The Moth Podcast: A Place at the Family Table

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This is the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm Catherine Burns.

In this week's hour, we're hearing stories about family dynamics.

It can be tricky to understand our place and roles in our own families.

I personally come from a classic blended family.

The first weekend after their wedding, my stepdaddy Wayne and my mama left 12-year-old me and my siblings with my new step-grandparents, Mama and Pa Harold, who lived on a farm in rural Alabama.

My 14,000-person hometown was a metropolis by comparison.

Everything was unfamiliar.

The first night, Pa Harold asked if I'd like to go down the hill and pick out a watermelon to cut up for dessert.

I was excited to have a way to pitch in.

I picked picked out a nice fat green melon and struggled to hoist it up over my head.

I got about two-thirds of the way up the long red clay mud driveway when boom, the watermelon slipped out of my hands, fell to the ground, and cracked open in the dirt.

Three times I went down the hill for another watermelon, and three times I get close to the top, then drop it.

I felt so embarrassed, but Pa Harrell just looked at me kindly, went down with me to get a fourth, and carried it home.

12-year-old me assumed Pa Harold was thinking I was some silly city girl, but he didn't say a word to anyone about my fumbling grip.

He made me feel welcome into this new family of mine until the day he died.

My son, born 10 years after his death, is named Harold.

Understanding the inner workings of family becomes even more complicated when we start to grow up and pay attention to the dynamics and nuances at play.

What are the adults thinking and feeling?

That was a question for our first storyteller, Swapna Kakani, who like me grew up in Alabama.

She told her story at the Randolph School's Therber Arts Center in Huntsville, where we partnered with Alabama Public Television and public radio station KLRH.

Here's Swapna Kakani live as a mom.

I'm 13 years old, and I'm standing in my childhood bedroom with my arms out standing tall, and the women of my family have engulfed me.

They're tying, then wrapping, pleating, draping, and pinning, making sure they're accounting for every inch of nearly nine yards of my first sari.

As they're wrapping, I get to see the details of the sari for the first time of this cotton silk fabric.

And it has a saffron, auburn tone to it.

It has a shine, has gold-plated designs on the border, and the blouse that was altered to just fit me has a deep cut in the back.

It's almost scandalous for a 13-year-old.

And the sorry is almost lengthy.

And as I'm standing there,

my mind wanders to the walls of my bedroom.

And they're dotted with farm animals.

I have a wall that's a mural of a farm.

And my bed is filled with stuffed animals.

And I think, is this what it means to come of age, to feel like my room is not fit for a woman?

It feels childish when just the night before it was perfect.

And I think, is this what it means to feel like a woman, to not feel like a kid anymore, but to feel like an adult?

My sari ceremony in my Indian heritage is a coming of age ceremony where a girl wears and receives a sari for the first time.

This is a big deal for my family and I.

This is the first time my parents are able to share their traditional Indian ceremonies with their daughter, with their family, with their community.

In Hinduism, there are so many ceremonies.

It's hard to keep up.

They start as early as birth.

At six months, there's a ceremony called Anaprasana, which literally translates to introduction of solids.

Introduction of a rice first solid food.

So it's a celebration of a child eating solid food for the first time

and as important as these ceremonies are for my family I was not able to partake in them because of my birth defect.

I was born with an intestinal birth defect called short bowel syndrome.

It's a GI chronic rare disease where I was not born with all of my small intestine.

And from day one, I was dependent on IV nutrition from an IV in my chest and a feeding tube in my stomach.

My first year of life, I was in and out of the hospital, had multiple surgeries, and my parents were not allowed to feed me by mouth.

In my 27 years, I've had 62 surgeries, including a small intestine organ transplant.

These ceremonies were not a priority, but my sari ceremony was their first opportunity to celebrate this tradition with their daughter.

As I'm standing there, tall and with my hands out, I come back to reality when I feel a sharp pinch.

It's shocking, and my aunt says, Oh, did I just stab you?

And I see the final pin coming in at my shoulder to pin the back of the sari, the pullu.

I'm standing there dressed in my first sari and I'm literally weighed down with jewelry from head to toe and I have hair extensions

to make a long braid in my back and I take my first steps just trying so hard to keep the folds together, not ruining anything and all I can think is don't faceplant, don't face plant, don't face plant.

