The Moth Radio Hour: Keep Calm and Carry On
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Hey there. We here at The Moth have an exciting opportunity for high school sophomores, juniors, and seniors who love to tell stories. Join The Moth Story Lab this fall. Whether for an aspiring writer, a budding filmmaker, or simply someone who loves to spin a good yarn, this workshop is a chance to refine the craft of storytelling. From brainstorming to that final mic drop moment, we've got students covered.

Plus, they'll make new friends, build skills that shine in school and beyond, and have a blast along the way. These workshops are free and held in person in New York City or virtually anywhere in the U.S. Space is limited. Apply now through September 22nd at themoth.org slash students. That's themoth.org slash students.

From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bowles, and in this show, stories of persevering, persisting, and going the distance. The challenges we face from perilous mountains to epic battles and crushing fears. Sometimes we make it through with grace, and other times, well, not so much. Our first story comes from Sarah Johnson, who took the stage at one of our open mic story slams where WNYC is a media partner of the Moth.

From the Bell House in Brooklyn, here's Sarah.

And you have to feed it and bathe it and play with it and put it to sleep and basically keep alive this little pixelated dog-shaped blob, you know. And it was super fun. Man, I got to tell you. And I was eight years old, and me and the animal puppy are just having a blast, okay? And we go everywhere together. He's my best friend. I hook him on to my little belt loop on my jeans, and I walk around, and he, like, bounces. I love him.

But I started to notice after like two weeks, every time I need to do something like human eight-year-old related, like sleep or go to school, nanopuppy dies of neglect.

And like the guilt and the devastation and the humiliation that I feel as an eight year old is frankly inappropriate. Like it's like anxiety through the roof, right? So I make it my like life's mission to keep this generation of nanopuppy alive.

And it turns out that is a 24-hour day job. Because every time it gets hungry or sleepy, it beeps. So it's like all night, all whatever, it's just beeping at me. And my parents are starting to notice that I am not sleeping well. I am telling my friends that I'm sleeping.

so I don't have to go outside and play with them. So I can take care of Nanopuppy. And I'm lying to my teacher. I'm basically telling my teacher I gotta go pee every 30 minutes because I can hear Nanopuppy in my locker beeping. And I go out to take care of him. But God, I love him, right? It's just like heartstrings. And so like...

Time passes and you know, Nanopuppy's getting stronger and healthier and happier and I'm just getting like weaker and sicker and sadder. And we're just like one thing, like he's sucking my soul out and my energy becomes his energy and we're just like, we're getting really close and I'm realizing that, I'm realizing that if Nanopuppy lives, I die.

that Nanopuppy teaches your children, like it's a good toy, teaches them time management, responsibility, like motherhood, basically. I am now firsthand experiencing the concept of infanticide, which is...

thing I should not have to know about forever. You know, even as an eight-year-old, it's just like not a thing. But like the seed's been planted and I can't tell anybody about this. Most of all, I need to hide this from Nanopuppy.

Because I've started to, like, distance myself from him. I'll probably just, like, maybe leave it for a little bit longer. Oh, no, he notices. He gets hungrier. He gets sick. He gets loud. Everybody's noticing. So I'm, like, having to hide the fact. I obviously cannot let him starve to death. Everybody notices. Because all my friends have them, too, but they seem fine. I don't know what it is about this. Whatever. So one day, I...

hook Nano Puppy to the belt loop of my jeans like I do and I put those jeans in a laundry basket and I take that laundry basket to my mother who is loading the washing machine and she doesn't say a word and I don't say a word and 28 minutes later when we pulled sopping wet Nano Puppy out of the washing machine he was still alive we're like pretending we're like oh it's fine

And my mom goes, she lowers her voice because I don't know if Nanopuppy can hear, she goes, "Why don't you dry it off by putting it in the freezer?" So the next morning I go to check on Nanopuppy's status and

He is still alive. Except now he is super angry. And so now the guilt is just crushing. Like I can't function. I now, copy, I now have to take care of my brain-dead angry spawn of Satan because of the karma. Anyway, so I just continued to take care of it. We went camping a couple days later.

He woke up in the middle of the night and was like, "I'm hungry!" And my dad just took it, ripped open the tent, threw that thing as far as he could. And it landed in our campfire from whence it came. I left it there. It's okay with me. I guess the moral, the thing that I learned from this is just don't lie about when you don't want something in your life anymore. Don't keep it going.

