The Moth Radio Hour: Curtain Call

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This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Sarah Austin Janess.
At this point point in the moth's history, we've featured over 60,000 stories on stages around the world. Moth storytellers come from all reaches of society.
Farmers, plumbers, astronauts, teachers, voodoo priestesses, firefighters, people who have never been on stage before the moth, and people who are famous for their work on stage. The three storytellers in this episode all have recognition for their artistry on stage.
Our first teller, Tique Milan, is known for speaking all around the world, advocating for the most vulnerable of us, and his TED Talk has three million views and counting. He told this new story with us on the Walter Kerr stage in New York City, when the moth had its first night on Broadway.
Here's Teek Malan. I was my mother's fourth daughter.
The first she had when she was 15 years old. Years later, one of my sisters had a baby at 15 years old.
So when I was 15 and I sat my mother down at the kitchen table, I knew exactly what she thought I was going to tell her.

I said, Mommy, I got to tell you something.

She said, Aw, shit.

I said, Wait a minute, wait a minute, wait a minute.

I'm not pregnant. I'm gay.

She was shocked.

She was shocked, but she got over it quickly,

and she became one of my fiercest allies.

I remember seeing her when I'd be marching in the Pride Parade in my hometown of Buffalo, New York. She'd be on the sidelines, her and her younger sister Stella waving their rainbow flags, drinking their wine coolers, having a good time.
We grew really close, particularly when I moved here to New York City in my 20s to start my adult life. I really needed her so much.
I needed her for everything. I called her every day and twice on Saturdays to help me make decisions about decorating my apartment, to help me make decisions about school, about my beginnings of my career.
I would tell her all about the beautiful women that I was meeting and I was dating, but I didn't tell her that I was their boyfriend. My mother was a nurse for over 40 years, so I caught a case of the sniffles.
I'm calling her to ask her what tablets to take, but I didn't call and tell her that I was taking a half cc of testosterone every two weeks. I didn't tell her I was transgender, but she knew something was up.
So one day I'm at work, and she calls me. She said, Teekaboo, that was her pet name for me.
She said, Teekqaboo, I hate to call you at work, but I just got to ask you this question. I just got to get this off my chest.
I said, mommy, what's up? She said, why you got to be so mannish? Why can't you be a soft butch like Ellen DeGeneres? I said, I'm not Ellen, ma, okay? She says, you know what? I should have never allowed this. I should have never accepted you.
I should have never accepted you. What would have happened if I had never accepted you? I said, well, Ma, I still would have been me.
I just would have been me without a mother. And she thought about it for a minute, and she said, well, you ain't got enough good sense to do anything without me, so I guess I'll stick around.
Thank you. So we laughed and went on about our conversation, but I didn't take that opportunity to tell her because I was scared.
My mother had a really had high expectations of me, and she used to say, I'm raising you to be better than me, and I thought that me being transmitted, I was failing at that. And as a transgender person, one of the things we risk is we risk losing everybody in this life that we thought loved us in order for us to find ourselves.
And I was not ready to lose my mother. I just needed her too much.
And I just loved her too much. So I kept it a secret.
I didn't tell her for years. And our relationship definitely took a hit.
It was a strain on our relationship because I'm from Buffalo, so I would just go back and forth, just visit like four or five times a year. I'd stay for a week at a time.
But during these years, I would only go home maybe once, just stay for a couple of days. And it wasn't sustainable.
It wasn't sustainable particularly because now my transition is progressing and now it's time for me to have surgery and I still had no plans to tell her. And my girlfriend at the time looked at me and she said, you are crazy.
You and your mother are best friends. You talk to her every day.
She's a nurse. She will never forgive you if you don't tell her that you are about to have major surgery.
So I was like, all right, I'm going to tell her. So one day I call her.
I said, mommy, she said, what's up? I said, I got something to tell you. She said, what is it? And this is exactly how I came out to her.
I said, Mom, I am having a double mastectomy, a chest reconstruction. I'm a man.
She said, what the fuck? So she's like hyperventilating on the phone, right? So I said, listen, mommy, I'm having surgery, and I'm having surgery in three days, and I would love for you to be here for me, but if you can't, I understand. And she said, just get off my phone and let me think.
Just get off my phone. Click, and she hung up on me.
And she hung up, and I didn't hear from her. So the day of my surgery comes around, and I'm all prepped and ready for surgery,

getting ready to get wheeled in.

