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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. From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Suzanne Rust. Indiana Jones braved a pit of snakes in his quest for the Ark. Charlie Bucket longed for that golden ticket to get him through the gates of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.
the Wicked Witch of the West, was willing to annihilate a little girl and her little dog too for a pair of ruby slippers. Point is, whether tangible or intangible, we all yearn for something. We all have our personal objects of desire, and that's the theme of this show. My grandmother and mother used to make the very best fried chicken in a cast iron skillet. Now that they're gone, that magical well-seasoned skillet is mine.
I treasure it and use it whenever I can, so it's no surprise that I was drawn to our first story by Mark Lamb. He told it at a Grand Slam in New York, where WNYC is a media partner of the Moth. Here's Mark. When I left home, my mama gave me an iron skillet that was seasoned years before I was born.
Now if you don't know what it means to season a skillet, basically every time you cook in it, the food kind of emits the oils into the iron and the iron absorbs it and it creates this natural Teflon. You don't want to wash it out with soap and water, first of all iron rust. And you just kind of wipe it down with a paper towel. Where I'm from, we like our skillets good and greasy.
Now, that skillet that mama gave me went with me across many estate lines, different homes, different kitchens. And then somehow, and I hate to admit this, I misplaced it. Honestly, I think I misplaced it amidst the pieces of a shattered heart.
Have you ever been cooking all day like Thanksgiving and you finally sit down to eat and you're not hungry? And you're watching everybody devour the food and all you can think to yourself is, "Oh Lord, now I'm gonna have to deal with all these leftovers."
Well, my family were food pushers, so we'd start pulling out Tupperware and Ziploc bags and saying things like, "No, Aunt Velma, you can have as much of that sweet potato casserole as you can carry." I mean it, hon. Well, when the love of my life broke my heart, I looked around at all the things we had accrued together, all this stuff that was seasoned with mutual memories, and I didn't feel like dealing with the leftovers.
So I said, "You know what? You can just keep everything." I mean it, hon. Well, years later, when I asked my mother for my grandmother's cornbread recipe, she gladly gave it to me, and she said, "Now, you make sure you cook it in that iron skillet." Oh, Lord. My face felt like something on low boil. I didn't know what to say to her. It just bubbled up, and I blurted out, "It's gone."
Well, she looked me dead in the eye and said, "You know it took years to season that skillet." It was time for me to go. I was about to walk out the front door and make a five-hour drive from West Kentucky to East Tennessee where I was living at the time. All these hills and valleys and mountains. And the whole time in the back of my head I could hear her saying, "You know it took years to season that skillet. It took years to season that skillet.
So when I got back to Knoxville, I did what I know best to do when I need to heal and make things right. I make art. See, I'm a choreographer, and I was working with a dance company at the time, and I asked about 12 different dancers to go out and interview their family members on what an iron skillet meant in the history of their families.
And those stories, they bubbled up like cornbread batter hitting hot bacon grease. You could just smell those memories. There was Karen, who talked about four generations of women standing around this large iron skillet filled with a pwn of cornbread. And they're pulling apart that cornbread for their Thanksgiving dressing. And a few pieces go in the dressing and then they pop a piece in their mouth.
And she said that it felt like communion because her family believes in Greece. And I don't mean the country, I mean the pork fat. And then there was Julie. Her grandmother had passed away. She was from a well-to-do family and they all gathered around a big board table in a lawyer's office and he commenced reading the will. And she inherited...
her grandmother's beautiful diamond engagement ring. And no one batted an eye. But when she asked for that iron skillet, all hell broke loose. Well, we assembled all these stories into a dance theater piece called Into the Fire, and it was critically acclaimed. I asked my mom what she thought about it, and she said, Mark, hon, the singing was real nice. Well, a couple years later...
I was in the parking lot of a liquor store, and those of you who know me don't find that hard to believe. And this woman rushes me, and she's a little tipsy, and she grabs me real hard by the hand, and she says, You're Mark Lamb? And I say, Yes. And she says, I want you to know I saw your piece into the fire, and it touched me so. And I said, Well, thank you. And she pulls me real hard over to her car, to the back of the car, and she pops open the trunk, and she says, I just want you to know...
