Different Ways of Learning: Adrienne Lotson and Lopaka Kapanui
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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. Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Chinjarae Kumunika, a journalist, a member of the Moth Board, a professor at NYU, and your host for this episode.

In my job teaching journalism and critical media studies, I try to create a space for my students to learn, to question, to experiment. And I also try to prepare them for their lives outside of the classroom, where most of their learning will take place. Because the classroom is wonderful, but so much of learning happens beyond its borders, in social spaces, with family, in struggle, at work, even when we're playing. And those places are also where we find some of our most important teachers.

As students are returning to school, we wanted to highlight different types of learning from mentors, from family members, from stories themselves. First up, we have Adrienne Lotsing. She told this at a New York City Story Slam where the theme of the night was only in Harlem. Here's Adrienne live at the mall. So you could hear them coming from it seemed like a mile away. Thump, thump, thump.

Thump. You could tell there were rows and rows and rows of them. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. I pulled my bed covers up to my face. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. And then I could see them. I could see them coming. They were coming up the side of the bed. They were coming over the top of the bed. Thousands upon thousands of pancakes holding guns. Thump. Thump. Thump.

I rolled my eyes, I'm like, "Okay, Dad, I won't eat all the pancakes next Sunday. Do I have to hear this story again?" My dad was that kind of dad. You know, the one who wanted to teach you lessons by telling you stories? Like the story when you asked for extra money to take a cab home after partying all night, and he said, "When I was growing up, the subway cost a nickel, and I could only afford to ride one way!" That was my dad. And my brothers and I would roll our eyes and say, "Oh, here we go again."

But then every now and again, my dad would say, "Let me tell you about my childhood." And we would gather around the table because we knew we were about to hear a story of Harlem. My dad was born over 100, well, 100 years ago to be exact, in Hell's Kitchen. And like many African American families at that time, and much like what happened to African American families in what is now known as Central Park, they were pushed out.

And so they moved uptown to Harlem, USA. My dad arriving in 1926 during the Harlem Renaissance.

And he would tell these amazing stories. Now my dad's stories of the Harlem Renaissance really didn't have much to do with Langston Hughes or Zora Neale Hurston or any of those folks. He was a six-year-old kid. His stories of Harlem Renaissance had to do with living in Harlem during that time. It was about the up-towners and the down-towners. And the demarcation point was 125th Street.

So if you lived above 125th, you were an uptowner. And if you lived below, you were a downtowner. And they had such a good time. Only in Harlem could he be considered a minor celebrity because his Aunt Christina was the housemaid for the notorious Madam Polly Adler.

And she would come home with tales of Dutch Schultz and what was happening in the brothel. And my dad would take those stories and tell his friends, and he was a minor celebrity. And every now and again, Dutch Schultz would tip extra good, and she would buy ice cream for the entire neighborhood. There were the stories my dad told about the time that the water main broke in uptown, and Duke Ellington was seen screaming running down the street because he had some conch in his hair that they couldn't wash out.

I tended to hear that story every time I thought about getting a perm. But my dad would love to tell his stories about his best friends, Vincent and Wilma and Leroy and Douglas, and how they would play games and have fun and oh, they had to walk a mile in the snow to get to school from McCombs Place up to Sugar Hill. And as a little kid, I thought it was a five-mile journey and not a five-block journey.

But it was all a part of his storytelling and I loved it. But probably the best story my dad told was about the ingenuity they had as kids. They lived on McCombs Place, across from what was going to become Yankee Stadium. And Yankee Stadium was new and all the bigwigs would come with their cars and he and his friends came upon an idea. There was an empty lot right next door to Yankee Stadium. They would create a sign saying, "Parking here, $5." They convinced people.

that they were the people responsible for that lie. And they told them, for $5, we'll watch your cars and make sure nobody messes with them. And by the second inning, they were all gone, celebrating with all the $5 bills that they had in their pockets. My dad's Harlem was magical.

It was special and it was important. He and all his friends decided to raise their families in the same neighborhood in Queens, but every year they journeyed back uptown to the Uptowner Downtowners Dance. And the morning after was like a holiday in my home because my dad would talk about all the people he had seen, who he hadn't seen in years, and he would begin to tell the stories of Harlem and what a magical, mystical place it was, and he would sprinkle fairy dust all over the house telling us these stories.

Little did he know that 11 years later, I would move to Harlem. I would come home to his home. And where he rode the A train, I run the streets during the marathon. And where he partied at the Cotton Club, I put on a pair of jeans. He would put on zoot suits and go to the Cotton Club, and I would put on a pair of jeans and go party with my friends on Harlem Day. But his Harlem became my Harlem.

And his home became my home. And only in Harlem can you find yourself in the stories that your dad told you as you walk down the street and see all the places he talked about. That was Adrienne Lotson, a Renaissance woman and cultural anthropologist. Dr. Lotson has a passion for people, places, and purpose. She's a creative whose careers include judge, sports attorney, minister, speaker, and travel diva.

likely to be found anywhere in the world, she calls Harlem home, just as her dad did a hundred years ago. If you'd like to see photos of Adrian's father in Old Harlem, check out our website at themoth.org/extras. Up next is a story by Lopaka Kapanui. He told this last year at a main stage in Honolulu. Here's Lopaka, live at The Moth. It was early in my wrestling career. I was living in Florida. Party all day, sleep all night.