The ceremony ends in our living room with all our guests watching.

My parents invited our entire family from both my mom and dad's side have flown in, and over 100 mothers and daughters from the Huntsville South Indian community are present, which is a herd in itself.

The ceremony ends with them coming to me and dropping dried rice mixed with turmeric on my head, which signifies blessings for the future.

I officially came of age in the culture I was born in.

Seven years later, I'm in college at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, UAB, Go Blazers, whoop!

And it's spring break.

I've come home like the responsible child I am

and I see on the kitchen table a cream envelope written in calligraphy writing is my name addressed Miss Swapna Kakani.

I rip through the seal and I read the card and it says, the Symphony Guild quarterly invites you to be a 2009 debutante.

What the heck is a debutante?

Fortunately, I've watched a lot of Gilmore girls in high school,

including the episode where Rory

is escorted by her boyfriend Dean to her debutante ball.

And she's wearing a white wedding dress and he's wearing the tuxedo and they dance the night away and I think, oh no, I don't want to have anything to do with this.

Well, I call my friend who I know is also invited, and she explains this is their coming of age, their tradition.

Their sisters have done it before them.

Their mom has waited for this moment.

But to me, I see it as an expensive party to which I have no connection.

I already had my coming of age, my tradition.

Regardless, I got to tell my mom about this invitation that I got and our duties and what this card is.

And I find my mom in her doctor's scrubs cooking an Indian feast for us for lunch.

And I go and stand next to her, and I'm in my athletic tomboy outfit, shorts and t-shirt and chacos.

And in between breathing in cumin and coriander, I explain to her my rudimentary understanding of a debutante ball and this fancy card and what our duties are for the next six months.

To my surprise, she says, yes, you must do it.

And my parents,

both of them, are so excited.

And I think, what's their excitement?

What's their desire?

Why?

I didn't get it then.

But today I can share that they appreciated and enjoyed the formality of it and how it was a fundraiser.

And as an immigrant physician, to have their daughter the first Indian American to be presented to society in Huntsville, Alabama was a milestone in itself and something they were proud of and something I should be proud of.

For my mom, I said yes.

The ball was in October of 2009.

The summer before we had the task of finding the dress.

We were told it was going to be a white wedding dress and with straps.

Those were the rules.

I was in summer school at UAB, and so every week I would drive home and my mom and I would go on these shopping excursions.

It was the blind leading the blind.

We didn't know anything about American wedding dresses, but my mom being the social butterfly she is, she knew people who did, her white nurses that knew the selection in town.

They gave her a list, and we consumed our Saturdays going to each store and crossing them off.

There were five stores,

and of course, the last one was the charm, the something blue shop in Hartsville, Alabama,

halfway between Birmingham and Huntsville.

The dress I chose off the rack was a floor-length gown with an intricate beaded center

and a prominent train, and it was strapless.

But unlike my sari, it was white with hooks and zippers and no personalized blouse.

The ladies at the store were the epitome of southern hospitality.

They went above and beyond to accommodate us.

They were very nice.

At the last fitting, they said, oh, please come back when you get married.

And

there's this awkward silence.

and I think I'm most likely going to wear a sari to my wedding.

The weekend finally came.

I was escorted by my version of Dean, Christopher Dean, who was a high school classmate who flew in from out of town for the event.

And just like the sari ceremony, this was a big deal for my parents and my family.

My mom invited nearly all 20 Indian family members who live in town.

And I got special permission from the debutant committee for the woman of my family to wear saris to the event.

Their evening gown of choice, their tradition.

The day before the ball, my mom, dad, and I were to take pictures in our clothes the next day.

My mom in our dark, elegant sari, my dad in his black tuxedo, and me in my white wedding dress.

white leather gloves and hair done in Shirley Temple curls.

The photographer took me away from my parents to take solo portraits.

And while he's taking the photos, he nonchalantly says, your mom, she just fell.

And I think, that's weird.

She'll get right back up.

Nothing fazes her.

But then I hear commotion to my left.

And I see my mom tangled in her sari, laying on the floor, continuously saying, I'm I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've ruined the day.