The door opens up, and guess who it is?

This my mom, Miss Mary.

And here she comes, and she has this plush Ralph Lauren robe.

And she has a jar full of chocolates covered in blue foil.

And she has a little, blue, plush little teddy bear for me.

And she was there with me the entire time I was in surgery and doing recovery. So I got discharged and we go back to her favorite hotel which is the Marriott Marquis here in Times Square and we're kind of just hanging out in the hotel room and I look over and she's crying and I I said, Ma, why are you crying? And she said, because it feels like my daughter died.
And that was one of the hardest things I've ever heard. But I understood it because my transition wasn't just mine alone.
I went from being a daughter to a son. I went from being the little sister to the baby brother, from the favorite auntie to the favorite uncle.
So I grabbed my mother's hand and I looked in her eyes and I said, mommy, I'm yours and you're still mine. And everything that you've taught me, all the memories that we have made as mother and daughter have informed me and fortified me as a man that I am today.
And we laughed and we cried and we talked. And I think it was in that moment when she really started to understand me and accept me as her son, but it wasn't necessarily a smooth transition.
She kept messing up my name. She kept messing up my pronouns, and so one day I called her.
I said, mama, look, I'm not coming home anymore. I'm not coming home to visit if you can't get my pronouns right, and you can't get my name right.
Because not only is it humiliating, okay, it's unsafe. You could be putting me in a really unsafe position when you do this.
She said, oh, my God, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.
I'll be better. I said, all right.
Get it together. So a few days later, she calls me.
And she said, oh, Tikal Bull, you'd be so proud of your mother. You'd be so proud of me.
I said, why, mommy? What's going on? She said, because I've been practicing. Me and Stella have been role playing, practicing your name and your pronouns.
You'd be so proud of your mother. And I said, mama, I'm always so proud of you.
And she said, oh, I just love you. And I said, I love you too.
And we went on in conversation the way we had always done.

So June 2014, I get a phone call from my mom.

And this time she is hysterical crying, hysterical.

And I said, mommy, what's going on?

And she said, baby, you got to come home right now.

You got to come home right now.

And I said, mama, I'm coming home on the 19th. And she said, Baby, I'm not gonna be here on the 19th because the cancer has mushroomed throughout my entire body.
The tumors in my lungs and in my backs are bigger. The initial tumor in my breast, you gotta get home right now.
Now we knew Mommy had a cancer diagnosis, but I don't think we knew it was that bad. So I got on the first thing smoking back home.
Now, by the time I get home, my mother's in hospice, in and out of consciousness. And one of my sisters is there.
And she sees me and she says, Teak is here. Here she is.
Teak is here. She finally made it.
Here she is. Teak is here.
My mother slowly opened up her eyes and she whispered, he. And that was one of the last words she spoke.
So over the next couple of days, the family, we had it set up so that she was never alone. We all took a shift.
And I had the morning shift. So one morning I come in, and it's pretty obvious that we're reaching the end now.
Every breath she take is so labored. Her whole body moves.
And there's this loud gurgle with every breath that just fills the room. So I come up to her hospital bed and I take the guardrail down and I get in bed with her just like I used to when I was a little kid.
And I put my head on her shoulder and I put my lips to her ear and I said, Mama, you could go. I said, it is OK.
I promise you, I'm going to be okay. You did such a good job raising me.
You can go. And then I fell asleep.
Fell asleep right there. And when I woke up, the room was silent.
And my champion had died right there in my arms. I tell you, there are no words to express how devastating that was for me.
The sun still doesn't shine as bright anymore. And I was really lost because my mother, she was my moral compass.
She was my guiding light. She was the only person in this world who could check me.
So I'm like, who's going to check me now? And as I processed my grief over

time and really self-reflected on this idea that she was raising me to be better than her,

in actuality, it wasn't about me being better than her. She was raising me to live in this

world without her. And not only am I living, but I am thriving because I am the man that she raised.

