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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.
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Hi everyone, producer Mark here. Just wanted to let you know that the second story in this episode contains the use of homophobic slurs. If that makes you uncomfortable, maybe sit the second story out. We hope you enjoy the show. Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm your host, Dane Wilburn. It may be a few weeks after Valentine's Day, but we're looking at love.
Whether that's fighting for marriage, committing to someone for the first time, or sharing a moment with a beloved grandparent. Love is all that matters. I know, it's a cliche, but it's true. Whatever's going on, whatever's happening in our lives, everything seems a little bit easier when we've got something or somebody to love. Since we're counting down 25 years of the moth's existence, both of these stories are from 2016.
First up is Kimberly Gotchis. She told this story at a Moth Story Slam in Chicago where the theme of the night was food. Here's Kimberly live at the Moth. It's Christmas break of my freshman year of college and I am going to see Yaya, Grandma in Greek. My mouth waters for her pasticho, her buttery mashed potatoes, and most of all, her rice puddings.
But when I get there, I discover Yaya's dementia has reached the boiling point. She forgot her stovetop burner on and a fire engulfed her apartment. Her landlord, Sal, had known her for 20 years and he scuffed his feet along the floor before he looked up and said she could stay through the holidays. So mom and I decide we're going to spend Christmas Eve at Yaya's apartment one more time.
And when I get there, Yaya takes my hands and I feel her shake. And she brings me to the stove and she says, "I tried to make your rice pudding." Now, I used to sit with Yaya. I would sit at her kitchen table and watch her make this rice pudding. She would take out her blue and white, the Greek flag, mixing bowls and glide across the kitchen floor, opening drawers and cupboards, gliding through a ritual.
And we would smell the cinnamon and the butter and the rice. It would engulf us. And when it was just about ready, she would take out this glass bottle and she would put a teaspoon of her secret ingredient. Now I never asked what it was. I never thought there would be a time Yaya would not be there to make it herself. When we were ready to eat it, we always turned it into a ceremony.
We would put it in these glass goblets with long stems, and we'd put embroidered napkins on our lap, and we would take our spoons, and together Yaya and I would lift our pinkies. Now that last Christmas Eve, I'm still holding her hands, and she's still shaking, and I tell her, Yaya, don't worry, we'll make the rice pudding together.
And mom and I calls us into the living room and we eat dinner. And then Yaya stands up and says, I'll get the rice pudding. No, mom says. And I say, Yaya, remember, we're going to make it together. And I look at her and I say, Yaya, where is the recipe? And her eyes are blank. And I say, the recipe is
I enunciate each word thinking it will make her remember and her eyes are still blank. And so I rush to the closet and I grab her coat and mom says, where are you going? The grocery store. I'm going with you. And so we go to the grocery store and we're rushing down the aisles and we're rushing as if grains of a lifetime are passing through an hourglass and we have just enough time to save one memory.
And we start pointing at everything, and Yaya's nodding at everything. And I'm noticing nodding at everything. So it's just up to Mom and I to get everything. And so we fill our cart with milk and butter and eggs and cinnamon and rice. But something is missing. And I wonder, is this how Yaya feels? Always rushing down the aisles looking for what is missing.
Finally, Mom and I need to go home, and so we take Yaya back with us, and Mom goes to rest in the living room, and I lay out all the ingredients, and Yaya and I stare at them. And we stare, and then she starts to pick out her blue and white Pyrex mixing bowls. She starts to glide through a ritual that goes beyond memory.
And I take one of our napkins and I start to wipe my eyes with the tears and when I bring it down, Yaya is gone. And I look up
Yaya, get down, I say. And mom rushes in from the living room, and Yaya is standing on the kitchen counter all by herself, and she's reaching up into the top cupboard for something, and the mixture of the bubbling rice pudding is starting to bubble over, and mom and I help her down, and mom is so worried she doesn't notice. Yaya placed a bottle, a glass bottle, in my hand.
And I look at her, and her eyes, this time, are glowing. And for a moment, she's the Yaya that I remember. And we lower the heat, and we let the pudding simmer. And in that moment, Yaya and I sit at that kitchen table, and it's like we are simmering, too. I start to ask her every question I could think of. Yaya, why did you choose Papu? Yaya, did you always know you would be a mom? Yaya, what's the sneakiest thing you ever did?
And her memories continued to boil in that moment. And after exactly 90 minutes, as if an internal timer goes off inside of her, she stands up and she hands out the spoon to me. And I don't want to take it. You see, this is Yaya's rice pudding. But I accept the spoon. And she nods to me to put a little bit of something from that glass bottle. And then I stir. And for the last time, Yaya turns off the heat.
When we're ready, we put our pudding into glass goblets with long stems. And we put our embroidered napkins on our lap. And in a ritual that goes way beyond memory, Yaya and I lift our pinkies together. Thank you. That was Kimberly Gatchez, a former librarian from Chicagoland, or as I call it, Chi-town. Kimberly has over a decade of experience telling stories to people of all ages.
Now in New Mexico, Kimberly tells folk tales with ageless themes as well as personal stories that celebrate the powerful benefits of intergenerational relationships. To see a photo of her making some delicious food, head to the extras for this episode on our website, themoth.org slash extras. Our next storyteller is Alex Campbell. Alex told this story at a story slam in Dublin where the theme of the night was neighborhoods.
