The Moth Radio Hour: Unexpected Community
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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 your host, Chloe Salmon. Living in a city as big and busy as New York, I see hundreds of people a day who I know I'll never set eyes on again. Most of the time, we pass each other by without a second thought. But sometimes I'll find a meaningful connection where I least expect it.

The construction worker who saw me standing in tears next to my bookcase that was too large to fit through my new building store and offered to cut it down on the spot with his power saw. The woman who gave me her umbrella during a downpour when she saw that mine had broken. The man who stole my wallet and, I kid you not, promptly returned it to me upon seeing how pathetic and soul-weary I looked after an exhausting night at work.

Even though I'll probably never see any of those folks again, the brief moments we shared made an impact on me. And in this big and busy city, I think of them as friends. In this episode, stories of unexpected communities and the people who make them.

whether they're in our lives for a second or a season. Our first story is from Harwood Taylor, who told it at a story slam in Houston, where we partner with public radio station HPM. A note that this story contains a mention of suicide. Here's Harwood live at the Moth. So I love basketball, and I've loved it since I was 13, and I was a St. Ann's fighting shamrock player.

We were the fiercest greenery in all of Houston. I've loved basketball through my teens, my 20s, and my 30s. Around my mid-30s, I was playing in outdoor city parks, and I noticed that the guys and girls that were playing ball, they were faster, stronger than me, and I started to get hurt. And I thought, well, it's time to put the basketball down. So I put it down. Well, four years ago, four years ago, I was 50. I hit the jackpot.

I'm standing in line, there's a free movie Miles Davis preview thing with the party and the guy I'm standing in line with, I strike up a conversation with, I said, "What do you do for fun?" He says, "I play basketball." I immediately size him up, I'm like, "This guy's 10 years older than me." "10 years older than me." I said, "With who?" He says, "With a bunch of guys around my age. Our kids all went to the same school and we used the gym." Well, in my head, I'm already playing with them. I mean, it's a full court, it's wooden, it's

air-conditioned full court. I'm like, "Y'all play full court basketball, guys your age." He says, "And older." I said, "You know, that's the kind of group I feel like I could be really competitive with." He says, "You're welcome to come anytime. I've been going every week for the last four years, twice a week, and I absolutely am having a ball." Communication is critical in basketball. When you're younger, it's the difference between having a good team and a bad team. And without going into semantics and some talk about what that is,

One thing is a pick. And when you're playing as a young person, you want to win. When you're playing as a 50-year-old person or a 54-year-old person, I play carefully. And I play in a way that I can play again. Right. So...

So this guy is supposed to call out a pick. And a pick, calling out a pick is just saying, you know, Harwood left, left pick or something like that. I didn't hear that. And what that means is I'm about to run into somebody kind of full speed. And when I ran into this guy, he just caught me right under my rib cage and it pushed all the air out of my lungs. And in my 20s, I'd have been cool. I'd have choked a little bit. I'd have been back on the court, probably played for another hour. They're like, you okay? And I'm like, nope, not okay. Okay.

Done. Done tonight. I was done that night. I was done for another week. Chiropractor, six weeks later, I'm back on the court. I walk in and I see this new guy. And I'm like, you know, I'm gonna say hi to this guy 'cause when I was new, people said hi to me. And as I'm walking up to him, he just looks like the weight of the world is on him. And I know depression. I've fought it myself. And as I'm getting closer, I'm like, wow, he has that don't F with me body language. And the last thought I had,

was he probably is the kind of guy no one approaches. So for all those reasons, I said, hi, I'm Harwood. I hadn't seen you here before. I just thought I'd introduce myself. And he says, you know, actually, my kids went here. I'm not new. I just hadn't played in 10 years and just came back. And so everything he's saying, by the way, is so slow and heavy. And I'm like, well, what do you do outside of basketball? He says, well, I used to have a business. I just sold it.

So I'm still trying to lift him up. I'm like, "You just sold your business. That's a good thing, right?" He said, "Yeah, it's a good thing." I said, "What are you going to do now?" He said, "That's part of the problem. I really don't know." I said, "Well, you're going to play basketball." And he smiles and he said, "Yeah, I'm going to play basketball tonight." I don't remember anything else about that night, you know. Two weeks later, I get the regular email from Mike. And he says, "You know, game is on tonight." He's just telling us because there's not going to be a PTA meeting or a school play or something, chairs on the basketball court.