If it's not healthy and it's not good, and don't try and pretend it is and just throw that thing off a damn bridge. Thank you. That was Sarah Johnson. Sarah grew up in Montana and lived in Brooklyn for 13 years, where she hosted an all-female variety show called Camp Sunshine and frequently put her name in the hat at our open mic story slams.

During the pandemic, she moved to Atlanta to be closer to family and is now working on becoming an historical preservationist. She says that after the demise of Nanopuppy, she felt major relief and a lot of guilt. But that was quickly replaced by her new obsession, the Spice Girls. You can see a picture of Sarah and her now infamous Nanopuppy at our website, themoth.org. ♪♪

Next up, we have a story of engineering marvels that come with their own set of challenges. Mike Malek took the stage at a story slam we produced in Pittsburgh, where we're supported by public radio station WESA. Here's Mike, live at the mall. Hey, y'all. So six years ago, my company asked me to spend a month on the road performing tall bridge inspections. And so these are bridges that are too tall for us to inspect with a ladder.

And so we use an underbridge truck. And you may have seen this before. It's a truck that sits on top of the bridge. It has a bucket lift on the back, but instead of this bucket lift going straight in the air, it can go out, down, and beneath the bridge. And the bridges that we were going to inspect were anywhere from 50 to 150 feet in the air. So as a scary comparison, this is like being a window washer on like an eight-story building. This was a big problem for me.

because not only am I afraid of heights, but I'm afraid of most like marginally extreme activities someone can do. And I've been this way my whole life. And so, you know, growing up, little kid birthday parties were a problem for me. Like, I wouldn't ride roller coasters, so when my friends were riding roller coasters, I would be on the ground at a bench just watching their bags. I...

You know those little kid obstacle courses where you climb up a rope net and then crawl through a plastic tube and then climb up another rope net? At some point I'd be high enough off the ground where I'd become paralyzed and my mom would have to crawl in and come carry me out. Which is hysterical because this being afraid of everything thing is hereditary. And she was probably more afraid of that rope course than I was. But the worst party by far were the laser tag parties.

And because there's no, you can't skip them and there's no moms to carry me out. And I would get locked in a dark room with confined spaces and tripping hazards and then lasers flying past my head. And I hope you all can appreciate that by me agreeing to go on this inspection trip, it was a big deal. And my first day, I showed up and there were three people who make this trip go. There's me, the bridge inspector, who's afraid of everything.

There's my coworker Bernie, who's a grizzled grid inspection veteran who fears nothing. And then there's the guy in the truck. And I forget his name, but I'll call him Gary. And his job is just to stay in the truck. And if something goes wrong, he's got our back. He's there for us. On my first day, Gary told me that it was his first day on the job. And so I had a little panic attack before I could even conquer any fear of heights.

But the first week went pretty well. I got better with the heights. I also got better with the rocking motion on the bucket. And I never was quite able to take both hands off the railing while I was inspecting, but I could get one hand off. And usually I had like one panic attack a day, something small, be it the wind or if the truck was making noises, but Bernie would calm me down and things were going well.

But there was one day, and we were at the best part of the day. This is the part of the day where we're done inspecting the bridge, and we are able to now maneuver the bucket out from underneath the bridge back on top of the bridge, i.e. going from where I'm hanging off the side of a bridge to where I'm safe on top of the bridge. And I look forward to this every day because it means I've survived the day. I'm alive. And Bernie's, you know, he's operating the bucket. We are getting closer and closer to that point where I know I've made it.

We're maybe one to two feet from the bridge, and the bucket stops. And I look at Bernie, 'cause he's my pillar of strength during these times. And I implore him to keep on going, because we're almost there. And Bernie is pressing the lever that makes this bucket move, and it's not going anywhere. So, y'all, this is where Gary comes in the picture. He's got our back. And I can see him, and Gary yells to us, "I don't know what's wrong."

So, and besides falling out of this bucket to my death, like this is my biggest fear. We are stuck on the bucket. I go in full meltdown mode and I'm just holding on to the side of the bucket. I don't hear anything. I'm just staring off on the horizon. And we are about 90 feet in the air, mind you. I can look down. I can see like a picturesque stream. I can see trees, but they're really far down.