That that piece helped me so much. My beloved aunt had passed away a couple weeks before I saw that. I was having a real hard time, and I'm getting real nervous. And then she reaches into the trunk, and she pulls out an iron skillet, and she places it in my hands with reverence. And she says, this was my aunt's iron skillet.
She says, "I'm a family therapist, and whenever I'm conducting group therapy, we pass around the skillet, and people tell their skillet stories. And I think it helps them to open up, and I think it helps them to start the healing process." And I thought to myself, "I am so glad that she did not push me in that trunk." And then I thought, "Well, by God, I have done my job."
Now, I may never fix a meal and feed someone from that iron skillet ever again, which turns out to be my great-grandmother's, my mama Minnie. But I think in losing that skillet, maybe I help feed folks in a different way. And like me, help them to remember where they come from and simply who they are. Thank you so much.
That was Mark Lamb. He's a choreographer, dance instructor, and landscape designer. He's also a Moth Grand Slam champion. In 2020, Mark left his beloved New York City for his childhood home of Sturgis, Kentucky to take care of his mother. I asked Mark how he cleans his skillet, and he said never with water.
He sprinkles some kosher salt in it, wipes it down with a paper towel, and then rubs it gently with a little corn oil. I also asked him what his favorite thing to cook in his skillet was, and he said it's Mammoth's cornbread. To see photos of Mark with his skillet, and to grab the recipe for that cornbread, head to themoth.org.
Our next story is an ode to another kitchen staple. Sarah's sweet, Rabidou Kelsey told it at a slam in Boston where we partnered with WBUR. Here's Sarah. I click on the first few posts in Men Seeking Women on Craigslist and it's pretty much all pictures of penises. I'm more of a face gal myself so I'm gonna keep looking but now I'm only gonna click on posts that have good titles.
I mean, it's late, I can't sleep, I should be looking for furniture. But I just keep scrolling through all the sugar daddies this and no strings attached that until I see the title Yankees Tickets and a Toaster. Huh. I mean, I don't want Yankees tickets. I'm from Boston and I like the Red Sox. But toast is my favorite food.
And I don't have a toaster in my new apartment in Brooklyn. I've had a rough time since I moved to Brooklyn. I had a terrible falling out with my very best friend and every date I've gone on has been weird. The last guy I went out with wanted us both to wear licorice underpants. Whatever Yankees tickets and a toaster is, it can't be as weird as that. And so I click.
I'm happy to not see a forlorned wiener dangling over a nest of computer cords. Instead, there's a nice picture of a brand new toaster. The ad is straightforward. This guy is looking for that lover of baseball and toasted bread products to go with him to one of the last four games to be played at Yankee Stadium before they tear it down.
He has never been there before and he's a Red Sox fan coming down from Boston. He says the best response will win the ticket and the toaster. The game is tomorrow. Now, I don't know who wrote this ad, but they wrote it for me. To me. I am that lover of baseball and toasted bread products and I am homesick for anything Boston and so I have no choice but to reply.
I add the basic stats: Red Sox fan, lover of toast, don't have a toaster, 5'7", athletic, and free tomorrow, which is now technically tonight. I attach a picture of myself, hit send, and go to bed. In the morning, I check my email, well, I check my fake email that I made up last night, and there's a response from him. It says, "I've won!" I'm so excited, I send him an email saying I'm going to get a loaf of bread.
And he says, "I'll meet you in front of Grand Central Station." Waiting for him, I'm going back and forth between blind date butterflies and the stark realization that meeting a stranger from the internet in front of a train station is the beginning to more than one episode of Law & Order. I mean, I could just buy a toaster.
But suddenly he's there with this smiling face. He picks me out of the crowd because I'm wearing a Red Sox hat and I'm not really getting a Law & Order vibe from him so we jump on the number four train and head towards the Bronx. We talk and laugh for the whole nine innings. It's weird, we have a lot more in common than baseball and toast.