And if you're coming tonight, come early. I want to make an announcement. So we show up early. He gathers everybody at center court and he says, I didn't want to send this in an email. He says, Steve committed suicide. I didn't know this guy. And he said, listen, I know we're just playing basketball here, but I want you to know if there's something going on with you, you can talk to me. And from now on, when I send these emails out, I'm going to send them so you can see everybody's email. We need to be able to reach each other. And it changed me.

I'm busy like everybody, you know, and we finish late and guys would ask that I don't know to go to dinner or something like that. I always said no. I say yes now. And last night I was playing with these guys and Mike's one of the guys, the guy that sends the email out. He's one of the older guys. He's 65, I think. And it used to anger me because they don't warm up. And I'm like, dude, you're twice as old as I am. You need to warm up. You're going to get hurt.

And they're just shooting, you know, just shooting the shit. They should be shooting around. They're just talking. And then, you know, I thought, well, maybe that's why they come. And maybe that's the most important part. Thank you. Harwood Taylor is the gallery director of Elio Fine Art in Houston. He still plays basketball with those same men and has lost count of the number of pickup games they've played together.

He says that he's found a lot of beauty in seeing everyone's lives unfold in increments over the course of the last decade, simply through their love of basketball and the community they share by continuing to show up for each other week after week. If you or someone you know needs help, the Suicide Crisis Lifeline is free, confidential, and available 24/7. You can reach it by dialing 988.

To see a picture of Harwood and the guys in action, head over to themoth.org. Next up is Julia Kaju. She told this story in Troy, New York, where we partnered with Troy Savings Bank Music Hall. Here's Julia.

When I was 21, I was living with my older sister in Montreal and attending McGill University. For those of you that don't know, Montreal is a French-speaking city in Canada, where I'm from. And I was really drawn to Montreal because, you know, it has this European vibe. And

I was hoping that some of that would maybe rub off on me because I had big dreams of living a fabulous French life I had made the decision to live with my older sister because I think I'd seen too many American movies about college frat parties and binge drinking and I just sensed that that wasn't for me and

But the unfortunate result of that decision was that I hadn't really made any friends and I was pretty cut off from campus social life. So instead of going to really any parties at all, my life consisted of going to school, going home to study, and the highlight of my week was watching Dawson's Creek on Friday nights with my sister.

And like most college kids, I was broke and I needed a job. So I had an older brother living in the city and he was leaving his position and he said that I could just take over for him. And it didn't matter that I had no skills and no experience. And this is the only time in my life when nepotism has worked for me.

So that's how I came to be the newest, coolest bartender at the Manoir Westmount, a retirement home for well-to-do seniors. So this bar, and I use that term loosely, was only open three days a week and only from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m.

And I know some of you might be questioning, you know, is it okay to get the elderly intoxicated? But remember, this is Montreal, and there's two things you'll never take away from the French, booze and cigarettes, not at any age. But still, it was probably a good thing that management had a strict two-drink-max policy.

So I would arrive for my shift at around 3:30 and that was the queue for all the seniors to go upstairs and dress for dinner.

So they would go up in their leisure suits, and they would come down just dressed to the nines. You know, the gentlemen would be in their dress pants and their collared shirts and their suit jackets, and the ladies would be in heels, stockings, skirts, and dresses. And...

For the most part, you know, the drink orders were very simple. Johnny Walker for the men and a dainty glass of sherry for the ladies. I liked the job. It was really easy. You know, it required very little of me. I could show up.

pour a few drinks, make a few pleasantries, and then my patrons would take their drinks to the tables around the dining hall, and they would sit together and drink together, and I would just sit back at the bar and watch. And it kind of felt like just watching a TV show, like the least dramatic reality show imaginable.

But a few months into the job, a new resident showed up and her name was Margaret. And I could tell that Margaret was different right from the beginning. That first day when Margaret came to the bar, I noticed that she was not dressed like the other women. Margaret was wearing loafers, slacks, a blouse, and a stiff cardigan that looked like a suit jacket. Margaret

hopped up on the bar stool, spread her legs real wide under the counter, and just made herself at home. She looked very comfortable on a bar stool. And she watched while I poured a few glasses of sherry for the other women. And then when it was her turn, she looked at me and she said, I'll have a gin martini, very dry, shaken, two olives.