And during this time where I was not with it, I guess Bernie and Gary decided that the best course of action, now mind you, we are one to two feet away from the bridge, so we're just going to open up the door in the bucket and we're going to step from the bucket to the bridge. It's a small step, really small, but y'all, it is so far down. And it took a while to convince me that this was a good idea.

And I made Bernie go first because he would reach out his hand to me. I grabbed his hand. I didn't look down, it was far. And I looked at Bernie, took a deep breath, and I took my pretty small step, but still a big step, onto the bridge, and I was safe. And as soon as I stepped off that bucket, I vowed I would never go back in there again. The next morning at 8 a.m., I got right back into that bucket.

And this story continued for the rest of that month and I survived. And when I look back on this experience, I try and think of what lessons I could learn about either the experience or myself. And the answer is, I learned absolutely nothing. I already knew that I belong in one place and that's with my feet on the ground. Thank you. Mike Malek spent that entire month inspecting high-level bridges in state parks across western Pennsylvania. And he hated every minute of it.

He said he would end every day just grateful to be alive. The job solidified his fear of heights and also instilled in him a healthy fear of bugs, poison ivy, and livestock. Apparently, he once inspected a bridge right next to a very angry bull.

These days, Mike is the city of Pittsburgh's lead traffic signal engineer. He's passionate about making urban infrastructure accessible and friendly to all, but especially pedestrians and cyclists. His feet stay firmly on the ground, and the only wildlife he encounters now is the occasional mouse living in a signal pole. He says he hopes to never inspect a bridge again, ever. To see pictures of Mike on the job then and now, you can visit our website, themoth.org.

Coming up, an evening out ends in broken bones, damaged friendships, and moral judgments when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.

Sometimes we take on challenges and other times we end up creating them for ourselves. Samira Sahabi shared this story at one of our open mic story slams in Portland, Oregon, where we partner with Oregon Public Broadcasting. Here's Samira live at the Moth. So when I was 14, I was sent away to the West by myself and my family gave me a partying gift. It was a very fancy gold ring.

So five years later, when I lived in Los Angeles as a pretty well-assimilated Westerner, I lived with two roommates, and at that time, the only thing Persian about me was my accent and the ring. So one night, the roommates wanted to go party, and I declined. And Laura decided to entice me by holding out her acid-washed brown leather jacket. And she said, if you come, you get to wear this.

And I had this super skimpy tube top that I could never wear on its own. And this just became my motivation to go. I was like, okay, I'll go. And so I went to get the jacket and she pulled it back. She's like, wait, you need to really take care of this. I'm like, oh, sure, of course. And she's like, no, no, I mean it. No stains, no forgetting it. And I said, I give you my word.

And so we all got very 80s chic and went to 40 miles south to Hermosa Beach to some guy's house. And we got really drunk. And then we headed to the strip where we would go from bar to bar. And while we were dancing, the ring had come off. So as the group got smaller and smaller, people would go back to the house to sleep. There were three people left. And I was desperately looking for the ring. And these three people are like, yeah, we'll wait for you.

And so I came out the last bar and they could just tell that I had not found the ring. I was like on the verge of tears. And this guy with like an Eddie Van Halen haircut, he's like, don't be sad. It's going to be okay. Oh, jump up. I'm going to give you a piggyback ride. And I was like, oh no. And he's like, come on, come on. And then he kind of backed into me and leaned, you know, he just assumed the posture for me to mount him. And it was so forward that I just felt bad declining. So I jumped up.

And he had been drinking, so as soon as I, maybe I was heavier than I looked, he just kind of lost his balance. And

I had been drinking also and so I just watched the whole thing unfold as the asphalt got closer to my face and then further and closer and I was like, "Fascinating!" And so what did happen is that he flipped me over his shoulder onto the cold asphalt. This was winter. I know it was LA but it was still winter for us. And so then he lost his own balance and fell and shattered my collarbone.

There was this exploding glass sound and I passed out and I woke up in the ER and Eddie Van Halen had driven following the ambulance, which I was grateful for because I didn't know anybody. And so the very first thing they want to do in the ER, like the whole staff has gathered behind me and they're like, go get the shears, the extra large ones from upstairs. We're going to cut the jacket.

