The Moth Radio Hour: Mum's the Word
53:25 Share

The Moth is brought to you by Progressive, home of the Name Your Price tool. You say how much you want to pay for car insurance, and they'll show you coverage options that fit your budget. It's easy to start a quote. Visit Progressive.com to get started. Progressive Casualty Insurance Company and Affiliates. Price and coverage match limited by state law.

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. From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Chloe Salmon. In this episode, stories of motherhood. Honestly, 1,000 episodes probably wouldn't be enough to cover the experience of mothering or being mothered. But zooming in on each of its glorious parts can be the best way of getting a sense of the whole.

And what better way to honor than to listen? So in this hour, you'll hear from four women who meet motherhood in their own unique ways. Plus, even a little conversation with my own mom. First up is Maria Morris. She told this story in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where we partnered with Center for the Arts. Here's Maria live at the Moth. I was 46 years old, never married. I lived in Chicago. I owned my own house. And I had a fantastic career going.

My big indulgence was traveling to see about 15 or 20 Bruce Springsteen shows every year. I had a little bit of FOMO though. I thought maybe those people that say, "I don't want to die alone," are right. So I joined eHarmony. The first match I got was a fellow named Andy. He was a widower. He had a job as a software engineer. He had three children. He lived in a little nice suburb.

And he actually mentions Springsteen in his bio. So of course I pounced on him. And it wasn't quite like that. Our first date, we went to a very elegant restaurant. We had the best time. He told me that his wife Judy had died four years prior and he'd been raising his kids on his own.

And it was just the best night. We closed the place down. He drove me all the way back to the city. And when he dropped me off, he said, "Would you like to go out again tomorrow?" And I was like, "Oh, okay." He said, "How about coming up to the house to meet my kids?" And I said, "To myself? I don't know much about dating, but I think that breaks a rule. Sure! I'll meet them."

So I get there the next night and three of them all lined up at the front door waiting to shake my hand. Cassidy was 12 at the time and she was very reserved, keeping an eye on me but very polite. Honor was this tiny wisp of a little kid. He sat on my lap and drank an entire quart of wonton soup by himself.

And Hannah was nine, and she wanted to show me everything in her room. Her Polly Pockets, all her American Girl gear. And I said, after a while, I played with them, and I was like, "Okay, I gotta take off, you guys." And Hannah said to me, "Um, do you think you could stay and help us get ready for bed?" I'm like, "Come on! What is the matter with you? Are you trying to cue me to death?" And I drove home, I'm like, "I think I love these people!"

Our third date was, it was either the next night or the night after that, and Andy said, "I'm gonna ask you to marry me, but I'm gonna wait until enough time has passed that you won't think I'm joking." And I said, "Oh, what the hell, just ask me." "I'll say yes." So he asked me. I said, "Yes, I'll marry you." At that point, I thought, "Maybe I should tell some people in my real life about this."

My parents lived on the first floor of my two-flat in the city and I hadn't even told them I'd gone on a date. I had not been on a date in more than 10 years. So I tell my mom, "Mom, I met somebody," and she said, "God, you think you know a person?" And my friends, I find out later, were trying to stage an intervention. Everybody was unsettled, let's put it that way. And so we got married six months after we met.

And I moved to the suburbs, into the big house, and immediately I could feel the void that Judy had left. It was deep and cold and quiet. I just looked around and said, what is my role here? What do I do? I got the answer two months later when the mortgage crisis struck and I got let go from my job. And I went from a person who had always...

obviously supported themselves and had a really good thing going to being financially dependent on somebody. And I was a full-time stay-at-home stepmom. I looked around and I thought, you know, I have never cooked raw chicken before. I have never managed household finances. And here I am, I'm in charge. I googled, "What do families eat for dinner?" And it turns out it's not popcorn wine.

So one of those very first days, I was home alone, the kids are at school, and I'm looking, I'm like a detective with a marriage license in lieu of a search warrant. And I'm digging through drawers, like how did she do this? How did she manage finances, feed these people, keep them clean and relatively happy? How did she care for Andy? How did she care for the kids?

