The Moth Radio Hour: Navigating the Gray
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From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm Fonzo LaCaia. And I'm Aliza Cosme. We're the co-hosts of the Moth's new podcast, Grown, a show about what it means to grow up. But this week, we're your hosts here on the Moth Radio Hour, and today we'll be listening to stories about being stuck in the in-between. On Grown, we say you're never fully grown. There will always be those in-between moments in our lives, and how we navigate that time and space helps shape who we are.

But there are many ways to feel like we're living in a gray area. Take our first storyteller, Carl Cannon. Carl told this story in 2016 at the Cooper Union in New York City. Here's Carl. I remember the first time I walked into the Fort Leavenworth maximum security prison. No, not as an inmate. But as a military policeman recently assigned to prison duty.

for the first time. It made me think back to a time when I was 19 years old and I raised this, my right hand, and I joined the U.S. Army to become a military policeman. This was 10 years later. Ten years later, I was a damn good military policeman who didn't want prison duty. Why?

Maybe because what made me good had some of the people occupying that institution, and I didn't want a reunion. So you gotta know I did everything I could to get out of that duty. I even took an extra 30-day leave hoping that at the end of which, the Army would change its mind. When I returned from that leave, the Sergeant Major gave me two options. He said, "One,

Take your ass down to that prison. Two, or face a court martial. Suddenly, prison duty didn't seem that bad. So I went into the four-wing housing unit with my trainer, a 15-year veteran by the name of Pierce. When we walked into that housing unit, I was stunned. They weren't locked down.

They were all out and about. And do I need to repeat? I said maximum security military prison. That means Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Coast Guard. 40% of that population was there doing a life sentence for murder. 100% of that population had been trained.

to kill. It's arguably the most dangerous prisons on the planet. And they weren't locked down? I was a little nervous. It's not an understatement. We went into the guard cage and we were debriefed by the outgoing 12-hour shift. When they left, Pierce instructed me, go check the housing unit. I'm like, he said, look, sarcastically, rookie.

You're in the housing unit that has five floors, 50 cells on each floor, 25 face out to the right, 25 face out to the left. It's like a warehouse. In the back of each floor is an unauthorized area for inmates. There's a clipboard. Sign off on it proving that you checked for trouble. Never forget that I went out into the population.

I was there to observe the inmates. Moving amongst that population, I was quickly aware that they were observing me. I remember going by tables where they were playing cards and they would slap the cards down on the table and then look at me, all of them. They would slap the dominoes down on the table and then give me the look. It took me about an hour to finish

That check, those housing unit checks. When I returned to the guard cage, Pierce looked at me and he said sarcastically, Rookie, where you been? I said, I was checking the housing unit like you told me. He said, look, Rookie.

All you have to do is go around the third floor, find that clipboard. There's a stairwell back there that the inmates can't use. Use the stairwell. Go up to the fourth floor. Use that stairwell. Go up to the fifth floor. You can be up to the eighth floor and back in this guard cage in ten minutes. It's called a shortcut, rookie.

He was so condescending, I wanted to hit him in his mouth. But that option sounded better than what I'd just been through. About 10 o'clock that night, he gives me this training script to read over the loudspeaker. I looked, and it was like music to me. I read it. It's like, lockdown, lockdown, all inmates, lockdown.

He said, when you close the tears, when you shut the tears down, shut them down in sequence, start with the eighth floor. I said, why the eighth floor? He said, that's where the rookie inmates are.

He said, when you close it, you hit these two buttons and all 50 cells on that floor will close at the same time. It was actually the first time it actually sounded like I thought prison was going to sound. Eighth floor, boom, those cages closing. Seventh floor, boom, fifth floor, boom, third floor, yay. They're locked safely.

A short time later, an inmate's coming around the third floor towards the guard case from the third floor right side. He's wearing a towel. He's carrying a toothbrush. I looked at Pierce. Pierce gives me the look. What you gonna do?

So I did what I thought Pierce would do. I cursed at the inmate. "What the fuck you doing out of your cell?" He surprised me, started cursing back at me. So now we're having this war of words, curse words, except his curse words were better than mine. I was losing the battle of words. So I went back to a training script that Pierce had given me and I shouted, "Go to the bitch!"