Thank you. That was Teak Milan.
Teak says he's a diehard Buffalo Bills fan and a mama's boy. He told this story with us all over the world, and it's also included in The Moth's best-selling anthology, A Point of Beauty.
Teak is an advocate for equity and inclusion, and he credits The Moth for being an integral part of his development as an artist and a speaker. Every time I get off stage, people come to me in tears, with hugs in celebration and in mourning of my dear sweet mother.
I've been able to submit her legacy and give thousands of people an example of unconditional love, and I know she's shining down and is so proud of her baby boy. To see photos of Teak and his mother, Miss Mary, after they saw the Broadway show Fences, and in Times Square hanging out with the naked cowgirl, go to our Radio Extras page at themoth.org.
If this story makes you think of some of your own, tell us.

You can find information on how to pitch us at themoth.org.

After our break, a teenager on the coast of Oregon gets thrown into the world of mean girls

when the

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I'm Sarah Austin Janess, and this episode features three artists famous for their work on stage. Our next storyteller is Amelia Zirin-Brown.
She goes by Rizzo. She's a world-renowned cabaret singer.
The New York Times calls her shows, quote, a fierce but kind-hearted fusion of comedy, burlesque, performance art, and rock and roll. Rizzo told this story at a Mothmane stage in Portland, Oregon, where we partner with literary arts and Oregon Public Broadcasting.
Here's Rizzo. I'm five years old, and we pull into Ona Beach State Park, and I dust off the sesame seeds from my halva snack off of my favorite brown corduroy romper.
It had patches and kind of an Elizabethan flair to it, and I'm trying to get some knots out of my hair, and I decide to just cover it up with my favorite raspberry Beret, put it on a jaunty angle. And I go out into the clearing, and the moment I see these other five-year-old girls, I realize that they're really different from me.
They were clean, number one. And I guess their hair was, what do you call it, brushed? And pulled back in these, like, tight ponytails with lots of plastic clips, and they were wearing shoes.
And I felt like I should turn around. I didn't have my A-team by my side, Amber Star and Aurora.
I was all alone, but I soldiered through and got through the first day of the brownies. I was raised by a group commonly referred to as hippies, but these weren't just any hippies.
These were theater, dance, and art hippies who raised me, you know, basically with trust falls and mime. and it's not a great idea to be caught in a trust fall by a mime, by the way.
But it was a really great idea to be raised by these people. They taught me I could be whatever I wanted to be.
And my parents made Shakespeare and barns and Chekhov and basements. And my father made a life-size puppet of the elephant man that sat in our living room for too long and still frightens me.
And I had my sisters, who were not my actual blood sisters, but my sisters, Amber Starr and Aurora, by my side. We were raised together, breastfed together.
We started

modern dance when we were three. You know, it's important to do contractions at that age.
And I had them by my side, but this summer they were off traveling, and my parents thought it might be a good idea to socialize me with kids outside the community. And so there I was with the thing underneath the Girl Scouts, which is called the Brownies,

and I clocked Christy and Mindy right away. They, yeah, they, like, looked so shiny.
And they... The differences really unfolded when lunchtime came, as all the other girls opened these space age plastic cases with cartoon ponies and Care Bears on them and pulled out these sandwiches made from bread as white as clouds.
Just spongy and uniform in shape. It looked like a drawn piece of bread and on it condiments that looked like primary paint colors, so bright

and a luncheon meet of indiscriminate animal. It must have been a snake because it was so round.
But the piece de resistance was the beverage. You see, they had this Mylar pouch with a picture of paradise on it.

I watched as they peeled some sort of instrument of destruction off the back of the pouch. It must've been a spear of sorts because they stabbed the belly of that beast and they drank its blood in glory.
I wanted nothing more than to taste whatever this rainbow was.

