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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 main stage 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. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX, and I'm Suzanne Rust, your host for this Father's Day episode. My dad left me with two memorable pieces of advice. The first, Suzanne, don't take any crap.
Well, the actual word he used was more colorful, but his point was clear. He didn't mean giving up when things or people became challenging. It was more about learning to advocate for myself and making sure that I knew that I deserved respect. To this day, when something feels shady, I hear his words. The second, Suzanne, tell them who you are. Well, when I was younger, I didn't know what he was talking about.
But I've come to understand that he wanted me to learn to bring all of the pieces of myself together, who I am and who I came from, and put them out there with confidence. When I'm feeling insecure, I try to put this into practice. ♪
My father, Arthur George Rust Jr., was one of the first black sportscasters and went on to become a pioneer of the sports radio genre. The child of immigrants, a Jamaican father and a Panamanian mother, he worked hard to get where he was. And his success made me feel like life was full of possibilities. He loved his work, but he loved me and my mother even more.
We were a happy trio until my mother died rather suddenly when I was just 21. Dad and I went through hell, but we went through it together. He's been gone for over a decade now, and not a day goes by when I don't think of him. A memory, a laugh, or an unanswered question. And the love? It's always there, and I tap into it often. I dedicate this episode to my father and to all the fathers and father figures out there.
Sometimes you have to be patient and wait for your father to say the things you want to hear. Our first story comes from Tomas Davila, who told it at our annual fundraiser, which we call the Mothball. Tomas was dressed for the occasion in a fabulously festive shirt, which will explain some of the laughter you hear after his first line. Here's Tomas live at the Moth. So clearly I was in the Navy, but one day I'm on my ship and I'm floating around in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
And I hear ding ding ding ding, ding ding ding ding. Now for me that means that it's lunchtime. So I immediately drop everything that I'm doing and I run to the galley as fast as I can because today is pizza day. And anybody who's been in the Navy can tell you that pizza day is the best day. So I sit down, I take my first bite, and I'm sitting there and all of a sudden that's when it happens. "But Officer Davila, Chief wants to see you in his office right now." Shit.
See, no one goes to see the chief unless you're in trouble. Or you're in big trouble. So I get down there as fast as I can. Knock, knock, knock. Request permission to enter. He weighs me in. I sit down and I'm still trying to figure out, like, what did I do wrong? And he looks at me and he says, we just received notification that your dad is in the hospital. He just had a massive heart attack and we've arranged travel for you to get off the ship as soon as possible. And the only thing that's going through my mind at that moment is just, not yet.
I can't lose my dad right now because there's just too much that's left unsaid. And before you know it, I'm on a helo and then I'm on a plane and I'm heading back to Podunk, Texas. Now it's been about four years since I've been back home and the entire flight I'm just thinking about this tumultuous relationship between my dad and me. See, my dad is this really proud Tex-Mex, like Vietnam veteran and self-proclaimed cowboy. I was not.
My dad was this John Wayne with his dirty cowboy boots and I'm clearly Alexis Carrington and some fabulous stilettos. Luckily I had some younger brothers to take the spotlight off me. But when the spotlight was on me, I took a lot of heat. So when I was in middle school,
I was a band geek and my dad would always come to our school events but he would wear his big cowboy hat and these really dark aviator glasses and all of my friends would walk up and be like, bro, your dad looks like the Terminator. And I'd be like, he is, he is the Terminator, you have no idea. And it makes me remember this time when I was in high school when the friendship bracelets, those little colorful braided ones, they were like the big thing and I had one that my best friend John gave me.
Now, let me tell you about John. John was tall and skinny, had this dirty blonde hair and the perfect farmer's tan. And every time I got next to him, he had this perfect essence of Downy and Stetson cologne. It really just, it gave me tingles. But my dad saw this bracelet one day and he just started interrogating me. Like, what is that? Where did you get that? Who gave that to you? And I was like, well, my friend John gave it to me. And he's just like, son, you need to take that off. Like, you don't want people getting the wrong idea.