Party all night, sleep all day, repeat. But really, I was just drowning my heartache and insecurities with hard whiskey and bad choices. One day my mom called, and she said, I have some knowledge, some things that I want to pass down because your siblings are not interested. Would you be? I'm having the time of my life. I got no room in my schedule for anything like that. And she said, okay, you take care. I love you. And she hung up.

And immediately, I had this feeling in my gut that something was up, so I called her back. I said, "Okay, so what is this thing? What's going on?" She says, "It's just some knowledge that I learned before, and I want to pass it down." "And it'll only take three years of your life." I don't even remember saying yes. I remember being on the plane, coming back home to Hawaii.

And on the first night of the first lesson, she made beef stew. And she didn't hold back on the big chunks of beef, the carrots, the potatoes, you know, the cabbage, and the broth is just magic. And of course, the poi, handmade, pounded, and so sweet. And while we're eating, she says to me, "You know, before, I went to the Big Island to go see my auntie, and this thing happened." And this is what she said. "The whole family went out that day, was in Kona, and she stayed home by herself, you know, peace and quiet.

And she said, all of a sudden, outside the house, she hears, who are the people in this house? And she goes to the front door and she said, beautiful Hawaiian woman, tall, regal, long black hair, shoulders thrown back. And the woman asks her for ice water. And so my mom went to get it. But she was kind of disappointed because the ice in the tray hadn't yet frozen over. So she made the glass of water, went to the front door. And before she gave it to the Hawaiian woman, she said, oh, color my hair.

The ice hasn't frozen over, but I still have water in the glass." And the Hawaiian woman said, "My hopohopo." And she took the glass from my mom's hand and my mom said, "This thin film of ice formed over the glass." She drank it, gave it back to my mom. My mom said, "Glass is still cold. Sticks to my fingers." And the Hawaiian woman is walking down the steps, going down the driveway, and she notices she has no shoes on, no slippers. And now she's walking up the road.

My mom goes, "Hui, iha na oi, where are you going?" And the Hawaiian woman points up to this vast lava field with sharp rocks and says, "Ma'o, ma'o aku." In a second, it took my mom to point to the car in the garage to tell the Hawaiian woman, "You come with me. I take you wherever you want." And she looks back. She said, "The woman is gone, vanished." And she said, "Up there in Kalawa, it's so open, no way anybody can go anywhere without you see them going."

That really, really upset my mom. The family came back later and she told her aunt, you know, everything about the Hawaiian woman, the glass of water frozen over, offering her the rite, and she disappears. And her auntie said, you know, today we went to Halema'uma'u and we made ho'okupu, we made the offering. Everybody. But since you weren't there, I made one for you. The only thing is when I threw it into the crater, this wind came and blew it back. I think this woman you saw was Pele.

I think she came to see what was going on because you weren't there. My mom was going through a lot of stuff back then. And right at that point, when she encountered this Hawaiian woman, Pele, she was on the precipice of deciding if she was going to take her life or not. And that whole thing turned everything around. And she became a healer for the family and the community. And she said, "And that is what led me to calling you." And so we go sit in the living room. I'm on the floor, pen and paper. She's on a chair facing me. And she gets this look on her face. She goes,

What is that? I said, oh, pen and paper. I'm going to take notes. She said, no, no, no, no, no. No notes. No recording. I talk, you listen. And for the next three years, every night after pow, you repeat everything back. Some nights, the lesson are two, three hours. Other nights, it's just so overwhelming. Next thing you know, the sun is coming up. But in that small little space, every book, every shelf, every inanimate object, even the things my mom made by hand,

seemed to have this vibration, this mana. And my mom said, "You know, when you make things by hand, up here have to be pono. Over here too have to be pono. If you have negativity, you pass it on into the thing you make. And imagine when you gift it to somebody. You're not giving aloha, you're giving your negativity." The first year, she talked about going to the shore and saying that everything that grows in the shore used for medicinal purposes has an equal up in the mountain.

And she said during the second year, there's particular kinds of water that you use for certain types of blessing. The first dew of water in the middle of the kalo plant. She said even the water inside the niu, the coconut, sometimes used for anointing. And she said sometimes the best is storm water because it gets mana, it's energized. The one thing she did emphasize was broken spirits. And she said broken spirits are people who die broken. And what I mean by that is unresolved issues, broken heart,

money, all those kinds of things. Not resolved, they take it to the next life and now they're broken spirits. And she said the best way to help heal them is to talk to them like they're people. She said the flesh and blood is gone, but the personality is still the same. So if your jerk uncle died, even after he died, his spirit is still the jerk uncle. Two things were going on simultaneously. Every day my mom was going to dialysis. And there were things going on in my life at the time. As the lessons progressed,

My insecurities, my heartbreak, my personal issues lessened the more I learned. Yet, my mom never got better. The third year, the last night of the last lesson, she sat down and she said, "Okay, pal, that's it. No more. It's done. All I have to tell you is that everything you've learned up until now, these three years, it's not about you." And even though I had these three years of learning with my mom, I was still young and stupid.

