Chapters
Shownotes Transcript
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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 Teek Milan, writer, journalist, leadership coach, moth storyteller, and your host for this episode. We're celebrating the launch of our brand new book, A Point of Beauty, True Stories of Holding On and Letting Go. Now, you're listening to the Moth Podcast, so I know you love hearing the moth.
But reading The Moth, it's an entirely different way to experience these true personal stories. Plus, it's much harder to give a podcast as a last-minute gift for your partner's birthday or graduation. Mother's Day, Father's Day is coming up, just saying. And The Moth's new book might include a story from the person you're listening to right now. Actually, there's no might about it. You can read a story from me in the book.
Before I get into more about what makes this book so special and why you should definitely pick it up wherever books are sold, I want to share one of the much-loved stories that appears in A Point of Beauty. This one's from Sean Leonardo, and he told this at a Boston main stage where the theme of the night was, Who Do You Think You Are? Here's Sean, live at the mall. In 2010, I'm standing in this grimy little gym in Oaxaca, Mexico, finally watching La Lucha Libre.
And now for those of you that don't know what that is, La Lucha is the arts of Mexican wrestling. The pageantry and acrobatics are second to none. And while the storylines and narratives of good versus evil would feel familiar to you, there's a special magic to La Lucha because in Mexican culture it is sacred. Now, I've always had a fascination with La Lucha ever since watching it on the TV with my dad.
And it's always been so spectacular. But those warriors were so foreign to me in their mask and regalia, flipping every which way. But I would learn later that those same warriors were your everyday teachers, taxi drivers, office workers. But in the ring, when that mask came on, they were gods. And as a scrawny kid from some insignificant neighborhood in Queens, New York City,
I wanted to feel that. I wanted to know what it meant to be a hero. And so now standing there, I was in complete awe. So much so that I wait for hours after the event just to approach a promoter and ask if I might start training with the local luchadores. Now two important things to know. I'm not Mexican. Yes, I'm Latino, but I'm from Queens.
Maybe more importantly, at the time I had zero wrestling experience. But I may have fibbed just a little bit and told the promoter that I was a wrestler back home in the United States. Whatever it was, he goes backstage, comes back with a little piece of paper with an address scribbled all over it that says, "Show up here Friday." He didn't say when. Just show up here Friday. So I did, but five hours too early.
But I waited and I waited. Then after a while, in comes the trainer and it is the legendary Rigo Cisneros from Nacho Libre fame. I lose it. And he comes up to me silently, sizes me up, and in the quietest voice goes, "Hop in the ring." And the ring
The ring is an iron frame with plywood on top, some sprinklings of rubber, and an old vinyl billboard securing it down. Not the bouncy thing y'all are imagining. The wrestlers were amateurs twice my size.
And everything I did was clumsy and tense. And so they saw that and decided to deliver the punishment just to see if I would come back the next day. And so the slaps to the chest started stinging that much more, the body slams a little more vicious, and the blows, the falls or bumps as we call it in wrestling, that much more aggressive for me than anyone else in the ring. But I came back.
And I kept coming back because where I'm from giving up is not in the cards. And after three months of training, I'm finally granted my first match. And because of my hard work and likely the novelty of an American luchador, I am slated in as the sub-main event. Now, to be clear, that is not the main event. I'm still the warm-up act.
And the night comes and it's the same rickety ring in some makeshift arena with folding chairs. But the lights and the mariachi music is blaring and it feels glorious. And they call out my name and all the blood rushes right out of my body. It all becomes a blur. But I pull myself together, I get pumped and I step out.
In all white and gold. The knight in shining armor with a 14-foot velvet cape. I hit that ring and I'm looking good. And then I get my ass kicked. I lose that match bad.
And so I go backstage, beaten, battered, but at least it's all over. And Rico Cisneros, the trainer, comes over and says, "Go back in the ring, get the crowd pumping, and go save the good guys." And I said, "What the hell are you talking about?" But I panic, I run out there, I do what I'm told, only to get annihilated again.
By the end of the event, there are three bad guys, rudos as we call them, one pinning my shoulders down onto the mat, the other kicking me repeatedly, and the third unmasks me. The ultimate embarrassment in Mexican wrestling. And so, I leave with a mixture of emotions. I'm embarrassed, I'm defeated.
But despite the beaning, I feel like I achieved something amazing. I had become a Mexican wrestler for Christ's sake. I had lived out a childhood fantasy. But I decided, enough fun, the adventure was over, time to go home. So I'm back in my little ass apartment in Queens when I get a phone call a month later from a promoter asking me if I would consider wrestling the welterweight champion of the world.
So it seems this American luchador had caused quite a stir and audiences were still talking about this guy. So it was meant to be set as a special event for the 75th anniversary of the largest Mexican wrestling promotion in the world and staged at the National Museum of Mexico City, which is literally a palace. How could I say no? I'm terrified. But I had to see how far I could take this thing. So I accept.
My opponent, the welterweight champion of the world, his name was Sangre Azteca, Aztecan blood. I failed to mention that my wrestling name was El Conquistador, the conqueror. Now for anyone here that recalls their colonial history, the conquerors didn't do such nice things in Mexico. It was a match made in heaven. The storyline was set.
But upon touching ground in Mexico, I'm explicitly told there is no way I'm winning this match. And then I'm told that Sangre Azteca refuses to choreograph the match. Now if you know anything about wrestling, you know that the outcomes, yes, are predetermined, but that also the matches are more or less scripted. So
Now not only am I being forced to lose the match, I could get really hurt. This has gone too far. Ironically, I'm billed as the good guy, or técnico as we call it in Mexican wrestling. But when the announcer finally calls out, El Conquista Bayo! The entire audience turns on me.