So I did, but I would wear it at school. And one day I forgot to take it off and I come home and he just flies off the handle. He gets so mad. "Didn't I tell you to take that off?" And I start to take it off and he's like, "No, throw it away." And so I just got mad. I was so pissed. But I did what my dad told me to do. So I started to walk to the trash can and the whole time I just have to will myself to throw this away because I can feel his eyes just digging into me.
And it's the only thing John's ever given me, and I just throw it in the trash. And I'm trying to hold back the tears, and so I just put my head down, and I go to my room. But as I'm walking away, I muttered to myself, "I hate you." So when I graduated high school, I got the hell out of there as fast as I could. And I was like, "See y'all later." I joined the Navy. So now here I am, going back home after I've been away for so long, and I don't even know if I'm gonna get an opportunity to see him again.
But by the time I got there, his heart surgery was already over. In fact, he was already back to his old self. He's trying to get up, do things he's not supposed to do. He's fighting with everybody. He's like, I can do it. And in that respect, I'm very much my father's son. But I had to tell him. I needed to explain to my dad that the most important thing about me that made me me was that I'm gay. Well, like every gay little boy does, they go tell their mom first. LAUGHTER
So I sit her down, I tell her, and my mom's like, "No, you're not." And she's like, "No sabes qué estás diciendo." I'm like, "No, Mom." After some banter, I was like, "I know what I'm talking about. I'm gay." She gets really quiet, she looks at me, and she's like, "You cannot tell your father. You will kill him." I'm like, "Okay, Mom, you're being a bit dramatic." But then it just kind of dawns on me that, you know, what if he gets sick again?
And I don't have another opportunity. So I decide I'm going to tell him anyways. And I find this moment with my dad and I are alone. And I just like, dad, I have something I need to tell you. And he's exhausted and he's clearly in pain. And he's just staring at me. And my hands start getting super sweaty and I'm fidgeting and I'm getting very upset. And I open my mouth and nothing comes out. And I'm thinking to myself, I can't, I can't do this. And clearly this is not the time. So I just say, I love you.
and I went and packed my bags and I just went back to my own life. Now fast forward several years, by now I'm still in the Navy, and now I got promoted, now I'm the Chief, and I decided I was going to go back to school, I'm the first one in my family to ever go to college, and thank you. I got married to my beautiful husband Zachary, aka the roommate, and we started a beautiful home in Southern California with our two little pug dogs.
And throughout that entire time, my dad and I would just have these sporadic conversations over the phone where we only talked about the weather and gardening, or it was just awkward silence. And frankly, you could have counted all the days that I had gone home throughout my military career on two hands. But when I finished my bachelor's degree, I wanted all my family there, my mom, my dad, and my husband. So I had to tell them.
So the night before my graduation ceremony, I sat everybody down and I brought gifts because that's the way you break the ice. And I told them, "Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you." And I say, "Zach is not my roommate. He's my husband. He's the person that I chose and all I'm asking is that you accept that." And at that moment, my dad just stands up and he just stares at me and there's those eyes and I immediately, just hits me, "You just told the Terminator that his son is gay."
So he starts walking toward me and I freeze and then he just turns and he grabs Zachary and he says, "Welcome to the family." And I'm still like, "What is going on?" And he comes and he grabs me and he just gives me this big hug and he just says, "Son, I've been waiting for you." And I just started crying. We stayed up the rest of the night talking.
And I shared more with my dad than I ever had in my entire life. And I told him, "I always thought I was a disappointment to you because I wasn't the son that you expected." And I also divulged to him that I kept this awkward distance relationship with you because I was too scared that if I came out to you, you would never speak to me again. My dad just shook his head and he pulled something out of his wallet. I look and it's a baby picture of me. And he's like, "Son, you have always been my firstborn.