And I was like, no, not the jacket. And she's like, trust me, sweetie, you want me to cut the jacket. And I was like, no, please don't cut the jacket. So then Eddie is standing next to me, holding my hand, putting it on his chest like this.

devoted husband who's coaching his wife through childbirth. He's like, you can do this. You can do this. He's almost crying. He feels so guilty. I'm sobbing. There's makeup everywhere. So they take this thing off. I felt this cold that was to the bone. I could not stop shaking. So they're

piling warm blanket after me and there's this hierarchy in ER. First of all, I didn't get any drugs and I didn't know why. But so I'm in pain and they're like, yeah, you're kind of low priority. Like people with heart attack get to cut in front of you. And then we all said gunshot wounds tonight. So you just need to be patient.

So finally at 4:00 in the morning, I see this shadow of a man emerging from the hallway and he's got a limp, he's got an accent. He's like, "I'm gonna take your x-ray." And he's walking way too fast for that time of day. He just goes down the hallway, gets me to x-ray, closes the door and he's like, "Are you Persian?" "I'm Persian." And I was like, "Yes." And he's like, "I know someone with your last name." And then he recites the name of my father.

And I am mortified. And so I tell him because I was too honest. And then the mood shifted. He just got very, very quiet. Like he just went from interested to, oh, shit. And then he like looked at me up and down. And I could like see myself through his eyes, through these Muslim eyes. I reeked of vodka. I looked so trashy. And he just said, what happened, child? Oh.

And that cut like a knife and then I started shivering again. And so he took the x-ray without looking at me. He pushed me down the hallway and this time he was not so preppy. He was just pushing me very slowly, weighted down by the tragedy that was me. And the hallway seemed eternal. And in that eternity I got to feel the weight of the expectation of what a good girl should do.

especially a good Muslim girl. And he dropped me in the room. He said goodbye without looking at me. And he left, and I never saw the X-ray man ever again. But that night, my two fragmented, intentionally separated worlds collapsed. They just collided. And although I lost a physical representation of my origin, I tapped into...

I tapped into a journey of integration where my two polarities started to come together, which has been a journey ever since. And a part of me wants to find that man. I want to kind of thank him for actually genuinely caring. And a part of me wants to kind of look at him and be like, "I turned out okay." Thank you. Samira Sahebi is a writer and performer based in Portland, Oregon. And she's a Moth Grand Slam champion.

Samara was so determined to save her friend's jacket that she insisted they not cut it off her. She said removing it was incredibly painful, as the nurse assured her it would be. But the jacket made it out unscathed. She managed to successfully return it and vowed never to borrow another piece of expensive clothing.

As it turns out, her father did indeed know the radiology technician. But with her father living in Iran and the technician in the U.S., their paths never crossed. And she managed to keep the embarrassing details of her injury a secret from her family for many years. You can find out more about Samira and share any of the stories featured in this hour by visiting our website, themoth.org. ♪♪

Our next story comes from Beth Bradley, who takes us to the mountains of Colorado. She shared this at a Grand Slam we produced in Denver with support from public radio station KUNC. Here's Beth. I really wanted to cry, and I really wanted to give up. But I really didn't want to do both, and I was running out of time to make up my mind. It was 11.45 a.m.,

and I was sitting on a huge pile of rocks located about 13,700 feet above sea level. And I was trying to get to the 14,000-foot summit of the mountain that these rocks belong to, but I only had about 15 minutes left. And that's because when you're at that type of elevation, it gets really dangerous to be on the summit any time after 12:00 p.m. in Colorado because there's lightning that rolls in pretty much every afternoon in the mountains in the summer.

So, I've been climbing straight up, up, up this mountain for the past five or six hours with two of my best friends, Katie and Don. And I only had about a quarter mile left to go, but it might as well have been 500 miles. Katie and Don have both done a climb like this before, but not me. Basically, my whole life, the world's been telling me I'm too fat to try stuff like this. So, I pretty much believe that too.

And even though Katie and Don and I have been friends for 20 years, I was still nervous to be climbing with them because I knew they'd be able to do it no problem and I'd be the slow one. So I had been training and doing research for months. I remember one article that I came across suggested that you bring Kleenex with you because when you're up at that elevation, the wind blows like crazy, so your nose is probably going to be running fast.

So I had not only heeded that advice, I had actually bought the name brand Kleenexes for an extra dollar because they happened to have motivational messages printed on them like "Believe in yourself and seize this moment." Nothing, not even the Kleenexes had prepared me for how I was feeling at 11:45.

which was just completely depleted and essentially catatonic. So, Don and Katie had kind of gone up ahead to sort of scope out the rest of the trail, and I was just alone with my thoughts, which had been pretty positive up till then, like I felt like all that preparation was paying off, but now the disappointment was just seeping in, and the worst part about that was how familiar it tasted.

