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Hey there. We here at The Moth have an exciting opportunity for high school sophomores, juniors, and seniors who love to tell stories. Join The Moth Story Lab this fall. Whether for an aspiring writer, a budding filmmaker, or simply someone who loves to spin a good yarn, this workshop is a chance to refine the craft of storytelling. From brainstorming to that final mic drop moment, we've got students covered.
Plus, they'll make new friends, build skills that shine in school and beyond, and have a blast along the way. These workshops are free and held in person in New York City or virtually anywhere in the U.S. Space is limited. Apply now through September 22nd at themoth.org slash students. That's themoth.org slash students. Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Jodi Powell, your host for this week.
This episode, we're looking at power. Who gets it, who wields it, and what it takes to find it. And since March is Women's History Month, we're sharing two stories from 2017 of women and non-binary people that found power within themselves. First up is Larry Lynn Kay. They told this at a Moth open mic story slam in Boston, where the theme of the night was discovery. Here's Larry Lynn, live at the Moth.
My mother sat in the passenger seat on the move from Ohio to Pennsylvania, staring straight ahead, her lips pressed tight. And I was in the way back of the station wagon with my feet up against the window, yelling out license plate numbers in a game that I'd made up to distract my younger siblings. For my mother, the move and my father's bankruptcy meant humiliation.
But for me, it meant that the last three months of eighth grade would be spent at grade school number four. And I was nervous that the spitballs and signs hung on my back that had welcomed me to grade schools number two and three would be repeated. And all I wanted was to fit in.
Fat fucking chance. I am so much better at standing out, at having really strong opinions and laughing too loudly and being a little too smart. So my mother, who was demure and pretty and nicknamed straight arrow in college, a woman with whom I had so little in common, we could barely talk without having an argument, she was very in favor of me fitting in.
Though had she known that I bought a pack of cigarettes and went to the woods to practice smoking so that I could inhale in front of the popular girls without coughing, she wouldn't have approved of my methods. But they worked. I smoked. I drank. I streaked. I even cried when Jim Croce died. I did what I had to do.
So it's June, and I end up in the green canvas tent in our backyard with my new friend, Debbie Reesey, whose dark eyes and dark hair make my body feel uncomfortably warm in specific places. And the humidity is pressing in. There's a rim of sweat along my hairline as I lean toward her, trying to make myself cry so I can get her to hold me. And she does.
And I know it's not the hug that I want, but it still sends my body into 14-year-old menopause, flashing hot, hot, hot as Debbie leaves and I walk back toward the house. And I open the screen door and I walk across the kitchen to the living room and there she is, my mother, sitting on the couch.
It's a tableau, actually. My mother on the couch cushion looking up at her new boss. She's just been hired to be the secretary of the principal at the local Catholic elementary school. And her boss, Sister Nancy, looking down into her eyes with a soft smile on her face. At the sideboard, Sister Therese is pouring herself a very big whiskey.
And Sister Jean, Sister Nancy's old friend, is at the window standing a tad too close to Sister Doris. But her eyes are shooting daggers at my mother. And I get it. This is my first introduction to dyke drama. With nuns. And still...
My eyes keep going back to my mother's face because she looks so young and so vulnerable and so in love, I barely recognize her. And I think, "Oh my God, I'm gay." And so is my mother. So much for nothing in common. And I run out of the room. For the next ten years, Sister Nancy and my mother worked together every day.
and on weekends they slept in the king-size bed in my parents' bedroom, while my father slept in the den, ostensibly because his snoring would keep the rest of us awake. And the entire parish pretended that Nancy and my mother were just friends. As for my mother and I, we had exactly two conversations about our shared gender preference. Conversation one: I'm still a teenager and we're having a huge fight
And in the middle of it, out of nowhere, I just scream, "At least I'm not a fucking lessee!" This is what's called living to eat your words. And my mother opens her mouth and then closes it and then opens it again, and then she ran out of the room. Conversation two: I'm in my early 20s and Nancy and my mother have broken up, and I've come home from Europe with hairy legs. And I'm sitting next to my mother on the couch,
and she leans over and starts pulling on the hairs. And then she says, "You bisexual? What about you? What about Nancy?" And she takes this really long pause. And then she says, "She was my soulmate. I never had a friend like that before." Friends. Oh, Mom, the love that dare not speak its name. I didn't follow in her footsteps.