I saw their lunches and I thought,

it looked so fun, like a vacation made for kids.

And for the first time,

I looked at my own lunch with disappointment

as I pulled out my sprouted flaxseed and millet bread

out of, you know, a bag hand-sewn by my father made from Guatemalan fabric and the bread had hummus on it, hummus. You had to say that because it was...
It was so granular. It had been hand-pesteled, hand-pesteled by loud New York Jewish women.

And I pulled out my beverage,

which was a rusted mason jar

filled with cloudy apple juice

and it separated during the day,

so it was interactive.

At the end of lunch,

Christy and Mindy,

we had already decided wordlessly

that they were the leaders of the group. They had came over to me with like the girls in The Shining, only more frightening.
Hands held. They said, Dirty Girl.
They didn't know my name yet. Dirty Girl, we were just wondering if you wanted this Capri Sun, Capri Sun, Capri Sun.
It had a name. How did they know?

They read my mind.

I said, thank you so much.

I bowed professionally.

I grabbed it from their hands.

I took the straw in my mouth.

I jutted it to the left and right.

I couldn't look deeper.

I should try deeper.

Nothing.

Only Christy's expelled air.

She had puffed it up to make it seem like there was a drink. And then Christy laughed, and Mindy laughed, and then all the brownies laughed.
And I laughed too. But when my mom picked me up, I cried.
And I got through that week of brownies somehow with my head down and quieter than I'd ever been.

And then I got through elementary school with a breeze.

I had Amber and Aurora by my side.

And still we had this wild life where we would make this art and our parents would have cast parties

where all of a sudden they would disappear in the middle of the party to have a meeting in the laundry room about herbs. And we had this life and but then we had you know had each other and we had this kind of secret life but then I made it through elementary school and then middle school came and the first day of middle school I was at my locker and then the hall, who do I see but the Capri Sun duo? Christy and Mindy for the first time since then.
They were walking, it seemed as if in slow motion, with their flaxen hair blowing. They were wearing guest jeans with zippers at the ankles, Keds, an Esprit sweatshirt, a Benetton sweatshirt, and Swatch watches on East Ritz.
I was bowled over by their cookie-cutter glamour. And that week, also, a dare officer had come into our classroom.
A police officer who said, you know, kids, it'd be a great idea if you told me if you knew anyone who did drugs. And I remember so distinctly my mom sitting me down and saying, Amelia,

she said, Amelia, we don't lie, but sometimes we admit or bend the truth.

Like when we order you something off the children's menu and could you please stop

correcting us and letting them know you're 12. When you're on an airplane, if you're

Thank you. when we order you something off the children's menu, and could you please stop correcting us and letting them know you're 12.
When you're on an airplane, if you're ever on an airplane, and someone asks you if you're Jewish, I want you to lie. And the third time is if an officer asks you if we or our friends smoke marijuana.
By this time, you know we do. We just don't agree with the rest of the country.
They think it should be illegal, and we use it to relax just like they do their whiskey. So I had already learned that I had to hide parts of myself to pick and choose what to expose, to fit in, to survive.
And I was picking and choosing some things off of the wardrobe of Christy and Mindy.

Please, Mom, please, can I buy some guest jeans?

Please.

I begged.

I begged for each little bit. And slowly through the year, even though Amber's mom, Nancy, suggested that perhaps we just buy one pair and cut off the little triangle and put a piece of Velcro and just share it.