I've always loved you and I'm just so proud of you." Well after that my dad and I talked every weekend. And we talked more than about the weather and the gardening and he would ask how are his grandpugs and we would laugh. But one time he gave me some relationship advice. He's like, "Tom, treat Zach like I do your mama. Just buy him everything." So a little while later when I retired from the Navy and he was there,
And Zach and I surprised all of our guests, including my parents, when we announced, tonight we're going to have a wedding. See, Zach and I had to hide our relationship for many years because of Don't Ask, Don't Tell and DOMA. And we eloped without telling anybody because we had already watched the repeal go through once and we didn't know if we were going to have this opportunity again. So tonight only seemed like the best night to do this with all of our friends and family. Well, some of my friends and guests were shocked because
My mom was pissed, but I think she was just more mad at the fact that she wasn't dressed for a wedding. But my dad? My dad had the biggest smile on his face that I had ever seen him have, and he just had it the entire night, and we danced well into the morning. And I just felt, frankly, I know I'm the luckiest guy in the world, because that was the last time I ever saw my dad. A year later, my dad was one of the first to pass away from COVID.
And because of the travel restrictions, I couldn't get from California to Texas easily. So I had to say my last few words to him over the telephone. And it was hard, but it was okay. But all I had to say was, I love you and goodbye. Because I had already had the opportunity to tell him everything else I needed to tell him. Thank you. That was Tomas Davila. We met Tomas through a Moth Community Partnership we did with an organization called I'll Go First, a digital mental health nonprofit.
Tomas retired from the military in 2019 and is now pursuing his dream of becoming a physician. He lives in New York City where he works as a mobile healthcare screener and attends Columbia University. I asked Tomas about a favorite memory. He said that it happened at McDonald's when he was about six. He was feeling grown up and his dad let him order a Big Mac instead of his usual Happy Meal.
His brother teased him for not getting a toy, and Tomas was almost regretting his choice until his father jumped in to defend him. Tom isn't a kid anymore. He's my little man. And then he winked at him. Tomas said he felt invincible, strong, and grown up, and he never ordered from the kids' menu again. ♪
In a moment, awkward conversations and emotional challenges. That's coming up 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 Suzanne Rust.
Being a dad often means stepping out of your comfort zone and into the zone of mortification. Jeffrey Burke shared his mortification at a slam in Los Angeles where we partnered with public radio station KCRW. Here's Jeffrey. It's a Friday afternoon. I pull my car up in front of my daughter's high school. And it's important that I tell you that my daughter Isabel knows this story and gave me consent to share it with you tonight.
She gets in the front seat, throws her backpack in back, crosses her arms, stares straight ahead and says, "I have a medical subject I need to discuss with you, so we can do that now or we can do it later." Alright, in my head now I'm making a list of reasons a healthy 16 year old girl will initiate a medical conversation in a confrontational tone. It's not a long list, you just made the same list.
There are lots of ways for her to start this conversation, right? She could say, "Dad, I need to talk to you about something." "No. We can do that now or we can do it later." I sort of resent that she's making it into a test, right? So if I pick now, obviously now is the right answer, then it communicates to her that what she has to say is important to me. And what she has to say is important to me, but she is being a little bully and I don't want to let her win.
I'm also guessing that this is possibly a female medical topic, and I don't want to talk about confrontational female medical topics because I'm already uncomfortable, and now I'm nervous that she's about to tell me she needs an abortion. She was attacked. She got some STD. I don't know what it is. Clearly, she's anticipating some negative response, but her mom left town a while ago, so she stuck with me and my meager command of women's health.
And I look at her and I can see she's nervous too. She's scared, which is why she's starting the conversation this way. She's being direct and being strong and taking control, which I admire. So when she says, "I have a medical subject to discuss with you," it's not a test of now or later. It's a test for her to find out whether I'm actually going to listen to her and whether I'm going to create safety.
So, with superhuman self-restraint, I condense all my anxieties and worst case scenarios into three syllables. Now is fine. I'm getting an IUD, so either you can make me a doctor's appointment or I'll just go to Planned Parenthood. Okay, well it's easy to jump to conclusions now, so I do.
