The Moth Radio Hour: When the World Shifts
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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 main stage 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 Brandon Grant from The Moth, and I'll be your host this time. In this hour, we bring you four stories about seismic moments and subtle shifts. An expectant mother finds power in trusting her body. A young artist follows her heart through divorce. A woman recalls the impact of a hurricane.

And in our first story, acclaimed Jamaican author Marlon James reflects on his time as a junior exorcist. A quick note, there is some reference to sexual awakening in this story. Marlon told this at a Moth main stage in St. Paul where we partner with Minnesota Public Radio. Here's Marlon James live at the Moth. So it's teenage Christian summer camp. But I'm not a camper, I'm the camp marshal.

And what that usually meant was that whenever there were congregations of people of different genitalia, I would show up with a ruler and just go, "Make space for Jesus." And my genius was that I could appear anywhere.

If somebody with male genitalia ended up anywhere near someone with female genitalia and they move within 11 inches of each other, I showed up in between and went, make space for Jesus. And I was pretty good at this. But it wasn't until one service where I realized what my true talent was. It was six o'clock. It was a second service. It was two services because we were devout like that.

In the middle of church, in the middle of this service, a 14-year-old girl, 14 or 15-year-old girl starts screaming. She's screaming. She's hollering. She's running around the church. If you know anything about my church, that is normal behavior. But she's screaming at a pretty high volume. And the guest preacher, who's from Texas, so I figure he knows his stuff. Um...

He comes towards her to touch her, and she just yells and runs straight out of the church. She dashes out of the church. And without even thinking, I dashed straight after her. And she collapses. She collapses to the ground, and I catch her, and I'm holding her down. And the pastor comes up and says, you know, by the power of Jesus, I cast you out. And this little 14-year-old girl develops the strength of a linebacker.

And I am holding her down and he's praying and he's casting out demons. And he's saying, by the spirit of Jesus, I cast you out. And she looks at me and goes, I'm not coming out. And before I could lose my shit, the pastor says, no, by the authority of Jesus, I cast you out. And he does some more authorizing and lays hands. And she squeals, she screams, she shouts.

And then she just sort of collapses in my arms and opens her eyes and she looks straight at me and straight at the pastor. And she was fine. She was a 14-year-old girl again. And with that, I became a junior exorcist. Now, there are things you need to know about demons. Demons don't possess you. They influence you.

Most of the time, they can't read your thoughts, but most of the time when they're talking, you think it's you. And demons don't need you to believe. And I was very good as a junior exorcist. I was the devil driving muscle. But even during that and becoming really, really good at this, there were always things that were plaguing me.

and things I was struggling with. And, you know, it's two o'clock in the morning and you're on a website you shouldn't be on. And you're, you know, I am having all these feelings and I'm having these things that I'm seeing and I'm seeing all these men and they're always naked. And I'm thinking I'm having all these struggles, these demons. And I'm thinking, you know,

I can't wrestle from all the sexual sin, so it must be demons. And there's this abundant life I'm supposed to be living in church, and I'm not living it. Demons. And, you know, I am thinking of George Clooney, and he's not wearing any clothes. It must be demons. But more than that, more than that, I realized something, that I wanted to be a normal person so badly.

Actually, that's not true. I didn't want to be a normal person at all. I wanted to want it. I didn't want marriage and a family and kids. I wanted to want that. I didn't want to be acceptable. I wanted to want acceptance. I didn't want to wake up in the morning with my family and we're eating Cheerios and I asked how was band practice. I wanted to want these things.

And I wanted to be normal so badly, it didn't care if I wasn't happy. And I got to the point where I realized as a junior exercised that I needed to be exercised. So I called my best friend at the time who conveniently was a pastor.

And I said, you know, I think I need to be delivered. Because in charismatic churches, we call them deliverances, not exorcism. I know you thought squeal like a pig. But so I call, you know, and my exorcism date was set up. And I headed to another church because word couldn't get out that the exorcist was being exorcised.

And so I went to this other church and there was a room. It was a small like 12 feet by 12 feet room. It was beige. There were small windows at the top. It looked like prison. And I was thinking even at that point, I can leave. I can go. I can get out of this place. Nobody will know. Nobody will care.

And just when I'm thinking that, a man and a woman come in and they sit down. And looking at them sitting down made me look at the floor. And on the floor were two big black garbage bags. And the man says to me, tell me about yourself.