Did I mention I had zero bartending experience? Up until this point, the most complicated thing I'd ever done to a drink was put ice in it.

So, Margaret clocked the fear in my eyes in a second. She hopped off the bar stool, came around to my side, started shuffling through the bottles. She found the gin, she found vermouth, a cocktail shaker, everything. And she proceeded to show me very quickly how to make the perfect gin martini. When she was done, she went back around to the other side, hopped back on the bar stool, and proceeded to drink her drink.

And I felt very uneasy because none of the other residents had ever done this. They would always take their drinks and go away. But Margaret stayed. So as Margaret and I made small talk that first afternoon, I felt myself sort of being pulled uncomfortably from the sidelines. I quickly discovered that Margaret had a naughty sense of humor. One day, while sipping her martini, she asked me,

Did you ever hear what Dorothy Parker said about martinis? Now, at this point in time, I had a vague idea of who Dorothy Parker was, but I needed to go home and do a Google search. So in case you don't know, Dorothy Parker was a writer, intellectual, humorist, working in the 20s, 30s, and 40s. She was like a real it girl of her time. So Margaret asked me, have you ever heard what Dorothy Parker said about martinis?

And I said, "No, Margaret." "What?" "I like to have a martini." "Two at the very most." "Three, I'm under the table." "And four, I'm under my host." Margaret burst out laughing, and I joined her. From that day on, Margaret would repeat this question to me nearly every time she came to the bar.

And every time I would play along and play dumb and say that I'd never heard it before and we would always laugh together at the punchline. And I wasn't too sure if this was our shared inside joke or if Margaret, like so many of the other residents in the home, was having trouble with her memory because a lot of the people there were showing some early signs of dementia.

But Margaret and I would, we'd talk about our lives together and it always seems like the past was easier territory for Margaret. So that's mainly what we stuck to. I learned that Margaret had been a professor at the university where I was studying and that she'd never married and never had kids. And she didn't talk about those things as if they were tragedies.

And I remember thinking, wow, Margaret is a badass. So life continued on in pretty much the same way. You know, I was going to school, I was going to work at the bar, and I was coming home to study, and Dawson's Creek on Friday nights. But you know, now it was nearing the end of the school year, and I was feeling restless.

You know, my fabulous French life still hadn't shown up yet. And I was feeling like I needed to figure out my signature drink like Margaret and blaze a trail. But I really didn't know how to make this life that I was imagining happen. And I was feeling really stuck and frustrated and lonely. And I didn't really have anybody to talk to about any of it.

So with all of this weighing on me one day, I went to work. And Margaret came to the bar, and she ordered her martini. And I just wanted to be left alone with my bad mood. But of course, Margaret asked me the question, "Did you ever hear what Dorothy Parker said about martinis?" And I just snapped, "Yes, Margaret! You tell me all the time!" And Margaret's face just fell. She looked embarrassed.

and sad. And I felt terrible. And I wanted to say something in that moment, but I just froze and I didn't say anything. And for the first time, Margaret took her martini and she went to sit at a table and she drank alone. And I stayed back at the bar alone and watching. I went home that night and I just felt terrible about it. It felt like maybe I had robbed Margaret of something.

like maybe the one moment in her day where she felt like her old self, just a smart, witty woman having her favorite drink at the bar and chatting up the cute bartender. And with that one thoughtless remark, I had turned her into a sad old lady with memory problems.

It made me realize how special Margaret had become to me for reasons that I couldn't quite put my finger on yet, but I sensed that it had something to do with catching a glimpse of a person who had actually lived that fabulous French life that I was only dreaming about. I knew that I needed to apologize to Margaret, but it was several days until my next shift. So I waited, feeling anxious and nervous,

And when the day finally came, I went into work ready to face Margaret. She came to the bar, ordered her martini. I made it for her. And just as I was sliding it across the counter to her and getting ready to say I'm sorry, she looked at me and she said, "Did you ever hear what Dorothy Parker said about martinis?" And I felt so relieved. And I took the out. "No, Margaret." "What?"

And I'm not even sure if that was Margaret's way of forgiving me or if she simply didn't remember how I'd snapped at her the week before. But either way, it was a moment of grace that I've always been thankful for. After that, Margaret and I continued as we had before, only now I was really making efforts to be present with her.