I collected all the pieces of clothing and by seventh grade I decided I was quitting dance and I was quitting theater because I was gonna join the basketball team with Mindy and Christy. And midway through seventh grade Mindy and Christy at lunchtime send one of their minions to me Katie Katie or Danny.
You can see what kind of names you had to be a leader here. And they said, they want you to sit at lunch with them.
Oh my God, my moment had come. I was them.
I sat down and I realized really quickly the order of the day was to make fun of the other girls that were in seventh grade with us. And Christy said, ah, did you see what she's wearing? Oh my God.
I mean, what is it? Has splatters of paint on it intentionally? I knew exactly who they were talking about. Aurora had been wearing this jacket made by a family friend named Becky whose art was to throw paint at vintage clothing.
I loved that jacket. It had puffy sleeves, a snatched waist.
Mindy said, yeah, she's so weird. Did you see her glasses? What do you think, Amelia? I took a sip of my milk.
Yeah, she looks like she cuts her own bangs with craft scissors. They laughed and I died inside.
I had cut my own hair with her with craft scissors and I was selling myself out so hard. At the end of lunch,

Mindy and Christy and Danny and whatever her freaking name was they started picking up speed they were like running running fast through the breezeway we're running from some boys but then they picked up some intentional speed and then they took a quick right into the library, and a quick left through the computer room. And I was just trying to catch up.
I wasn't as athletic as they were. And I just saw out of the window of the computer room that they had gone into the girls' bathroom, and I took a breath.
And I slowly, as quietly as I could, entered the bathroom, and I heard them. they were huddled in the disabled toilet.
And they were saying, did we ditch her? Do you think we finally ditched her? They were talking about me. And oh my God, what a gift.
What a gift to be given so clearly and so young that I had built this house on sand. And I stood back, I went and searched out Aurora, I found her, I hugged her as tight as I could.
I didn't tell her the story, and I still haven't told her the story until now. And then I, for the first time, really felt the joy and the gift that all these adults that had raised me had given by modeling their genuine and expressive selves.
And I walked into high school wearing combat boots and a goodwill dress with Aurora and Amber by my side. The A-team was back.
And I carried on that joy. And seriously, this is what happens when you tell a child they can be whatever they want to be.

I went into a life of a niche world of cabaret,

where I meld songs and stories through the portal of glamour

with the greatest wish that somebody in the audience is going to be inspired

to let their light shine through whatever normative cracks have held them back. Thank you.
That was Amelia Zirin-Brown, a.k.a. Rizzo.
She's a performance artist, comedian, singer, composer, and actor. She also has a Grammy for her collaboration with Yo-Yo Ma.
She travels the world with her original pieces that fuse storytelling, audience experiments, and powerful vocals, and she lives in a bungalow of love and glitter with her partner Nicholas and son Tennyson. Rizzo is still friends with Aurora.
She told her a version of this story before it went on stage and they both cried on the phone. Rizzo says it's such a beautiful gift to have friends that you shared your early years with.
It also lends a vulnerability that's a little frightening too. Our shared childhood was idyllic in so many ways but it was definitely not perfect.
It's amazing to have these women, who I traveled through every stage of my life with, still in my orbit. Rizzo was the last to tell her story at this moth mainstage in Portland, Oregon.

And as our host, John Good, wrapped up the night, Rizzo stepped offstage, did a quick change into a sequined onesie,

the stage lights dimmed and changed color, and she came back out and sang Leonard Cohen's How the Light Gets In,

which was our show's theme for the night.

It was perfect. And here's a little of that now.
All the wars, they will be fought again. The holy dove, she will be caught again.
She will be bought and sold and bought again. The dove is never free.
So ring the bells, the still can ring. Forget your perfect offerings.
There is a crack, a crack in everything, is how the light gets in.

We asked for signs, the signs were sent, the birth betrayed, the marriage spent.

Oh, the widowhood of every government A sign for all to see I won't run no more With that fallen crowd While the killers in high places Say their prayers out loud Oh, but they've summoned up They've summoned up a thundercloud, and they're gonna hear from me.