And I have a script when anybody asks me that. I go into how I love my dad but I hate him and we're not together, we're not close, and I've come to a certain point of acceptance of him and I don't hate him, I just dislike him very much. And I was very, very pleased with this answer. I was a sexually confused dude with daddy issues like half of the audience here.

And I was very satisfied with this answer. And then he said to me, tell me about your mother. And I froze.

it never occurred to me at all to think about my mother. And it just came all at once that everything I was living at that time, the lie I was living, the ways in which I was not being myself was all in this effort to never disappoint my mother. And I realized at that point my entire life was built around the sham of not displeasing my mom.

And I opened my mouth to say all of this, and a scream came out. And I couldn't stop screaming. I couldn't stop bawling. I was crying. I was shaking. And the two pastors immediately jumped up and started speaking tongues I've never heard. And I started to cry and choke so much that I started to vomit. And they grabbed the first garbage bag.

They were screaming, they were laying hands out sometimes and pulling hands off. And I was just, I just couldn't control myself. And I said, you know, if people knew the real me, nobody would love me. And he was like, all love is in Christ and that's a lie from the pit of hell.

And then I'd say, there is no life of the mind in a church. You're all morons. And he was like, that is life in the pit of hell and so on. And then I said, he sees men naked every time he prays. And that was the first time it was my voice. It was coming out of my mouth, but it was spoken in the third person.

And that's when literally all hell broke loose. They grabbed me. They started to, again, pray on their hands. I am crying. I'm choking. And at one point, the woman who up to this point has not really said anything looks at me and says, you have to cast them out.

And two things hit me. One, as an exorcist, I'm usually the demon caster. So the idea of casting out my own demons made no sense. And the second thing is she said them. He says, yes, you have many demons in you. You have to cast them out. And she led me in this prayer. And I went, you know, by the power of Jesus, I cast you out. By the power of Jesus, I cast you out. By the power of Jesus, I cast you out. And I said that eight times because there were eight demons in me.

And afterwards, you know, she, when it was all done, she just, you know, held my face in her arms, in her hands and smiled. And the male pastor said, it's over. And he said, you know, you're free.

you're going to go home now and I want you to purify your life. I want you to not give the demons entryway because another thing about demons, once they leave you, they come back with seven. And so I went home to purify my life. I got rid of TV, which was the first time I found out that my cable was canceled four years earlier. So that really wasn't very hard. And I got rid of, and then I said also get rid of that demon rock music.

And that was horrible. But, you know, Patti Smith had to go. Elliot Smith, go. Kurt Cobain, gone. Pearl Jam, they could stay. And I felt really, I actually did feel pure. I felt pure. I felt cleansed. I, you know, I walked with my head held high. I really actually did feel better. And then the demons came back.

lusts and thoughts of sins and Jake Gyllenhaal naked. But something was different because one of the musicians I did not throw away was David Bowie. And David Bowie has a song called Rock and Roll Suicide. And the really magical thing about that song

is everything you hate about yourself when that song starts becomes everything you love about yourself when that song ends. And I realized something. Demons can't possess you, they influence you. Demons don't need you to believe. Do I believe in them? I did believe in them at a time. In the same way I believe that Gabriel Garcia Marquez's realism is no magic, it's real.

And what something else was different, you know, I think, yeah, sure, maybe there are demons, but maybe you have a chemical imbalance or maybe you're a boy who likes boys or you're a girl who likes girls, or maybe you realize that biology isn't destiny. And maybe you realize like I did that maybe the thing you needed to exercise for me was my church because, you know,

Normality in a lot of ways, you know, is a myth. And I was so obsessed with being normal. And I realized something. I realized something and it hit me almost like a whisper. That maybe the reason you're not normal is that you're not here to do a normal thing. That one I learned in church. Thank you.

That was Marlon James. Marlon is the author of several award-winning books, including The Book of Night Women, A Brief History of Seven Killings, and Black Leopard, Red Wolf. His newest novel is Moon Witch, Spider King. As a fellow Jamaican who grew up in a pretty religious family, Marlon's story brought back many memories from my childhood. I never felt at ease knowing I was different.

