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This autumn, fall for Moth Stories as we travel across the globe for our mainstages. We're excited to announce our fall lineup of storytelling shows. From New York City to Iowa City, London, Nairobi, and so many more, The Moth will be performing in a city near you, featuring a curation of true stories. The Moth mainstage shows feature five tellers who share beautiful, unbelievable, hilarious, and often powerful true stories on a common theme. Each one told reveals something new about our shared connection.
To buy your tickets or find out more about our calendar, visit themoth.org slash mainstage. We hope to see you soon. From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin-Ginness. It's been more than 50 years since the UN General Assembly adopted the convention to eliminate all forms of discrimination against women.
But I recently heard Melinda Gates say, while introducing a moth event, that based on current rates of change as measured by the World Economic Forum, U.S. women won't gain equality with men for another 208 years. We're making progress, but it's slow going. So the five stories in this hour are all about women claiming power.
Our first storyteller is Betty Reed Suskin. Betty's one of the oldest storytellers to grace the Moth stage. She told the story with us when she was 97. The story happens when she's 95 years old and her friends and family were telling her that she shouldn't be living alone and independent any longer. Here's Betty Reed Suskin live at the Moth in Missoula, Montana. The year was 2017.
And my friends were settling for Friday night bingo at the senior center. And I was a full-term permanent park ranger at Rosie the River Homefront National Historical Park in Richmond, California. But I had reached that age with problems that meant that I was, I'd outlived my sense of future and was involved in a grand improvisation. I was making up
life one hour at a time. I was meeting with my attorney, going over end of life issues in the morning, going to work, and then coming back to an exploding life. It was intense. I spent my days as a ranger doing things that rangers do, guiding tours. I was being involved in trainings. Of course, that takes most of our lives as rangers.
Trainings and CPR, in which I was most often the victim. Trainings with that defibrillator that's on the wall, just in case one of my visitors got in trouble. But also answering phones.
And that was tricky for me because I would answer the phone, Rosie the Riveter Home National Historical Park, to a visitor or a potential visitor wanting to make reservations to hear one of my programs because I was in the theater three to five times a week doing programs involving the history of that great place. They would say my mother or my grandmother
or my grandfather heard this woman and was excited and I want and she they would go on and on and I would feel more and more embarrassed and Betty would go more into the third person and by the time that telephone was over I would have gotten to the reservation books which is incidentally usually two or three months in advance and I they would say to whom am I speaking
And I would say, "Helen." And this became a joke among my colleagues. So much so that on one of my birthdays, someone, my supervisor, had a new brass ID tag that I wore above my other tags, which said, "Helen." And Helen became the persona that did all the things that Betty didn't have the nerve enough to do. And Helen was to become a strong feature in my life.
because my family was involved in concern and I was involved with those end-of-life issues and wondering whether living in an apartment alone was something I needed to go on doing. I had become a park ranger at the age of 85. I mean, who does that? But my sons were deeply concerned about my fact that I was living alone. I'd given up driving because my sight was failing.
But I didn't want my kids to have to wrestle my car keys out of my hand. So I was becoming, my life was becoming more and more constricted, right? But on June 30th, I woke in the night to a presence. I realized that there was someone in my bedroom. And I turned to see a man standing not six feet away with a small flashlight looking through my things.
I reached over to the nightstand where my cell phone was. Anyone would do that, right? To call the police. But my turning signaled him that I was awake. And within seconds, he had leaped across my bed, had wrestled me out of the bed, and flung my cell phone across the room. And I remember feeling grateful that neither of us was armed. Because had it been a gun, it wouldn't have lasted more than six seconds.
We wrestled in that room, this stranger and me. I screamed as loud as I could scream. He pinned my arms. My back was against his chest. And I remember, for some strange reason, realizing that my chin, my head ended at his chin and that he was probably 5'8", 5'10". It's amazing what comes to you in times like that.
We wrestled across the floor and when we got to the door of the hallway, I suddenly realized, even though I was still screaming, but my screens were being muffled by the fact that his arm was over my mouth. And I was to learn later that no one was hearing me anyway because the Downsdale apartment was empty. But as we got to the doorway of the hallway, I reached out and kicked his leg out from under him and we both fell.