In the drawer of the vanity in our bathroom, I found a black compact of Lancome blush. And I opened it and I could see the indent where her finger had rubbed it down. I turned the compact over and the color was a plum. It was the same one that I had. And under our bed, I found the baby books. And she, Judy, had taken such care to write every detail.

The first smile, their first food that they liked, what they didn't like, their first little noises, of course, their first steps. I found out from that part of my search that Cassidy, who was 12 then, she didn't sleep for the first three years of her life. And I was kind of glad I missed that era. I had time. That's all I had, and I dove in. I'm getting kids out of bed. I'm making lunches. I'm driving them to school. I'm sitting in the car line. I'm just kind of...

following along what other parents seemed to do. And it was a lot. And I realized at a certain point, I'm not sure I like this. I started to panic, but I was so invested in looking competent and secure in my role that I didn't tell anybody. So it just built and built, and the frustration grew. I was both overwhelmed and finding the whole thing just really tedious at the same time.

And it all came to a head one day when I was serving corn chowder that I had made from scratch, okay? No powdered mixes here. I was ladling it into Hannah's bowl, and she looks at it and she's like, "I'm not going to eat this."

And I responded in a way that I thought was proportionate at the time. I took the pot of soup, I walked to the sink, I held it three feet higher than the sink, and I dropped it. And I turned around, ran upstairs, and I cried in the bathroom.

And Andy came up, he's like, "I'm sorry. Hannah feels really bad. She's sorry." I said, "I think I'm in over my head. I'm not good at this. I don't even like it. I'm sorry. I don't want to do this anymore. I gotta go." And he's like, "There, there. There, there. You're doing a wonderful job." And I was like, "Job? Did you hire me or marry me? This is awful. I don't like this."

And he's like, "Well, what's so bad?" I was like, "Well, take the socks, okay? And the laundry." Pairing up little kids' socks is a job that should be relegated to people who have to do community service in lieu of jail time. I settled down. I just got used to what I was doing. Even though I'm still bitter, I missed about 20 Bruce Springsteen shows that first year. All my friends are out there on tour, and I'm, you know, matching socks.

I did eventually, on another excursion into the cabinets, find the key to the castle. It was in the form of Judy's blue lucite recipe box. She had all the recipes for the Jewish foods that the family loved, and I made it as a meal. I made the beef brisket. I made matzo ball soup. I made noodle kugel. I put it on the table, and everybody smiled. They were so happy. They were like, you get us.

This is wonderful. And I met other parents and I realized, you know, I'm not a failure. This stuff is hard. Everybody goes through stuff. Like, my coping mechanism was to take a bottle of wine up to the laundry room in iron sheets and pillowcases for an hour, but everybody's got their thing. I could even see myself rubbing off on them a little bit. I busted on her, who was only six, singing Born to Run. And that first year...

Christmas fell right in the middle of Hanukkah and Cassidy said, let's call it Christmas Cup. I'm like, yes. And then we went to get a Christmas tree and Hannah says, we can bring that thing in the house, but it's going to have blue lights and we're calling it a Hanukkah bush. And I'm like, that's perfect. It was wonderful. It was about six or eight months after we were married that I was helping Hannah get ready for bed. And she said, Mumsie,

Is there any way that you know that my mom can come back someday? I just, I wanted to say yes so bad. But I said, no, honey, and I am so sorry. We cried. And then she said, well, you're a pretty good momsy. So last August, Andy and I celebrated 13 years of marriage. Thank you, it was all me. Laughter

There's been, I don't know, 12 or 13 Christmikas, two bat mitzvahs, some door slamming. Andy and I went to see Bruce Springsteen together on Broadway. And when I think about it, I hope Judy is both relieved and proud of us. Thank you. That was Maria Morris. She still lives just outside of Chicago and is a professional designer and installer of perennial gardens.

She's happy to report that the whole family is still doing great and even happier to report that she'll be seeing Bruce Springsteen in concert twice this year. I asked all of our storytellers in this episode to share the best advice their mom ever gave them. Maria's answer? Live and let live.

Her advice for her own kids? Always try your hardest, but please cut yourself some slack when things don't go your way. I can take you hard for... In a moment, a standoff with a Christmas turkey and dispatches from the cat show circuit when the Moth Radio Hour continues. Sometimes it's like someone took a knife, baby, edgy and dull, and cut a six-inch valley through the middle of my skull.