And then I hear her say, I can't feel my leg.

That's when I knew it was much more than just a bad fall.

She was not getting back up.

Shocked and not wanting to get in the way with my big white dress, from a distance I see my mom, wrapped head to toe in her sari, unable to move, get rushed to the ER by ambulance.

The result was a clean break of her left femoral bone.

It turned out that she had a stress fracture that went undiagnosed the whole, the entire year prior.

She had to have immediate surgery that night and then she was not going to make it to the ball the next day.

Sitting in the surgery waiting room, I had my most true coming of age moment.

I was nervous.

I was constantly looking up at the screen to check her status.

Is she done yet?

Is she done yet?

I was wringing my hands, bouncing my feet.

The PBNJ sandwich my aunt gave me was not comforting.

I barely couldn't touch it.

My entire life, my parents sat in the surgery waiting room while I was rushed to the operating room.

Saying goodbye to my parents at the double doors of the surgical suite

was almost a ceremonious ritual we did multiple times every year,

our unfortunate tradition.

At the age of 20, this was the first time the roles were switched and I sat there in the surgery waiting room waiting to hear the fate of my mom.

This surgery was 30 minutes at the most, minor.

She was going to be fine.

I've had many minor surgeries of the same title.

It was then I realized that no surgery is minor to the family.

No surgery is the same.

I've had so many surgeries that have become numb to the process.

I've forgotten about the risk.

But my parents, they haven't.

And still, they continue to stand by my side and show strength and poise and are amazing caregivers.

That's all I wanted to be.

To show that strength, that poise, that faith, and no expression of fear.

I couldn't, though.

My heart ached for what my parents go through.

It wasn't the sari ceremony.

It wasn't the debutante ball.

It was realizing what my parents have and continue to do to save me

was what it means to come of age.

Thank you.

Swapna Kakani is an advocate for patients with rare diseases.

Through her platform, Swapna Speaks, an organization, Alabama Rare, Swapna has given presentations all over the world to help improve health care for those suffering from short bowel syndrome and other rare conditions.

To see stunning photos of Swapna and her family at the Debutante Ball, go to themoth.org.

Coming up, cartoonist Roz Chast struggles with what to do with her parents' ashes.

That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

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This is the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm Katherine Burns.

In this hour, we're talking about complicated family dynamics and how we show up for those we love.

Now we're going to hear a story from beloved New Yorker cartoonist Roz Chast.

A few years ago, a moth friend saw one of her cartoons and mentioned to me they would make a great moth story.

We reached out to Roz and luckily she agreed.

We recorded the story outdoors at Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn, where the Greenwood Historic Fund is our partner.

And you'll hear the sound of some airplanes flying overhead.

Here is Roz Chast live at the moth.

Well, some years ago in 2014, I wrote a book

about taking care of my parents in the last 10 years or so of their lives.

It's called Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?

The title came from something that my father used to say a lot.

It was really one of his favorite phrases.

The other one was why ask for trouble.

But I think the reason why he liked to say this phrase was because my mother

really loved talking about illnesses and accidents and seemingly horrible things had happened to almost everybody that my parents knew.

I mean, you could just take anything, you could take a button on a shirt, and sure enough, somebody was once buttoning their shirt, the button popped off, it went up their nose,

they choked, and they died.

It is just, it was the craziest thing.

A chair, somebody was going to sit down in the chair, they missed the chair, they got a bruise on their hip, the bruise got infected, they died.

And my mother seemed to sort of relish telling these stories.

And, you know, Mr.

Mulcahy, he was getting into the car, he slammed the car door on his leg, got infected, they had to cut the leg off.

My mother knew somebody.

One of the rules of my childhood was never sit directly on the ground, because if you sit directly on the ground,

it might happen to you, what happened to her best friend.

She sat directly on the ground, she caught a cold in her kidneys,

and she died.

So my father's phrase, can't we talk about something more pleasant, was the title for this book.

Nevertheless, Even though they loved talking about, or she loved talking about illnesses and accidents, they did not really like to talk about specifically about death,

especially their own deaths.

It was a topic that they liked to avoid, which made in many ways taking care of them kind of hard because I never really found out what they wanted.