Three years before that, I had moved all the way out to Seattle, and even though I had approached that move with the same kind of exhaustive preparation as this climb, I felt like I just couldn't get my life to work out there. Like, it was just one failure after another. Like, the job I got turned out to be a bad fit, I couldn't get acclimated, and then the relationship that I was in fell apart in a really excruciating and heartbreaking way. So...

I had managed to get myself home, I had managed to move back to Colorado, but I felt like I had gone on this 2,000 mile detour just to end up exactly where I started. So I wanted it to mean something, I wanted being home to mean something, and I wanted all that time to count. The mountains have been there all along, but for the first time I found myself wanting to know what it would feel like to be on top of one. But...

The higher I got, the heavier all of that felt, and the later it got, the more the pressure was bearing down. At this point, I noticed that everyone else I could see was very thin and lithe, and they were just scampering up the rocks like the world's most annoying pack of gazelles.

No one else was struggling like I was, so I was scared and I was overwhelmed and I was hating my body for being too fat and my mind for being too weak. And I just kept thinking to myself, who do I think I am to even attempt this? Like, who do I think I am to even try?

So, at this point I could see that Katie was headed back down to where I was, and I could tell from her eyes that she was going to say that it was too late and we needed to turn around and that it would be too dangerous to keep going at the pace that I was going. We were too slow. So, she came and sat down on the rock next door, and I was just letting that defeat settle in. But then, totally calm, Katie said,

We should keep going. I know you can do it." So, then a weird thing happened, which is that I realized I believed her. Even though Katie and I have been friends forever, and she said stuff like that to me before, this time I finally heard it. And so, when I had been asking myself, "Who do I think I am?" The answer had been this person who's too fat to keep trying, who kept failing over and over. But Katie was seeing someone else.

She was seeing someone she loved, who'd been through all of that and kept going. So, she was seeing someone strong. So, when Katie said that I could do it, it sounded different than the Kleenex. It sounded like the truth. So, I decided not to give up, and wanting to cry became my only motivation.

and the next 10 minutes were just like a blur of pain and exhaustion. But basically, right at noon, I heaved myself over the last stupid rock, and I was surprised to find myself on the flat, solid ground of the summit. All of those gazelle people were hanging out and smiling and taking pictures. I was the only person who was smiling and openly weeping.

I was also hugging Katie and Don like crazy. I was petting dogs and I was looking out at the view which was as incredible as anything I've ever seen. I realized I would also advise bringing Kleenex if you do a climb like this because crying on top of a mountain is a wonderful feeling and I'd recommend it to anyone so it's good to be prepared.

I keep chasing that feeling. I keep trying to climb more mountains. Sometimes I get to the top and sometimes I don't. But what I've noticed is that that one question isn't coming into my head anymore. That question of who do I think I am? Now I know who I am. Beth Bradley is a two-time Moth Story Slam winner and also tells stories professionally as a content marketer.

Growing up, Beth says she never saw anyone of her size represented in the outdoors and spent most of her life never even considering that she would one day carry herself to the top of a mountain, let alone a mountain over 14,000 feet. She says it was one of the most profound feelings she's ever had, and it doesn't get old. ♪

Since that climb back in 2018, Beth has continued hiking nearly every week. She's up to somewhere around 175 hikes and counting. You can see pictures of Beth and find out more about her adventures in hiking on our website, themoth.org. Coming up, rudos, technicos, and the magical world of Mexican wrestling 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 Meg Bowles.

Our final story in this hour comes from Sean Leonardo, who we met after he called the moth pitch line. He shared his story at the first event we produced in front of a live audience after the reopening of theaters that had been shuttered due to the pandemic. Live from the Wilbur Theater in Boston in partnership with WGBH, here's Sean Leonardo. Thank you.

In 2010, I'm standing in this grimy little gym in Oaxaca, Mexico, finally watching La Lucha Libre. And now for those of you that don't know what that is, La Lucha is the arts of Mexican wrestling. The pageantry and acrobatics are second to none. And while the storylines and narratives of good versus evil would feel familiar to you,

There's a special magic to la lucha because in Mexican culture it is sacred. Now, I've always had a fascination with la lucha ever since watching it on the TV with my dad. And it's always been so spectacular. But those warriors were so foreign to me in their masks and regalia, flipping every which way. But I would learn later that those same warriors were your everyday teachers.

