The Moth Radio Hour: In a World...
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From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Chloe Salmon. To me, the most beautiful thing about stories is a simple thing. The storyteller extends their hand and says, I have something to show you. And the listener takes their hand and says, thank you. I'll come and see. And suddenly you can be in a whole new world with a generous guide by your side.

So in this episode, four stories that take place in peculiar, mysterious, and wondrous new worlds. First up is Amir Bagdachi, who gives us a behind-the-scenes look at what goes into creating a Halloween haunting. He told it at a Story Slam in Ann Arbor, where we partner with Michigan Public. Here's Amir, live at the Moth. All right, Amir! Okay, listen, this is going to be educational, okay? Okay.

Look, I don't know if you know this, but children are the future. And we have to teach them. We owe it to them to teach them facts, to teach them history. Which is why when I was invited to dress up as a mummy and frighten some suburban school kids on a haunted hayride, I put my foot down.

I was like, one, if you consult the ancient Egyptian papyri, chasing tractors is not something a mummy would be into. Quite the opposite. The papyri are pretty straight about this. And two, you know, a haunted hayride gives these kids a distorted sense of farm life, right? And it's hard enough getting our young people into agriculture, right? Now they're going to think on top of blizzards and beetles and droughts, there's the undead to worry about, right? No thanks, Pa. I'm going into social media, right?

I don't blame you, Jaden. I don't blame you. But my friend said there'd be some compensation, and the job I had previously was cooking at a Chili's, and I just felt that my resume needed something a little more impressive, right? Maybe like a haunted hayride. That's walking and moaning. Very nice. So I go to my friend's house to get the costume going, and this costume consisted of three things. Some underwear...

Some bandages, and there was no third thing. Just underwear and bandages. And for a second I thought, you know, should I wear shoes? Should I have a phone? Should I have a wallet? But the papyri are pretty straight. Mummies did not have those things, right? So it's just that. And it was a dark night a few nights before Halloween, and I was driven deep into one of those endless winding subdivisions and dropped off.

And they told me, you know, and they said, okay, just wait by this mailbox. And when the tractor comes up pulling the kids, jump out and scare them. I think, okay.

So I'm just waiting there, just trying to act casual. It's just not easy because remember, it's not even Halloween yet, right? On Halloween, you can be like, hey, look, honey, there's a mummy by our mailbox. Hi. But it's just a regular Tuesday, right? I'm just trying to blend in like, hey, just checking your mail. Looks good. It's not, it's not.

So then I see the tractor rumbling up the street, and there are the kids sitting on bales of straw, and they're in costume with lightsabers and magic wands and nunchucks. And I jump out, and I start following them. And I go, and the kids shriek. Then I go, I'm going to get you! And the kids shriek. And then I go, I'm going to eat your face! Okay?

And the kids, go quiet. Like, I crossed a line there. And even I'm like, eat your face. Where did that come from? Is that okay? Like, did I miss some sort of haunted hayride training where we, like, brought up issues of heightened sensitivity? And I just, where did that come from in me? And then it happened, right?

The tractor begins to pick up speed, but this one kid, he was a pirate with a sword, goes, there's the mummy, let's get him. And the kid jumps off the moving tractor. And one after another, the kids are jumping off. They're going, let's get him. Into the pavement, picking themselves up, screaming and chasing after me.

And I just start running. And up to this point, I had been trying to walk in a kind of historically authentic manner, just kind of clump, clump, clump. But at this point, papyri be damned, I am booking. And so you understand, these children, they were not sweet kids. These children were out to kill. And so I'm just running through over lawns, stumbling through backyards, and finally I escape at some of those swampy bits in a cul-de-sac.

I'm muddy, and my bandages are tearing, and it hits me. I have no idea where I am, right? I've got no phone, no wallet. And then, up the street, this door opens, a front door opens. I see some kids, and I just hurl myself out there going, hey, hey, stay away from me. And the kids are like, mommy! And I'm outside like, come on, just let me, I'm not going to eat your face. It's not, it's not good.