I wasn't going to sit on the sidelines anymore. I was going to be with my friend. So now it was summertime and I was really feeling ready to take a small step into my life. So I made the decision to quit the bar job and look for something a little less geriatric. I told my boss that I was leaving and on my last shift he announced my departure to all of the residents.

I said some polite goodbyes and for Margaret, I gave a hug and said, "I'll miss you." As the new school year began, I got a job working at the campus bookstore. And I was hoping that that would help me make some friends. And to a degree, it worked. I made friends with my coworkers and became pretty recognizable to everyone on campus.

And after that, it became harder and harder to stay on the sidelines. I would love to be able to say that my fabulous French life just showed up after that. But of course, it's taken many, many years and countless small steps to build a life that I love. I think meeting Margaret planted a seed in me. And that's why I've never forgotten her or the Dorothy Parker joke. I guess I'm just a late bloomer.

But I'm happy to say that I am now the sort of woman who likes to have a martini, two at the very most. Thank you. That was Julia Ketchu. She's a kindergarten teacher living in Troy, New York, with her two teenagers, an anxious old dog, and an indifferent cat. If the stars align, she hopes to one day be an eccentric old lady who rides a motorcycle and adopts senior dogs. I'm sure all with a martini in hand.

Speaking of martinis, Julia confessed that the one and only time she broke the two-drink-max rule at Manoir Westmount was for, you guessed it, Margaret. She finally convinced Julia to pour her just one more, praised her for her daring, and then promptly left the martini untouched so the rule wouldn't really be broken. ♪

After the break, a woman who decides not to celebrate her birthday is in for a surprise when the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX.

This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Chloe Salmon. Some of my favorite moth communities are the audiences at our open mic story slams. Slams are a little unpredictable. No one knows what exactly they're about to hear or who's up next. That uncertainty can create a spark of camaraderie that catches quickly and, at its best, crackles up to the storyteller to give them an extra boost of courage when they take the stage.

It's like, for these next two hours, we're all in this together, even though it's likely we'll never cross paths again. It's a little bit of magic that each person in the room can carry home with them. That magic showed up for our next storyteller, Sandra Kouawou, who told her story at a Story Slam in Boston, where we partner with public radio station WBUR. Here's Sandra.

So I was not expecting to go first. And also recently I was listening to the podcast and they said that if your name is picked first, statistically you are less likely to win tonight. But that's okay. My heart is beating out of my chest. But I've been bugging my friends all month to be here to tell this story. And I'm shaking. But bear with me. Thank you.

June 14th, 2007, my 16th birthday. I love celebrating my birthday, but this particular year, I was very sad. So on this particular day, I was laying on the ground looking very the way most of us did look in 2020. Unshowered, hair on brush, tangled up, listening to sad songs, and really basking in misery the way teenagers know how to,

And I was home with my siblings and my parents gifted me a herd of siblings who are always fighting, doing something, breaking something. But on this particular day, they must have sensed that I just needed a day to be sad and I needed the house to be quiet because the house was quiet and none of my siblings were in sight and that never happens.

So I'm there playing the sad song, the same sad songs over and over again. Unfortunately, I don't remember which ones, but yeah, I had a few back in the day. So suddenly the doorbell rings, breaking the silence. And I was mad. I was like, I just needed a day to be alone and sad and listen to sad song. Who dare ring the doorbell?

So one of my siblings run to me and she says, Sandra, Gloria is here. And I'm like, what is Gloria doing here? And well, I had to go find out. And I go there, I opened the door and there she was, my best friend, Gloria with her sister, Kelia. And she said, it's your birthday. We're here to celebrate.

And I'm like, "I've decided to no longer celebrate my birthday." "Did you not get the memo?" Clearly she did not because she was at my door with her sister and she had gifts in her hands. So I had to let her in. So she was like, "Sondra, you need to get yourself together."

So yeah, so she rushed me. She's like, is there anything to eat at the house? I was like, no. Saturdays is typically when my grandmother brings in this food and all this stuff. So we didn't have much. So we had some rice and corned beef. And I don't mean the one you eat on Sempadi's day. I mean the one that's in the can. I'm talking spam. It's basically spam.