It wasn't until I came to peace with who I was as a gay man that I started to feel less at odds with everything around me. My perspective shifted, which allowed me to step into the world as my true self. ♪ Religiously unkind ♪ ♪ Oh no ♪ ♪ You're watching yourself but you're too unfair ♪ ♪ Got your head all tiled and I can't care ♪ ♪ Who you made you sing ♪ ♪ All the night my chef ♪ ♪ I'll help you with the pain ♪

In a moment, we'll hear a story about the birth of a child under unlikely circumstances 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 Brandon Graham. This hour is all about turning points and new horizons. Hannah Brennan told this story at a Moth community engagement program showcase in Brooklyn. The evening was presented by our friends at the Kate Spade New York Foundation. Here's Hannah live at the Moth. I lower myself.

heavy and hot into my favourite yellow armchair. As I sit, my very large, very pregnant stomach weighs heavy on my thighs. I am huge. I haven't been able to see, let alone reach, my swollen, tingling feet for weeks. And it is a hot, humid, sweaty...

sticky July in Virginia. I'm at home waiting to give birth to my first child. My midwife is soon to arrive with her senior student for what has become her daily visit because I am three weeks past my due date. Three weeks. What are they going to say today? When I first became pregnant,

My husband and I did some research and spoke to other mums. It was 2017 and we discovered that in the USA, medical intervention is common in hospital births and one in three ends in caesarean section. That is major abdominal surgery. Some people said that it wasn't advisable to have a home birth at my ripe old age of 41.

But I really wanted an undisturbed, unmedicated birth at home. And my husband was in full support. At around four months pregnant, we found our midwife. This woman had been delivering babies longer than I had been alive. It's no exaggeration to say that I loved and trusted her from our very first meeting. My husband and I began monthly prenatal sessions with her, and each one was over an hour long.

We focused not on charts or measurements, but on conversations about my life. Always giving me the lead, she would ask me questions that made me reflect. In one of our early prenatal sessions, with my characteristic desire to know and understand, I asked the questions that you ask when you've never had a baby before. How will I know when I'm in proper labor? When will you come? What will happen next?

She sat on her stool in front of us swaying slightly, thoughtful and attentive and said, "You are not going to do labor. Labor is going to do you. For this birth to go the way that you want it to, you are going to have to get out of your head and trust your body's wisdom." "Trust my body's wisdom? Trust a wisdom that doesn't come from my head? What does that mean?"

How do you do that? As I reflected more, childhood memories began to return. As a child and a teen, kids had ruthlessly teased me. Teased me for being sensitive and overweight, treating me like something comic and unfeeling. Because I was overweight, men would shout mean things at me in the street. No one in the magazines or on TV looked like me.

I received the clear message that I was neither valuable nor desirable. This indelible part of me that everyone could see, my body, I considered a failure, a liability. And I was angry and I was confused and I was really hurt. So I decided to be smart instead.

And long after my body began to change physically, those messages stayed with me. And being smart and having a plan and being in control became key to my identity and my feelings of success. And then becoming pregnant and my body is growing and changing in ways that I don't understand, it still felt pretty important to have a plan and be in control. But that was because...

I still believed my body to be a liability, not a source of wisdom. As months went by, my baby grew inside me, and with my midwife's gentle probing, I started to rediscover my body's wisdom. A true teacher, she made it clear in her method that she was the expert in midwifery.

And she trusted and believed in me to be the expert in my body and in giving birth. I started to trust that if my body could make a brand new human being, it probably knew how to get it out. But here I am, in pain and discomfort in my yellow chair, far too pregnant. My midwife and her student arrive and sit close to me.

She presses her hands gently but keenly on my ankles, checking the level of swelling. After careful observation, she says, "There is no indication that this baby is in distress, nor is there any indication that you are in distress. All the signs suggest that your body is moving towards birth." Just very slowly. We can go to the hospital.

Or we can wait a little longer. It's your choice. We sit in silence. Tears trickle down my cheeks. Her advice seemed so wise just a few weeks ago. And now? Surrender to my body's wisdom? I'm hot. I'm tired. Everything hurts. And I'm not feeling too wise right now. I'm telling myself that my body knows how to give birth and I want to believe it.

Am I fooling myself? Am I risking my baby's safety? I'm not supposed to be this far past my due date. Is something wrong and wait a little longer? This waiting and trusting is really hard. Plus my family and friends are saying with more and more force, you have got to go to the hospital. I've turned my phone off. I'm too pregnant and too open-minded.

to hear their fears and concerns now, otherwise I may just start believing them. Again, I notice her hands on my feet, this time for comfort and reassurance. She knows that going to the hospital will likely lead to the interventions I so want to avoid. Heck, if I was having a hospital birth, I would have been induced two weeks ago.