We linger for a while once the game ends and Yankees fans are like coming up to us and thrusting their cameras in our hands begging us to take their picture because it's the last time they will ever be here. And more and more this seems less like a blind date from Craigslist and more like old friends having an adventure. We part ways at Grand Central and we say the things you say like, "It was nice to meet you and if you're ever in Boston." And it's not till I'm almost home that I realize
I did not receive my toaster. But I get this text message from him in the morning. He's so sorry. The toaster's in his trunk. He valeted at the hotel in his car. And I'm like, no big deal, though I had bought that loaf of bread. So I write back, LOL, next time, figuring he's going back to Boston and there will be no next time and I will never get my toaster. But I'm out later that night with friends when I get another text.
From him. It says, "Hey, what are you doing? My friends just blew me off." And I look at my Blackberry, and my heart's kind of beating fast. He's still in town. And before I know what's what, I'm writing him back, "So did my friends. Where should I meet you?" And he writes back,
The Grand Hyatt. Now, my friends think it's kind of sketchy to meet him at his hotel and while I do value their opinion, I won that toaster and I'm going to go get it. In the morning, after a late checkout, we get his car from the valet and he pops the trunk and hands me a toaster still in the box as promised.
And we say the things you say, like, "I had a really good time, and if you're ever in Boston..." And he gets in his car and drives away. And I have this really strange feeling, like seasickness and euphoria all at the same time. And it's like wrong that he's leaving me and going back to Boston without me. And I feel like I should be with him.
And my brain is like, "Whoa, you just met him." But the rest of me is like, "Yeah, brain, but you're the one who brought us out with the licorice underpants guy." And my brain is like, "Okay." And the rest of me has to admit, although it's embarrassing and horrifying and totally weird, that I am in love with the toaster guy. And this makes me insane.
I mean, had you told me two days ago that I'd be standing in the street pining after a guy that I just met on Craigslist whose ad I happened to see in the middle of the night, an ad for Yankees tickets, and that I would reply to win a cheap toaster, and that we'd have two of the best dates ever, I would say, "That's crazy." Had you told me that this guy and me would have everyone sing "Take Me Out" to the ball game at our wedding,
And that ten years later we'd be making toast in that very same toaster. I would say that is something else. That was Sarah "Sweet" Rabidoux Kelsey. Sarah is the artistic director of Hoi Ploy, a modern dance company. She lives in Massachusetts with her husband, Steph, and yes, she still has the toaster.
Sarah is also a Moth Grand Slam champion, and she's working on her first book. The week I reached out to Sarah just happened to have been the 15-year anniversary of that infamous first date. I asked her what her relationship with toast and baseball was like these days, and she said, "Toast is still my favorite food, and Steph bakes bread for us every week, so it's the best toast on Earth." As for baseball, since the Red Sox traded Mookie Betts, we watch a lot of tennis.
To see some cute photos of Sarah and Steph, go to themoth.org. Coming up, Earthly Desires, when the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪♪♪
The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is The Moth Radio Hour, and I'm your host, Suzanne Rust. The objects that we hold near and dear may be unique and unexpected, but they are often the ones that can make us feel the most grounded.
Trina Michelle Robinson told this story virtually for a moth fundraiser we held during the pandemic. The theme was hidden treasures. And while this isn't a typical moth story, there's no applause or anything, it speaks to the weight that some objects hold for us. You obviously won't be able to see what she shares, but hopefully you'll feel it.
In the video, Trina was sitting on the floor of her apartment in San Francisco, a little worried about the noise of the buses outside on the street. In front of her, on a wooden tray, were small jars, each filled with soil. Here's Trina. Hi, everyone. I'm really excited to be here with you tonight. Welcome to my apartment in San Francisco. I will be sharing with you my collection of earth.
Each jar has a special meaning to me. I'll start with this jar. I collected this in the in Mount Sterling, Kentucky. It was alongside a creek on the property where my great great great grandfather Martin and several several other ancestors were enslaved. I had gone down there several times and on this particular visit they took me to this creek and they said that that area was untouched from when he had lived there.
And I started getting really overwhelmed. Because first, I just couldn't believe I was here and that I knew this information. But then just the fact that I was like stepping here in that spot. So I just collected a bunch of dirt in a jar. And I just look at this as a family heirloom. I don't have that many. So that's how I consider this. And maybe Martin had stepped on this soil. Or maybe it was just there when he was there. It's just something that I have to remember him.