I fell with my back on the floor and he was straddled with his knees on each side of my body, my torso. And his hands were freed up and he was trying hard to keep me from screaming. So he was pummeling my face with his bare fists. And I suddenly realized my hands were free and that he was wearing what was probably pajama pants because there was a drawstring underneath.
that I could feel, which meant that the family jewels were exposed. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered this magical thing and I reached in. I grabbed his balls and I squeezed as hard as I could. And magically he toppled over in a heap. And I was suddenly free.
I was right next to the bathroom door. I plunged my way through the door and sat with my back against the lavatory and my feet propped against the door so he couldn't get into me. And suddenly, suddenly I felt safe. I listened. I couldn't hear him. I couldn't hear anything. I don't know how long that session ended, but I suddenly realized that under the lavatory
was my electric iron. So I reached in, I pulled it out, stood up long enough to plug it into the wall and turn it up to linen. I was going to brand him for the police. It was still silent. And as soon as I felt it was safe enough, decided that he was gone, that my intruder was no longer there. I went in calmly, got myself into some clean pajamas, went out the front door, still with the iron in my hand now cooling,
Pounded my neighbor's door. Neighbors I had not met. Pounded on and suddenly Arthur Hadley, my neighbor who I'd never met, arrived and he opened the door, let me in, yelling to his wife, "Call the police, Helen!" That night, I think I received a gift that was unintended because when the police arrived,
and the city officials with them, and the police department was there because I'm a pretty noted figure in my city. They offered not only counseling, but to relocate me if I needed that to happen. And I suddenly realized, despite my kids' fears or even my own, that that intruder had given me a gift. That for the first time in my life, I knew that I'd been tested
not only survived, but prevailed. And I'm now 97, still living alone. Thank you. Thank you. That was Betty Reed Suskin.
Betty lives in Richmond, California, and her remarkable life of nearly 10 decades has included being an author, a composer and singer, political activist, historian, public speaker, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother. She's consistently reinvented herself, and she's one of my heroes.
Betty was named Woman of the Year by the California State Legislature and one of the nation's 10 Outstanding Builders of Communities and Dreams by the National Women's History Project.
After she told her story, I spoke with Betty in the green room in Missoula, Montana. Can you tell me a little bit about some of the special items that were in your jewelry box? Oh, the most important thing was that there was a small velvet bag, drawstring bag, into which the coin, challenge coin, was.
containing the presidential seal that had been presented to me at Christmas tree lighting ceremony in Washington, D.C. that Christmas before.
That was a crushing blow when I realized that that little velvet bag was gone. I think this was an impulsive thing on the intruder's part. I think he picked the little velvet bag up because it obviously had some coins in it. But that, I thought at the time, would have been irreplaceable. Now within about six weeks, the White House replaced that coin.
It came with a personal note from President Barack Obama. What did it say? It mentioned the intrusion, how sad that he and Shell were at what had happened, that he knew that I would survive it, best wishes, and...
That is framed now on my wall. I also asked Betty if anything else surprised her in the aftermath of the attack. I was surprised by how quickly the trauma left. I went in for two sessions with a highly recommended therapist and realized that the control was really mine.
that I was only going to get over this if I chose to. That I wasn't going to allow anybody or anything to interrupt the life as I was living it. And I called the mayor and told him I didn't want to be relocated. That I felt probably safer
in those few weeks after that attack than I had ever in my life before because everybody that knew me was looking out for me. My neighbors, my friends, my coworkers, everybody. I had a sense that I couldn't have been better protected, that there was no place in the world where I could have been safer. And to this day, I still feel that.
That was Betty Reed Suskin. To see a photo of Betty at Rosie the Riveter National Park and the Iron Woman mug that her colleagues gave her, go to themoth.org. When we're back, a Kenyan woman wonders why her name has to be so complicated. And a son tells us how his relationship with his mom changed only after her death. 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 Sarah Austin-Ginesse. We're hearing stories of women in this hour. What is in a name? Well, our next storyteller, Purity Caguiria, grappled with this question for the first 20 years of her life.