She also knows that in over 40 years of practice she has rarely seen a woman go this far. She looks at me with such love and says, "It's okay. You can trust yourself." That night, under the full moon, I tell myself, "My body knows how to give birth. This baby knows how to be born. Please, moon, help me. This baby has got to come out.

The next morning, I go into labour. My husband, my constant support. My midwife's model of care is to stay out of my line of sight. I barely see them, but I know they are there, monitoring me and the baby. My body labours as it needs to, and when it's time for birth, they are there with me. Their quiet presence makes me feel completely supported.

and that my body is completely in charge. And it's like my mum has always said, birth is the only pain for something right. And after 15 hours labour, at 43 and a half weeks pregnant, shortly before my 42nd birthday, in the special familiarity of our home, I give birth to our 10 pound 4 ounce baby.

healthy, happy, beautiful son. And I am different. I'm a different woman. My body is neither liability nor failure. My body is a source of great wisdom and I trust it more and more every day. Thank you. APPLAUSE

Hannah H. Smith Brennan, PhD, is a sociologist, educator, and author who focuses on childhood, youth, and families. Hannah's storytelling skills were mostly honed while growing up in London, late on Friday nights around the family pool table. Hannah and her midwife are now working on a book of birthing stories and are developing an educational program together. She says, quote, "...the birthing person and the baby are at the center of this process."

and that when we care for this process as a community, we can make a culture that is healthy, strong, and thriving. I was in the crowd the evening that Hannah first told this story. I was transfixed. It made me think about witnessing childbirth myself. One of my sisters decided on a natural birth for her first child. I was there throughout the entire birthing process, and I have to say, I was amazed at how strong she was in the face of something that I found so utterly daunting.

I'll never forget the look on her face as her son was placed into her arms for the first time. Everything shifted for all of us at that moment. She became a mother, I became an uncle again, and this little human entered the world. In a moment, surviving heartbreak and hurricanes, 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 Brandon Grant. We continue this hour with a story from Tricia Rosebert. Tricia told this at a Moth Story Slam in Boston, sponsored by PRX and WBUR. Here's Tricia. I was raised that I should get married, that I should defer to my husband, and that I should rely on my husband to make me happy. I can tell you firsthand that this is inherently flawed.

When my husband and I separate after five years of marriage, he stays in our home in Sudbury in the suburbs right outside of Boston. And I rent an apartment in town in Back Bay. And as it turns out, without knowing it, I moved directly across the street from the woman my husband's been having an affair with.

Now, for months, I suspected he was having an affair, but he kept denying it and telling me I was imagining things, and so I just felt crazy. So a couple of months after I moved in the new apartment, I thought to myself, I said, you know, God, I just don't want to feel crazy anymore. So if he's having an affair, please let me know it. And if he's not having an affair, please help me trust him.

And three days later, I'm driving to the school at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston where I'm a part-time art student, and I see my husband's car on the side of the road. It's this little white Alfa Romeo, you can't miss it. And there's a woman putting something in my husband's car. And the first thing I do is throw my hands up in the air and say, "Thank you, God, I'm not crazy." And then I pull over and I say, "Hi, that's my husband's car." And she says, "Well, I don't know what you're talking about." And I said,

But that's my husband's car. And she says, well, I guess you're just going to have to talk to him about that. I said, you know, give me a break. I've been married to the guy for five years, and that's my husband's car. Where's my husband? And right at that moment, he rounds the corner with an overnight bag. And I say, you know, I think we need to talk. And he says, well, where do you want to talk? And I say, how about across the street at my apartment? I live at 304 Beacon Street, and she lives at 309 Beacon Street, which he knows, but

He convinces me that it is not a physical affair but a spiritual one. And a dear friend says, "Tricia, that's worse, plus he's lying to you." My husband and his girlfriend don't last. We start going to marriage counseling, and I plunge into a very scary depression.

I'm pacing along the Charles River, crossing the bridges and walking the same circle over and over again. I keep looking at my arms because I'm convinced I have sores all over my body. My throat is so tight I can only eat mashed potatoes and chicken broth, nothing crunchy. So I'm incredibly thin and I look like I should be hospitalized.

