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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 Sarah Austin-Ginness, The Moth's executive producer and your host for this episode.
New Orleans is all about live events. There's music, festivals, parades, opera, drag, and true personal stories at the Moth Story Slams. There's a certain energy in the Big Easy. We asked Alex Zimanovic, a New Orleans Story Slam producer, their thoughts on these personal stories. And they said, our venue, Cafe Istanbul, is an intimate space. It feels like you're in someone's living room.
Telling a story there really brings out the vulnerabilities in people. I myself have been to a few of these New Orleans story slams, and I wholeheartedly agree.
Now, New Orleans is so much more than Mardi Gras. But with Mardi Gras Day coming up in mid-February, we wanted to celebrate New Orleans and its Open Mic Story Slam series. Our first story is from Emily Barr, who told this at a, you guessed it, New Orleans Story Slam, where the theme of the night was fathers. Here's Emily live at the mall. Thank you.
- Hey everybody, I'm Emily. And starting from the time I was in third grade, I was raised by an incredibly loving but also incredibly quirky single dad. My dad knows a lot about a lot of different things. He's a scientist, he's an artist, he's a writer. But one area in which he is, I would say profoundly and perhaps even proudly clueless is fashion.
Growing up, this had certain perks. Unlike a lot of my friends whose moms kept strict watch over their hemlines and forbid the use of makeup, my dad really took no notice of those things, apart from his occasional lectures about gilding the lily when I lingered a little too long in front of the bathroom mirror.
My mom's family, on the other hand, fell on the exact opposite end of the sartorial spectrum. When I was little, my grandmother and several of my aunts opened a women's clothing store, and about the time I was 10 years old, I had grown tall enough to wear many of their clothes, and I'd also taken to spending weekends at their houses. So I would come home from trips to their homes with these giant black hefty bags filled with just endless supplies of their designer clothing cast asides.
And I was profoundly aware of my mom's absence from my day-to-day existence at that point in my life, and I think I found in those bags a certain brand of maternal influence that was otherwise lacking from my day-to-day life. And on one particular visit, I found in one of those bags the most beautiful pair of skin-tight, scintillating gold lame pants. And I just could not wait to wear them to my public middle school, where I was in sixth grade at the time.
So I got up really early the next day, way more excited than usual to head off to school, and I pulled those pants over my legs, and I paired them with this cropped, knit black sweater that fell just about to the hip bone so as not to obscure the main attraction that day. And I headed off toward the bus stop. And it may be been an hour after I left my dad that he got the call from the school receptionist telling him that I needed to change my pants.
And I remember I was just sitting there waiting for him in the principal's office when he arrived and I was all hot-faced and embarrassed. I was pretty mortified and I'd never been to the principal's office before and my dad came bursting through the front doors and he pulled me into one of his straitjacket hugs and he asked me if I was okay and how I was feeling and I told him I was feeling fine and
We headed out towards his car and he started telling me kind of nervously about the plans he'd concocted for the rest of the day. He told me I could stay home from school and that we'd go to dinner and a movie that night. And this all sounded great until I eventually realized that he was taking his cues from an episode of The Cosby Show that we'd watched together. And in that particular episode, the mother plans a woman's day to celebrate her youngest daughter's ascent to womanhood. And...
And I recognized maybe for the first time at that moment that my dad was struggling right alongside me and navigating our existence without my mom around. And I almost felt bad telling him that the reason that he'd been called to my school was not, in fact, the onset of puberty, but my violation of the school dress code. That was Emily Barr. Emily is a writer and urban planner based in New Orleans.
Since Emily told this story, her father has sadly passed away. But she says she's raising her own little girl in a way she hopes would make her late father proud. To see photos of Emily and her dad, visit themoth.org slash extras. Anyone can throw their name in the hat at a Moth Story Slam. These shows are for everyone, and Moth Story Slams are in cities throughout the U.S. and throughout the world.
But if you are near New Orleans, please join us at an upcoming night and listen to these community stories, or maybe tell one of your own. In fact, regional producer Alex Zimanovic told us that lots of storytellers who visit end up moving there. They said there's something special about New Orleans. It's hard to describe, but even though it's considered a city, it feels like a big, small town.
Our next story is also by way of that big, small town. It's one from our archives. Here's Emily Richmond, live at the Moth Story Slam, where the theme of the night was tests. I was very smart when I was very young. And on the first day of fourth grade, my teacher brought us all together and said we were going to take spelling tests all day, just sort of round-robin until you got a spelling word wrong, and then we'd know what level you were at.