In Kenya, where Purity's from, it's common for people to have three names and for children to be named after the elders. But that's not exactly how Purity's story unfolded. Purity told this in a Moth Global Community Workshop that we taught along with the Ford Foundation during a convening of women leaders from around the world. Here's Purity Kogwiria live at the Moth.
When I was seven years old, I needed to get baptized. All this time I knew I had one name, Kagwiriya, but at the church they said I needed two names. I went home and asked my grandmother what name I should be baptized by, and she said, "Pick my name. Be called Elizabeth like me." And I said, "Hmm, that's too old. I'm still very young. I need to find a cooler name for myself."
I went back to church and the teacher's daughter gave me her name. She said, "After all, I was just baptized two months ago." So her name to me sounded very fresh. Therefore, I was baptized as Puritikagweria. Four years later, maybe five years later, I needed to do my high school final exam. And when I went to register, they said I needed a third name.
And this third name had to belong to a man. I needed to show that I belonged to someone. And all this time, no one had ever brought up the issue of me having a father. I knew that my grandmother's father was my father. After all, we all called him Baba. But then I knew that I couldn't pick his name. Again, this age thing was too old for me to pick his name. So I decided that I'd grown up hearing my mother's...
I had grown up hearing that my mother had a husband called Mutua, and I thought, what are the odds? I must be his daughter. So I picked this last name, went to school, and said, these are my three names. I got registered. Four years later, I needed to apply for my national identity card. And for me to do that, I needed to bring an identity card belonging to my father to show that I belonged to this man.
And here is a crisis because my mother had not talked to this man for so many years. And my mother was also missing. I had not seen her for at least three years. So there was no way I was going to go to this man to tell him to give me his ID. So my grandmother said, "Oh, I have a long childhood friend. You could go to -- I'm going to go to him, and he's going to give me his ID, and you're going to register for your identification." And that's what happened.
This man adopted me like on the spot. I became his daughter and registered for my ID. A couple of years later, I lost this identification card and needed to remember my father's name so that I can put it on the certificate on the application form. And I could not remember, my grandmother could also not remember the name of this man. And the man had since passed away.
I sat on the pavement in Nairobi and said to myself, "What could this man's name be?" And I guess his name must be Stephen. So I put Stephen Muchua as my father. And by the mercies of God, that was his name, so I got my ID back.
When I decided to get married at 29, I again had to decide what name I was going to go by. And the registrar said that I needed to drop this Mutua name and pick my husband's name. And at that point, I decided that I was going to stick with the two names that were on my birth certificate and the ones that I really chose for myself. This is Spiriti Kagweria. Thank you.
That was Purity Kaguiria. Purity lives in Kenya and is the executive director of Akili Dada, a leadership incubator for young women who are passionate about social change. Purity is also the mother of two boys. Here's what she wrote to us. I chose my sons' names with a lot of thought. Each of my sons has four names, so if they want to drop any, they have plenty to choose from.
I named my second son after myself, which is not a common practice here, but I did this as a feminist political act. Women are mostly excluded in their children's lineage because the children are only given the father's family name. And that's what I wanted to change. Our next story is a different angle on women and power. It's about powerlessness and a deeper understanding of a woman that came only after her death.
We met our storyteller, Timothy Bell, in a Moth Community Storytelling Workshop that we produced along with the Seattle University Project on Family Homelessness. He was homeless as a child before entering foster care, where he remained until he was 18 years old. After the storytelling workshop, Timothy developed the story for a Moth Night with the theme, Home Lost and Found. Here's Timothy Bell, live at the Moth in Seattle, Washington. Thank you.
So it's the middle of a bright, sunny Seattle day, and I'm clicking away on my computer, and I'm planning a vacation. And I get a call from my brother, and from the other end of the line I hear, she's gone, dude. It takes me a second to figure out what he's talking about, but he's talking about our mom. Our mom has passed away. And I get off the phone with him, and I finish planning my vacation. Things were always pretty complicated between me and my mom.