She's becoming sexually active. She's evaluating contraception alternatives. There must be a boy. Who's the boy? She reads my mind. And I'm not sexually active. It's because of my periods. I didn't see that coming, right? No one preps single dads for how to have this conversation. We're not exactly taught how to talk to our daughters about female physiology, so we don't. We avoid the subject.
Guys never just sit around and bullshit about periods. So this conversation with my daughter is like a yoga pose for me. Like, emotionally, I'm a pretzel.
She tells me, she tells me the cramps are severe, they're excruciating. She watches the calendar in fear of the first day and she had to curl up on the floor at school once which was embarrassing and lots of messy and uncomfortable details. I do the math and I figure out she's gone through this like 50 times already in our home where I live and I didn't know not even once because it's never discussed.
And she's done her own research on a hormonal IUD which should make everything less severe, make her more comfortable. That's what she wants to do. I listen to every word. She is being honest and vulnerable and brave. And when she's done, I just say, "Okay, sweetheart, I understand." And she says, "No, you don't. You don't understand until you start bleeding out of your genitals." That's what she said. I say, "Of course, we can make a doctor's appointment."
The procedure goes fine, everything's fine. Until about a week later, she calls me from school crying on the phone. She's sobbing. "Dad, I think something's wrong with my IUD. Can you please come get me? It hurts so bad."
So now I'm racing to the school. I'm calling the doctor's office while I drive. I get there. A teacher has to help her into the car. She's bent over. She's crying. We get to the clinic. I help her across the parking lot. Halfway through the lobby, she can't make it. She doubles over. She's shaking and crying and pulling my arm. And I'm just standing here. I don't know what's wrong with her. I don't know how to help her. It's like an hour. And...
She relaxes for a minute. Maybe the pain is passing. The nurse comes out and takes her back. She comes out and says, it's not the IUD. It's an ovarian cyst. I don't know what that is. Right. I don't know what that is exactly. I know what ovaries are. I'm like, does she need surgery? They just give her some drugs and send us home. And Isabel falls asleep with her head against the window of the car. And I look over at her and I get it. That when she...
shares these things when she includes me like this, it's not a test. It feels like a test to me, but to her it's not a test, it's an invitation. Jeffrey Burke is a writer, producer, and musician, and the artistic director at Second Level Studio in Santa Barbara, California. He is the father of two daughters who he says are smarter and way cooler than him.
Jeffrey says that fatherhood has taught him to release his attachment to what he feels is best for his daughters in favor of celebrating exactly who they choose to be. The enforced intimacy of the family car makes it somewhat of a sacred space with fewer distractions and more time for bonding. The perfect place to learn some life lessons from a father.
Our next story was told by Jill Chenault at a slam in Ann Arbor where we partnered with Michigan Radio. The Moth was in Ann Arbor for our pop-up porch tour. Here's Jill. So I was one of the last of my friends to get my driver's license when I was in high school because I was younger than everybody else in my class.
And so I finally get my license and my father is big on cars. My parents are both from Detroit. I was born in Detroit. But my father was just car crazy, so he insisted that he could teach me better than anything I had learned in school. So he taught me things like how to smoke in the car, how to eat fast food and drive with your knees.
how to fiddle with the radio or the tape deck, because that's how old I am, while you're driving, all of that. So those are the things that I basically learned from him. So I said, well, can I have a car? And he and my mother, because my friends had cars, so he and my mother said, well, you got a bike. You have a really, really nice bike. And any place you need to go or you can't get on your bike, we're going to take you.
So, no car. But that meant that I spent a lot of time in the car with them, really with my father more than my mother. And jazz was always a big part of our lives. He was a big jazz fan. So in the car, I was always listening to Miles Davis or Coltrane or Charlie Parker. I was probably the only kid in my class that knew who Fathead Newman was.