And I was the only kid in my class that got no words wrong. And because I went to a less than mediocre public school, instead of giving me like 10th grade words or like 12th grade words, they were just like, you don't have to spell the rest of the year. You've done it. Fourth grade, you've mastered it.
So, needless to say, I was like feeling myself that day. And my teacher came around a little bit later and was like, we're going to do just like a little like survey that the school is having us fill out. Got my pen ready, was ready to ace this thing. And the first thing I see on the sheet, which is like, if you look like me, the last thing you want to see on a sheet of paper, which is like, please choose your race, select only one.
And I'm stumped. And I'm sitting there and I feel sick. And I call my teacher over because I can't answer this question. And she does like the very lovely canned answer and says like, just choose whatever feels best, which is not helpful because I don't know if that's all, none, any.
So she leaves and I sit and I decide I'm going to approach this survey and read the questions first and see if I can infer which race I should pick based on what the rest of the survey is asking. And it wants to know how many books I read, it wants to know how many hours I spend doing homework, how much junk food I eat, and I can't-- it's fourth grade-- I can't connect these things back to race in any way.
And so I'm like surveying the room trying to find an answer. And to my left is my friend Ashley and she's Asian and we read the same books and we eat the same food and we drink the same drinks and watch the same shows.
And I look to my right, and on my right is my friend Ashley, who is white, and she's blonde, and she and I read and eat and drink all the same things. And I look over my shoulder, and behind me is my friend Ashley, and she's brunette, and she's not white, but she's also not brown. Something's definitely mixed in there, but for the purposes of my hometown, she's white, and we're all sort of the same person, and I can't...
figure it out, so I fill out the survey just as it is, give all truthful answers, and I can't figure out the race thing. My teacher finally comes over and says sort of like, "We gotta wrap it up. You gotta just like choose one." And so I answer it truthfully, and I feel like if I can't answer black,
because that feels like a lie. I don't want to deny my debt. I can't deny my parent. I can't choose white. That feels like a lie. It kind of doesn't matter what I choose. So I just fill in a circle and I send it off and I wait anxiously for someone to come in and say, you ruined the study. You failed it. You lied. Your race was wrong.
And nobody comes in. And my teacher doesn't scold me. And nothing happens. And so then the next time a survey comes along, I try my luck again. I pick another race. I lie about how many books I read.
And I send that survey off, and nobody comes in, nobody scolds me, and I realize, it doesn't fucking matter. And so as I get a little bit older, and my hometown is very white and kind of racist for being in New England, and I'm starting to understand how the world works, and I'm starting to resent these surveys because I feel like they're playing into some weird stereotypes that are coming back at me as one of the only brown people in my town.
As those surveys start coming in, I start pouring my anger into these surveys, and I'm just like, "You know what? I think I know what you want me to say. So today I'm black, and I only read books, and I never watch TV, and I don't eat junk food, 'cause fuck you."
And then the next time I get a survey, I say that I'm white and all I do is eat junk food and I smoke 12 packs of cigarettes a day and I stare at the ceiling and I hang out with boys and I drink. That's all I do. Fuck you. Fuck you on these surveys. And so then as I get a little bit older and a little older, my dad sort of notices me and says to me, you're the most proud mixed person I have ever met in my life.
And I tell him it's true. I'm very excited to be black. I'm very excited to be white. I love being mixed. It's one occasion where one and one makes three. But I realized that as much as I hate checking those boxes, and I still do, even on that little release, even though we can check as many as apply, which is lovely, I don't like checking the boxes, but having to face that box over and over and over again really helped me to think outside of it.
That was Emily Richmond. Emily is a writer based in New Orleans, Louisiana. You can find her monthly at the Moth Story Slam or telling jokes and stories into microphones at other shows around the NOLA area. Remember, upcoming New Orleans Story Slam dates and themes can be found on themoth.org slash events, along with details about all of our other open mics and shows. There's also a link to the events page in the episode description.
That's it for this episode. From all of us here at The Moth, we hope to see you and hear your story soon. Sarah Austin-Gines is a director, The Moth's executive producer, and a co-author of the best-selling How to Tell a Story, The Essential Guide to Memorable Storytelling from The Moth, which is available now wherever you get your books. This episode of The Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Gines, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Sollinger.
The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant Walker, Leigh-Anne Gulley, and Aldi Casa. The Moth would like to thank its supporters and listeners. Stories like these are made possible by community giving. If you're not already a member, please consider becoming one or making a one-time donation today at themoth.org slash giveback.
All Moth 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, themoth.org. The Moth Podcast is presented by PeerX, the public radio exchange. Helping make public radio more public at peerx.org.