I remember a time when I was 12 years old and I was sitting in a department store toy aisle, just sitting on the tile floor there. I was playing with some action figures. I think I was testing their hip strength or something, ringing on their legs. And I was humming to myself and I was singing songs that I had learned in school. And all of a sudden, I feel this presence come up behind me and I feel this pain in my arm and it's her. And she's grabbed me from behind so hard that it leaves marks. And all of a sudden, she bends over and whispers into my ear,
When we get home, I'm going to hit you for drawing attention to us. And this is just sort of how it had always been with us. I grew up absolutely terrified of her, like she was the boogeyman. Just absolutely terrified throughout all of my childhood that I had done something wrong, that she was going to hit me again. And so in this moment, I say, you're not going to hit me. I'm going to knock you down and I'm going to burn the store down around you.
She looks at me kind of surprised and takes a step back and walks away and starts mumbling something about going to go get security and this is I knew in that moment I had lost that battle this is just sort of one of her moves was to like always get like authority figures adults on her side and then and then turn them against me and threaten me with like juvie or or just like, you know say that they're gonna like take me to jail or something like that and
In this moment, I just knew I had to go. I knew I had to be gone. I knew I had lost. And so I ran. And I ran out the front door of that department store, and I hopped on the first bike I could see. And this was not my bike. This was just somebody's bike, just the first one I thought I could pedal off on. And...
I'm pedaling just as fast as I can because I know I have to make it home before her and I know that I have to have to be able to get all of my stuff and go before she gets home before who knows before the police arrive and at this point I should mention that we had been homeless before and so packing all of this stuff together in kind of a go bag
That was no problem for me. I knew how to do that. I had what I like to think of as like perverted Boy Scout skills, and I knew how to live on the streets. I knew what I had to do to survive, and I knew what I had to grab and go. And so that's what I did. And I spent the next three months of my life homeless as a 12-year-old before I was eventually picked up and put into foster care. And so I can imagine you're surprised to find out that I canceled my vacation to find out that
I'm driving to her apartment that I walk into the front office of this, uh, the apartment manager and I ask for the key. And I'm a little surprised at myself that I care this much because
Up until this point we had almost no contact with one another. I might see her like once maybe twice a year just to check in on her and I don't know why I continue to check in on her but I guess I kind of look in on her like she's the little old lady next door that you're kind of worried that is like lifting boxes that are too heavy for her and so that's sort of our relationship at this point for many years and
I get the key from the apartment manager and I'm not quite sure what to expect. I haven't seen her in maybe over a year. And whatever I was expecting, that's not what was there. When I walk in the front door, I'm just sort of horrified. There is just stuff. There is stuff on top of stuff.
There is furniture on furniture and there's papers and like newspapers and printouts stacked on top of one another. Like there's just like stuff from floor to ceiling in piles with seemingly no order to them. And I'm just a little bit horrified by all this because this is going to be like days of work for me. And another thing I find is that there are like these narrow pathways around our apartment to get from room to room and so that you can like
you know shuffle your way through all this stuff and i make my way to her bedroom and that's where like there's this bare patch of floor that i'm able to work from and the reason that there's this bare patch of floor is that they they they had to cut out and by they i mean the coroner's office had to cut out the carpet around her body so that they could take her away you see she had
Been in her apartment and no one had noticed that she had passed away for several weeks And so they had to cut this this this carpet out just so that they could perform a proper autopsy and taking her away and this space was the only place that you could really get anything done that there was any way that you could sort through anything and so I'm in this space and you know, I'm getting a little bit pissed here because I'm here for days and and I
My keep pile of stuff is just it's not growing very fast and my throw away pile that's growing pretty darn fast and I'm starting to throw more and more stuff away when I come across this pile and this is like this is my pile this is my stuff and so I take a little bit more notice of this stuff and I start to open boxes and
There's like my baby teeth and there's like my baby blanket and there are like these Valentine's Day cards that I had written to her that say, "Mommy, I love you." And that was like the first time I think in my entire adult life that I realized that our relationship as I remember it hadn't been the way that it always had. That at some point I loved her and that she loved me. And then I find another note and this note says simply, "I'm bad."
I'm alone. I'm so sad. I wish I were dead. And this was the first time that I think I have ever thought about my mom as an adult in any way other than that boogeyman, something to be terrified by. And so in this bare patch, in this increasingly empty apartment, that's where I started to find home again. Timothy Bell lives in Seattle, Washington with his wife, whom he describes as "the best."