The next jar I have, I actually collected not far away, 40 minutes from von Sterling in Berea at Berea College. My great-great-grandfather David, son of Martin, went to Berea from 1868 to 1872. And this jar, for me, it represents the future. He was there for education. It was our freedom.
and our next lives up north in Chicago when he moved. The next two, I actually collected in West Africa. I was there in March and I had taken a DNA test and it showed that I actually had ancestry in that region. And so I just had to go. And so I found a group tour that was taking people to Senegal and The Gambia. And these came from there. The first one actually came from near Dakar at Corrie Island.
It houses a notorious slave prison. And the soil in this jar comes from the dirt floor from the room where the children were held before they boarded the slave ships. And this represents their last connection to the Kantian. My final jar, I collected eight.
in a town called Casamance in Senegal. It's right near the border of the Gambia. And I was there because we were trying to learn about the traditions of West Africa that came to the United States. And this one is my favorite. This represents before. It's before America was even an idea. It is when we ruled the land, our lives. It was all about ingenuity, power, and community. And that's what I want to hold on to.
It's really difficult for African Americans to trace their ancestry. There's very little documentation. It can be done, but it's just really hard. So I just look at these as my family heirlooms, and this is how I remember them. Thank you. Trina Michelle Robinson is a visual artist who explores the relationship between memory and migration.
Her work has been shown at both film festivals and galleries, and one of her art installations, featuring two of her soil samples and handmade terracotta bowls, was recently featured in a major exhibition called Bay Area Now 9 in San Francisco's Yerba Buena Center for the Arts. To see photos of Trina and her jars of soil, go to themoth.org. ♪
The theme of this hour is objects of desire, and our next story highlights one of the biggest ones of all time. Viviana Infante came to us via the Moths Education Program, Moth Story Lab, which offers storytelling workshops to high school students from New York and around the country. Here's Viviana. So, something about me.
like to think that I was a brave child growing up and not in that sort of Harry Potter, slaying the basilisk, Gryffindor, save a puppy drowning though I definitely would have if I had the chance. But more so in the absolutely reckless, gun
gonna hurt yourself way that like leads kids to like petting rabid dogs or walking on top of monkey bars or you know climbing outside of your dad's house window to sit on the roof because hey it's cool and you're totally not gonna slip and fall and break your neck but that was me I was the most reckless and dangerous naive and kind of dumb kid but one of my most reckless and repeated ventures with this sort of childish bravery was in love
I was like a domino. I felt easy and I felt hard. And one of the most influential moments was in second grade. Angel Rodriguez is the love of my life. And I confessed this truth to him on the playground, in front of him and all of his friends.
And I think we know where this is going. Because Angel, in the typical mean boy fashion and my horrible taste coming into play, decides to chase me around the blacktop for two laps and corner me at the top of a hill and grab me in his arms, sweaty and small and scrawny little bone-like bird, and he whispers in my ear, "Never talk to me again."
And he pushes me down the hill. Bravery gets your heart broken at the bottom of a hill. And what bravery will teach you is that heartbreak eclipses the feeling of stinging knees or bleeding palms. And that you will never forget the humiliation of the love of your life in second grade laughing at you from the top of a hill with all of his little goonies behind him. And that you're forever going to remember how pathetic you were.
because all you could think about was how he hurt you and hugged you in the same breath. You learn that being brave doesn't really get you shit. And throughout elementary and middle school and high school, I don't get it, anything. I am a walking L. You know, I don't get Angel, I don't get Dominic, I don't get Nick, Matteo, Ariana, Lily. I am a failure.
So it's 17 years and seven consecutive failures and I have learned the hard lesson. Bravery, you are the cruelest teacher but you are good. I will never fall in love again. I know I won't. I turn 18 and I make a plan, you know, I'm like, "Okay, cool, this is all great. I'm going to college. There's gonna be a lot of hot people, yada, yada, yada." And I flirt and I dress in flamboyant fits and it's fire and I'm gray. I'm a fashion icon on my campus.
And I make myself this open, extroverted person. And I don't let any romance in. It's the plan. Fireproof, sure proof. It literally is a bulletproof plan. Nothing can get past this. I'm not going to fall in love because I know what happens. I've known it happen seven times. And I know better. But then there's Liza.