And I realized, like, I can't ask for help in this costume. Like, I've got to change. Which immediately raised a really important question. Which of these things, as a parent, are you more afraid of? A mummy roaming through the streets at night or a half-naked middle-aged weirdo just jamming in his underpants?

And to be honest, it's a toss-up. The papyri are not conclusive here. I went with just keeping the bandages. And finally, after wandering, I limped and I found the Jeep with my friend. And it was parked with all these other minivans. And the headlights were on and the flashlights were out. Like, hey, did you hear what happened? Some of the kids jumped off the hayride and they just ran off. We don't even know where some of them are.

What could have made that happen? And I was like, I have no idea. That is awful. I'm going to tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to get in the car right now, and I'm just going to go. Because my work here is basically done. And a few days later, I got the compensation. And it turned out to be a gift certificate for, I'm not making this up, for Chili's. Which is pretty scary, right? Thanks. Thanks.

That was Amir Bagdachi. Amir is a Michigan-based manager for grassroots political campaigns. A believer that spin doctoring, like medical doctoring, should be available to everyone, he helps listeners talk their way out of tricky situations on his podcast, Pickles with Amir Bagdachi.

Amir says that he's let himself be talked into wearing costumes for even more events over the years, though he has also doubled down on taking the roles just a bit too seriously, so he's not always asked back. To see some photos of Amir's Halloween costumes over the years, head over to themoth.org. Our next storyteller comes to us from the professional side of the stethoscope and the medical world beyond it.

Michael Mena told his story at a main stage in Johannesburg, South Africa. Here's Michael. I had just finished my medical school and I was excited. I was passionate about sexual and reproductive health rights. I was eager to take the next step, which was maternal mortality. In Kenya, the area with the highest maternal mortality is Northeastern. It's in the Northeastern part of a town called Garissa. They have 641 maternal deaths per 100,000 life births. In perspective,

The SDG target is 70 deaths per 100,000. That's almost nine times more. I wanted to make a difference, and I felt I could do it. I told my friends I wanted to do my internship in Garisa. They all tried to dissuade me. One said, "It's not safe. There was a terrorist attack there." I was like, "Ten years ago. It's been safe since." They tell me it's a hardship-arid area. You'll struggle, but there's a hardship allowance. More money for me.

One friend warned me, "If the government decides to pay you more money, work for it hard." I wasn't dissuaded and I followed my passion. I went to Garissa. I alighted the bus and was met with scorching heat. I was sweating all over. It was sandy and desert-like. I went to the restaurant, had a good meal, I enjoyed the cuisine, had a drink, and I talked to the people around. Lovely. I love the culture. Felt right at home.

but I was nervous about work. My first day I got in, the medical officer who was overseeing me welcomed me so warmly with open arms. He took me around for the ward round, showed me each patient one by one. He explained everything, and whenever I never knew a question, he patiently explained it. I felt excited. At 11 a.m., he left. In the afternoon, 3 p.m., I asked the nurse, where has the doctor gone to?

She tells me he has been working as the only doctor for three months in this department. Monday to Sunday, 8 a.m. to 8 a.m., my arrival signified his chance to rest. Later that night, I called for a consult and he told me, "Doc, you've been to school just like I've been to school. I believe in you. Just, you'll find a way." The next two weeks, I was working 20 hours a day on call, baptism by fire. I spent most of my time in hospital and only interacted with the staff.

In particular, there was a cleaning lady named Zara. She was always nice, she always smiled, and we always made chit-chat. I went to my next rotation, which is maternity department. Birth was a communal event. Relatives were beside the bed. So when you're trying to get intravenous access, pricking and missing the vein, they're all looking at you with bad eyes and asking, "Did this doctor even go to school?" Our Kenya Medical Council gives you a logbook that you need to fill in three months. I saw so many emergencies, I filled it in two weeks.