Taxi drivers, office workers. But in the ring, when that mask came on, they were gods. And as a scrawny kid from some insignificant neighborhood in Queens, New York City, I wanted to feel that. I wanted to know what it meant to be a hero. And so now standing there, I was in complete awe. So much so that I wait for hours after the event just to approach a promoter and ask,

if I might start training with the local luchadores. Now two important things to know. I'm not Mexican. Yes, I'm Latino, but I'm from Queens. Maybe more importantly, at the time I had zero wrestling experience. But I may have fibbed just a little bit and told the promoter that I was a wrestler back home in the United States.

Whatever it was, he goes backstage, comes back with a little piece of paper with an address scribbled all over it says, "Show up here Friday." He didn't say when. Just show up here Friday. So I did, but five hours too early. But I waited and I waited. Then after a while, in comes the trainer and it is

The legendary Rigo Cisneros from Nacho Libre fame. I lose it. And he comes up to me silently, sizes me up, and in the quietest voice goes, "Hop in the ring." And the ring! The ring is an iron frame with plywood on top, some sprinklings of rubber, and an old vinyl billboard securing it down. Not the bouncy thing y'all are imagining. The wrestlers

were amateurs twice my size and everything I did was clumsy and tense and so they saw that and decided to deliver the punishment just to see if I would come back the next day

And so the slaps to the chest started stinging that much more, the body slams a little more vicious, and the blows, the falls or bumps as we call it in wrestling, that much more aggressive for me than anyone else in the ring. But I came back. And I kept coming back. Because where I'm from, giving up is not in the cards. And after three months of training, I'm finally granted my first match. And because of my hard work,

and likely the novelty of an American luchador, I am slated in as the sub-main event. Now, to be clear, that is not the main event. I'm still the warm-up act. And the night comes, and it's the same rickety ring in some makeshift arena with folding chairs, but the lights and the mariachi music is blaring and it feels glorious.

And they call out my name and all the blood rushes right out of my body. It all becomes a blur. But I pull myself together, I get pumped, and I step out in all white and gold. The knight in shining armor with a 14-foot velvet cape. I hit that ring and I'm looking good. And then I get my ass kicked. I lose that match bad.

And so I go backstage, beaten, battered, but at least it's all over. And Rigo Cisneros, the trainer, comes over and says, "Go back in the ring, get the crowd pumping, and go save the good guys." And I said, "What the hell are you talking about?" But I panic, I run out there, I do what I'm told, only to get annihilated again.

By the end of the event, there are three bad guys, "rudos" as we call them, one pinning my shoulders down onto the mat, the other kicking me repeatedly, and the third unmasks me. The ultimate embarrassment in Mexican wrestling. And so I leave with a mixture of emotions. I'm embarrassed, I'm defeated.

But despite the beating, I feel like I achieved something amazing. I had become a Mexican wrestler for Christ's sake. I had lived out a childhood fantasy. But I decided, enough fun, the adventure was over, time to go home. So I'm back in my little ass apartment in Queens when I get a phone call a month later from a promoter asking me if I would consider wrestling the welterweight champion of the world.

So it seems this American luchador had caused quite a stir and audiences were still talking about this guy. So it was meant to be set as a special event for the 75th anniversary of the largest Mexican wrestling promotion in the world and staged at the National Museum of Mexico City, which is literally a palace. How could I say no? I'm terrified. But I had to see how far I could take this thing. So I accept.

My opponent, the welterweight champion of the world, his name was Sangre Azteca, Aztecan blood. I failed to mention that my wrestling name was El Conquistador, the conqueror. Now for anyone here that recalls their colonial history, the conquerors didn't do such nice things in Mexico. It was a match made in heaven. The storyline was set.

But upon touching ground in Mexico, I'm explicitly told there is no way I'm winning this match. And then I'm told that Sangre Azteca refuses to choreograph the match. Now, if you know anything about wrestling, you know that the outcomes, yes, are predetermined, but that also the matches are more or less scripted.

So now not only am I being forced to lose the match, I could get really hurt. This has gone too far. Ironically, I'm billed as the good guy, or técnico as we call it in Mexican wrestling. But when the announcer finally calls out, the entire audience turns on me.