And, but I, you know, at that time, I thought it was just a pain in the neck to have to ask them for rides everywhere. But there came a time as I got older that I began to appreciate the time in the car with my father.
When I was trying to pick a school, he kind of picked Oberlin for me. But luckily I loved it when we went to visit, so that worked out. And he would drive me to school every year and he'd come and get me for fall break and then take me back. So we were in the car all the time. Now, we had kind of a fraught relationship at times. I still have a problem with arbitrary authority. I'm basically unemployable.
And I thought that the advice that he would offer in the car when I'm captive was really just an attempt to control me. He thought that I should apply to, before I even thought about Oberlin, I should apply to the Naval Academy. That never would have worked.
He thought that one of the key things I needed to have in life was a wool, navy blue blazer with brass buttons. He thought that that was like the uniform of success. And I didn't want any of that. And then as I got older, after I was out of school and everything, I still spent a lot of time with him in the car. And he was very critical of my clothing choices. My skirts were too short. And he would say, "You gotta learn the difference between a general announcement and a specific invitation."
See, these little short skirts that you're wearing, that's a general announcement. You don't want to make, you're showing all your particulars to the public. You shouldn't do that. So we would argue about stuff like that. And at the time, those things seemed very important to me because I felt that it was an effort to control me.
Eventually I ended up moving to New York. He thought that was a terrible idea. I wanted to be a full-time actor and writer. Well, he said, "I paid all that goddamn money for school and you want to do what?" So he didn't drive me out there. Some friends drove me out there, but in part that was because he was starting to have some kind of mysterious health problems.
While I was in New York, another thing I did, I stopped doing what I was trained to do when I started being a dog walker. He thought that was just the dumbest, he just didn't understand that at all. Because he's from Detroit, you get a job, you punch a clock, you know, you get a pension, all that. Well, finally they called me. I'd been in New York for maybe three years and my parents called me and said that my father had MS. And that was part of the, you know, the weird, mysterious symptoms he'd been showing.
And they said, but we're cool. You don't need to come back. We're fine. A couple of years after that, they called me and said he had Alzheimer's disease. And they said, but we're still fine. And when I saw him at Christmas time and when I came home for their birthdays, because they're like a week apart, he seemed okay. But one Christmas I went home and he didn't seem okay. And my mother looked really, really tired. And he was using a cane at that time. So I talked to some friends of the family and my cousin and they said, yeah, it's time for you to come home.
Well, I hadn't lived with them for 39 years. When you move back in with your parents, you're still 17. You still, you got a bike. You don't need to drive my car. I mean, just, it was ridiculous. And my mom and I bumped heads a lot because she hadn't had a grown woman living in her house ever. And my father was kind of the peacemaker at that point.
But he had fallen several times before I moved home. And so my first main job was to pick him up when he fell, which was hard because he was my father and he taught me everything. He still didn't have a filter. He never had a filter. But with Alzheimer's, it was even worse. I'd mention a friend and he'd say, I went to undergrad with his mother. You know, she didn't like to, she just liked to drink wine and listen to jazz and screw. That's all she wanted.
And I would, like, try to leave the room. I would tell him, that's inappropriate, and I really don't want to hear that about my friend's mother. But that was Alzheimer's, in addition to the fact that he didn't have much of a filter to begin with. I thought that moving home, we'd be able to resolve a lot of the issues that we'd had when I was younger, because I was grown, and I had a different perspective, and we could have these deep conversations. Alzheimer's has no rules, and the disease advanced much too quickly.
for me to be able to have those conversations with him. The hardest part about his Alzheimer's was he always knew that something was wrong. He was never just in such a fog that he wasn't aware. He would say things like, I'm slipping, something is wrong with me. And my mother, bless her heart, would say, you got Alzheimer's. And every time he would say, what? Me? Oh, that's fucked up.