Ring the bells, the seal can ring. To see the video of this closing act, and to find where Rizzo is performing next, go to themoth.org and look for the extras for this episode.
After our break, a boy in Texas gets himself a famous television pen pal when the Moth Radio Hour continues. Strike up the drum.
There will be no march to every heart. Every heart.
Love will come like a refugee, ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offerings.
There's a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.
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Hey, it's Jill Schlesinger, CBS News Business Analyst, Certified Financial Planner, and host of the podcast Money Watch with Jill Schlesinger. It's a show where we answer your questions about your money, from investing to retirement and completing your taxes.
I'll be your financial coach and help take the stress out of managing your money. Plus, we might even have a little fun along the way.
Follow and listen to Money Watch with Jill Schlesinger on the free Odyssey app or wherever you get your podcasts. You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour.
I'm Sarah Austin Janess. Doug Wright, our final storyteller, won a Pulitzer Prize in drama for writing, I am my own wife.
I remember seeing this on Broadway in 2003, and it remains one of my favorite pieces of theater ever. The show also won the Tony for Best Play.
Turns out Doug is a listener of the Moth, and he's wanted to share a story with us for some time. How cool.
I, though, found it a little daunting to give story notes to a famed story writer, but Doug loved the process. I talked with Doug in the green room before he took the stage in East Hampton.
Doug, how do you feel before going on? Oh, a little anxious. It's always a little nerve-wracking.
Is it fun to tell? I mean, it's just a little piece of you. It's great fun to tell.
And as someone who writes as my profession, and it's such a solitary activity, you can get jealous of the actors on stage. And so it's my little 10 minutes when I get to do a tiny play.
And that's kind of thrilling for me. So it's a pleasure.
Looking forward to hearing it. And with that, here's Doug Wright, live at the Moth in East Hampton, New York, when we partnered with Guildhall.
So it's 1974, Dallas, Texas. I'm 11 years old and I'm sitting on this mustard colored couch and my eyes are glued to a 19-inch Sony Trinitron.
Good night, Grandpa. Good night, Mary Ellen.
Good night, Jim Bob. Good night, John Boy.
My siblings and I are each allowed one hour of television per week because my staunch Presbyterian mother thinks that if we watch too much, we'll have brain rot or go sterile. My older brother has chosen Star Trek, my younger sister, Donnie and Marie, but Thursdays are my big night because I've chosen The Waltons, the tale of a Depression-era family eking it out in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.

In truth, I'm a little obsessed

with the Walton's eldest child, John Boy.

He's got this shock of blonde hair

and this really sensitive face

and this sexy mole on his cheek almost like a beauty mark and he's not very good at farming he does not like to hunt he's a writer in fact the entire series Waltons, was based on a bunch of books by a man named

Earl Hamner.

And as a kid, I tore through those books.

And one of them even contained the recipe for John Boy's favorite cake.

It was an applesauce spice cake with whiskey frosting.

And for years, I insisted to my mother that that was my definitive birthday cake. I knew that I had to get in touch with John Boy or at least the actor who played him.
So I went to the dime store and I got one of those big chief writing pads like the one he had on the show and I sat down to write him a letter and in it I told him everything I told him about my theater classes and I told him that I wrote stories too but they were secret for my eyes only because in them I wrote about all of my failings that I I was probably too sensitive for a boy, that the other kids at school called me sissy, and that most days ended getting beaten up at the bike racks or at the lockers. And I thought he might understand because he was sensitive too.
Maybe he even wrote for the same reason. That letter was 22 pages long.
I finally found a manila envelope large enough for it, but I still needed stamps. Now, my dad was a retired Marine marine and I wasn't sure he'd be too thrilled if he knew his son was writing mash notes to a male ingenue on television.
So I snuck into his study which was strictly off limits and I went to his stamp dispenser and I just start pulling roll after roll after roll. I plaster this manila envelope with him and on the way to school, I put it in the mailbox.
And then I wait. And a week passes.
Then two weeks. A month.
I get, during that time, maybe a copy of Boy's Life, a birthday invitation, and then one day curled up in the mailbox like a scroll, an envelope with the return address Laura Marr Studios, Burbank. I tore it open.
Dear Doug, thank you for your letter. I'm grateful you are a fan of the show.
Please keep watching. Best, Richard Thomas.
Terse, I know, but to me it was poetry. Best of all, he had included a photograph.
He's wearing this sort of jaunty knit cap, and I can still see that blonde hair and that sensitive face and that signature mole, and I know I have to do something really special with this picture. So this time I sneak into my dad's dresser and I pull open a drawer and there are all his business shirts crisp and white lined up in perfect formation and I reach in and I pull out the cardboard that the dry cleaner uses to keep them from wrinkling and I take bunch of that and I run back to my room and I reach in and I pull out the cardboard that the dry cleaner uses to keep them from wrinkling