When you send an inmate to the bench in the old penitentiary, you are effectively sending them to the hole. That's the jail within the jail. And truth be told, I could have let that inmate back in his cell. I'll be honest, I was power tripping. I was trying to impress Pierce. A few minutes later, the guard commander came into the housing unit, entered our guard cage. He said, Cannon, what happened?

I knew the guard commander knew I was lying. He looked past me at Pierce and he said, Pierce, tell me what happened. And I'm thinking, oh, and then Pierce stunned me and he said, that's exactly how it happened, sir. And I'm like, whoa. That's when I started to understand the principle of us versus them. Us being the guards, them being the inmates, them being wrong no matter what we did.

Because Pierce backed me, I started lining up with us. I got a little size on me. So anytime one of us were told no by an inmate, they called me. I was the best at turning a no.

Into a yes. And because I lined up with us, I promoted up pretty rapidly in the system. Less than a year later, I was in charge of the SHU. That's the special housing unit. The hole. Unlike upstairs, where everybody is out and about in the hole, you're locked down 24-7. Maybe an hour in a cage.

I had 16 guards. I'm in charge. Four of them ran the guard cage. Each other guard had 25 cells assigned to them. They reported to me.

I got a call that the inmates had a revolt on one of our floors because we had us down there. The inmates had trashed the tier. That means they had blocked the toilets. There was feces, urine, water, food, garbage everywhere. I went down to restore order. I passed cell 138. The inmate inside said, CEO, can I talk to you? I said, what you got?

He said, Ceil, I want you to know I didn't do this. And I believed him. I said, okay, don't worry about it. Clean up best you can. I'll handle this. About 4.30 a.m., it was time for the breakfast carts to come into that very floor. It was my job to open the tunnel door to let those breakfast carts in.

I had ordered that the lights come on in that housing unit. I was walking towards that door when I went past cell 138 and through my peripheral. He was hanging there.

I get on my radio immediately. The guard assigned at that row of cells was on his radio. We were shouting into it, open 138, open 138. The cell door starts to move open slowly. I'm trying to muscle it open faster. As soon as there was enough of an opening, I ran into that cell. I hoisted the body up.

The guard jumps on top of the toilet. He unties the sheet. There wasn't enough room to do CPR in the cell, so we laid him out on the floor in front of the royal cells. It was my job to do the mouth-to-mouth. The guard was going to do the chest compressions. I will never forget when I put my mouth on the inmate's mouth. He was dead.

We had to keep the CPR going until the medics came and pronounced it one way or another. It was 10 minutes before they arrived. During that time frame, during that commotion, the other inmates on that floor woke up, came to the front of their cells. They saw us doing the CPR. He was so cold. They started yelling at us, killers. He's so cold. Killers. Killers.

I got mad. No, not at the inmates. I got mad at me. I knew somebody took a shortcut. I knew we had all been trained to take shortcuts. There was no way they were checking his cell and he was so cold. I left the prison that morning determined never to return.

The next day I get a call from the captain. I told the captain, "I do what you gotta do. I don't care. Court-martial me. I'm not going back." He said, "Kannon, you're gonna be all right. I'm not worried about you." He said, "You've been through worse. You've seen worse.

You will get through this. He said, where I'm concerned, Cannon, it's the men that work for you. If you don't come back, the amount of respect they have for you, I'm worried about what it'll do to them. And I thought about that. And I thought about going back. And I thought about that inmate in cell 138 who I learned had gotten a Dear John letter that day. That inmate said,

who was living in a life of despair, who was depressed, whose last statement to me was, I'm innocent. And that was important to him. I thought about those men that respected me. And so a couple days later, I did go back. But I went back different.

I went back with a battle cry called respect, and respect meant listening to people, listening to the inmates and their stories and their regrets. When I listened, I learned that most inmates, if they could go back in time to that first incident that led to the second incident, knowing what they know now, I learned that they would not repeat the same act.

I also learned that inmates are people, human beings, and human beings deserve respect too. So I started using words that were different. Please, thank you. And because we started using those words, the tone between the inmates and the guards began to change to a tone of mutual respect.