And I kept telling her, "Just stop telling him. Don't tell him. You know, just let it... We'll just roll along with this." But she was insistent on keeping things as they were and factually correct, which I just didn't think was all that important. I watched this man go from having a photographic memory, knowing everything to know about jazz, knowing about cars, knowing about the world, to him becoming incontinent, to him not knowing what day it was,
Eventually he was not able to dress himself. And my mother had promised she'd keep him at home. So we fought about that all the time. I kept telling her, we're not equipped for this. We don't know what we're doing. We'll hurt him. I'm not even picking him up right, I'm sure. But she promised. So we got a hospital bed and put it in the living room. And we took care of him until the very end. It was the hardest thing that I've ever done. It was the best thing that I have ever done.
And I have no regrets about doing it. I do have regrets about moving back to Michigan. I'm in Lansing, if you so, you know. But I am still reminded of him whenever I drive. I am still reminded of him whenever I wonder if my skirt is too short. I still do not have a navy blue blazer with brass buttons, but I am thankful for every moment that I had with him. Thank you.
Jill Chenault was born in Detroit to a family of storytellers. While she says that she gets her sense of adventure from her father, she credits her mother for choosing the right man at the right time. Her favorite memory of her father is when she was around four years old, standing on his feet while they danced around the house to Charlie Parker's Just Friends, which you're listening to now. ♪
In a moment, new discoveries and fantastic farewells when the Moth Radio Hour continues. Moth Radio Hour
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. In this episode, we're paying tribute to fathers. In this next story, a woman goes on a life-changing mission. Stacey Staggs shared this at a slam in Louisville, where The Moth is promotionally supported by Louisville Public Media. Here's Stacey. Thank you.
I started my birth father search about four and a half years ago. It was always an argument with my mother and I, but really what it came down to is I don't think she knew who it was and didn't want to admit that to me. So after about a year and a half of research, I got stuck. So I hired a genealogist. The genealogist came back with one man based off of my DNA. I made my first phone call. I explained who I think I am to him.
And he chuckles, I guess he doesn't hear this every day, and asks for a photo of my mother, which I oblige. And he's like, "I'm sorry, she doesn't look familiar, but good luck with your search." So I go back to my research, and now I'm trying to eliminate him. And I can't do it. So a few months go by, I call him back. I'm like, "Hey, it's me again. You're still my number one victim."
He laughs, he's amused, he thinks I'm funny, which he's not wrong. He agrees to test and I'm to follow up. A few months go by, no test, and he is no longer communicating with me. All right, my feelings are hurt, a lot of tears, but I have to move on-ish. So a lot of life happens over the next couple of years. My mother dies.
I take custody of my then 12 year old nephew and I am diagnosed with breast cancer. And as it turns out, it was due to a genetic mutation which ironically enough was traced to my father's side. Okay? So I've not forgotten about him. I would periodically text him because now he's maybe daddy. I would periodically text him. I'd be like, hey there, maybe daddy.
I know you wish I would forget about you, but I haven't. And since you're dying to know what I've been up to, let me show you. So I would give him photos of what I had been doing. Swimming, tubing, anything with water really. So moving on. I'm in Lexington one day last February. Maybe daddy lives in Lexington and I'm from Lexington. I drive by his house, but I cannot go to the door.
I did not want to be rejected again. So I go home and I had a thought. Maybe daddy has a daughter and I had breast cancer and it's on his side. So that's my end. I've already stalked her Facebook. I know how to get a hold of her. So I sent her
a message after weighing out the pros and cons, right? Because I'm like, okay, so she could block me. She could get a restraining order against me. Am I good with these odds? You bet your sweet ass I am doing it. So I sent her a long message. I explained who I think I am. I also explained my health and that I felt a moral obligation to tell her about it. And I wait. Within the hour, she responds.
She had been waiting on me to contact her. Maybe daddy had told her about me, but he was scared. So her and I developed a very strong bond. It was an instant connection between her and I, which is odd because I've got like five friends and she has two. So we might crack a little joke, but we're not going to brighten up a room. So...