Tim has gone on to use these struggles from his early life to improve child welfare systems across the U.S. He now works with Casey Family Programs and the International Foster Care Alliance, devoting his time to children, youth, and families at risk of child welfare intervention. I asked Tim what he kept from the studio apartment, and he still has his mother's meticulous records from when his mom's parental rights were terminated. Here's what he had to say about that.
The case files I read are really heavy, but they have sort of given me a new perspective on my childhood. As I read through them, I learned more about her side of the story. She had traumas of her own and she had so many health issues. Better understanding her side of things, though, puts me in this funny position because while I don't forgive her as my mother, I do forgive her as a person who was just struggling to get by.
That was Timothy Bell. To see photos of Tim and his mother, go to themoth.org. When we're back, our final two stories. A young writer in Cameroon struggles to have her first novel published, and a new mother dispels the myths of childbirth. Watch out. 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 Sarah Austin-Ginesse. We have two stories left, and the next is all about inequalities that still exist. Musiteji Xavier, our storyteller, was part of a global community workshop where we work with advocates in Africa and Asia to craft personal stories. Xavier told us at a Moth main stage in Nairobi at the Kenya National Theater. Here's Musiteji Xavier live at the Moth.
Growing up in Cameroon, all I ever wanted to be was a writer. My parents' plan was for me to become an accountant and then get married in that order. But writing is the best way and sometimes the only way I know how to express myself. In school, I looked up to authors such as Mark Twain, Charles Dickens, Oscar Wilde, and Chino Achebe, most of whom were Western authors.
My role models were all men because at school we were only taught literature by men. I don't know if this was by design or if it was an oversight. I never imagined that a woman could be a writer, but I wanted to be just like these men when I grew up. I was 24 years old when I finished writing my first novel. I'd been writing the novel for about five years and I had to save money to pay for the publication of this book.
Because in Cameroon, self-publishing is the only option available to writers. We don't have book publishers. What we have are printing houses where the writer pays for the cost of printing. Writing this book was the hardest thing I'd ever done in my life. Because at the same time, I had to keep up with my studies at university, stay up nights trying to perfect my craft, and working part-time at a beverage company in order to save money. The pay was not good, by the way.
And I had to save up to 1 million francs CFA, which is around 2,000 US dollars. My parents did not always have the means to support me, which is why I learned to be resourceful at a very young age. They did not understand why I was so driven to become a writer either. When my mom came across me writing, she would sit down with me and say, you and this, you're writing. No man will want to marry you. Try and be like your mates.
I understood why my parents felt that way. They were concerned because writing is an unusual path to follow, especially for a woman in my culture. Regardless, I knew what I wanted, and I wanted to be a writer. I am the sort of person who believes that hard work and determination can get you anywhere in life. When I had saved up enough money, the first thing I did was to rush to a printing house with a lot of excitement. The manager of the printing house gave me this doubtful look and said...
She wrote a novel. What's it about? I said, it's a coming-of-age story exploring the life of a young girl in an all-girl West African boarding school. He said, wow, I would love to work with you, but you see, company law does not allow me to enter into contract with a woman without a male representative. I was confused. And I said, I wrote the book.
and I have the money to pay for the cost of printing, so what are you talking about? First of all, there are no laws in Cameroon that prohibit women from representing themselves. There are certainly no rules that state that a woman needs a male representative in order to sign a contract. But this guy was adamant and he said, "I am sorry, this is just the way that things are done in the printing business." Clearly, they had their own special set of rules.
It was not enough that I had written the book and saved the money. I needed a man to sign my contract for me. We argued for a while and then I got angry and I left. And I kept saying to myself that if he did not want to work with me, then I was going to find another printing house that was willing to. Having someone else's name on a contract that was supposed to be about my hard work would have taken away my sense of accomplishment.
So I pushed on, but two months, four printing houses, and four rejections later, I started to doubt myself. I started to wonder if hard work and determination was actually what it took to get anyone ahead in life. And I felt as if I had overestimated myself. And then one day, I confided in a friend of mine. I said to him, this whole thing is giving me a headache.