At night I wake up with the sheets soaking wet and a freight train running through the middle of my head. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org. This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Chloe Salmon. In this episode, stories from and about moms.

Our next one was told at the Moths Community Engagement Program Showcase in New York City. Here's Pamela M. Covington. In Savannah, our holiday meals were as bountiful as our Victorian home. We'd dine on baked fresh salmon, oyster stuffing, hand-picked crab patties, had an assortment of things. And the house...

It was decked festively from its crown-molded ceilings down to its glossy hardwood floors and all points in between. Life was dreamy living with Watson. He was so attentive with our two boys, they were one and a half and nine, and he was an excellent provider. In fact, he saw to it that everything in the house was always exactly the way I wanted it.

and he was proud to make it so. But what began as the ideal domestic situation slowly changed. Having served in Vietnam before we met, he suffered with post-traumatic stress disorder and was subject to the changes of a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. And during one of his unpredictable frenzies, when he hit me in the face, I knew

I had to leave for the sake of my and my children's safety at any cost, emotional or financial. So I left my middle-class comfort and fled to Jacksonville, a city I'd only visited twice just for fun. After five days wandering around homeless, the only place that I could afford for my kids and me,

was a unit in a dilapidated cement tenement with no refrigerator, no stove, no air conditioning, and no heat. The little shabbily place was only better than being on the streets. Those piss-poor conditions made me feel so bad.

So low, I felt insignificant. There I was, alone with two children in a strange city, broken in every way imaginable. But no matter what I did, I could not let my children see my breakage. For them, I had to wear a brave mask, even though I was having a tough time providing bare necessities.

I had to do whatever I had to do for my children. My children had never even gone to bed hungry. And I just had to provide for them. It was no longer Watson and I. It was just me and them. You see, I had run off to Jacksonville without a plan. And that security in Savannah was behind me. Christmas was just a week ahead.

And now, on a good day, I cooked Vienna sausages and grits on a borrowed kerosene heater. One day I meet a neighbor of mine and he says, "Listen, I see you over there doing all that stuff by yourself. If ever I could be of any help to you, let me know." I stopped and I thought about it. All I had for preparing food was an old Sunbeam deep fryer and a tiny toaster oven.

What I really needed help with was to have a real kitchen that I could cook in. So I told my neighbor that I had this gift certificate for a turkey I had gotten from the food bank, and I had plans already to spend time with friends on Christmas Day. But if me and my kids could cook that turkey, we could eat off of it for days. Well, he said he was going to be out of town and offered to let me use his kitchen.

I was relieved such a great weight was lifted up off of me. Even though it was only for a little while, I wouldn't have to worry how me and my children were going to eat. I went over to his apartment. He gave me a key and led me on a tour of his kitchen, which wasn't in any better shape than mine. But I noticed as we walked in how dusty the brown tile floor was and grit was rolling under my feet.

And when he went over to open a drawer and show me where the utensils were, roaches ran out of everywhere. And I'm thinking, this is where I'm going to cook it? So Christmas Day, the children and I had been invited by a social services worker to join her and her family for a holiday celebration.

We got there and it was wonderful. There were children running around playing, the aroma of all kinds of foods in the air and everything new like you smell at Christmas time. And there was music playing. And I did good until a song by Donny Hathaway, "This Christmas," came on. It flashed me back and everyone there had been so nice to me and my children.

I didn't want them to think that someone had said or done anything to upset me. I figured it was time for me to go home. So when I got back to my apartment, I thought about it and I said, girl, after all that upset, you know you're not going to sleep. You got that turkey in the sink. You might as well go and cook the turkey. So to pick my spirits up like I always do, I wanted to hear some music.

So I put on Prince's 1999. Because tonight, we're going to party like we're going to cook a turkey. I'm doting all over that bird. I'm basting it. I'm seasoning it. And I'm fussing with it just to get it right in the center of the pan. I got it in there perfect. I snatch that key, head out my kitchen door, and go down to my neighbor's.