So at this point, my bedside manner, I had taken it aside. I just wanted to clear the wards. Just looking at the charts, diagnosis, they give birth, go home, go home, go home. After my internship, I was absorbed to the hospital. And I was a medical officer in the maternity department. Our consultant told me my responsibilities had increased. He told me everything good that happens in the ward is my doing. Everything bad, my fault. Pressure. One weekend...

I was left alone to do a 72-hour shift. My colleagues and consultants had traveled for a conference, and so they left the department in my hands. At the end of the shift, I was so tired and went and collapsed in bed. I then get a call from the hospital. I hung up immediately. I get another call from the personal number of the nurse. She tells me, "Michael, we have an emergency." And I say, "I'm not on call. Call the doctor who's supposed to cover." She tells me he's not back yet. He'll be late. He's in a bus.

Please come. Run, please. Thank you. Before I can even argue. So I'm angry, cranky. I walk to the ward, frustrated. And when I get in there, there's a huge commotion. I see nurses on one side arguing with relatives on the other side. I just want to tell everyone to shut up. So I walk towards them. And as I'm walking, I notice that the floor is wet. I look down. Pool of blood. I look towards it and I see a trail towards the bed. Snap into action. I go there.

there's a very sick patient. She's a pregnant lady who's deathly pale. She's being transfused two units of blood at the same time, one on each arm. I take my speculum and examine. I have never seen that much blood from a pregnant woman. I immediately say, "We have to go to theater and tell the nurses to give me the forms for consent and a theater list." As soon as her mother heard the word "Caesarean section," the patient's mother said,

"What do you want to do to my daughter? You want to take her there to butcher her?" I was tired, so I ignored her and focused on the patient. I told her her condition is placenta previa. So that means her placenta was between the head and the cervix, and she was in active labor. So with each contraction, the head of the child will push against the placenta, causing more bleeding. And if it will never stop, her uterus could even rupture, and they'd both die. I told them we had to go to theater, and we needed consent. At this point,

The patient weakly raised her hand and grabbed my lab coat. She said, doctor, operation, no, no, no. At this point, I was stunned. I looked to the mother for help. Maybe they never understood. I told the mother, no matter how hard she pushes, that baby isn't coming out. Both the patient and her child will die. The mother looked me straight in the eye and told me, then we'll dig two graves and bury them.

I was shocked. How can a mother say these things to her child? At this point, I was just so frustrated. I felt so hopeless. I took off my gloves, threw them on the floor and just stormed out. By the time I was at the door, all the energy just seeped out of me. I found myself sitting against the wall, thinking about how bad a shift I had. I was in the hospital for three days. We've gotten a really sick patient, and the only thing that was my part.

was getting consent and taking the patient to theatre. The nurses had done the rest, but I couldn't do anything. My hands were tied. Patient autonomy, you have the right to accept or refuse, and I can only respect it. I felt so sad, just waiting to see the patient die. I was on the brink of tears when I felt a tap. This was Zara, the cleaning lady, who was always my friend. She looked at me and said, "Doc, why are you crying?" Woke my eyes and said, "Not crying."

I explained the situation to her. She told me that three years ago she was in a similar situation, but she declined to go for a cesarean section. I was shocked. "Zara, you work in a hospital. You see patients go to theater, back to the ward and home, safe and sound. Why would you refuse?" She told me that in her culture, it was a point of pride of a woman to give birth to as many children and to give birth naturally, which she meant vaginally. She said, "There's no point living in a world

where you're ostracized by your loved ones. However, after someone talking to her, telling her that her body is different from others and she only needs a C-section, she accepted. I was just confused and she could read it on my face. She asked me, "Michael, do you want my help in talking to them? I thought it was a lost cause. Do whatever you want." She went, and as opposed to my approach, she said hi to all the relatives, including the patient. She talked to them softly,

and listen to them without interrupting as they were protesting. She then talked more and opened her shirt. She showed her the scar that she had and everyone's face softened. They then said a prayer together and she came back. I was so nervous. She told me, "You can go sign your consent and take her to theater." They've accepted. At this point, it was a... So at this point, it was a heavy burden off my shoulders. I could finally work.