and I take a bunch of that and I run back to my room and I cut it in the shape of a frame and I build a little stand for the frame and then with watercolors I paint all these little model T Fords all around the edge of the frame like the Waltons used to drive, and I put John Boy's picture right in it,

and I put it on my nightstand.

And the next morning at breakfast, my dad is like,

what the hell is going on? Why are my shirts wrinkled?

Where the fuck are my stamps?

But I keep mum, because John Boy and I are really, I figure, friends now. We're pen pals.
And I keep writing him. And even more remarkably, he writes me back.
Now, it's true, the letters become shorter. Dear Doug, thanks Richard.
But he keeps enclosing a new and different photo. So more photos mean more cardboard frames and pretty soon my bedroom is becoming a shrine to John Boy Walton.
He's on the windowsill, he's on the dresser, he's on my nightstand.

Now this doesn't thrill my older brother with whom I actually share the room.

So he says to me one day, what's the matter with you? Are you in love with him or something?

And I say, no, he's my hero. And a lot of people put their heroes on the wall.
And my brother says, yeah, maybe Farrah Fawcett or Joe Namath, but John Boy Walton. And I'm like, you don't understand.
And pretty soon he starts waging passive aggressive war. And he takes his planes, and he hangs them from the ceiling of our bedroom.
So our room becomes this blizzard of Hellcats and B-52s, all aiming right for John Boy, like they want to take him out. So finally, a couple years pass, and I'm no longer feeling quite so freakish and I'm actually starting to make friends in the drama club and on the literary magazine and I decide I want to invite them over to my house like they invite me to theirs and a little voice in me says that this photo montage of mine might spell social suicide.
More than anything, I think I worried that it revealed more about me than I had yet admitted to myself. So one day, impulsively, I tore down all the pictures of John Boy.
I put them in a shoebox, and I shoved it far under my bed. It was a burial of sorts, a kind of denial, I think.
So four decades pass, and I actually become a writer, just like John Boy. And I'm a very fortunate one.
I've had plays on Broadway, and I actually become a writer just like John Boy and I'm a very fortunate

one I've had plays on Broadway and I've written some movies so it's it's going pretty well and I'm about as far out of the closet as you can be I live in the ultimate gayborhood Chelsea and I have two cats and I have a husband and my husband David and I got married in 2008 at the very height of the culture wars and like a lot of people at the time we got sucked into a wildly unproductive debate on Facebook with this anti-gay marriage zealot named Diane. Diane would write, Do what you want, but please don't call it marriage, and whatever you do, it doesn't belong in the church.
And I'd hear that, and I'd write in a fury, Diane, your opinion is mean-spirited and ill-informed. And she'd write, well, all my gay friends know that's how I feel and they still love me.
And I'd write, well, that's because they're a bunch of self-hating assholes. So this went on and on.
And my friend said, stop it. it's not going anywhere useful, but I kept egging her on.
So not long after that, this producer friend calls me, and she says, so I'm commissioning gay playwrights to write short plays on the theme of gay marriage, and we're going to put them up commercially at the Manetta Lane Theater in the West Village, and would you be interested in contributing one? And I thought, well, this is perfect. I don't have to write a new play.
I'm just going to adapt this Facebook thread. And the way I figure, the characters are going to be me, my husband David, and our nemesis Diane.
So I adapt the thread as a dialogue, and I send it to the producer, and she quite likes it, so it goes into the evening. I'm delighted.
The casting director calls me and says, you're going to be thrilled. For the role of Diane, we have this Broadway Tony winner.