And I would try to have these conversations about things and it was just impossible.

And I didn't particularly want to talk about it, so we just avoided it.

And that's kind of what the book was about.

I'll give you an example.

When my grandfather died when I was about four years old, I asked my mother what happened to grandpa and she said he went to Virginia.

Anyway,

so

I took care of them for these 10 years and

it was pretty rough.

I was an only child and I grew up in a very small apartment in the middle of Brooklyn, apartment 2J, I'll never forget.

And

when they died, my mother died, my father died first, he died at the age of 95

and

he was cremated.

And

I remember picking up his cremains, they call it, nice word,

at the funeral parlor, and they were in this little box.

And I put them, the box inside of his favorite Channel 13 bag that he always carried around with him.

And then I put that bag in my closet.

And two years later, at the age of 97, my mother died.

And when she died, I went to the funeral parlor and picked up her cremains, which were in a little box.

And she didn't have a Channel 13 bag.

She just, she didn't get one.

But

they were in my closet for a long time.

2007, 2009,

was the dates of their death.

And they remained in my closet until about

maybe two years ago.

And I didn't really mind having them in my closet.

I thought it was a little bit weird, but

on the other hand,

you know, it was sort of nice to know where they were.

And

the the truth was,

every place,

since they didn't want to talk about death or their deaths,

I didn't, there was no place that seemed

other than arbitrary for them to be.

I thought, well, my closet's at least, you know,

it's not arbitrary.

They're here, they're with me, sort of.

And then, about two years ago, out of the blue, I got a letter from a stranger, this woman, who had read the book I wrote about my parents and knew that my parents' cremains were in my closet.

And

she said

that there was a mystery, she had read my book and she really enjoyed it, but there was a mystery that needed to be solved.

And she reassured me that she wasn't nuts and I believed her.

You know, because I'm a trusting sort, considering that I grew up in Brooklyn.

And

what she was saying was: My parents before me, they had a baby that died shortly after birth.

And because, as I said, my parents didn't like to talk about death,

I did not know where she was buried.

I couldn't really talk much to my parents about this because they did not want to talk about it.

When I brought it up to my mother, she would just say, I don't want to talk about that mess.

Because the truth was that she almost died during this horrible incident.

And the baby, as I said, died.

Anyway, so this woman, this stranger, took it upon herself to

look up online on a website called Find a Grave,

which

the female chast

death 1940 or so, because my parents waited a long time, I'm not that old,

between having her and having me, because they were so afraid,

and where this baby was buried.

And weirdly enough, she looked, did this research before I did,

and she found something that she thought I might find interesting,

that this baby was indeed buried in Mount Lebanon Cemetery in Queens,

Hebrew Cemetery.

So I thought, whoa, that's kind of weird.

And I

went online and I looked up Mount Lebanon Cemetery and I found their contact button and I wrote, you know, dear sirs or madams.

I wrote this book about my parents, blah, blah, blah, blah.

Archives, George and Elizabeth Chast, you know, and I, you know, I just thought, well, maybe they'll get to this.

I don't know.

The next day, I got a letter from the guy at the cemetery, who incidentally is called a cemeterian.

I learned this term.

And he said, Dear Roz, I believe you have found your sister.

Not only that, but it turned out that my mother's parents were also buried in in that cemetery, which I did not know.

And he sent photos of my grandmother and my grandfather, the one who was supposedly in Virginia.

So I talked to him a little bit and I said, you know, my parents are in my closet, and I think

I'd like to get them out of there.

And he said, okay, you know, we're in business.

So

I set up an appointment.

It was a two-part process, because the first part was really for paperwork.

And we set up an appointment, and I went out to Mount Lebanon Cemetery with my son.

And

it was really interesting.

We met with him.

He took out these archived cemetery maps and he showed us the precise place where my sister was buried.

And we went out there and we put stones on her grave, which is what Jews do.

We don't put flowers there, we put little stones, and showed me where my grandparents were buried.

And

we went back to his office, and he knew that my parents

were cremated, which is

not, it's becoming more common in Jewish cemeteries because he said, as he said, it's a hot topic.

Ha ha ha.

He really did say that.