We rushed the patient to theater and we had surgery. It was successful. So, four days later, in the next ward round, with the consultant, I see the patient. She's there, settling her child, both healthy, and we're about to discharge her. I did something I never did previously. I stayed afterwards and went to have a chat with her. She's told me how excited she was to see me and excited that we took good care of her, plus Zara's compassion and willingness to listen.

I asked her why she was against the CS, the cesarean section, and she said she heard rumors that when you go to theater, they take out your uterus. Once you get a cesarean section, you can't give birth again naturally or vaginally, as she said. And I dispelled the myths, and we had a good conversation about reproductive health. Reflecting about that situation, it wasn't our effort as doctors or nurses that saved that life. It was Zara, her compassion, her love, her willingness to listen and communicate.

And having lost my bedside man at the time, I decided to regain my human approach in medicine: listening, empathizing, loving, and caring for my patients. Thank you. That was Michael Nena. He's a Kenyan medical doctor who's committed to sexual and reproductive health rights and justice, especially in marginalized areas. He currently works in the Accident and Emergency Department at Kenyatta National Hospital in Nairobi.

When I asked Michael about his favorite part of the job, he said, Although Michael no longer works at the hospital in the story, he does go back regularly to visit and, of course, to catch up with Zara. ♪

After the break, a young woman yearns for the spotlight in her church's puppeteering troupe 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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That's netsuite.com slash moth. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Chloe Salmon. Whenever I come across someone who has a niche skill or background, I become the world's nosiest woman and ask them lots of questions. I want to know everything. Our next storyteller gives us a peek beyond a literal curtain to a stage that I at least didn't even know existed.

Catherine Strange told this in Santa Barbara where we partner with KCRW. Here's Catherine live at the Moth. When I was nine years old, the thing I wanted most in the world was to join Missoula, Montana's premier Christian puppet team. Yeah, the first Presbyterian puppet patrol or 1P3 if you're a fan.

All of the coolest kids from church were part of 1P3. You know, Jenna with the bouncy hair, Marlena who smelled like cigarettes, and Todd who was a boy. Puppet team director said I wasn't old enough, and there was no fooling her because she was my mom. After church while I waited for mom to drive me home, I would watch 1P3 rehearse. They would march their puppets through the stage to a cassette tape which said,

I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. They were so cool. They would perform like original skits about stuff like how awesome it is to obey your parents or classic songs like get hot stay hot be on fire for Jesus or it was the 90s it was the heyday of Christian puppetry.

I begged my mom to let me join 1P3 early, but she said I would not be getting any special treatment. I would have to wait until I turned 10, just like everybody else. But in the meantime, I could work on building up my shoulder muscles by seeing how long I could hold a can of soup above my head.

The night before puppet performances, mom would stay up late to drink wine and make props. And if I helped her, she would tell me stories about when she was a teenager on a Christian puppet team. See, my mom told me that being a Christian puppeteer was cool. And I believed her. Because when she talked about it, she got this look on her face like, "Oh, those were the best days of my life."

this kind of makes sense, right? Like my mom's parents were like really strict, kind of fundamentalist. And so I think for my mom, doing puppets in the church basement was basically her only freedom. And she loved it, okay? She got to make friends. She got to show off how funny she was. And I just wanted to be a part of that, all right? I wanted to be the one to make my mom laugh or make her feel proud.

Because sometimes I could feel kind of invisible around my mom. Like, she would get really sad. And her sadness got so big, it just seemed like it pushed everything and everyone else to the edges, including me. But Puppeteam made her happy, and so I just knew that this was going to be my chance to shine and for her to really see me. So, when I turned 10 and I got to join 1P3 as a junior member, I was stoked.