I retired from the military and I left the Bureau of Prisons. It's been over 10 years since I've been gone, but I have never forgotten those stories. I have never forgotten that young man in cell 138, and I take those stories today. I support at-risk kids. Put your eyes on me. I was the best at keeping them in. Today, I'm a part of you.

I'm one of the best at keeping them out. Thank you and God bless. That was Carl Cannon. Carl has continued his work with At-Risk Kids. He launched the Elite Outreach Program in 2006 in his hometown of Peoria, Illinois. Elite employs ex-felons to assist educators with supporting youth who are overcoming difficult circumstances. The results have been a 70 to 88 percent rise in academic standing.

Carl's autobiography titled "Full Canon," co-authored with Lance Zedrick, is available on Amazon. For Carl, being pushed in the gray space was a good thing because it helped him confront his biases, made him realize it isn't always us versus them, and has led him to the work he does now.

Fonzo, can you remember a time where you found yourself stuck in a gray space? Yeah, I find myself in the gray space a lot. I see myself as an empath, and I think a lot about how people view me and the decisions I make and the choices I make. And so it helps me change perspective. In a moment, a man moves across the world to meet his birth family 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 your host this time, Aliza Cosme. And I'm your other host, Fonzo Lacayo. In this episode, we're talking about being caught in the in-between world. Fonzo, we've spoken in the past quite a lot about how being brought up surrounded by a mix of cultures from our parents and our communities has impacted our lives and often in a positive way. How do you think that being caught between multiple worlds has made you a more whole person?

Well, I feel it's definitely in a way a double edged sword. In one hand, you're not fully immersed into one culture or one place. So you may reach out and find what fits best for you or doesn't fit best for you.

So, and that self-exploration, in my opinion, can be a very long journey, but a worthwhile one. Well, like we heard in Carl's story, realizing that the world isn't just black and white can be overwhelming, but it can also help us learn more about ourselves. That is totally true, especially for our next storyteller, James Hahn-Matson. James told this story at a main stage in Traverse City, where we partnered with City Opera House and Interlochen Public Radio. Here's James, live at the Moth in Michigan.

When I was 17, my North Dakotan parents sat me down at the dining room table and showed me a letter from my birth family. I didn't know how to respond to this because I tried so hard to erase that part of myself. I'd been adopted at age three from Korea.

and I didn't really know anything Asian, let alone Korean. And at school, I often got teased because of my race, so I distanced myself from my race, seeing Asian as something to be mocked and ridiculed. It got so difficult that I had trouble looking in the mirror. What I saw wasn't what I wanted to see, so I avoided the image altogether.

Well, my parents, they sensed that something was wrong, and so they actually wrote a letter to my adoption agency, thinking that the problem stemmed from those first few years of my life, those unknown years. Well, my birth family actually wrote back, and so at the dining room table, my mom hands me this letter along with these pictures

And I'm stunned, but I take the letter and I take the pictures and I look at the pictures and I think, these people look weird. They don't look anything like me. They can't possibly be related to me. I read the letter and it says that I have three birth siblings, two sisters and a brother. It says that both of my birth parents are deceased.

It also says that I have a birth grandmother, and this is the person who actually physically gave me away. What had happened is that after my mother's death, my grandmother had gotten custody of all four children, and she just couldn't handle it. And since I was the youngest, I was the one who was given up.

Well, my mom leans into the table and she says, "Isn't this amazing?" And I don't really know what to say. I don't really respond because I feel like this is just another part of me that doesn't belong. And besides, you know, all these people come from a land full of Asians, and I couldn't imagine anything worse.

But still, I take the letter and I take the pictures and I stuff them in a drawer and I don't think about them for a while. Well, I get older, I go to college, I have experiences that open myself up to my own race. And so I become curious about my birth family. I find the letter and I write one of my own.

And what transpires is this ongoing communication between myself and my English-speaking birth sister, Mi-kyung. And she is the closest to me in age. What also happens as a result of this ongoing back and forth is that this new identity develops inside of me.

I am a Korean person, I think. Korean language, Korean culture, Korean food, it's all embedded in my DNA and it just needs to be unlocked. It's the American side of me that's a sham. And if I go to Korea, I know that I'll be welcomed with open arms. I'll finally find a place where I belong. And so, at age 31, I decide to take the plunge and move to Korea.