At the door, I'm standing on the stoop, balancing this flimsy aluminum pan, putting my key in the door. I open the door, reach in to turn on the light, and head towards the stove, and wow! Two big, ashy, gray rats are standing on top of the stove on their high legs, screech, screech, screeching at me before they jump down and run across the floor. And at that same moment,

I drop my turkey, it bounces out of the pan, slides clear across the floor, and hits the wall. I am beside myself. I go out on a stoop and I'm crying. Then I retreat to my apartment, throw myself into the sofa, and make a decision whether or not I'm going back to get my turkey. Oh, those rats, I'm thinking. That place is so nasty.

I'm not gonna let them have it though, am I? What will we do? Well, I'm going back to get it. I have to. But this time, they can't catch me off guard. I'm going ready for 'em. So, I rummage through my kitchen drawers and then headed back over. I get to his place and I charge in there like some kind of superhero.

And I snatched up my turkey as quickly as I could and put it in the pan and walked right back home where again, I put it in the sink, I scrubbed it, I basted it, I seasoned it, and then walked it back over to cook it. Hours later, I'm carrying a perfectly baked golden turkey in an aluminum pan as if it's on a silver platter.

walking it back over to my apartment where I put it on the countertop and I'm wrapping it in about ten layers of foil trying to muffle that irresistible roasted turkey scent from any rats before I walk up the cement stairs to our bedroom and place it high up on a closet shelf where it can wait to be feasted on by me and my boys. And that night

Having done what I needed to do to ensure the survival of the fittest, I slept for the first time in a very long time, quite peaceably, in the security of knowing that my children and I would have food to eat the next day and for the next few days thereafter. Thank you. Pamela M. Covington is a speaker, author, and anti-poverty advocate who lives in Atlanta.

Her memoir, A Day at the Fair, One Woman's Welfare Passage, is out now. When her sons heard this story in all of its rat-fighting glory, they weren't surprised that she did what she had to do in order to provide for them. The advice from her own mother that stuck with her? Don't be what you isn't, just be what you is. Because if you is what you isn't, then you isn't what you is. No, I didn't even care. It's a 2002.

Our next story comes from a daughter who gets to know her mom better after one childhood summer of hard work and surprises. Annie Sher told it at a Chicago Story Slam showcase where we partnered with public radio station WBEZ. Here's Annie live at the Moth. So there was a lot of tension around money in my household growing up. Who was spending it, how much was being spent, and of course why so much of it was being spent at Target.

And as my brother and I grew older, my stay-at-home mom felt more and more pressure to contribute to the family financially. Naturally, this led to her opening up an online cat-themed gift store called Feline Frenzy. And I was her unpaid intern.

My mom prided herself on only selling high-end items like brooches and handcrafted soaps, which set her apart from the other feline retailers who sold cheapo crap. And eventually she decided to expand her market by becoming a vendor at cat shows throughout the Midwest.

Now, for context, for those of you unfamiliar, cat shows are a lot like dog shows, except while dogs can do things like tricks, cats are judged solely on their beauty and poise. I was bored out of my mind.

And this particular weekend, instead of attending the North Junior High School party of the century, I was stuck with my mom at a Best Western Plus just outside of Des Moines. Instead of playing spin the bottle, I had to mingle with women over the age of 55 and pedigreed cats I was not allowed to touch because they were literally worth more than me.

I begged my mom for weeks to let me stay home, but she just wouldn't hear it. She couldn't do it without me. We sat up in complete silence. Two folding chairs behind a glorified card table with display racks featuring our fine plush cat puppets and artisanal ceramic paw-stables.

Business was slow. It was always slow, since, as it turns out, feline enthusiasts have a strong preference for cheapo crap. To kill some time, my mom suggested that we take a stroll around the conference center, something that we'd actually never done before. We spent so many weekends at these shows, but we never really left our little booth.

We started by walking down the rows of breeders. We met Maine Coons and Russian Blues and cats we never even knew existed before, and neither do you. We laughed at the many absurd hairdos and gossiped about who we thought might win big. The afternoon ended up going by really fast, and although I would not have admitted it at the time, I was actually kind of having fun.

That was until I realized at the end of the day that we did not even break even. You see, before this show, my dad had started to refer to feline frenzy as an expensive hobby, and I agreed with him. My parents' arguments about money were growing more and more heated, and I resented my mom for being so stubborn.