Plus every August we would drive for two days straight to the International Festival of Christian Puppetry and Ventriloquism, aka iFest, in Kankakee, Illinois. And there we could take workshops from Christian puppetry celebrities like Todd Liebenau and watch performances from the nation's top Christian puppet teams. I bought a cute green alien puppet made by David Panabekker. David Panabekker?

Who studied puppet making under Kermit Love? So Kermit Love, among many other things, is the creator of Big Bird, guys. Yes, okay. Anyway, I named my puppet Deedle. The finale of every iFest was a performance by the Puppetry Dream Team, okay? These are the top 15 teenage Christian puppeteers of the United States and Canada.

You had to audition via videotape, and once you were selected, you had only one week to create an entire 45-minute puppet show from scratch. I imagined one day I would be up on that stage as a member of the puppetry dream team. It would be like the end of one of those sports movies from the 80s where everybody's cheering and my mom stands up and she's like, that's my girl. But for now, I was still just a junior puppet team member.

Mom insisted that we master the five basic skills of puppetry before getting promoted. You know, entrances and exits, height and positioning, eye contact, believable movement, and lip synchronization. And I just wasn't there yet. I was back to practicing with a can of soup. 1P3 booked a series of shows at local nursing homes, and these were really depressing, and nobody wanted to do them. But mom would not cancel. So one day we have a gig, and zero puppeteers have signed up.

And mom looks at me and she's like, "Alright, we're gonna make this happen, you and me." And I'm terrified because I'm about to go from can of soup to performing an entire show? But I also thought that just maybe I could pull this off and then wouldn't my mom and Todd and Jenna be like super impressed? The show starts off okay. And then we get to Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First?" This skit is eight minutes, which is a very long time to hold your arm in the air.

And I'm using this puppet, it kind of looks like an orange Muppet version of Dick Van Dyke. Really big foam head, big padded chin, this makes him extremely heavy. So about a minute into the skit, my arm starts to sink. And mom nudges my elbow and she says, "Get up there!" And then my fingers start to go numb and I can barely get that puppet's mouth to open and close. Mom is glaring at my frozen, sinking puppet.

Through gritted teeth she says, "Keep going!" And I look at her and I say, "I can't," and I start to cry. And this just makes her angrier. She starts kicking the bottom of my shoe in time to the lip sync. I am screwing up. In this moment, it feels like my mom cares more about the performance than she does about me. This is not the first time I've had this feeling. It is the first time puppets have

Our lives often felt kind of like a performance, like to our church community. We were this saintly family. But behind closed doors, mom was trying to outrun her depression with puppets and white wine while I looked on helplessly. We were both struggling, and we could never talk about it. In the stage that day, all I could do was keep going. So I blinked back my tears. I finished the skit. I finished the show. On the drive home, mom won't even look at me.

But the next day she promoted me to senior puppeteer member. And I didn't know if that was her way of trying to apologize or if I was being rewarded for pushing through the pain. All that I knew was that I could not bear to fail her again. So I decided I was going to stop complaining and I was going to work harder. In seventh grade, I figured out that being a Christian puppeteer is not cool. But I couldn't quit. I couldn't let down my mom or my team.

So I just started keeping that part of my life a secret from my school friends. I worked very hard and I got very good at two things: puppetry and lying. And by the time I was a senior in high school, I was the star of 1P3. When Mom suggested that I audition for the Puppetry Dream Team at IFest, it wasn't honor, but one I wasn't sure I wanted. Still, I sent in my audition tape, and when we found out I made the team, Mom seemed pleased.

But when I got to my first day of puppetry Dream Team rehearsals, I realized I had made a huge mistake. All of the other teenagers are ecstatic to be there! Like, they cannot wait to put on the official Dream Team polo shirt. They never take their puppets off. And I figured they were faking it, right? So I tried to get them to admit, like, come on. Christian puppetry is basically the most embarrassing hobby imaginable, right? And they just looked at me like they didn't know what I was talking about.