So

he was really, really nice and he said that he found a

perfect place for my parents' cremaines, that there was a niche wall and it overlooked the place where my sister was buried and there was only one niche left in that wall.

and it was niche J2.

And as I mentioned before, the apartment where my parents lived for 50 years and where I grew up was 2J.

And I just thought, oh, well, we really have found a place for my parents, speaking of sense of place.

And then

there was no rush, so it took a few months, but I did make a second trip out there with a friend.

And I had my parents in a tote bag.

And I was on the subway and

I kept thinking,

I so wanted to just say to somebody on the platform, you know, guess what

or who

is in this bag?

So

I got there.

And I went out to the niche wall with the driver

and

we got there and I remember there were, I have to describe this like a picture because usually I draw things.

I don't just tell a story.

I draw it.

And so you'll have to picture there's this wall and leaning against the wall of this niche wall where they put cremains.

is a tall ladder going up to the very top.

And there are two workmen people on the ladder.

And one by one, I gave the boxes holding my parents' cremaines first to the one guy, and he passed to the second, and he put my father in there, and then they put my mother in there, and then they sealed up the box,

and I realized it was time to say goodbye.

That's it.

That was Roz Chast.

Roz is a longtime longtime cartoonist for The New Yorker.

She likes birds, and you can see her cartoons, as well as photos of Roz and her two parrots, Eli and Jackie, on her Instagram.

We're turning now to our Atlanta Story Slam series, where we partner with Georgia Public Radio.

Here's Zelia Anjali Tatiana live at the moth.

I'm in seventh grade.

I'm pretty smart.

My boyfriend's pretty smart.

So we're like, you know, valedictorian, salutatorian couple of the year.

And I'm pretty popular, but I'm not full of myself.

You know, I'm pretty humble.

Seventh grade, seventh grade.

So I'm at lunch, and you know, there's the Cool Kids Club.

You have your clique, or you sit with them.

This is what we do.

If you're not part of this clique, you kind of don't sit with us and drink your juice.

It's just, that's that's how it goes.

So I'm sitting at lunch, everything's fine.

And some kids run in from the playground, running, do, do, do.

So everybody calls me Z.

You're going to call me that too.

But my name is Zillia.

And so they run in from the playground and all I hear is Zillia, Zillia.

And so I'm sitting at the table.

I'm like, what has happened?

You know, people never say my name like this.

What have I done?

Then my heart drops.

I'm like, what's going on?

What's going on?

So I jump up and they're like, it's your little sister.

my little sister she's in second grade I see her sometimes in passing but never really during the day and they're like she fell off the swing she's hurt really bad so I'm freaking out I know my mom is gonna freak so I'm like oh gosh so I get up from the lunch table and I run outside and my little sister's literally like crawling out of the dirt like a zombie and there's blood coming from her nose and her mouth and her glasses are all twisted and cracked and she's just bawling you know, walking toward me.

And I just grab her and I say, oh my gosh, what happened?

What happened?

And I'm looking at the kids like, what?

Somebody tell me what happened, damn it.

And they're like, she fell off the swing.

And I'm like, how?

How did you fall off the swing?

So I bend down to her and I'm, tell me what happened.

Tell me what happened, holding her chin.

And she says, we had a contest.

And I'm like, okay.

Keep going.

And I'm looking at the kids.

Support her.

What happened?

We had a contest.

Who could go over the top?

And I said, over the top of the swing stick?

We're in seventh grade.

We don't even do that.

I said, that's beastie.

You know, I'm super excited.

She's bawling.

And I'm like, oh my gosh.

And I'm like, so

you're obviously, you know, hurt.

Did you just let go or what happened?

She's like,

I made it over the top.

So she's bawling, you know, blood is in her tears.

And I'm like, I have to tell my mom what happened, you know, everybody's dealing with it.

What are you going to do?

So I take her broken, crumbled up glasses off and kind of stick them in my skirt pocket.

It's super swan.

And then I walk her to the front office.

And my kids were like kind of laughing and stuff.

And I turn around and I'm like, shut up.

At least she went over.

What did you do?

So we get to the office and I'm like, well, what happened once you got over?

She's like, well, I let go.