Maybe bringing in a man to sign the contract would be easier for me. He said, "Before you give up, I know this other printing house that I want you to try." The place he was suggesting was very far and I was reluctant to go. And I did not think that I had the stamina to withstand another no. But I decided to give it one last try. I had to take a six-hour bus ride from the northwest region to the central region of Cameroon in order to find this place.
I arrived in the morning. It had rained and the road was wet and slippery as I walked up to the building where the printing house was. When I knocked, I heard someone say, come in. I pushed the door open and sitting behind the desk was a woman. I had gone there expecting to find a man, but I was taken by surprise when I saw that the proprietor of the place was a woman.
Her office looked more like a living room. The place smelled like food and there were three little children playing with toys on the floor and she was yelling and trying to feed them. I immediately started thinking to myself, oh God, she's a woman, maybe she'll help me. But my idea of how the world works had shifted in a way that I also stopped myself from hoping too much in case she said no.
When I sat down, this woman said to me, welcome, my daughter, what can I do for you? I said, I wrote a novel and I want to print. She looked at me and said, you wrote a whole novel by yourself, but you're so young. I would love to work with you, but in order for that to happen, you know that you need a man to handle the contract for you, right?
And then she went on to tell me that her husband had just passed away. That is the reason why she was in charge of the business until her son was mature enough to take over. I was in tears when I said to this woman, I said, look, you are a woman like me. You of all people should understand why I am reluctant to have someone else speak for me. This is my dream and I want my name on my contract. I had hoped to appeal to her emotionally, but she still ended up saying no.
So I stood up and I walked to the door. I don't remember a time in my life when I felt more defeated. I was seriously considering giving up for writing, writing for good. I was tired of chasing a dream that clearly wasn't going to happen for me. And then this woman said, Xavier, come back. I came back and I sat across from her. She gave me this intense look and said, huh?
She reminds me so much of my daughter. She is so stubborn. And then she said, "We have never signed a contract with a woman before, but I will make an exception for you." It took me a while to digest her meaning. And when I did, I was filled with all these emotions that made me smile and cry at the same time. I could not believe that it was finally happening. I honestly cannot remember anything the woman said after that.
My hands were shaking when she reached into a drawer and brought out a printing contract for me to fill out and sign. I know that my story does not compare to signing a book deal with a known publisher. But for someone like me, considering where I grew up, signing that printing contract was a first big step for me.
That woman's decision to go against company rules just to give me a chance when no one else would, taught me never to give up. Her actions taught me that in addition to hard work and determination, that we all need a hand every now and then. My parents still don't get it, but recently they stumbled across positive reviews of my novel, and they seemed proud. This was six years ago.
And that woman's son runs a printing house now. And I am happy to say that he now works with male and female writers and that the rules and traditions are changing. Slowly but surely, more women writers have a chance. Thank you.
Music Teji Xavier is a Cameroonian writer and gender activist. Almost 2,000 copies of Xavier's first book, Fabiola, have been printed. And now she's working on a collection of true stories of women and girls with a fellow storyteller from the Moth Global Community Workshop. How cool is that? The plan is to compare the challenges faced by women and girls across the African continent. To find out more about Xavier's work, head to themoth.org.
Naya Abernathy is our last storyteller in this hour. She shared this at an open mic story slam in Washington, D.C., where we partner with public radio station WAMU. The theme of the night was Love Hurts, and she took the theme literally. And a note of caution, if descriptions of childbirth might bother you, come back to us in a few minutes. Here's Naya live at the Moth. So, uh, who do you think gets lied to the most?
I'm going to tell you who gets lied to the most. Pregnant women get lied to the most. I was told, you're going to love being pregnant, they said. It's going to be amazing, they said. You're going to forget all about all the feels of giving birth, they said. And I tell you, they lied. I was...
a little more than nine months pregnant and I was miserable, like in an inhuman way, never felt that miserable in my life. And if I had the ability, I literally would have reached into my body and pulled my child out because I was ready to not be pregnant. We had done all the things. I'd read the book about, I don't even remember what it's called, something about birthing naturally, basically telling you you could do anything. And I read this book and I thought, I...