And I said, "Oh yeah, I know." She said, "No, you don't. And you won't. Until much later." And so we said our goodbyes. I went home. I lived 40 minutes away. And the next morning, my sister called and she said, "Mom passed away." "What? What do you mean? I was just with her. I just saw her a couple hours ago. What are you talking about?" This morning at breakfast, she was too weak to sit at the table. So we took her to the ER. She made it halfway up the steps and she collapsed. And she died.

After when I was at the chapel at the hospital, she was laying there covered in this hospital blanket. And I remember kneeling next to her and putting my hand on hers and saying, "Ma, Ma, we have so much more to learn. I cannot do this by myself. Mom, what am I going to do? Please!" After that, having learned all this stuff, I was lost. No direction, no confidence. And wouldn't you know it, I have my first case. This woman calls and says her ex died of a broken heart because she left him for this other guy

And she said, you know, when a spirit appears, it's not like a spirit that you can see. It's this little ball of light, and it hides in the corners of the cupboards and inside the curtains in the living room. But she says, mostly the irritating thing is this little ball of light, him, hides inside the folds of my clothes, my dresses, and my jackets. And so I go there, and the atmosphere in the place is tight. It's claustrophobic. And then there's this overwhelming smell of Velveeta cheese, and I said, what is that? Laughter

And she said, "Oh, that's him. That was his favorite." And I asked her, I said, "Do you mind if I open your closet?" She goes, "Sure." Turned the knob, pulled the door back. And when I looked at the closet, I said to myself, "My God, that's a lot of acid wash. There is so much of it." But there he was, this little ball of light hiding inside the pleats of this one acid wash skirt. And in that moment, I knew I didn't need any blessed water. I didn't need an anointed tea leaf.

I just needed to talk to him, man to man, because I'd been there before. Had my heart torn out, so I understood. And I said, hey, this is it. She's gone. She's not coming back. This is done. But I promise you, in your next life, you will find love. It will be there for you. It will be true love. You will find it. And then he went. She smelled gone. Claustrophobia gone.

And I said to the woman, I said, oh, by the way, you have to apologize to him. And she looked at me and she said, why? I said, because if you don't, this thing you've created, it's not going to go away. You're going to carry this into your next lifetime. And she apologized. I was leaving, going back to the car. And as soon as I opened the door, I grabbed onto the door like this and suddenly my knees buckled and I was completely drained. And in that moment, I realized this is what my mom had to shoulder doing these healings.

She had to give everything, 100%. That's what she said before, "Hawaiians, no gray matter, all in, you take everything." Today, I know two things about my mom. She's been gone a while. The first thing I know is that because she changed her path, she also changed mine. And the second thing I know is that she had this thing that drove me nuts.

Those three years, every night, before we would start, she would take this jar of Vicks Vaporub and just rub it all over herself, and it would just fill the entire living room. And so whenever I'm being stupid, kolohe, no, like, listen, I always smell Vicks Vaporub. That's how I know she's with me, because the smell of Vicks Vaporub, that's love. Thank you.

That was Lopaka Kapunui. Lopaka is a native Hawaiian author and storyteller who leads guests into the darkest corners of Hawaii. Sharing Hawaiian ghost stories for more than 20 years, he imparts knowledge of the region's history and legends, unveiling the mysteries and spectral wonders of Hawaii's past. As Hawaii deals with the devastating Maui fires, the thoughts of everyone at the Moth is with the entire community.

Listening to Adrian and LaPaka had me thinking about how much teaching there is in storytelling, and how much storytelling there is in teaching. Even when we're presenting subjects like math and science, stories have such a powerful role to play in how we organize what we learn about the world around us. We learn lessons from the stories that are passed down to us, and as we decide how to pass those stories on, we learn about ourselves, what we value, and what our perspective is. Stories can teach us something. We just have to listen.

That's all for this episode. And remember, if you enjoyed these stories, share this podcast with a friend. We'd love to bring more people into the moth family. From all of us here at the moth, we hope you continue to value the stories and the people you encounter. And we hope listening to other people's stories helps you see them and see the world more clearly.

Dr. Chindriya Kumuneka is a scholar, journalist, and artist who researches and teaches in the Department of Journalism and Media Studies at NYU. He is also the co-host and co-creator of the Peabody Award-winning Uncivil podcast. Lopaka Kapanui's story was directed by Jodi Powell. This episode of the Mouth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Sullinger.

The rest of the Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Leanne Gulley, and Aldi Caza. All Moss stories are true, as remembered by the storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoss.org.

The Moth Podcast is presented by PRX, the public radio exchange, helping make public radio more public at PRX.org.