It was an instant connection. I give her older sister advice that she doesn't take and I get to live vicariously through her hot messiness because she's still in her 20s. So her DNA test results do come back June of last year and I have found my motherfucker.
So now maybe daddy has been promoted to Padre. Him and I meet for the first time July of last year. I'm now 38. And him and I are pretty much the exact same person. Temperament, personality, the way we talk, the way we think, the way I look. My identity is very much rooted in a man I never even knew. And the most healing thing that he told me
is that if he knew I had existed, he would have raised me, which meant a lot to me because I grew up in the foster care system. So I had always wondered as a child if my father knew about me, would he have saved me? And I can tell you he would. Thank you. That was Stacey Staggs. Stacey is originally from Lexington, Kentucky, but has made Louisville her home for the past 20 years.
We wanted to know more about Stacy and her Padre, so we asked her to interview him. Interview questions with Padre. Alright. What were you both surprised about when you first met? I'll let you go first on that one. Well, I made a point to make it special for you. You've gone through all this trouble and it was already confirmed your DNA and my daughter Sarah's DNA, my other daughter, that we were
a match and that you are my daughter right and there's a few photos some photos of your when you were age five or eight whatever right that you and i could have been twins if we were the same age so it was pretty much confirmed but i want to make it special for you that's why i walked out the front door and met you on the porch yeah gave you the bear hug that i did i just wanted to be special for you because you've gone through all this effort
I'm trying my best not to be an asshole like I normally am. A kind asshole. Don't forget. Yeah, kind asshole. I wanted to do the right thing. Yeah. I think I did. Yeah, you did. You did. I think for me, I think, you know, it's kind of like, you know, because I did have that...
the foster home upbringing and I did meet a lot of new families and I had to kind of assimilate to different families and I never really quite fit in, you know, but when I met you, it just felt kind of like things just made sense. I see that. Yeah. You know what I'm saying? I do see that. Yeah. Like it's like a, it's like an unspoken kind of
Just familiarity. Yes, yes. It felt kind of like home without being super corny. So for me, I think our relationship is pretty solid and I think one that I needed. Yeah, I'd probably be even closer if you lived in Lexington. Yeah. If you lived across town, that dresser would be at your house right now. Right. It really would. I do need to get that. That was Stacey Staggs and her padre. To see some photos of them, go to themoth.org.
The phrase honor thy father takes on a whole new meaning in our final story. Whitney Geddon told it at a Boston slam where we partner with WBUR and PRX. Here's Whitney. So my dad was a man of absolutely ferocious, if not aggressive, whimsicality.
If there was a fun thing that he got it in his head that he wanted to do, it was going to happen. And that included disregarding things like legality or even common sense in some cases. So when I was about 10 years old,
Just as an example, he took us, he took my brother and I on a canoeing trip. I grew up in Florida, and when we got there, they told us that the river was eight feet above normal, that the currents were dangerous, and there were torrential rainstorms coming. So do you, sir, actually want to take your two children out on a three-day camping trip before cell phones as well? So he said yes, and we went, and...
And we capsized in the first hour of the trip, losing all of our water and food and tents and sleeping bags. And that was great for him. I mean, that was awesome. So that was sort of where he came from. Three years ago in July, I got a phone call from my brother that my father had actually died very unexpectedly in his sleep. And
That's the kind of grief that I had never before experienced. It was hard and it was weird and it was disconnected and his life was very strange at that point. He had married a woman from Thailand who had come over and he had built up this whole new life around him that I actually knew very little about. So when I got down there for his funeral services, he actually had two.
There was one that was in what I can only describe as a strip mall, basically, again, Florida. And it was the strangest room. There was no organization. It was just random people that I barely knew telling stories that I wasn't familiar with about him. And the second service was at his wife's Buddhist temple.
which was gorgeous and moving, but I don't speak Thai. So I didn't really connect with that experience as much as some of the other people there did. So that's when I decided I really needed to do something for my father that meant something to me and I thought would mean something to him.