So we have rice, spam, and I think a piece of yam that we ended up frying. So we made this rice. And after we made all this random food and we're sitting and eating, I suddenly realized that

Not only did we all come together, my siblings, Gloria, Kelly, to make this meal that suddenly we're all enjoying and having a good time. And I realized that my birthday is not necessarily about me. It is about me. I am the focal point of my birthday, but my birthday is about the people in my life. Now I have to backtrack the story to explain to you all why I decided not to celebrate my birthday when I turned 16.

You see, my mom died the month I turned 15, and that shattered me. Like, I no longer felt safe in the world, and the world became a place that I was in, but I was out of. And for that reason, I felt like my life was basically worthless, because the one person that gave meaning to my life was my mom, and she

She was taken away and I never saw it coming. It was like I was blindsided. I was hit by a truck full of glass. And all that glass was inside of me, but I got to go on and show up in the world. I had no hope left.

No joy, no hope. I just had to go through the motions of my life. And that's why I felt like my birthday was no longer worth being celebrated. And what happened that day is that Gloria showing up to celebrate my birthday gave me hope. Hope when I had none. She reignited a light that was eternal.

very dimmed. And, uh, it was just, um, a tiny little light at that time, but over time it really carried me through. And, uh,

I also realized that while we were sitting there eating the cheapest meal you could eat on your birthday, I realized that celebrating my birthday is also celebrating my mom because she gave birth to me and my being alive is a testament of her life. And since then, I've gone on to celebrate my birthday. And some years are more spectacular than others.

And today is my birthday. I'm a German, so I'm going to ask you all to sing me happy birthday because I have five minutes. I still have a few minutes? Okay, go on. That was Sandra Kouawou. After a decade working in social services, Sandra switched gears and is currently pursuing her master's in cybersecurity.

She and Gloria are still tight, even though they aren't always living in the same place. Every year, Gloria sings her happy birthday via voice message. Sandra also does her best to make her own birthdays special. One year, she took a solo trip to Iceland, and another, she walked 30 miles to celebrate entering her 30s. That night, she told her story she had decided last minute to scrap her fancy dinner plans and ask her friends to join her at the slam instead.

The theme was birthdays, after all. Her name was the first one pulled out of the hat, and the rest is birthday history. To see a photo of Sandra and Gloria together, head over to themoth.org. In a moment, an artist becomes a part of the block after starting to paint a community mural. When the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Chloe Salmon. In this episode, we've been listening to stories of the connections we find where we least expect them. Our final story comes to us from Jose Faust, who told it at the Folly Theater in Kansas City, where we partnered with public radio station KCUR. Here's Jose. A few years ago,

I was commissioned to paint a mural at a busy intersection in kind of a dicey neighborhood, let's say. It's a part of the city that I've known very well. But it's one of those things where you think about marginalized communities. There's a lot of crime. Neglect is chronic. The wall was constantly vandalized with graffiti, bad, vile. The owner would come out and slap paint on it, cover it up.

He didn't care what color he had. Sometimes the cure was worse than the disease. This part of Kansas City is called the Old Northeast. It's kind of like the gateway for immigrants and refugees from all over the world. And like many mixed communities, it endures the neglect of city officials, planners, financial institutions, and people who give up and turn their backs, close themselves off in their house.

But it's a community vibrant, full of people who get up every morning, go to work, put 10 of their children to school, invest in mortgages, pay their debts, celebrate life, and honor death. In short, they live full lives, full of hope and sacrifice. I wanted to honor that. I've worked in that area. I've painted two murals there before. I also worked as a youth advocate there.

and I did interpretations for Medicare, Social Security, and the courts. I spent a lot of time there. I felt like I was going to be given a chance to give back to a community I had adopted. One day, we go to the site, sponsors, community stakeholders, and we're taking kind of a review of it. It's a wall, three walls, street level, and we start talking about what are the things that you could find in common to celebrate, to put up on that wall.

And as we're talking logistics and we're talking about plans, an old man comes running out of his house that borders one of the walls. And he asks, what's going on? And I tell him, I'm going to be painting a mural on this building over here. And I was thinking maybe I could paint something on your wall on this side. And he was incensed. You know, he just was troubled.

He was convinced that a mural on that wall was just going to be an iteration of everything else that extended on down the sides of the street from him. All the graffiti that was there, visible on every exposed wall. Over his dead body was somebody going to paint anything on his wall. And he pointed to the garden, full of blooming color and plants. And he says, that's art. I was taken aback because I thought I could relate to the old man. He was an artist and the garden was his canvas. But I understood his wariness.