These were the thoughts that were on my mind as I picked at my Bloomin' Onion at the local Outback Steakhouse that night. A meal that would cost more than we made that day. And I just, I couldn't hold it in any longer. Can't you see how ridiculous this is? Feline frenzy is tearing our family apart! I think I'm more of a dog person!

My mom sat quietly for several minutes, the longest silence there had been between us since the morning, before she finally, finally turned to me and said, "Annie, of course I know it's ridiculous. That's what makes it so fun. Not everything is about money, and we never get this sort of quality time to spend together. For me, that's what makes it all worth it." I realized that she was right.

Between school and friends and sick junior high parties, these weekends were the most time I had spent with my mom in years. And I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed it. The next day, we revisited some of our favorite felines and cheered them on in their final competitions. We schmoozed with our vendor neighbor, Pat, who sold cat beds and purr-nature.

We still did not sell much, but it finally was starting to feel like maybe my mom and I were on the same team. And the best part was that at the end of the weekend, she told me I could pick out one thing to thank me for all of my hard work. My eyes immediately found Eddie, the love child of a Selkirk Rex and a Norwegian forest cat.

I was shocked when my mom let me actually bring Eddie home. I was shocked for two reasons. The first being that it put us several hundred dollars in the hole for the weekend. And the second being that it broke my dad's golden rule, which was do not, under any circumstances, no matter what, bring another cat home from a cat show.

My parents announced that they were getting a divorce within the week. No, retroactively, I know Eddie was not solely to blame, but at the time, I couldn't help but feel at least partially responsible. And the divorce also meant the end to feline frenzy.

I only ever attended one more cat show, enthusiastically this time, several months later, just for fun as attendees with my mom. We reconnected with our friend Pat and our other feline friends and reminisced about our glory days.

Sure, maybe the business side of Feline Frenzy had been less than successful, but it also gave us something that money could never buy. We were now rich in family assets. The two of us had never been closer. Thank you. That was Annie Scher. She's a writer and performance artist in Chicago and is currently a company member at the Neo Futurist Theater. Check them out if you're in the neighborhood.

Some standout motherly advice that she lives by, money is made to be spent. Annie's story inspired me to have a chat with my own mother, Georgina, about her experience with being a mom to me and my two younger brothers. The transition into motherhood, I think, seems like a pretty intense one. Your mom passed away when you were pretty young. How did that, if at all, impact your approach to being a mom?

You would think that it would really impact it, but you don't really know what you're doing when you become a parent. It's a learn as you go along thing. Unfortunately, I did have my sister that I could call when, you know, she's got 103, what should I do? I mean, we've talked about it, but losing your mom so young is such a tough thing, especially me thinking about

You know, everything I've learned from you and how much I've leaned on you throughout my life. And especially as I was growing up for like support and, you know, venting sessions and just like a lot of a lot of love. And so I feel so grateful that I've had you for all of that because you've just been so wonderful. And it hurts my heart a little bit that you didn't have that.

It's that's why I think I overachieved with all of you. I overdid everything. I'm overly concerned because I didn't have that. And I knew how it felt not to have that. And I didn't want you three to feel the same way. So I compensated. Had you always envisioned yourself being a mom? Never envisioned myself having children at all. I remember leaving England.

and my sister saying to me, "I'll see you in nine months." And I said, "Oh, no way, we're not having kids." And she was right. You know, 12, what, 13 months later, she came over because you were born. - I'm gonna be 32 soon, and I have never envisioned myself having kids, and I think I'm kind of maybe landing more on the side of maybe I don't want to have kids. How do you feel hearing me say that I don't think I wanna have kids?

I want what makes you the happiest. I don't live for my children to have children to give me grandkids. I just want my children to be happy. So if you're happy, I'm happy. Coming up, a mother and daughter connect over a shared secret when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the public radio exchange PRX.org. You're listening to The Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Chloe Salmon, and this episode is all about mothers. I'm grateful for the experiences my mom had before I knew her that made her into the mother I had growing up.

and for the life she's lived in all of the years since that have made her into the woman I know and love today. Our final storyteller also knows a thing or two about showing up to motherhood as her full self. She told this in Austin, where we partnered with the Paramount Theater. Here's Amanda Johnston. One day when my daughter was in middle school, she told me she had something really important that she wanted to talk with me about.