Here's Alex, live at the Moth. I'm what's fondly known in the gay community as a hundred footer. You can kind of tell from a hundred feet away that I'm probably a raging homosexual.
The fact that you're applauding that part bodes well for the rest of the story. Or Mick. Mick is my other name, in case you... I've spent most of my life being confused for a boy. In case, again, that wasn't apparently obvious. But this particular story is actually stemming from what became my final realisation of what neighbourhood and community meant to me. And it's actually only quite a recent realisation.
And this is where the tiny violins come out. Because as a hundred footer, I have spent the vast majority of my life having really nasty shit shouted at me in the street on a fairly regular basis. And wow, that started quickly.
I actually do this for a living. I talk on microphones and it is my job to be funny and now that I'm actually trying to do something sincere I'm suddenly turning into a mass of emotional jelly but that's okay. We'll struggle through it. It's grand. It'll be good. It'll be good.
So anyway, the point being, this all stems back to the yes vote that went through at this time last year, or at least just over a year ago. For those of you unfamiliar, Ireland passed the yes equality, the marriage equality vote by a 62% majority. Yes, it did. And...
They are the only country in the world to have ever done so by popular vote, which meant that the vote was left to the people in referendum, and they voted resoundingly in favor of marriage equality for the LGBT community. Yay! Sorry, yes, no, that is a wonderful thing, sorry. Not to be flippant about it, but yeah.
But as far as I can remember back, I've always very much stood out. I've always been freakishly tall as a woman. I've always had a short haircut and I've always tended towards the desire to wear slightly more masculine clothing. Ergo, I became pretty much a target for people to shout unpleasant things at, to judge and generally disparage at any possible juncture, which made growing up in Ireland a pretty shitty thing at times.
But oddly, my parents pretty much tried to instill the sense of joy in life and love and people and all that kind of crap, which I pretty much tried to keep with me as best I could through life. But sadly, as you go through life and complete strangers roar dyke at you or fucking faggot if they get confused and think that I'm making fun of it.
Sorry, I'm totally making this about you now. But if you are going through life and people are shouting abusive crap at you, it's very hard to keep the upper lip from trembling, or lower lip, whichever one trembles naturally, I don't know. It's quite hard to turn the other cheek and to, you know, stay stoic and to keep the faith in humanity as a whole.
And I've moved around the city in various different places and not everywhere has been a particularly homophobic hub, but there have been times where my car has been keyed or shit's been written on your window or whatever horrific crap that the baser level of scumbag in the city is capable of.
But again, you hold strong and you keep believing that the general populace are as a whole a far greater community than you are currently experiencing.
And up until last year when the vote came about and the referendum kicked in, what started in the lead up to that, the six months prior to the referendum, was possibly the hardest six months of my life because I would walk down streets and I would see posters, posters telling me that I am a despicable human being. Excuse me.
Posters that are telling me that my life and everything around me, the people that I love, are invalid or vile or perverse or wrong or sinful or whatever litany of words are used to describe me. A complete stranger and a group of people who have actively sought money to lobby against you to tell you that you are all of these things, to tell you that you are this horrific human being.
It makes it very hard to live in a city knowing that a gigantic group of people think you are scum. They don't know you, they think you're horrible. And yet, when you suddenly find yourself standing in front of a TV screen seeing that 62% of your community have voted in favor of marriage equality for you, it is quite possibly the most glorious realization of love and neighborhood that I could possibly conceive of.
And walking down my street the day the yes vote kicked in, an elderly couple who lived halfway down the street that I didn't know from Adam, who I tentatively walked past when we were out campaigning because I really didn't want to find out the hard way that they probably had an issue with me, came up and hugged me the day that it happened. And I sobbed openly in the arms of a complete stranger. LAUGHTER
With no shame whatsoever because it was possibly one of the happiest days of my life. And a year on from that yes vote, I now walk down to my local Tesco and people have what I call casual acceptance where they banter with me about how awesome my partner is standing beside me. And no one bats an eyelid and that makes me happy on levels I can't describe. And six weeks ago, my partner asked me to marry her.
The parents who I came out to when I was 19, who I then lost the relationship with for 10 years as a result, were there present and celebrating with me. So that to me is the epitome of what community and neighborhood means. Thank you. That was Alex Campbell. Alex is a non-binary drag performer from Dublin, Ireland.
They're a part-time show pony, full-time queer, and a proud community member who campaigned for over a decade in the run-up to marriage equality in Ireland. This year, we're celebrating our 25th anniversary by going back through every single year the month's been around. Next episode, we'll have some stories from 2015.
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. Dame Wilburn is a storyteller, a host of the Moth podcast, Dame's Eclectic Brain podcast, and various live shows, including the Moth Mainstage. Her storytelling began as a way of keeping cool in the summertime on her grandmother's porch in Macon, Georgia.
She has completed four residencies for storytellers, including at Serenbe in Palmetto, Georgia, and one with Air Trez in Almond, Michigan. Dame has also presented at the University of Iowa and UCLA. She lives in a state of possibilities and in Michigan.
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.