And I'm like, why?

She's like, well, in the movies, you let go and then you land on your feet.

I'm like, you've got more guts than all these kids.

You know, and I'm kind of like wiping away the tears and the blood.

And I'm like, it's going to be okay.

You're going to be okay.

And she's just crying.

And they call my mom.

And of course, my mom freaks because she's like super, you know, just protective.

She's like, oh, my gosh, are you serious?

No, mom, I'm kidding.

I'm like, yeah, mom, serious.

Her glasses are crushed.

She just, she's in bad shape.

And my little sister, she kind of laid on my shoulder.

And we were affectionate, I think, as young sisters.

But it was the first time I felt like I was her protector.

You know, like, I turned around and told those kids to shut up, you know, at least my little sister made it over, you little punk.

You couldn't even get over the top, you know.

And then when we get home, well, when I got home, my little sister was sitting at the table with my granny doing her homework.

And she looked up and she was like, thank you.

Thanks for today.

And my mom was like, what happened?

You know, just tell me the whole story.

And then in retrospect,

I'm this older sister.

Yes, I'm her protector.

And at the same time, I was like this coolest kid in class, you know?

And when I ran to her on the playground, it wasn't really about who I was or who was watching us.

It was just like everybody else disappeared.

And it was me and my little sister in this spotlight.

And I'm like, I'm going to be here.

And I'm still in that spotlight.

I'm still here, whether you're late on a car payment, whether you ran out of gas, whether you you broke up with him because he's an idiot, and most of you are idiots.

Whatever it is, I'm going to be here and everybody else will disappear and it'll just be our spotlight and our sister love and I love you.

Zelia Angelique Tatiana, or Z, is a Detroit native.

She considers herself a full-time creative person and also works as a maintenance mechanic for the Postal Service.

She writes, My little sister is graduating from nursing school soon, ironically enough, LOL.

She's still a courageous woman who laughs in the face of adversity.

To see a photo of Z's little sister around the time of the accident, go to themoth.org.

Coming up, a high school student in New Hampshire spends his Saturday nights with his beloved grandmother and great aunt.

That's when the Moth radio hour continues.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

This is the Moth Radio Hour, and I'm Katherine Burns.

In this hour, we've been hearing stories about finding your place in your family.

Many beloved moth storytellers tend to recall their high school years as hellish, but having close family relationships can sometimes be a ball.

That was a case for Adam Wade in this story told at a moth mainstage in New York City, where WNYC is our media partner.

Here's Adam.

I grew up in New Hampshire, and during my high school years,

I had a tough time

fitting in.

And

I was on the golf team,

but I was a reserve, so that means I never got to play.

And I was in the marching band, but after freshman year, I was pulled aside

by the supervisor, and he said,

you're not physically or mentally able to handle the rigors of marching band.

I had friends I didn't have a lot but I had a few and one of the few friends I had he

he went by the nickname Fetus

so like popularity wise like a scale one to ten I was a two

but on Saturday night with the company I kept

I was a ten.

And every Saturday night in high school, I would go out to eat with my grandmother and my great aunt.

And I would pick them up in my mom's bright purple Mercury Cougar, which everybody in my town knew as the Pimp Mobile.

When I was 16, that's when I got my license.

And to them, I became a man because instead of them picking me up, I would pick them up.

And Yayanariti, both their husbands had passed.

I'm Greek, so it was a Yaya and Anariti.

Like both their husbands passed, they lived together, and they worked in the Amascague shoe factories.

And my Yaya, my grandmother, she made the shoes before she retired.

And she so much manual labor, her hands look like potato skins.

And Anariti, she was more of the Sophia Loren-esque of the two.

She was a little more glamorous.

She was a secretary and she always had lipstick and high heels.

So I picked them up, and this particular night was in April of my junior year.

I took them to their favorite restaurant, which was called the Clam King.

It was a mom-and-pop fast-food food place.

They liked it.

The seafood was really good.

They overcooked the lobo, it was good.

So we go and we order, and they always order the fries scallops and the French fries and tartar sauce, and I would order just a cheeseburger because of my stomach.