Well, the flight is pretty grueling. It's 14 hours. So it's a delight to see Mi-kyung's face smiling at me at the airport. We hug and it's like old friends meeting because we've been in communication for so long.

Well, I stay with her and after I get over my jet lag, she says that she's invited the other siblings over. And this makes me very nervous because I haven't had any direct communication with them. Well, first to come is Mi Hyun and she's my elder elder sister. And she's this very energetic, very vivacious woman. And she just comes barreling through and she takes one look at me and she just bursts into tears.

She says, "Jeonghyun." Jeonghyun is my Korean name. She says, "Jeonghyun, we have the same face." "We have the same face." She takes my hand and we go into the bathroom and we look in the mirror, something that I hated doing as an adolescent, but something that I now find emboldening. And we compare eyes and eyebrows and cheeks and cheekbones, and they're a match. It's remarkable. A few minutes later, my brother comes in, Kwanghyun.

And he doesn't look anything like me. He's tall, he's thin, he has a really long face. And as soon as he sees me, his face cracks and he has to leave the apartment. Well, when he comes back, his eyes are all red and puffy and he opens his arms and I fall into his embrace and it's one of the safest places I've ever been.

Well, as is Korean custom, my siblings give me a gift. And this gift is a grey t-shirt with a whole bunch of nonsensical English phrases written all over it. Across the top are the words, in big letters, are the words "Premium Stylish Man Clothing." I don't like this shirt. But they do, so I put it on, and that afternoon,

We talk, and the conversation veers towards grandmother. And it's decided that I need to go see her. I need to meet the person who actually gave me away. So we all pile into my brother's car, and we head to his apartment where grandmother lives.

And on the way there, my heart is racing and my stomach is fluttering, and I just don't know if I can do this. I don't know if I can actually go see the person who changed my life so dramatically. When I get there, I don't know if I can go through with it, and I tell them, but they gently urge me in, and I finally walk in. I walk down this long hall, and to the left, there's a small bedroom.

and on the floor of the bedroom is my grandmother. My grandmother is just looking at the floor. Mi-kyung comes up beside me, and she says, "Grandmother, this is Jung-hyun." Grandmother looks up, and at first she's very confused, but then dawning crosses her face, and as soon as it does, she crawls across the floor because she can't walk, and when she's at my feet,

She just looks up at me, opens her arms, and lets out the most terrific scream. Well, I kneel down into her embrace, and she starts batting at my back and scratching at my shoulders and screaming, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. And I don't want to be there. I feel frustrated. I think of all the ways that she's upended my life. But I also feel...

I also feel the remorse in her shutters, and so I end up holding her tight. Well, despite all these dramatic episodes, I do enjoy spending time with my birth family. And I enjoy being in Korea. I like the fact that I blend in. I like the fact that in Asia there's no such thing as Asian. And I like the fact that, you know, my birth family just wants to be a part of my life.

And so I think maybe I can make this a home. But then the food. The food, which I love, but that's covered in red pepper. And this does a number on my Midwestern stomach. And I developed the beginnings of an ulcer. Also, Korean dramas and K-pop, while entertaining, just don't do it for me. And I seek out more Western entertainment.

But most importantly, every time I open my mouth and speak my remedial Korean, the person on the other end shuts down. They either say nothing or switch to English or just walk away. And this happens over and over and over, and so my days become this series of rejections, both on my part and on theirs.

And this is very difficult for me because here I was two years in and I hadn't really made any progress in becoming a Korean person. But still, I wanted to try. So on Chuseok, Chuseok is a holiday that a lot of expats compared to Thanksgiving.

We're all at my brother's apartment, my siblings, my siblings' kids, and my grandmother. And we have this delicious meal, and after the meal, my brother's son comes up to me, he's 10 years old, and he starts speaking English. And I find this very endearing because he hasn't really spoken to me this whole time, he's been too shy.