Today is National Coming Out Day and I'm here to say that I love being out and proud. I'm not sure those words aren't an understatement where I'm concerned. And I've spent a lot of time speaking and writing and working for gay rights and every day I commit to my partner of 30 years who looks at me a lot like Nancy used to look at my mother. And so I'm here
remembering my mother and the nun. And me. That was Larylyn Kay. Larylyn Kay is an award-winning queer, disabled, storyteller, screenwriter, actor, director, playwright, novelist, and poet, best known for the award-winning social justice web series, Assigned Female at Birth, and for their solo show, My Preferred Pronoun is We. Our next storyteller is Phyllis Omidu.
Phyllis told the story at the very end of a three-day intensive Moth Global Storytelling workshop that we produced in Tanzania in collaboration with the Aspen New Voices Fellows. There are about 10 people in the room to hear this story, so you'll notice the crowd sounds a little different. Here's Phyllis, live at the Moth. At the age of 31 years old, I had worked so hard to come up the corporate ladder.
My family and relatives had invested so much in me after my mother died so that I could help my younger siblings. I got this new job in a new corporation and it came with a free company car and more money. And I felt like I had the world in my hands. A few months into the job, however, my son fell really sick and I started trying to find out what had happened, what he was suffering from.
We ran tests after tests after tests on him without understanding what was ailing him. In my part of the world, when a child falls sick, you look for tropical diseases, malaria, typhoid. You never think about anything else outside that. My son was later diagnosed with lead poisoning, something that was not common in that area where I came from. When he was discharged from hospital,
I decided to find out a bit more about the children that stayed just behind the company where I was working. You see, this corporation was actually a smelter that refined pure lead for export to countries that did not allow this kind of work. One of the things I decided to do was test the children in that community. Three of them actually tested positive for lead poisoning alongside my son.
I took these results to government in the hope that they would intervene and try to assist this community. But after I tried hard and approached different state agencies, I realized they were not going to do anything about it because they just ignored me. I decided to go back into the community. Similarly, I had meetings with the elders and the women in the community. But on this specific day,
We had converged as a community so that we find out what would be the way forward because we were not getting response from the government. And therefore, we set up village meeting of about 800 people. I remember when I got into the community, a little boy called Sammy ran towards me. His normal greeting would be, how are you? And I would say, I'm fine. But on this day, he asked me,
"How are your loved ones?" I said, "I'm fine." Then he asked me, "Why don't you ask me the same question?" So I asked him, "How are your loved ones?" And he said, "I love you only." This really touched my heart. It was very witty for a small, about two-year-old, three-year-old child. But then I had been there trying to bond with them for so long, and I knew that Sami suffered from lead poisoning, and his skin suffered from the acid rain that was falling into the community. Sami later died.
I also listened that day to the story of Lynette Nabwiri. She had had three miscarriages. She was a young mother. In Africa, you are expected to give your husband a child, but she was not able to. She actually died later at childbirth, and her son also was born with lead in his blood. So back to this day, when we are seated and discussing our issues,
How are we going to handle the fact that the river was polluted? The water was no longer good, but the community had no choice but to keep using it. How are we going to handle the fact that where we were seated on the playground, there was acid rain falling on us, and this is where the children played. But suddenly our meeting was disrupted with something that we did not understand. We saw a canister fall, and suddenly I saw the children running
And there was this choking smell. We realized it was tear gas. Someone had thrown tear gas at us. And when I looked up, there was this police that we called Flying Squad that had dropped this in the middle of our meeting. There was a stampede. And I tried to help. I tried to run after Sammy. I tried to run after the other children. But there's nothing much I could do. Because I had, in the midst of all this, the police asking, where is this woman? Where is this Phyllis?