And I thought like, "Oh, they want to be here. They're not just counting the days until they can leave for college and then never ever ever do another puppet show again for the rest of their lives." Our puppetry dream team performance was about a group of sentient school supplies that talked and preached the gospel and performed thematically relevant Christian pop songs. I had a minor role as a pencil. Having alienated the rest of the teens, I did what I always do. I stopped complaining, I worked hard, and the show went

Fine, I guess. And as the final puppet exited the stage and a thousand people, including my mom, rose to give us a standing ovation, I expected to feel proud. And I didn't. Because this person up on stage, this wasn't the real me. This was the person I thought my mom wanted me to be. And a standing ovation is nice, but it can't compare to being loved and accepted for who you really are.

A few weeks after IFEST, it was time for me to leave for college, and as I'm trying to cram everything I own into a duffel bag, my mom walks into my room carrying Deedle, the alien puppet that I had bought at IFEST and performed with hundreds of times, because she thinks I need to pack him so I can take him to Seattle, where I will continue being a Christian puppeteer and maybe even start my own Christian puppet team. And I look at her, and I can see what this means to her, and I think...

Well, I could probably hide him under the bed in my dorm room and I'll just tell her what she wants to hear. But I don't want to pretend anymore. So I look at her and I say, Mom, I'm not taking any puppets to college. I quit 1P3. And she just says, you'll change your mind. And that's it.

The next day, I wake up in my dorm room and it's like the beginning of my new life. I can go anywhere. I can do anything. And if what I want is to go to a party and drink a Mike's Hard lemonade and then sleep through church, nobody's gonna stop me. Two months after I arrive, I receive my first and last care package. Inside is a jar of peanut butter, a box of granola bars, and Deedle the Puppet.

And I'm angry because it feels like my mom is trying to force me to be a person I don't want to be anymore. But I also know that this is her way of connecting with me. It's not what I need, but it's what she can do. For my mom, the curtains of the puppet stage gave her safety so she could reveal her true self. But for me, those curtains were like a cage. And I knew that I had a choice to make. I could spend the rest of my life chasing my mom's approval, or I could go my own way.

And that was really scary. But you know what? I had already done a lot of scary things. I had mastered the five basics of puppetry. I had performed for thousands of people. I had pulled a soup can above my head indefinitely at this point. If I could work that hard for something I didn't even really want, imagine what I could do with a dream. Thank you.

That was Katherine Strange. She's a writer, activist, and mom living in Seattle. If you'd like to hear more from her, you can subscribe to her weekly tongue-in-cheek spirituality newsletter, Heretic Hereafter, on Substack. When I asked Katherine if she had a puppeteering tip for any unnamed Moth Radio Hour producers who are raring to give it a go, she said that a key to realistic puppetry is to not move your fingers when you open and close the puppet's mouth.

Instead, keep your fingers still and move your thumb up and down. Go forth with that knowledge, future puppeteers. You can find photos of Catherine and the rest of 1P3 at themoth.org. In a moment, a chef sharpens her skills in kitchens from Portland to Vietnam when the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX.

This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Chloe Salmon. In this episode, we've been listening to stories that give us windows into unexpected worlds. Our final story comes to us from Jenny Nguyen. She told it at the Herbst Theater in San Francisco. Here's Jenny, live at the Moth. I was born and raised in Portland, Oregon. First-generation Vietnamese American and an only child.

Growing up, my parents always told me that assimilation, fitting in, were the key to achieving the American dream. After all of these years, I'm not entirely sure any of that is true. Starting at a very young age, I fell in love with sports. "Vietnamese girls don't play basketball," they said. Then, at the age of 17, I came out to my family as a lesbian. "Jenny, you've always been a tomboy. It's just a phase," they said.

Then my first year away at college, I was so disillusioned by the food that was served in the dorms that I phoned home and asked mom for some of the recipes that she made when I was growing up. By the end of my first year away at college, I phoned home again. Except this time it was to tell them that their daughter no longer wanted to be a doctor. I wanted to be a chef. They weren't disappointed. They were horrified.