I have known Liza since freshman year, but we never really talked until we had a theater class this semester. And there's a few key things you should know about Liza. Liza, to me, is the soft husk of your voice after a sip of warm tea on a cold day. And Liza looks up at me because she's five foot two. And when we talk, she smiles and her eyes crinkle in the corners and it makes her eyeliner crinkle.
And Liza picks at her fingers because she's got anxiety until they bleed. And so I carry band-aids in my bag for every theater class in case Liza needs one and want to know if her hands are warm or cold. And I want to kiss the pain and the cuts and the bleeding away. I want to know Liza, but I know better. But bravery makes me stupid and bravery makes me dumb. And so I, for the first time in my life,
Decide to ask someone on a date and I hatched the most cringe worthy plan I'm so embarrassed in hindsight. Um, I a date note on the back of a band-aid I make two of them in case I lose one and on the back of this band-aid in my smallest neatest handwriting because there's six other copies that just weren't fit enough for Liza's eyes is Would you like to go thrifting with me and get bubble tea next Saturday? Question mark
As a date. If you don't want it to be a date, that's totally fine. But like I want to go on a date with you because I think you're hot and nice and you're really slay and this would be really cool. So, yes? And so that Friday I go to the, like, you know, my class and I wait until the clock hits 2:05 in theater and I'm sitting with a band in my pocket. I'm sitting with a band in my pocket. I'm gonna ask this girl out. I'm gonna ask this girl out and 2:05 hits.
And I go to her and I'm like, "Hey Liza." And I take out the bandaid, which has flipped me on the front with like six arrows pointing to the back of this bandaid. And I put it in front of her and I'm like, "Here, for you and Liza." Sweet, sweet Liza who looks up at me and smiles and her eyeliner crinkles says, "Thanks." And she puts it in her backpack without a second glance.
So obviously I do what any panicked 19-year-old girl would do when, you know, the person you're crushing on just doesn't take the hint. I run away, and I go back to my dorm, and I cry, and I whine, and I moan, and I say, I'm such an idiot, I'm a failure, I should have realized it, I knew it, this was going to go wrong, yada, yada, yada. And my roommate, who is God-sent for me on this earth, she's the best, guys, she's so amazing, love, Lana. Lana, you're amazing. Hits me with such a nugget of wisdom.
And she reminds me we are here, present in the age of technology. And she says, "Why don't you just text her?" And so to follow the wise words of my philosophical roommate, I text Liza with a funny little meme attached. And it's me editing a photo going like this and saying, "You should really take a double look at that band-aid, shawty."
for an hour and no response. And so I wait for two hours because I decide to give her a little grace period and no response. And so I go out shopping with my friends to distract myself. I decide I'm like, I have a heart murmur. I have conditions. My body isn't fit for the world and it's going to hurt. And I'm waiting in this car.
And I feel a ping in my pocket, because I have my ringer on for the first time in my life because I want to make sure I know she sees the text! And it's, "Viv, I just saw the bandaid. Nothing further attached." But there is a dot dot dot, like, you know, flashing at the bottom of that text, so I've got a little bit of hope, but I am wondering, what do you mean you just saw the bandaid? Like, what's attached to this? "Viv, I'm such an idiot." Dot dot dot. "Liza, I need a little bit more than that."
Because I am over here thinking about how horrible it is that I'm going to get rejected over the phone. And so I'm sitting there, holding my heart in my hands and just waiting for the dot, dot, dot to become a no. And it pings. And it says, Viv, I would love to go on a date with you next Saturday. Now, now, now, you may or may not have guessed it.
But we do go on that date! And it is amazing. We go thrifting at our local thrift stop and you know, we... I learned so much about her. But we just talk daylight savings away, you know? Hours spent in a restaurant where only I eat because she's got like a Friendsgiving coming up and she's like, "I gotta save it for later."
And we missed the bus back to our school because the Brand Van, the Brandeis Van is unreliable and didn't show up at 5:30. And I, because I am smooth as butter according to Liza, and I got that W Riz, I turned to Liza as we're shaking in 30 degree weather at the pitch black of 5:30 and I go, "You want to share a glove?" And Liza goes,
Sure. And so I learned that Liza's hands are cold for about three seconds until my sweaty hand gets all up on it. But she holds it anyway. And I walk her to Chipotle so she can get food for her friends. And then I walk her back to her dorm like the gentle lady I am because I was raised right. And I wait for her to turn at the door after we hug and say, I had a great time. Ha ha ha ha.
