And you know what? Even though the lyric will be completely ruined, the syllables, my traveling companion is 34 years old, I mean, it doesn't work. I'll say, yeah, let's go. Why not? You know, let's go. And I'll go to Graceland with my daughter. Maybe we'll see the ghost of Elvis. Who knows? It could happen, right? Good night. That was Ernesto Quinonez.

He was raised in Spanish Harlem, New York City, and is a product of public education from kindergarten to the City College of New York. He is an acclaimed novelist, essayist, screenplay writer, and Ascendance Writers Lab fellow, and last appeared in the Blackout episode of PBS American Experience. His latest novel is titled Taina, and he is a professor at Cornell University.

Ernesto and Scarlett continue to bond over music. Her cheap trick kick a few years back gets a notable mention. The Mississippi Delta was shining like a national guitar. And while the trip to the home of Elvis has yet to manifest, there's always hope that, one day, they'll find themselves going to Graceland. I'm going to Graceland, Graceland, Memphis, Tennessee, I'm going to Graceland. ♪

Poor boys and pilgrims with families, and we are going to Graceland. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. Thank you to all of our storytellers in this episode for sharing, and to you for listening. I hope you'll join us next time. We'll be received in Graceland.

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Katherine Burns, and Chloe Salmon, who also hosted this show.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick. Associate producer, Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Sarah Austin-Gines. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Caza. The Moth would like to thank the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation for their support of the Moth's global community programs.

Moss Stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Blue Dot Sessions, Charles Strauss, Stellwagen Symphonette, Regina Carter, and Paul Simon. We

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.