Now if you have any kids in middle school, you know it could be anything. My mind started to run through the possibilities. Could it be drugs? Was there some drama with her friends at school? Could it be drugs? But I said, "No, she came to me. She wants to talk about it. She'll say when she's ready."

So one morning we got dressed, we put on our usual outfits. I put on my business casual uniform, black cardigan, comfortable slacks, flats. My daughter put on her usual very stylish outfit of bows, colorful bows that covered her whole head and suspenders and a tennis skirt and converse. We went outside, got in the car and headed to school.

Now usually in the car we're listening to the radio and we go back and forth about what to listen to. I want to listen to NPR. She wants to listen to her favorite K-pop group. She usually wins. But this day it was quiet and the radio stayed off. It was silent. Except for her breathing. I could hear her breathing awkwardly and I felt her eyes on me when she said, "Mom, I'm gay."

I thought about what I should say, but I kept my eyes on the road and just kept driving towards school. I also thought about my childhood. See, I moved to Austin from East St. Louis in the early 80s with my mom. I was four years old. I had never been to Texas and I didn't know what to expect, but my mom promised me that we would get all new stuff, including people, people who would become our family.

Now one of those people was my mom's roommate, Uncle Bubba. And Uncle Bubba was amazing. Uncle Bubba was as big as the door. He had red hair, a red beard, red chest hair that kind of peeked out over his fancy dress shirts. He had a gold chain that would sparkle when the light hit it. And I fell in love with him immediately. And he and my mom would take me everywhere, all over Austin. And one day they took me to Zilker Park.

It was my first time going to Zilker Park. And at Zilker Park, there was an ice cream stand and a big kiddie train that went around the park. So Uncle Bubba got us two cones and tickets for the train. It was perfect. We got on the train, and it was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. I was enjoying my ice cream. People were playing in big fields where they were playing soccer and throwing frisbees and flying kites.

And right when that train got to those fields, Uncle Bubba leaned and almost fell off the train. He started yelling at some man. He said, "I could just lick you!" And I look and I see this man, this beautiful muscular man in little bitty shorts and no shirt on and he's kind of sweaty because he's playing with his friends and he looks back at us and he kind of smiles at us and the train keeps going.

Now, mind you, I'm this big and I don't know what's going on. But I asked Uncle Bubba, I said, I want to lick that man. And he just laughs at me and he says, you eat your ice cream. That's for me. I said, OK. I mean, it made sense. I really liked my ice cream. He really liked that man. It was a great day.

Well, at the same time, I started going to church. Now, I didn't really like going to church, but one of my best friends went to church, and I wanted to be with her on the weekends, and one of the conditions of me being with her on the weekends was that we had to go to church. I was a tomboy, so I didn't like that they made me wear dresses and pantyhose. It just wasn't my thing, but I did it, again, so I could be with my friend, and we could play after.

And the sermons just kind of washed over me, really in one ear and out the other. But there was one sermon in particular that stuck. And I remember it because the preacher was angry.

And I had never been in a place full of so many people that I loved with so much anger and hate. He was banging on the podium when he spoke. He spat when he spoke. And I remember him saying, it's Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve. And I was afraid because I didn't understand everything that was going on, but I knew he was talking about my Uncle Bubba. Uncle Bubba was more like Adam and Steve.

Again, I was this big, I didn't know what to say, but I knew I was scared and I was angry, but I didn't want to upset my friend and I didn't want to upset my mom and I definitely didn't want to upset Uncle Bubba. So I didn't say anything. I kept my mouth shut, just tucked it deep inside. And I remember feeling like that again when I was in middle school.

I was in gym and we had just went back to the locker rooms and all the girls were getting dressed and reapplying their makeup and there was one girl in particular I couldn't stop staring at. She was beautiful and I didn't know what I was feeling but I was stuck. I couldn't move and I must have stared just a little too long because she caught me staring and she said, "Oh, what are you staring at Dyke?" and I couldn't move.