And I skiv away. I leprechaun leap, my heels are clicking. I'm literally just flying through campus in the air every two seconds, giggling and yahooing! And I just, it's a victory, man. And it's a second victory because my friends are waiting for me at my dorm to congratulate me about how amazing this date is, how amazing I am. And we're whooping, we're cheering, it's celebration. And I did it. And I go to bed content.
And I think about a little girl who never thought anybody would love her, who knows heartbreak better than she knows love sometimes. And I think about how brave she was to go for it seven times and to wait for lucky number eight. And for the first time in my life, I go to sleep content with being brave. Thank you. That was Viviana Infante.
She's in college now, but when director Chloe Salmon started working on this story with her, she hadn't asked Liza out yet. She got up the courage after they started working on the story. They had their first date a week or two before she got up on stage to tell it, and so the ending changed because of that. Viviana was really living it. I asked her how she was feeling about love these days.
And she said that while she'd like to be swept away in a whirlwind romance, she thinks that deep down, she's really waiting for someone to choose her first. Coming up, our final story will take us to a village in Africa. That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues. ♪
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The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by PRX. This is the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm your host, Suzanne Rust. Our final story is about love for The Beautiful Game. Amana Mbisi told it at a moth show in Alaska, where we were presented by the Anchorage Concert Association. Here's Amana. I grew up in Arusha, the northern part of Tanzania.
A member of the Varwa, or commonly known as the Meru tribe. I'm the fifth out of eight children. When I was at the age of four, I was sent to live with my grandfather. This was customary in my tradition. My grandfather taught me a lot of things. He taught me how to herd cattle and how to grow coffee. How to take the coffee beans out during the day to dry in the sun.
and how to take it back in after sunset. He taught me how to hunt and how to make our traditional medicine from the herbs that are found in the area. He would often tell me best wishes and prayers for me to succeed in life. I loved my grandfather very much, but I always wanted to be like my father. He was the first in his family to go to school. In fact, the only one to go beyond primary school.
He studied economics, became a teacher, and I understood from very early on that it was because of his education that he was able to change his family. He changed his family home, which was built from that thatched roof and walls that were made from cow dung to an iron sheet roof and a brick wall. Fond memories of herding cattle and playing with other kids would often play soccer.
and we made balls out of rags and straws from banana leaves. Now, these balls didn't bounce, but they did the trick. One summer, when I was the age of six, I was fortunate enough to have a soda. Now, sodas were a rare treat in my village, enjoyed only on special occasions. I remember very well this time it must have been for a baptism.
Now, that summer, the Coca-Cola Company was having a promotional campaign, where by drinking the soda and peeling the inside of the bottle cap, you could win various prizes, such as T-shirts and other giveaways. My brother, after opening the soda, he handed me the empty bottle to peel off the inside of the bottle cap. As I was peeling it, it revealed a picture of a soccer ball.
It was my lucky day. I was so happy. I jumped up and down in celebration. The following day, I asked my Uncle Charles if he would take the bottle cap to the city, to the Coca-Cola dealer to redeem my present. A week later, my Uncle Charles comes home with a soccer ball that had Coca-Cola branding on it. It was nice and round.
And it bounced so much better than the balls that we made from rags and banana leaves. I was so happy. A real soccer ball that bounced was next to the best thing that any child in my village could wish for. And because it was so special, I decided this ball will be kept for special use on special days and for special competitions. This was not an everyday ball. And so,
Word started going around the village that Amana, the son of Talala, has a real soccer ball. Kids talked about it in their homes and in the streets. And one day in the afternoon, a group of four boys came to my house. They were from the Sahela Primary School, which was about two to three kilometers away from my home.