Now Mexican wrestling is a familial affair, so the abuelas, the grandmothers, everyone down to the kids start cursing at me. I feel like the entire arena wants to see me massacred. And in front of over a thousand audience members, Sangres, Deca and I go mano a mano, one on one. Two out of three falls for more than 45 minutes. And we go at it.

We're going blow for blow, putting each other submission moves, we're fighting on the outside of the ring, we're kicking and we're going hard. At one point in the match, revved up by the insults of the audience, I look down on my opponent who I just body slammed and I smack him. This was a terrible mistake. All of a sudden the chops started stinging that much more, the punches and kicks a little heavier, and things are going a little too far.

But we go at it and I stay in there. And for the climax of the match, I climb up to the top rope to finish him off with a high flying maneuver. And it's just like I imagined as a kid. It's magical. And I'm soaring through the air only to get caught off midair with a dropkick to the chest. And he pins me for the one, two, three. I lose again.

And I'm leaving the ring, confused, beaten. And a swarm of kids surround me, asking me for autographs, embracing me, taking photos. And it's bizarre. And I bend down to greet a few kids and I feel this little pat on my shoulder. And a little boy says in my ear, si se puede. Yes, you can. And I'm beaten. And this kid wants to believe.

wants to believe that this character should keep fighting. And so I do. I take that childhood fantasy and turn it into an eight-year career as El Conquistador. Now it's been almost ten years since the last time I stepped in the ring, but of course I think about my adventures as a luchador all the time. But more than anything, I think about that little boy's words. Because when times get most difficult for me,

And these last two years have been some of the most challenging, tragic years of my life, of so many of our lives. El Conquistador reminds me that it's not always about winning. It's not about being the hero all the time. It's about moving through the failures and getting up after the losses. Because as that little kid said, that kid that just wanted to believe, "Si se puede," yes you can.

Yes, we can. Thank you. Sean Leonardo is a Brooklyn-based artist and his work has been profiled in the New York Times and CNN and featured in museums like the Guggenheim, Mass MoCA, and the Bronx Museum to name a few. His first major public art commission is now on view at FDR for Freedom State Park.

Sean entered into the world of wrestling as research for his art, which explores the hyper-masculine figures he was fascinated with as a child. It had never been his intention to actually pursue a pro career. These days, he says, he misses the catharsis of the fight and the thrill of the crowd, or pop, as they call it in the industry. To see pictures of Sean in his wrestling regalia, including that 14-foot velvet cape and some amazing action shots from the ring, visit our website, themoth.org.

And while you're there, maybe consider pitching us your story like Sean did. You don't have to go toe-to-toe with a Mexican wrestler to have a good one. Stories come in all shapes and sizes. So if you have a story you're itching to tell, just look for Tell a Story on our website and you'll find all the info for how to pitch us.

A man goes through his midlife crisis when he experiences the mortality of his father. That rang true to me, and it also helped me explain why, in a sudden burst of inspiration, I bought a 20-year-old motorcycle while my father was dying of cancer. I bought this beautiful machine without even knowing how to ride a motorcycle, not even having my license. I didn't tell anyone, especially not in my family, about my purchase because I'm from a traditional Jewish family, and it would have killed my mother to know I was out there on the open road.

My father's prolonged battle with cancer would come to a head in May 2017 when he was taken to the emergency room because he had trouble breathing. While he was in the ER, his oncologist came down and gave us all the bad news that the experimental treatment that was supposed to save his life hadn't been working, and this was the end of the road. My sister and I rushed to be by his side, and the three of us cried and cried. But for just a moment, we came up for air, and I turned to them and I said,

Well, now that you've got your bad news, I may as well tell you I bought a motorcycle. The tears of sadness started to mix with laughter and love, and we started to plan our road trips together, because that's what you do with dying people. You plan for your future. And he made me promise right then and there to always wear boots when I ride, and I still do every time.

You can pitch us your story at themoth.org or you can call us at 877-799-MOTH. That's 877-799-6684. That's it for this show. We hope you'll join us next time for The Moth Radio Hour. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Katherine Burns, and Meg Bowles, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick. Associate producer, Emily Couch. Additional Grand Slam coaching by Larry Rosen. The rest of the Maw's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Our pitch came from Zach Lipton in London, England.

Moth Stories Are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Stephen Jacobs, Blue Dot Sessions, Tommy Guerrero, Jason Beals, and the El Mariachi Band.

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.