And then other girls started saying it too, "Ugh, yeah, what are you looking at? What are you looking at, dyke?" And when I finally was able to speak, I said, "No, no, no, no. It's not like that. I just think she's pretty. She's just pretty." And I grabbed my clothes and I got out of there. I started changing in the bathroom and avoiding the locker room altogether.

See, back in the 80s, they didn't have pride clubs or support groups where kids could figure out what they were feeling. I didn't know any other gay kids, and I only had Uncle Bubba as a reference, and I didn't know how he was able to live like that, so out and so open. So again, I stayed quiet, kept my mouth shut, and tucked it down. I didn't know how to verbalize that I was bisexual.

And since I was still attracted to boys, I figured, "Hey, I'll just keep dating boys." And that's what I did. In high school, I got pregnant with my first daughter. And then I decided that was it. This is my job. This is what I do. I'm going to work hard and take care of her. And I'm not even going to worry about dating. I'll be like my mom and me, just the two of us. Of course, that's when I met my husband. And, you know, we didn't date long, only for about four months. But he was my person.

He was everything. And I didn't tell him about me being bisexual, because what did it matter? I'd found my person. And we'd gotten married. But at the same time, you know, we had another daughter, and I was building our family, and I was growing as a writer and a poet, and I was thriving in a community of queer artists and activists. And it just amplified how silent I really was being, that I hadn't truly said my sexuality out loud.

I knew that I would have to tell my husband. So that year we went to dinner for New Year's Eve, went to Dave and Buster's, not especially fancy place, but it's one of the places we went when we were dating, and it was awesome. We played games and felt like big kids. So we were sitting there at the table, and I was looking across at my love, and I thought, he doesn't know me.

I have to tell him I can't go into a new year without him knowing all of me. So I said, "I need you to know something. I'm bisexual." And my husband paused and he said, "Maybe you're just curious." And I shook my head and I said, "No, no, this, this is who I am." I was so proud of myself that I was able to speak in that moment.

that I wasn't going to hide anymore, that I wanted us to step into the new year together, fully knowing and loving each other. But I was still afraid. What if he left me? What if everything changed? What will we tell the kids? But he didn't leave. And we've been married now for 21 years. I came out to my close friends and family, but I still decided not to tell my daughters because they were just too little. But one day I would.

One day when they were ready, when they were discovering their own sexuality and becoming young women. So back to that day in the car, my daughter, and she told me she was gay. I thought about what it took for her to say that. I thought about what she had to go through and what I had to go through for us both to be in that moment in the car. And I knew it was time to tell her. I said, "I'm gay too. I'm bisexual.

And it was like the car began to float. The weight was lifted off of both of us. She said she felt normal knowing that she wasn't the only one in our family. And I said, "That's just it. No one's the only one. You just don't know if they're not brave enough to say it." Brave like she was. Brave like I hadn't been. But there she was speaking her truth.

She went on to high school, joined the Gay Straight Alliance, became an officer, and walked in the homecoming football game with her girlfriend. She wasn't gonna hide in the bathroom. She wasn't gonna hide her heart. She was free. And so was I. And you know, I thought about it. Love really can be that bridge over fear. Or maybe it's a train and ice cream.

with your favorite uncle who walks with his face towards the sun. Thank you. That was Amanda Johnston. She lives in Central Texas with her family and is a writer, artist, and founder of Torch Literary Arts, a nonprofit that creates advancement opportunities for Black women writers. The best advice her mom ever gave her? When you learn something, you don't unlearn it. You either decide to face it or ignore it. It's better to face it.

Amanda lost touch with Uncle Bubba when he moved away from Austin a few years after that afternoon in Zilker Park. But she has a message for him. Uncle Bubba, if you're listening, Amanda says thank you for being her uncle, the first member of her chosen family in Texas, and for loving her and her mama wholeheartedly. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. If you're able to, give your mom a hug the next time you see her. ♪

Thank you to our storytellers, to my mom for being the very best, and to you for listening. And that's the story from The Moth. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Katherine Burns, and Chloe Salmon, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show, along with Michelle Jalowski. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch.

The rest of the Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cloutier, Leanne Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Casa. Moss stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Bruce Springsteen, Prince, Victor Wooten, and Andy Summers and Benjamin Verdery.

We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.