This was when my dad gave me the best advice. He said, "Why don't you find the worst job you can think of in your field, do it for a year, and if you still want that to be your life, then go for it." So that's what I did. About a week later, I got my very first kitchen job at the local Red Robin. It was called the Friar Boy position. That's not its technical name, but that's what we all called it. It was dirty, filthy, stinky, thankless work.

and I was hooked. So I moved back to Portland and enrolled into culinary school at the age of 22. While doing that full-time, I also worked a couple part-time jobs in downtown Portland at some fine dining restaurants, one of which was this hip little Italian joint. My first day, the owner of the restaurant, he invited me into his office and offered me a line of Coke.

On day two, I must have did something to really piss the chef off, but he threw a pan right at my face. I ducked, and it hit the stainless steel wall beside me. And by day three, I was about to learn my very first kitchen life lesson. Chef had put his ribeye up in the window, and I realized that I had mistimed the fried onion garnish to go on top of it. I felt the skin on my left forearm bubble and burn.

Chef had thrown a pan of hot oil at me this time, except I didn't see it coming, and he got me. The woman who was training me at the time, she must have registered my blinding rage before I did, because she took my shoulders and she squared them up to hers, and inches from my face, Whisper yelled this wisdom, Don't you fucking cry. If you cry, they win. You don't want them to win, do you? Do you? Do you?

I sucked the hot wet tears back into my face and I dropped a metal cage around all of my soft parts right then. I wanted to win. And I wasn't going to let that asshole or anyone else stop me. Now this was right around the time I was reading Kitchen Confidential and watching just about every gritty TV drama and movie there was about chef life. And it turns out that at its core, all of it is pretty accurate. But

I was in love. I was living this fiery life. I felt like I was living the dream, working as a line cook in downtown. Sure, it meant starting off every day with a quad shot latte just so I could get amped. And then about halfway through my shift until I was mopping the floor and locking the doors, it was drink after shot after drink after drink. And I drank even more when I wasn't working.

One morning I woke up on the guest bedroom floor and my girlfriend, she gave me an ultimatum. She said, "Jenny, either the job goes or I do." She said I was an alcoholic and a workaholic. But I didn't really see it that way. I was in love with cooking. The tickets rolling in, me and my boys in the trenches fighting through fire, hot oil, blood, sweat. A hundred tiny battles every night.

And when the war finally subsided, I just wanted to keep that high and adrenaline of being on fire, being under fire, burning. Even if that meant lighting myself on fire. I did eventually leave, but I kept on cooking. And I kept up with the lifestyle at every new restaurant. And I kept on burning.

I was faced with so many challenges and I met them all head on and I defeated them. Sometimes it meant working five people's jobs at once. Sometimes it meant choosing lust over love. I felt like battle after battle within those four stainless steel walls, it protected me. It gave me meaning through duty, as if the sum of my actions equaled what it meant to be a chef, a lone wolf driven by fire,

desire, and living life on the fly. Hell, I even fired this girl one time just for touching my chef's knife. My journey was complete. I had become the asshole. So after about 10 years of working in kitchens, I finally earned my stripes as an executive chef. The title afforded me many luxuries like a 401k, pretty cush salary, and paid time off. In the winter of 2015, I took the longest vacation I'd ever taken since I started working.

I decided to go to Vietnam with my parents. It was my first time going, and their second time back since fleeing in '75. My favorite part about being in Vietnam were the markets. The food markets, the night markets, the floating markets. An entirety of its culture laid out. A feast for the senses. Spices every shade of the sunset. Herbs and vegetables every hue of the forest.

friends, family, strangers, everyone coming out to meet, to mingle, to drink, to laugh, and of course, to eat. On our very last night in Vietnam, we met a woman who invited us back to her family home in Saigon for dinner. She said she lived with 23 people, from her grandpa to her nieces and nephews.