I knew that maybe if I gave myself up, this would stop, that the children would be safe, that the stampede would stop. However, it did not help. When I gave myself up, there was no civil discussion as I expected. Rather, I was dragged by my neck like a criminal. I lost my shoes in the whole fracas. My clothes got torn because I was being pulled down.
on stones and debris like that. But that was not the worst part of it. As they cuffed me and made me sit, they made me watch as they damaged the community. They broke door after door after door, pouring out the food, destroying the livelihoods of this community. I was heartbroken. I felt this was my fault. I asked myself why I started this. I had caused so much devastation for this community. So I was thrown out.
onto the police vehicle and take it to the police cell. I was, I felt dejected. I had let my family down. They had invested in me. They had my sister, my brothers at home. They were expecting me to be their savior, to help them also go through education. But at this point in my life, I had failed them. I was ashamed of myself. I reached the small cell. It was dark. It was very tiny.
And the whole floor was full of urine. I tried to sit, but there was nowhere to sit. At the corner, there was a bucket. When I moved near it, it was full of feces. So I said, I can't stay here. There is a bucket full of feces. And the police told me, get it out if you don't want. So I was forced to carry out this bucket, go outside and put it in the toilet and bring it back. At least I could spend the night there. So the day gave in to night. And there were so many thoughts in my head. I didn't have a lawyer.
what was happening in the community. At some point in the night, my sister came. She had traveled all the way from my upcountry home, and she finally managed to get here at around 2 a.m. in the morning. I was told to speak to her. She couldn't talk because she was crying. She did not believe that I was a criminal. I was in a police cell. I didn't want to talk to her anymore because I was just causing her pain. I told her to go home to look for my son because I didn't know who was taking care of him.
and I went back into my cell. I thought of giving up that night. I thought that maybe the work I was doing was not worth doing. I thought maybe I had broken some laws that I didn't know about. And in the morning, when my name was called out, I was told that I was going to court to be charged with inciting violence and illegal gathering. And so dejected, I walked out of the police cell. But when I looked up, I realized that this whole community had walked
from the community to the police cell. They had slept outside the police cell and waited for me to come out. And when I came out, they were all so happy. They rejoiced, they clapped, they had hope. And therefore I knew I had no choice but also to be hopeful. As I left to go to court, I knew that this had become my community as well. I knew that I was going to stand with them until I saw the end of this. Thank you.
That was Phyllis Omido. Since telling that story in 2017, a lot has happened. So we got back in touch with Phyllis to ask her a couple of questions and get her perspective on how things have changed. Phyllis wrote, 2017 seems like a lifetime away.
However, the partnerships we have enable us to navigate the very uncharted waters of environmental litigation in Africa. It has taken a lot of hard work, patience, persistence and great resilience from our communities. Phyllis is actually being a little bit modest here because in 2020, her work led to a landmark $12 million settlement for the community members affected by the smelting plant.
And Time magazine named her one of the 100 most influential people of 2021. Wow.
She wrote to us that working for environmental justice is tough, especially in Kenya, where Phyllis says that most state agencies aren't wired to serve the public, but to serve the few elites and business interests. And where the government, in spite of the new constitution, isn't citizen-friendly. But she's excited to finally implement the restoration and cleanup project for the community that's been contaminated with lead poisoning for over a decade now.
We asked her what advice she would give to anyone who just heard her story and was inspired to do something. She wrote, quote, Find it within yourself to believe in what you have set out to achieve. It has been a long and tough journey, but I wouldn't change a thing about it. It has been worth it. So believe in yourself and the integrity of your course and pursue it. Everything you require along the journey will avail itself only if you do not give up.
The world needs more than ever people reminding each other of the need to care for people and the planet and to put an end to strife, greed and war and to go back to the basics of love for people and nature and a belief in our shared humanity. If you want to know more about Phyllis Omido's work, we'll have information on her NGO, the Center for Justice, Governance and Environmental Action, in the podcast's show notes.
This year, we're celebrating our 25th anniversary by going back through each year of the moth's existence. Next episode, we'll have some stories from 2016. That's all for this week. We hope you'll come with us as we continue to take a look back at some of our favorite stories from the moth's 25-year history. From all of us here at the moth, have a story-worthy week.
Jodi Powell has been at The Moth for more than five years. She's a producer, director, and educator who enjoys listening and seeking stories from beyond the main corridors. Originally from Jamaica, she currently lives in Harlem.
This episode of the Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Sollinger. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga Glodowski, and Aldi Caza.
All Moth stories are true, as remembered by their storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org. The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the public radio exchange. Helping make public radio more public at prx.org.