Well, he goes and plays with his cousin and I lean into Mi Kyung and I say, "Listen, he's doing a really good job. If you want me to help tutor him, I would be more than happy to." And I get stopped mid-sentence because from the corner of the room, my grandmother is falling into hysterics. She's pounding the floor and she's saying, "You are a Korean person. Speak Korean. You are a Korean person. Speak Korean."

The room falls silent and I feel this well of anger in my chest and I have to leave the apartment. And I know then that I'm not Korean enough for Korea and I might not be Korean enough for this family. That starts the beginning of the end of my time in Korea and I leave just a couple months after that. When I get back, everything is much easier.

Daily interactions don't take on any significance because everything is familiar and relationships are just much easier to forge. But the moment I get back, I once again feel conspicuous. And I realize that in America, I will always be a hyphenated individual. Not simply an American, but always an Asian American.

My grandmother died in 2013, and I'd had some time to distance myself from it, so I wasn't angry anymore. I knew that what she'd said had come from a place of immense guilt. But I did grieve. I grieved not just for her, but for myself, for what could have been, and for perhaps what should have been. Today, I don't consider myself guilty.

fully Korean, but I don't consider myself fully American, really, either. I see myself as a complicated combination of the two. That combination used to repulse me, and I'll be honest, sometimes those feelings do come creeping back. But I'm doing much better now. I am still in contact with my birth family, although over the years, those relationships have cooled. What matters to me now is that I'm living a current life.

that I've confronted my past and that I've accepted it with all of its ambiguities. And because I've done this, when I look in the mirror now, I don't see something to be mocked or ridiculed. I see this interesting bundle of complexity. And because the world is this infinitely complex place, my face fits right in. Thank you.

That was James Hahn-Matson. He's the author of two novels, The Lost Prayers of Ricky Graves and Reprieve, which was named the best book of 2021 by Harper's Bazaar, Esquire, and more. And it was featured on the Today Show. Keep an eye out for his upcoming novel, The Grand Imposters, from William Murrow Harper Collins. Aliza, this week, I met with James to talk about his story and asked him about the experience he had in college that, as he said, opened him up to his own race.

College was very eye-opening for me in the sense that it was the first time where I had a group of Asian friends. And I didn't really think that was going to happen ever. But then in college, I ended up meeting one of my best friends who was Malaysian.

And he was an international student and he introduced me to other international students. Because I was surrounded by so much Asian-ness, it just became very normal for me. And this is what opened myself up to my own race and realizing, you know, that I am an Asian person and this is how I'm going to be viewed in the world. And this is how, you know, these are the lenses through which I will see the world. ♪

To see photos of James and his birth family, visit themoth.org. In a moment, the road to the Miss America pageant when The Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.

You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Fonzo Lacayo. And I'm Aliza Cosme. We've arrived at our last story in this hour about not quite belonging. On our podcast, Grown, we explore the in-between space between being a teenager and adult. But the truth is, this is something people encounter in all phases of their lives.

Yeah, absolutely. And the older I get, the more I realize that we're all just trying to find our place in the world. Or being told by the world who we should be, which was the case for our next storyteller. Nicole Kelly told this story at a Moth main stage in Iowa City, where we were presented by Iowa Public Radio. From the Englert Theater, here's Nicole. Right out of college, I decided to enter the Miss Iowa competition.

I had never done a pageant in my entire life. But I had remembered watching those glamorous girls on TV growing up, and I had decided to prove that I could be just like them. So, I had three months to prepare before I would go up against 30 other girls from all over the state of Iowa. And if I won, I would win my ticket to compete at the coveted Miss America pageant in Atlantic City. But I had no idea where to start. I needed to find myself an expert in pageantry.

And I found that expert in a sassy woman from the Jersey Shore. She was intensely direct, and she had a reputation for training fierce, strong pageant competitors. She honestly was like my Michael Caine from Miss Congeniality.

So, we got to work. We booked open conference room spaces, and in these quiet moments under fluorescent lights, she would teach me the very important things like the right amount of hip sway to use when walking in a swimsuit on stage, which, by the way, is enough to be confident and sassy, but not enough to be overly sexy.