And there were two things in his life that he loved so much, and they were memories of mine from when I was a kid that I absolutely cherish. And those two things were rubber chickens and fireworks. So we decided, and luckily it's July, it was shortly after the 4th, so the stands were all still open trying to clear everything out.
And my sister, my uncle and I, and my brother all decided that we were going to launch his ashes in a rubber chicken over the ocean to memorialize him. Which is not as simple as it seemed in my mind, actually. Finding a rubber chicken in Florida in strip malls was not as easy as I had hoped it would be. I found something close enough at a pet store. And it squeaked, but it worked.
And then we found the biggest rocket fireworks we could find. And also, in memory of my dad, we went completely overboard and got the biggest ones we could find. I mean, these things were easily like three feet tall with the big spikes that go into the ground that you light and launch. So we got four of those and some electrical tape and some extra wick. Now, the next thing was finding out where are we going to launch this thing. The first suggestion was, well...
"Let's do this behind the hotel." And I was like, "No, we're definitely gonna get arrested and set something on fire if we do that." Someone else suggested, "Oh, there's this beautiful bay on the way to the airport." And I looked at the map and it was right next to the airport. And I didn't think it was a good idea to launch a chicken.
in this world that we live in now, shortly before I had to get on a flight. And so finally, I'm on the phone and I'm calling people in Florida that I haven't talked to in years, and I'm asking them, hey, I know we haven't talked in like 10 years, but where can I launch a chicken? And no one, finally someone just suggested a beach that was pretty isolated, and we got this thing constructed in the hotel room, and we...
We got some extra wicks so that we could get away from it fast enough in case something went wrong, which if my dad had anything to do with it, it probably would. And I downloaded Ride of the Valkyrie on my phone. We were ready. So we get out there, and we're standing on the beach, and my brother lights the wick, and we all stand back.
I totally forgot about the phone, so the music wasn't playing. We're all just standing there exhausted from days of crying and drama and just all of the things that tear you open when you're in a situation like that. But we were all standing there just exhausted waiting for this chicken to launch. And as the wick started to get toward the rockets, I notice that the construction is sort of listing to the right.
And we all start backing away and instead of this grand gesture of the chicken launching into the ocean, it sort of just fell on its side and spun around in a circle in the surf. This poor chicken just getting ripped apart by fireworks and sand and ocean. And my brother is now dancing around the spinning chicken.
And as the maglite from the cops shone down on me, I realized in that moment that my father would have been proud of me. That was Whitney Geddon. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, stepson, and two cats. There are no amateur pyrotechnics involved in her role as a corporate training facilitator, but she likes to believe she sparked some inspiration through storytelling in the classroom.
Whitney says that she loved how curious her father was and always interested in learning new things. More than that, he loved sharing those things. She's grateful that he passed down his love of Stephen King, horror films, and sci-fi. I asked Whitney what she would write in a thank you note to her father, and she said, "Thanks for making me so weird, Dad."
To see some photographs of the fathers featured in this episode, including one with me and my dad, go to themoth.org. While you're there, think of a story you've always wanted to share. Moth stories are all about a moment of change, big or small, and they have to have stakes. What did you stand to win or lose?
You can pitch us your story by recording it right on our site or call 877-799-MOTH. That's 877-799-6684. The best pitches are developed for moth shows all around the world. I'd like to thank the tellers for sharing their stories and all of you for taking the time to listen.
And finally, a special Father's Day shout out to my husband, Marco, for being such a stellar dad to our two children. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time. And that's the story from the Moth.
This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Suzanne Rust, who also hosted the show. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Jody Powell. Additional community program instruction by Devin Sandiford.
The rest of the Moss Leadership Team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Ginness, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Leanne Gulley, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Special thanks to Jessica Minhas, the host and founder and CEO of I'll Go First.
Most stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Duke Ellington, Oscar Peterson, Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Dexter Gordon, and John Coltrane. 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, which we always hope you will, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.