And reluctantly, I told him and promised him I would not paint anything on that wall. But I commended him on his flowers. It was time to start the mural. It's a brick wall, a surface that I love to paint. Easy as heck, right? But the first week there, I do nothing but scrape, power wash, tuck point, put brick back in. I try to patch it the best that I can. And finally it's done, I prime it. Then I'm nervous as hell.

Because if there's one big temptation out there for any bad tagging, it's a wall. White, inviting, pristine, come and paint me. I'm nervous that night, but I get there real early, and the wall is clean and inviting. I immediately pull out paint, and I start sketching, I start painting, I start claiming it. We had decided on this idea of painting an open-air market.

Those things to me are the greatest gathering places for people of all nationalities. You want to know who lives in your town? Go to an open-air market. Sit, watch, and listen. We were going to paint, I was going to paint, and actually I started putting in stalls with fruits and vegetables and plants. And I had people in there selling and buying.

I was standing there one morning by myself and I started sketching these two Somali women on the wall. All of a sudden I hear a gasp behind me and I turn around to see this woman coming running out of the store across the street and she's got a picture in her hand and she's begging me, pleading me, please can you put me and my sister on the wall and the picture is her and her sister in their traditional Somali dress and I jump out and say yes and I take a picture of my phone. A few days later I hear a voice. That's a pretty mural on that wall. I turn around

And I see this young woman sitting on the curve in front of the Somali store. Soiled shirt, worn denim, frayed at the bottoms, barefoot. She tells me about how hard things are and how nice it is to see something pretty on that wall. I notice she keeps bending over her hand to her stomach. I say, you okay? Oh, I'll be good. My old man hit me so hard the other day I spent two days in the ICU. I'm stunned at the ease with which he says it.

I said, "Maybe you're not so good. Maybe you should go to the hospital." She said, "No, I'll be good. I'm just hungry is all." I offer her my lunch and she eats it quietly. Later after she leaves, I take her features and I draw them on the wall as an Amish woman selling her goods to the Somali sisters. There are times when you're painting the wall where the heat takes you down. The body just doesn't want to respond. You want to give up. Your brain starts to slow down. You need a kickstart. In those moments,

It's when I find the personal things I'll put on that wall. I had a cat that had rescued from the street a few years before, ten years before. He had been hit by a car. He died while I was painting that mural. And I decided I was going to put him front and center to be there for me as I finished this mural. So I put him right in the middle of the wall. There was Mr. Jones back on the street in the same way that I had found him. I continued to paint the wall.

I had many beautiful things happen, people would come by. Some people would bring me food, give me refreshments, encouragement, questioning why, what's going on here, what is this about? And that kept me going. There was a point where you know the mural is getting done. Up until that point, you can change, add, subtract, take anything from it. But the minute you accept that it's done, it's no longer your wall. It is the gift that you're giving back to your community.

There's a celebration, an unveiling of the wall. The cameras gather in the light of the attention. Important people get up, say, "Hey, what a great project this is." I mingle with the people that have captured and put on that wall. We share refreshments, tell stories. I accept their appreciation. I sign the wall. A few weeks later, I drive by.

And I notice that the neighborhood association has put these large planters and has flowers in them, and they're sitting adorning the wall, beautifying it. And as I pass by, I happen to look in my rear view mirror, and I see the old man. The old man who was convinced that that mural was going to just create more graffiti, carrying two large water jugs. I mention this to somebody, and they say, "Yeah, that old man? Hell, he's adopted the wall. He sits there all day and just makes sure the flowers are good. He brings out a chair and sits down and watches people going by."

In disbelief, I decide to go pay him a visit. I knock on his door. He enters and invites me in. The house smells old, ancient, musty. But it's full of light, and I'm surprised. The windows are all open, and there's this breeze flowing through. He bakes up some tea, serves it to me. We sit in his parlor, and he tells me about his life. He's an immigrant, like me.