We studied together. We had makeup contouring lessons together. She taught me to say yes instead of yeah, and taught me the latest sparkly styles that were currently in on the pageant scene. When the week-long Miss Iowa competition began, I started the competition in a private interview with the judges, where I think I perfectly executed saying yes instead of yeah.

up next on stage was the preliminary competition. And this was a roller coaster of emotions. But after the first night, they called my name as the winner of the swimsuit preliminary award winner. The judges had picked me for walking sassy but not too sexy in my five inch heels and bikini.

The next night was the talent portion of competition, and my stomach was churning with fear for this part. You see, I had chosen to sing my favorite song, Defying Gravity, from my favorite musical, Wicked, but that is a freaking hard song to sing.

You see, the Broadway musical Wicked came out when I was in middle school and I was obsessed. My poor parents would drive me hours to see whichever touring production of the show was closest to my middle-of-nowhere hometown. My pageant dress was perfectly beaded with all green beads. A nod to my favorite character, the Wicked Witch of the West.

As they called my name, I walked out into the shining spotlight, took center stage, and looked out into the dark audience. The track began and the song came out of me with ease. I felt like my heart was flying with every note. Before I knew it, we had made it to the end of the competition. And all 30 girls came out on stage for the final crowning of Miss Iowa. I had made the top five cut. And surrounded by a sea of nervous girls in hairspray, I took a silent breath to hold.

As the competition host began to announce the final ballot, fourth runner-up, he didn't say my name. Third runner-up, also not me. Second runner-up, he didn't say my name. Suddenly, it was just me and one other girl standing, holding each other, shaking, waiting to see who would be awarded the title of Miss Iowa. The audience was silent. You could have heard a pin drop, and I could feel my heart beating all the way up to my ears.

And then he said my name. I won. I won! But let me tell you, I was in complete shock. I was barely able to laugh or cry or even talk. And before I knew it, they were putting a crown on top of my head, giving me a sparkly sash, handing me a bouquet of flowers, handing me keys to a car I would get to drive for a year for free. And then suddenly, a person honestly brought out a fur coat and put that on me, too.

It was a whirlwind of emotion. There were hugs and photo flashes and confetti for hours. I was truly on cloud nine. I had done it. The next morning, with only about three hours of sleep under my belt due to all of that excitement, I arrived at a local hotel conference room to get into hair and makeup for my official Miss Iowa headshot.

I was busy smiling for a flashing camera while a person stood beside and held a fan so my hair would blow just right in the picture when a smiling TV news reporter and cameraman arrived for my first interview as Miss Iowa. The interview went great. I told them how excited I was to have won the title and how unbelievable it felt to be going to Miss America in just three short months. Later that night, my parents and I gathered around the hotel TV to watch the interview I had given earlier in the day.

The anchorman entering the piece smiled and said, "Last night a woman with a disability won the crown of Miss Iowa and is headed to Miss America." My heart sank. As I watched the package begin, I watched them cut away from my face focusing in on my torso, zooming in closer and closer and closer until the entire end of my missing arm filled the whole hotel room screen.

You see, I was born with my full right arm, but only half of my left arm. Nothing else was different or wrong, I just came out without my left hand. And so my parents had always raised me to follow the lead of my older brother and sister, and I participated in everything. I was a lifeguard at the local YMCA, I'd played trombone in band, and I even threw a perfect inning as a pitcher in junior league softball. Yeah!

But I was always aware of my difference. When going off to summer camps, I knew that I always had to come up with funny jokes about having one hand in order to make my other cabin mates comfortable. Strangers would always point and whisper in amazement if I ever had to stop to tie my shoes in public. As I watched that camera zoom in closer and closer, the larger the image got, the smaller I felt. It was like I was a prop in my own story.

It was as if the reporter was saying, "Isn't this sweet, kind girl lucky?" It made me feel utterly stripped and violated. Don't get me wrong, I expected to speak publicly about having one hand if I had won the title of Miss Iowa. But that is not what we had talked about in the interview. That was their voice, their packaging, turning my story into pure inspiration. I had won the title expecting it to prove how very like the other girls I was.

And yet here was this first story only focused on my difference. In shock, I turned my head to my parents. I opened my mouth to try to speak, but nothing came out. My parents quickly jumped in to try to console me. This was just one bad news reporter and just one bad news station. To my complete horror, hours later every news outlet around the world had picked up on my story.