At that time, in the afternoon, I was outside with my cousin, Mirisho. We were herding cattle when these guys arrived. And when they arrived at home, that day, the school had a special competition, a sports day where different classrooms competed against each other in various games such as soccer, netball, long jump, and 400-meter run. And so the four boys had come to my house
to ask if they could use the soccer ball on their sports day. And when they asked, first of all, I wanted to say no, because I thought they were going to take away my ball. And, you know, I was only six years old. I was very protective of my ball and did not want anyone to touch it. And so I spoke to my mama Mdogo, which will be my aunt. And after talking to her, I decided, okay,
I will let them use my ball. I had two conditions. The first condition was that they would allow me to play with them in school. And the second condition is I will carry the ball to school myself. They agreed. Apparently, they didn't have much choice. And as we walked to school with my cousin, I was holding the ball, and the ball drew crowds of kids from the street who wanted to feel and touch the ball.
I felt like a little celebrity. And when we got to the school, I was walking, and I'm walking into the school, I see all these kids having fun, they are playing, and I really liked their uniform. We went straight to the headmaster, who was standing on the side of the sports field. And when I got there, he thanked me for allowing the school to use their soccer ball.
And just as I was about to hand him the soccer ball, I thought of another condition. I looked up at him and holding the ball tight and snugly, I asked him if I could join the school. He looked at me surprised and then he asked, "How old are you?" I said, "Six." "Can you count?" "Yes, up to ten." "Safi sana," meaning very good. Now, one more test.
Can you touch your opposite ear with your arm above your head? I quickly raised my arm and reached for my left ear. I had passed. I had passed the two tests, which were actual tests called anthropometric measure of school readiness, used by the Ministry of Education across the country. And so, Mirisho, my cousin, was also standing right next to me,
he too was asked the same questions. Mirisho could not touch his ears, neither could he count up to 10. But he didn't look all that sad or emotional at all. And so after that, the teacher, the headmaster, told me to go and have my uniform made ready to start school the following week. I was very excited.
In fact, so excited that I decided to hand the ball to the boys and decided not to join them in playing. Instead, I went down on the ground and started learning how to write. In my mind, that was the day that I started school. On the first official day of school, walking from home, my grandfather told me, meaning, may your pen be sharp.
At school, I felt a little bit out of place, mainly because I was the youngest. But overall, I was really excited for the opportunity to go to school. I was also very happy about my new uniform, a pair of khaki shorts and a blue shirt. We carried our own books to writing, empty bottle caps, which we wore around our neck for counting. We also carried firewood to make food for the teachers.
and a broom to sweep around the school in the morning. I was determined to follow in my father's footsteps, but I was also very happy not to be working in the Tanzanite mines, which were extremely exploitative of young people. The mine owners preferred kids because kids with their small bodies made it easy to navigate the narrow paths of these dangerous mines.
They called the little kids "nyoka," meaning "snake" in Swahili. Mirisho, my cousin, ended up working in the Tanzanite mines. Now, say what you will about Coca-Cola, but that day, that bowl changed my life. Now, here I am today in Anchorage doing my post-doctorate at the University of Alaska Anchorage School of Social Work.
Determined to follow in my dad's footsteps of working in academia. And I can still touch my ears. Thank you very much. Aman Amembesi teaches at the University of Alaska. He still plays soccer for fun, and in his free time he coaches kids in Anchorage. I asked if he had a favorite team, and he shared that he's always been a fan of Chelsea Football Club in the English Premier Seasons. But when he's in Tanzania, he roots for the Young Africans Football Club.
That brings us to the end of this hour. I want to thank our storytellers for sharing what they hold near and dear to them, and for all of you for being such good listeners. We hope you'll join us next time. And that's the story from the moth.
This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Suzanne Rust, who also hosted the show. Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Meg Bowles and Chloe Salmon, with additional educational program instruction by Casey Donahue, Brielle Silvestri, and Mariama Diallo.
The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Ginesse, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Tellers, Marina Cloutier, Leanne Gulley, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Caza. The Moth Education Program is made possible by generous support from unlikely collaborators. Additional program support is provided by the New York State Council on the Arts, the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs, Alice Gottesman, the Cornelia T. Bailey Foundation, and Con Edison.
Most stories are true is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour from Rihanna and Giddens, King Curtis, Foday Musa Suso and the Kronos Quartet, Lemon Jelly, and Charles Berthoud.
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 BRX. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching as your own story and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.