From the moment we stepped foot into her family's home, we were so warmly welcome. It was like a familial embrace, like a family reunion, except these were all people we'd never met before. I remember as we made our way up to the fourth floor of this family's home, there on the ground was a bamboo mat. And on the bamboo mat lay 30 to 40 dishes, from grilled eggplant with nuoc mam and mint to fried whole fish.

From pickled daikon to crushed Thai red chilies, the entire room was damp with the smell of a thousand ingredients brought together just for us. The din of children's laughter, the men boasting, the women exchanging recipes and compliments, everybody handing dishes back and forth, back and forth. It was all so overwhelming and so chaotic, but in its own way a type of magic.

This feeling was so different from the fiery life that I was living back home. To me, this felt as if I was stepping to the edge of a river for the very first time. And I started to wonder if I could just step a little further in, if somehow it could fill me up. I sat on the floor cross-legged, and I feasted.

Family poured in and out of the room, sitting on couches, on the windowsills, some even in the stairwell, everybody balancing bowls of rice in their laps. Here I was, a stranger in somebody's home, yet a home away from home, awash in a culture, and I just wished my entire body to become a sponge so that I could soak it all in. Coming back home, I knew I needed to make some changes.

In Vietnam, it felt as if people spilled their emotions out onto the street. And the community, they scooped it up and they shared it around. And that made it feel like no one was ever really alone. And when I got back, I didn't want to feel alone anymore either. But I didn't know what that meant and I didn't know how to get there. But I put in my notice. After 15 years of busting my ass working in kitchens, I quit my job. And then I picked up the phone.

I called friends, family. I started to talk to strangers. Slowly, I lifted that cage from around my soft parts. And I found that by being open and vulnerable, my heart actually grew bigger and stronger. And with it, this sense of a community formed. I wanted to hold on to this feeling. So I decided to build a place to grow it.

In April of last year, I opened a sports bar unlike any other called The Sports Bra. It's a place where people can come to gather, celebrate, and watch women's sports. And when I walk through The Sports Bra, I get the same feeling I got when I walked the markets in Vietnam. A sing-song of laughter, strangers sharing stories, safety and company, community united by a common thread.

When I was developing the menu for the bra, I knew I wanted it to feel familiar, but I also knew I wanted to pay homage to everything that came before. At the top of the menu, you'll find mom's baby back ribs. Now this is exactly the recipe that mom sent to me when I was away at college, missing home. It's my favorite dish that she makes. In Vietnamese, it's called thịt ca. It turns out that my burning desire wasn't to be dangerously independent.

It was to be a part of something bigger, to be a part of a community. I found that by stepping out of the fire and into the water, it helped put out the parts of my life that were consuming me. And at the sports bra, I see water everywhere, and it fills me up, and there's plenty to share. Thank you.

Jenny Nguyen is the founder and CEO of The Sports Bra, which, as you now know, is the world's first sports bar entirely dedicated to women's sports. Born and raised in Portland, Oregon, she worked as a cook, then as an executive chef, putting in over 15 years in kitchens before opening The Bra in 2022. If you're in Portland, check it out. I've had the ribs she mentions at the end of her story, and wow, sometimes I dream of them.

I asked her if there's any advice she'd give to young chefs. She said she'd tell them to learn as much as you can from the good and the bad. From the people you aspire to be all the way to the people you despise. That there are lessons in every moment that will teach you who you are and who you aren't. To see some photos of Jenny, the sports bra, and that life-changing trip to Vietnam, head over to themoth.org. That's it for this episode.

Remember, behind every curtain can be something wondrous, in every nook and niche, something unexpected. Thank you to our storytellers for sharing with us and to you for listening. I hope you'll join us next time. This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Chloe Salmon, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick. Associate producer, Emily Couch. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Leanne Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. The Moth Global Community Program is generously supported by the Gates Foundations.

More stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Tom Waits, Eric Friedlander, Nigel Kennedy, and Duke Levine.

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'll do, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.