The only way I can get out of bed is to figure out how many hours until I can get back in it. I can concentrate for about five minutes at a time, and my nerves feel the way sunburned skin feels when you open up a really hot oven. With the help of a bevy of therapists and heavy medications, I'm able to continue working and pay my bills and keep going to art school. And art school is what gets me through this separation.

art school and church. And both places challenge how I was raised in very different ways, but they're saying the same thing. You have a voice, listen to the voice and become who you're being called to be, and you're going to be happy. Now, as an emerging artist, I craved anything that art school had to offer. And so I went to Ireland with the museum school on a painting trip.

And I chose Ireland because I wanted mist and rain and tragedy. I was looking for drama and angst. Instead, the sun shone every day for three straight weeks. It was the first time in 20 years they had a stretch of sunshine for that long.

One day it was hotter in Ireland than it was in Greece. Right before I left for Ireland, there was this slightest chance my husband and I could reconcile, but with distance brings clarity, and I realized I couldn't even write that guy a letter, much less be married to him. So I went into this little church and I said, "You know what, God? I am so happy to be alone."

I don't want a husband. I don't even want a boyfriend. All I want is to make art. And I mean this from the bottom of my toes. And I don't know it at the time, but I meet my future husband that night. I'm standing on one of those Irish stone walls, and I'm looking at this amazing sunset. And I'm having a hard time getting off the wall because I have these pretty but stupid shoes on.

and things look kind of precarious, and out of the blue I hear someone say, "Do you need a hand?" And I look down and there's this incredibly handsome Irishman. And I'm confused because I've just announced how happy I was to be alone. And then I say, "Yes. Yes, I do need a hand." And he helps me off the wall, and we start walking down the road together.

And I know that I would go through all that pain all over again if it brought me to this moment. Thank you. That was Tricia Rose Burt. Tricia and the incredibly handsome Irishman have been married for more than 22 years. She's also the host of the podcast No Time to Be Timid, which helps aspiring artists find the courage to make their creative work.

To see photos of Tricia and her husband on their wedding day in Ireland in 1998, visit themoth.org slash extras. While you're there, you can share your story with The Moth. Visit our pitch line to leave us a two-minute version of a story you'd like to tell. Some of the most classic Moth stories started on the pitch line.

head to themoth.org/pitch or call us at 877-799-MOTH. You can share these stories or others from the Moth Archive and buy tickets to Moth storytelling events in your area through our website, themoth.org. There are Moth events year round. Find a show near you and come out to tell a story. You can also find us on social media.

We're on Facebook and Twitter, at The Moth, or on Instagram, at Moth Stories. Our final story is from Kim Sykes. Kim shared this at a Moth main stage in New York at City Hall. A quick note that the story was told over 20 years ago when we never imagined The Moth would have a national radio show. So our audio recordings weren't the greatest, but we think you'll be fine with it. Here's Kim live at The Moth.

I was saying yesterday that I think I'm the only southerner who doesn't have an accent. And that's because I think I spent the first 20 years of my life trying to erase everything southern about myself. And then, of course, I'm spending the next 20 years of my life trying to remember it all to get it all back.

Should I repeat what I just said? Here's a memory. When Hurricane Betsy was coming to New Orleans, my daddy, he took me and my brothers and sisters, all seven of us, eight of us actually, and my mother out to Lake Pontchartrain to watch Betsy arrive. My daddy, he sat on the levee and he liked to look out at the sky and the lake

The sky, the longer we stayed, got blacker and blacker. And the lake looked like a sheet of black granite. It was so still you could almost walk on it. My mom, you know, she was so angry. She wouldn't get out of the truck. She sat with her back to my father in the lake, refusing to come out. She'd turn around every once in a while and say, "Well, it's time to go home." And he'd say, "In a minute, Vi." And he'd sit right where I was.