Now Mexican wrestling is a familial affair, so the abuelas, the grandmothers, everyone down to the kids start cursing at me. I feel like the entire arena wants to see me massacred. And in front of over a thousand audience members, Sangres, Teca, and I go mano a mano, one on one. Two out of three falls for more than 45 minutes. And we go at it.
We're going blow for blow, putting each other in submission moves, we're fighting on the outside of the ring, we're kicking and we're going hard. At one point in the match, revved up by the insults of the audience, I look down on my opponent who I just body slammed and I smack him. This was a terrible mistake. All of a sudden the chops started stinging that much more, the punches and kicks a little heavier, and things are going a little too far.
But we go at it, and I stay in there. And for the climax of the match, I climb up to the top rope to finish him off with a high-flying maneuver. And it's just like I imagined as a kid. It's magical. And I'm soaring through the air, only to get caught off midair with a dropkick to the chest. And he pins me for the one, two, three. I lose again.
And I'm leaving the ring, confused, beaten. And a swarm of kids surround me, asking me for autographs, embracing me, taking photos. And it's bizarre. And I bend down to greet a few kids, and I feel this little pat on my shoulder. And a little boy says in my ear, Si se puede. Yes, you can. And I'm beaten. And this kid wants to believe.
wants to believe that this character should keep fighting. And so I do. I take that childhood fantasy and turn it into an eight-year career as El Conquistador. Now it's been almost ten years since the last time I stepped in the ring, but of course I think about my adventures as a luchador all the time. But more than anything, I think about that little boy's words. 'Cause when times get most difficult for me,
And these last two years have been some of the most challenging, tragic years of my life, of so many of our lives. El Conquistador reminds me that it's not always about winning. It's not about being the hero all the time. It's about moving through the failures and getting up after the losses. Because as that little kid said, that kid that just wanted to believe, "Si se puede," yes you can.
Yes, we can. Thank you. That was Shawn Leonardo. Shawn is a Brooklyn-based artist from Queens, New York. His work has been featured at the Guggenheim Museum, the High Line, New Museum, Mass MoCA, and the Bronx Museum, with his first major public art commission premiering at FDR for Freedom State Park in 2022. Shawn lives and works in Brooklyn with his wife and two daughters.
You can find Sean's story, along with many other favorite Moth main stage stories through the years in our new book, A Point of Beauty, True Stories of Holding On and Letting Go. We have a link to where you can purchase it included in the show description. It's so cool that a story can go from a phone line to the stage to the page. And yes, I said phone line. Sean actually pitched us this story in 2020 through the Moth's pitch line. Here's a little bit of that tape.
And day in and day out, I was embarrassed, punished physically and psychologically, and once even reprimanded for revealing my identity. But I learned the sanctity of the mask and just kept coming back. We receive hundreds of these story pitches each month. Here's another pitch from Manisa Naqvi, one that's pretty special to the book itself.
Four years ago, in December 2016, I was sitting in my office at the World Bank in Washington, D.C., staring at my computer screen and feeling quite helpless. Then a news item popped up on my screen, a posting which said that one of the oldest bookshops in Karachi, Pioneer Bookhouse, circa 1945, was about to close down. I read the article. In it, there was a photograph of the facade of the bookshop. I don't know what happened to me, but the photograph really pulled me in. I said to myself, this I can do.
Manizha's main stage story, also included in the book, is actually where we get the title, "A Point of Beauty." And there's so many other wonderful stories in the book. Remember how I said I had a story in the book? Well, here's a taste. I was my mother's fourth daughter. And when I was 15, I sat my mother down and I said, "Mommy, I got something to tell you." And she said, "Aw, shit." And I said, "Ma, I'm gay." Now, she was shocked, but she became my fiercest ally. And when I moved to New York City, we talked daily.
And one day she called me and she said, "Tigaboo, why you got to be so mannish? Why can't you be a soft butch like Ellen DeGeneres?" Now as a transgender person, what we know is that we may lose everybody that we thought loved us. And I was scared that I was going to lose her. But a few days before I was to have my top surgery, I called my mother and I said, "Mommy, I am having a double mastectomy and chest reconstruction. I'm a man."
If you'd like to read the full story, pick up A Point of Beauty, Two Stories of Holding On and Letting Go, wherever you get your books. The core of a moth story, whether it's presented on stage, broadcast over the airwaves, or is read on the page, the core is vulnerability, connection, and beauty, no matter how a story is shared.
We hope you like the book because we think it's really special. Plus, as I mentioned, the Moth book makes a thoughtful gift for your loved ones in the spring. So much easier than a podcast. How would you even wrap a podcast? That's it for this episode. From all of us here at the Moth, we hope you have a story-filled week.
One final reminder, The Moth's new book, A Point of Beauty, True Stories of Holding On and Letting Go, is out on March 19th, wherever you get your books. We'll have a link to where you can purchase it in the show description. Teek Milan has been an advocate in the LGBTQ community for over a decade. He is also a writer and consultant who carved a niche for himself as a media advocate and one of the leading voices for transgender equality.
This episode of the Mouth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Sarah Jane Johnson, and me, Mark Salinger.
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 Ann Gulley, and Aldi Caza. 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 PRX, the public radio exchange, helping make public radio more public at prx.org.