I could give birth in the top of a tree if I had to by myself. I'm awesome. I'm a woman. I'm amazing. I was ready to kick labor and delivery in the teeth. And my due date came, and I went to my doctor, because my due date fell on my doctor date. And I was like, tell me, because I'd been waiting. I actually was waiting at like 36 weeks when they were like, well, I'm like, can I have her now? Is that possible? So I go to my doctor, and I'm like...
And she's like, "You're like half a centimeter." I'm like, "I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to talk to you anymore." So my wonderful mother was visiting me, and I was like rolling on the medicine ball because I was so uncomfortable. And she was like, "Why don't we go get a massage?" I'm like, "Fine." The wonderful man who gave me a massage, she said, "You're pregnant? When do you do?" I was like, "Two days ago." And he was like, "I'm going to massage you in all the ways they tell us not to massage pregnant women." I'm like, "God bless you." And that night,
I went into labor and I was ready. I was like, I've read the books and I watched the videos and I talked to all the ladies and I read all the right blogs and I know that you're supposed to breathe this way and you're supposed to stand. And my husband was my coach and he was like rocking with me and rolling with me and I was good. Like I got in the bath when we got to the hospital. I waited, I labored at home. I did all the things, right? And I'm like, I'm going to make it. This is awesome. I was like, and I'm going to go all natural. Bump the drugs. Don't nobody know drugs. I could give birth in a
birth and a treat. I don't need drugs. And I was doing all right. I was, you know, I was, you know, I was rolling. I said, one of the things they tell you is you, you feel the contractions like a wave and you just ride the wave of the contractions. And I did that for the first however many hours. And I'm like, yeah, it's good. It's all right. It's good. It's fine. And then I hit transition. And if you've ever given birth, when you hit transition,
"That's right, girl. Who said it? You better... I need to throw a handkerchief 'cause you better preach." It changes. I was like, "I'm good. We're gonna do this. This baby's gonna come out. No drugs." Nothing. I hit transition. I said, "Oh, that's why you asked for drugs. That's why. Okay, I understand." And, I mean, I was so ready to meet my child. We didn't find out whether it was born or girl. I didn't know who I was meeting. I was so excited. I was, "Oh, I just can't. I just want this baby to come. I'm so excited."
So I'm going and going and I hit transition and I've been cool, right? Like I'd been like, all right, I'm just going to walk around the room. I hit transition. I'm grabbing onto the bed. I'm rolling around on my back and on my side. My eyes are bulging and I literally look at my doctor and I'm like, make it stop. Please just make it stop. I really thought I had things together, but so after a lot of
pain, pushing and tearing. I got to hold this little child who completely changed my life. It really is like having your heart walk on the outside of your body. And I remember right after, while my doctor is stitching me up, I looked at my mother and I said, if I ever tell you I want to do this again, remind me of how I feel right now. Because
I'm not doing this ever, ever again. And I made it a point to remember the pain because I don't care what them ladies say. You going to remember this. I'm going to remember. But I have forgotten. And though that hurt the love of the second love of my life after my husband, it's so worth it. Worth it enough that I'm crazy enough to be thinking about doing it again. Oh, my God.
That was Naya Abernathy. Naya is founder of The Dignity Effect, where she helps people build a healthy emotional legacy through storytelling, coaching, and workshops. She lives in Atlanta with her family, and she says she feels infinitely more powerful after giving birth. At the time of this recording, Naya's daughter was three and expecting her little brother to be born any day. You can find a photo of Naya and her family at themoth.org.
So in closing, in this hour all about women and power, we at The Moth want everyone to be part of the conversation around gender equality, not just women. Together, we can change the story. So that's it for this episode of The Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time.
Your host this hour was Sarah Austin Janess. Sarah also directed the stories in the show with additional coaching in the Moth Community Program by Larry Rosen. The rest of the Moth's directorial staff includes Katherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, and Meg Bowles. Production support from Emily Couch. The Moth would also like to thank the Ford Foundation and the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation for their support of the Moth's Global Community Program.
Moth Stories Are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Dave Douglas, Ngu Bagayoku, Blue Dot, and Michael Hedges. You can find links to all the music we use at our website. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick,
at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is 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.