He's also an artist, a musician. He played the organ, you know, those kind that you see in symphony halls and big cathedrals. He pulls out pictures and clippings. And as we sit there, he starts to tell me about his love of gardening and how important it is for him and flowers have meant so much to him. And I can tell because right now in late fall, his yard is ablaze with color, mimicking the color I put on the wall. I tell him, I promise him,

that I'll come back and visit as I leave. And on the one time that I do come back, he's not there, but his garden has bloomed so righteous, it's overpowering the colors that I've put on the wall. I go by the mural less and less, and one day I get a frantic phone call. "Hey, what happened to your mural?" Not expecting much, I decide to drive on over there, and I'm shocked when I find nothing. The people that own the building

Came out and had a guy spray the wall. It's turned it all gray. There's no explanation. I decide to go around the corner to talk to the old man, but as I turn the corner, I see his garden is bare. It's overgrown. I know he's no longer there. And I'm pissed. But then something starts to happen. Something like acceptance. This whole time that I've been painting this mural, that I've been thinking that I've been giving this thing to them like a gift that something has to be shared with them,

And in that pain and in that heat when my body's just bent over and I can't get up anymore and I'm trying to push myself through, that was driving me. But I also began to understand that I give as much as I will receive. I'm thinking about another wall in another place, similar dynamics. I'm standing on a scaffolding and I'm looking down. We kept a tip jar on the floor for beer and money. And I notice this man kind of making his way towards the jar.

I come down from the scaffolding, trying to head him off. Protect the jar. But he stops well short of it. He's not even noticing, really. And then he yells at me, "What the hell are you doing?" I'm painting a mural. He says, "Ah, hell, I know that. But what do you think you're doing?" I don't answer. I'm not sure where the conversation's going. He looks at me and he says, "Nobody's ever cared for us. Nobody has ever done anything like that for us here." He walks past me. I notice he's got tears on his eyes.

A few yards down, he turns around and he says, Thank you, brother. Thank you for that. Turns and goes away. And in that moment, I realized I was not given a gift. I was being given a gift. I believe in the power of art as a catalyst for transformation. But I've come to accept the impermanence of things. And even then, I know an unquestionable truth. Without art, life is barren. applause

Jose Faust is a visual artist, writer, and teacher who explores the role of artists as catalysts for community building. He was born in Bucaramanga, Colombia, and now lives in Kansas City. If you're ever visiting KC, keep an eye out for his murals. You can spot them on buildings all over town, and they're pretty spectacular.

Jose kindly took some time to chat with me about the world of mural painting and his experiences in it. I've seen some of his murals. They're large pieces that clearly take a lot of time and effort to complete. And I was curious about what drives him to keep creating them. I can only liken it to the first time I really had the experience of how nice it would be to see art in the street. I was in the

New York City, I was at the Museum of Modern Art. I came into a room and right there in front of me was the complete intact Guernica by Pablo Picasso. And I remember just not even being prepared because I didn't know. I had only seen a small picture of it in the art books. But here it was in full bloom in the big wall up there, the MoMA. And I remember I just slid down with my back against the wall and just sat there looking at it.

And I remember distinctly thinking, that feeling of surprise, that's what I would love to see. And you don't have to go to a gallery to see it. I want to see that in the street. And that just reinforced it for me. Jose was actually in the process of finishing up a new mural in the town of Peabody, Kansas, when we had our conversation. When I asked him if his feelings around the bittersweet nature of finishing a piece have changed over the years, he had this to say. No, it is amazing.

Profoundly bittersweet. It literally is because I know that sometimes I'm there a month, sometimes I'm there two or three weeks. It's length, it's time. And I know that when this is done, these people, their routines won't be my routine anymore. When you're painting a wall, like the one I'm painting right now down in Peabody, there's a lady that walks by every time at 10 o'clock. She's on her way to the Senior Citizen Center.

and by 1:30 she's walking back to her house which is like right next door behind the grocery store those rhythms disappear those moments where she'll yell Jose how are you or I'll notice her and I'll say hey Cynthia how's it going you know those little moments they cease to exist they they stop in memory for the moments I'm painting I'm very aware of people's rhythms and routines right and it's almost like being brought in into a private moment

And I think that's beautiful. That was Jose Faust. And that's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. Thank you to our storytellers for sharing with us and to you for listening. I hope you'll join us next time. And that's the story from the Moth.

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Chloe Salmon, who also hosted and directed a story in the show. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer, Emily Couch.

The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Leanne Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Caza. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Tuba Skinny, Corey Wong and John Batiste, Henry Mancini, Dickie Nolan, and Victor Wooten.

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.