Beth... the casting director calls me and says, you're going to be thrilled.
For the role of Diane, we have this Broadway Tony winner, Beth Levels. She's going to be simply amazing.
And your boyfriend, your husband, he's going to be really thrilled because he's been played by a true hunk, Kelly Ripa's husband, Mark Consuelos?

And in the role of Doug,

how would you feel about Richard Thomas?

You probably know him best as John Boyd Walton.

Oh, I say, I think he might be very good. So the first rehearsal is coming up.
The night before, I cannot sleep at all. I'm planning it in my mind how I'm going to walk in there so cool, so relaxed, every inch the professional playwright I'm going to greet each and every actor and then take my seat and listen to the read-through I walk in, it's a sort of blonde rehearsal room, there's a circle of chairs for the cast There there's this craft services table in the middle with morning pastries and coffee, and there is Richard Thomas.
He's older, his hair is gray now, but he still has that really sensitive face and that mole. And I walk up to him, and I had barely gotten my name out before the entire story poured out of me like an avalanche.
So I'm standing there, beet red, waiting for his response. And he says, Doug, I really wish I could tell you that I remember that 22-page letter, but I don't.
And the reason I don't is a lot of young men wrote me asking for reassurance. it was the 70s, the era of Kojak and the million-dollar man, and I was the only male lead in a primetime TV show who didn't carry a gun.
I held a pen and used it to express my feelings and And I had no notable love interests on the show. And people often accused me of being sensitive.
So your voice was one of many reaching out to me at the time. And I want you to know why I chose to do your play.
My son is gay and I want him to grow up in a better world where he doesn't have to reach out to strangers on the television for approval. And I said, stop it, Richard.
I'm going to fall in love with you all over again. So it's been almost four decades now.

And as a writer, I've sort of found a niche for myself writing about outsiders, those people who don't readily fit into society's confines. I wrote about a trans person in Germany, and I wrote about a comedian struggling with mental illness.
and more often than not, I'm writing to kind of exercise my own perceived frailties. My insecurities, my self-doubts, my darkest fears, all those things that I think alienate me from the rest of the species and ironically I find by naming those it's how I find community.
In a lot of ways I think I'm still that 11 year old kid crying out in the dark eager for approval and and reassurance that he has a rightful place in the human sphere. So good night, John Boy.
Thanks. That was Doug Wright.
Doug is an award-winning playwright and screenwriter. He's a recovering Texan and currently lives in New York City with his husband, singer-songwriter David Clement, and their two felines, Glenis and Murray.
Doug occasionally runs into Richard Thomas in New York theater circles. He says, I visited him backstage post-show, and we've gossiped together in the aisle of our neighborhood Home Depot.
To see photos of Doug and his husband David around the world and at the Mothball, our annual gala, go to themoth.org. These stories are all from artists, but moth stories come from everyone.
nurseses, pilots, arborists, hot dog eating champions, scientists, dog walkers, introverts, dreamers, really everyone. Consider telling your story at The Moth.
We want to hear from you. Find an open mic story slam through our website, themoth.org, and please share this episode with a friend you think would love the moth and these stories.

You can find us on social media, too.

We're on Facebook, at the moth, and on Instagram, at mothstories.

That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour.

We hope you'll join us next time. This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Sarah Austin-Ginness, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.
An extended interview with Sarah and Rizzo is available at themoth.org on the Radio Extras page. Our co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch.
The rest of The Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluche, Leanne Gully, Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Ureña. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.
For extras related to all of these stories, just go to themoth.org. Our theme music is by The Drift.
Other music in this hour from Tom McDermott and Evan Christopher,

Yo-Yo Ma and Dave Brubeck,

Erasmo Petringa,

Jerry Goldsmith, and Geek Music.

We receive funding from

the National Endowment for the Arts.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced

by Atlantic Public Media

in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey,

including executive producer Leah Reese Dennis.

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for information on pitching us your own story,

and to learn more about The Moth,

go to our website, themoth.org. The End including the show's creator, cast, and crew, in this exclusive companion podcast.

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