My inspiring story had spread like wildfire and everybody wanted to talk to the disabled girl going to Miss America. I got requests to be a guest on The View, The Today Show asked me to interview with them, and Jay Leno even used me as a setup to one of his jokes in his opening monologue.

The entire world was telling me that they were both shocked and inspired that someone like me could win a ticket to compete at Miss America. It didn't matter if I had interviewed best, sang well, or worked really hard to have rock-hard abs in my swimsuit. It was clear that I had not won the title of Miss America, Miss Iowa, but my disability had.

I continued to receive a multitude of interview requests and out of complete anger I said no to them all. Three months later I arrived in Atlantic City for Miss America feeling utterly defeated. I continued to receive a magnitude of attention and I hated being used as a marketing tool for the impending live telecast because I was always the prop and it was always stories of pure inspiration.

But I still wanted to be crowned Miss America. I still wanted to prove that I could do it. I still wanted to make my entire extended family and the three busloads of people who had come all the way from my tiny hometown to watch me compete proud. I still saw this as a chance to prove that I was no different. I saw this as another chance to set the record straight. I didn't win the title of Miss America.

and I returned to Iowa ready to crawl into my shell. I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to stew in my anxiety and my depression. Everything about that experience had felt so out of my control. A couple of weeks later, while I was still very much in hiding, an email hit my inbox from a woman in Long Island. It read, "Seeing you on the Miss America pageant, my husband and I started crying.

We held each other as we watched this beautiful, confident, sweet girl strutting her stuff up on the stage. This was the sign that got us through the initial shock of learning that our unborn baby girl was going to be born with one hand. And now we can't wait to welcome her and hug her and show her that she too can do anything. I was so focused on the validation of my able-bodied friends

that I had completely denied the opportunity to proudly step up and represent others like me. I was so afraid of my arm determining how other people saw me that I let my rejection of it do the same. And this was just one of hundreds of emails that flooded my inbox from families across the country all living with children with one hand.

You know, in my favorite musical, Wicked, at the end of the first act, the Wicked Witch of the West actually meets the Wizard of Oz. When she meets him, she finds that he cannot magically fix the problem that she has of the way that the world perceives her green skin. With this realization, she proudly steps into her true self and fully embraces the way that the world perceives her. I realized for the first time that I had gone into this competition all wrong.

Instead of my messaging being trying to be how very like everyone I really was, I should have been proudly embracing the reality of my difference. So instead of becoming Miss America, I became queen to an entire group of parents and kids desperately looking to change the perception around disability, to change the negativity I myself had fallen victim to. I think my favorite character from Wicked says it best: "I'm through accepting limits, 'cause someone says they're so."

Some things I cannot change, but till I try, I'll never know. Thank you. That was Nicole Kelly. Nicole spends much of her time in advocacy work. She's the co-creator and co-host of the podcast Disarming Disability, which aims to break down the stigma surrounding disability. Nicole has spoken at schools, universities, and corporations across the country about disability equity and inclusion.

That was our final story for this hour. But before we go, Aliza, what's a time you felt caught between worlds? I guess the real question is when's a time I don't feel caught between worlds. I've really come to realize that I'm not willing to squeeze myself into boxes anymore. We don't have to fit into a box that the world tells us we need to. We can be many different things at once and we can give ourselves permission to change and grow.

And I'm really excited to explore this topic even more with you on our new podcast from The Moth, Grown. The show premieres February 8th, and we hope you'll listen along. Yeah, we really do. Check it out. Check out the podcast. And that's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll tune in next week. And that's the story from The Moth. Your hosts this hour were Aliza Cosme and Fonzo Lacayo, the hosts of The Moth's upcoming podcast called Grown.

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Catherine Burns, along with Elisa Infonzo and Emily Couch. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick. The stories were directed by Meg Bowles, Jody Powell, and Chloe Salmon.

The rest of the Moths leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Jeunesse, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Leanne Gully, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza.

Special thanks to Melissa Brown, Mark Solinger, Anna Stern, and Devin Wilson. Most Stories Are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Moondog and Steve Fawcett. We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The

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.