The kids, all of us, we were too busy having fun and wanted to go home. We ran around the decorative fountains that would shoot water up into the air and the lights would change the water to colors like blue and then yellow and then red. My father, he didn't want to come home, but my mother finally grabbed the keys and she says, "Willy, I'm taking these children home."

and she headed for the truck he started to laugh because everybody knew mama couldn't drive and then he'd take us home sitting out on the levee watching a hurricane approach must have been looking into a mirror like looking into a mirror for my father they tell me my aunt evelyn told me

that his anger, silent and intense like an oncoming storm, would then burst forth violently at my mother and older brothers and sisters, destroying everything in his bath. My Aunt Evelyn told me that while trying to save her life, one day my mother picked up a pair of pinking shears and stabbed him in the chest, nearly killing him. But I never saw any of that, and he never hit her again. Back at my house,

cousins I never even knew, uncles all came to my house when the hurricanes would come. They all agreed that it was the only time the housing projects was the safest place to be. The kids all of us sat in the living room under covers and blankets telling ghost stories, scaring each other half to death, while the adults sat in the kitchen listening to the radio and smoking cigarettes. Betsy was maybe an hour, hour and a half away.

But outside you could hear the rain and the wind screaming, screaming down the street. Big chunks of metal and wood clinking and crashing. The adults would run into the living room, peeking out the curtains, trying to look past the tape and the wood that was boarded over the windows. And they'd be whispering things to each other, trying not to scare the kids. We were already half scared to death.

By the time the eye of the hurricane hit, everybody was in the living room. The radio was going, all the lights had gone out by that time. We'd listen to some crazy newsman or weatherman who they'd send out to the eye of the storm. He'd be yelling, "The wind's really blowing hard! There's lots of rain!" And we'd be laughing. "Cool!"

By the time Betsy had come and gone, I'd fallen asleep, thank God. We walked out the next morning and the first thing I thought was that it looked like a war, except minus the bodies. Trees had been snapped in half and cars turned over and dragged down the street. On TV we watched families and kids who were stranded on top of their houses because the water had risen so high. But we were safe.

Just like I was safe from my father's brutality, I never saw the worst of my father's violence. I saw a man who was kind to me and affectionate. I saw a man who would sit me on his knee and saying, "All you want for Christmas is your two front teeth." A man who would take me with him to take my mother to work.

And my mother, in her clean white uniform, would get out of the truck to go to the house that she had to clean. And she'd walk towards the door, and the door would open, and these two little white kids would run out, and their arms stretched, running to her. They'd grab her around her knees, and she'd bend down and grab them. And oh, the pain and jealousy and hatred I felt for those two kids and my mother. God.

and my father's hand resting on my shoulder and on my knee, and he knew how I felt. Every day I struggle with the memory of those kindnesses and the history of his abuse. I can't hate him, but I've given up liking him. My father planted trees and flowers for the city of New Orleans on city-owned land.

He planted all the trees in the projects. We had a big fat oak tree right in front of our house. Our backyard looked like a little small English garden. It had roses and hydrangeas and daisies and petunias. You name it, we had it. He'd bring home sod, too. And he'd lay the perfect green little squares in the front and back yards. And we used to lie on the grass and make angels like the kids up north did in the snow. It smelled so good. But...

There's not a day that goes by that I don't think about Willie and Violet, my parents. My father's been dead for almost 20 years and my mother for about 10. But every time I look in the mirror, I think of them. My mother's eyes and smile and her gestures. I keep looking for Willie. I wouldn't know him if I saw him. I never knew him really. But when I see a tall oak tree,

that gray-brown cracked trunk. I think of my father's hands and how he used to bring home flowers from my mother's garden. Thanks. Kim Sykes is a writer, actress, and painter living in New York City. She's been seen on episodes of Homeland, Bull, and the feature film Pariah, and is busy writing screenplays and a novel. As I mentioned, Kim told that story over 20 years ago. We asked her what sharing it was like.

She said she was still wrestling with her family's history and that listening back, she can hear the struggle in her voice. She went on to say that New Orleans has been the scene of many devastating hurricanes that have torn her family apart, but at the same time brought them closer together. To see photos of Kim in New Orleans alongside a tall oak tree that reminds her of her father, visit themoth.org slash extras. ♪

We hope this hour inspired you to share your own true stories at the dinner table with family and friends, with the stranger sitting next to you, or on a moth stage. And that's it for this episode. Join us again next time for the Moth Radio Hour. Moth Radio Hour

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Catherine Burns, and Brandon Grant, who also hosted the show. The stories in this hour were directed by Meg Bowles, Larry Rosen, and Joey Sanders. Co-producer, Vicki Merrick. Associate producer, Emily Couch.

The rest of the Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Janess, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Inga Glodowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Casa. Moss stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.

Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from David Bowie, Alex French, Quivine Oriola, and Scott Hamilton. 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 how to pitch us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.