And once the waitress left, we would play this game, and I was the eyes, and I would keep an eye on

the waitress, and then I would like wink when she was gone, and either Yay or Riti would

steal the salt and pepper shakers.

That was like our game.

They had a lot.

They had like 300 things of salt and pepper all over the house.

But it was like their thing and we loved doing it and it was like, you know, and I'd wink and they'd do it.

You'd hear the zip and it was good and mission accomplished and like that.

They'd go, you did a good job.

I'd go, hey, you stole, you know, it was good.

And then the food came and like went right, these women, they love to eat.

So like Yaya would just start and she would just attack and she would take a scallop and dip it in titosau, stuff in her mouth, and just like a robot.

And she'd forget to chew in her face.

You'd just watch it expand.

Where Arnarichi, she just liked to look at the food a little.

And she'd watch the steam coming up from the french fries and she'd put her hands over like a campfire and she'd be like, oh, they smell delicious.

I was like, okay.

And then they would stop.

And then this was the favorite part of the night for me.

It's when they would start complimenting me.

While we ate,

they would say, like, oh, you got your hair cut.

Oh, it looks good.

I was like, oh, thank you.

How'd you do on your chemistry test?

I was like, I got a 95.

And they're like, oh, you're so smart.

I was like, oh, come on.

I appreciated,

like, they saw me the way I wanted to be seen.

So after we ate, we would do what we would always do.

We would go to the cemetery to say hi to the dead relatives.

And they never got out of the car.

I would just have to drive the car as close to the gravestones as possible.

And they would go,

hi, Ben.

Okay, keep going.

And then we just keep driving.

And then we would go to McDonald's for milkshakes because the Clam Kings milkshakes weren't up to par.

And then we would drive and we would take this ride past the airport.

And we'd always just drive by it.

But they'd always say, come on, like, let's go to the airport, let's watch a plane take off, come on.

I'd be like, no, no, no, let's not do that.

They're like, oh, and like, I don't know what their fascination was

with planes.

I never asked, but for me, I knew that the airport, from rumors around school, was that's where all the cool kids parked.

And

the social ramifications of me getting caught at the airport with Yaya and Ariti, come on.

I was a two

fetus, come on.

Plus,

my first time

to actually go and park at the airport, my dream and hope was to actually

go with a girl my own age.

But sadly, at the time, girls my age didn't see me like that.

So they're begging, and then on this particular night, I look and I can see that there's no cars there.

And it's still really early, so I'm like, all right, let's go, let's go.

And they're like, little kids they're like oh yeah you're the you're the best boy you're the best boy so we pull in and we're waiting and it's a small airport so we're waiting and we're waiting and I put the radio on I put on the old E station the doo-op shop on Saturday night and I put it loud enough so they can hear it I perfected this but loud enough they won't complain that it's too loud and we sit there and we wait and we wait and then finally this little propeller plane pulls around and it's ready to take off and Yaya's in the front seat and I put her hand in my hand and Ariti's hand in the back

and as it takes off over us in unison we go like

we

and it's nice it feels good it feels good we feel good you know

and I'm like all right now it's time to get the hell out of here you know and

as I'm thinking that Yaya looks over at me and she says

you know I wonder if that plane's going to China Like, do you think that plane's going to China?

Like, I look at it.

I'm like, you know, Yaya, it's a small, like, I mean, your guess is as good as mine.

I don't know if it's going to China.

And Ariti's in the backseat, and she starts cackling.

And she's like, how the hell is he supposed to know if it's going to China?

And then she like lights up a palm oil menthol.

And she's had cancer like three times, but she just likes to have a few puffs.

And then she throws it out the window.

And Yaya turns around and goes, you know, keep smoking.

You know, cancer's got you three times.

One more time, you're going down.

You're dancing with the devil.

You're dancing with the devil.

And she's like, it's a free country.

And she's like, well, good luck to you in the Red Sox.

And then whenever.

Ariti ran out of things to say, she would go like that.

And I used to enjoy watching them fight.

It was great entertainment.

But then I look up in the rearview mirror and I see the cars.

And they're coming in now.

And it's like Volkswagen Jettas and Saabs.

And they all have Central High Pride bumper stickers.

And I'm screwed.

I look to the left and this blue suburban pulls up and it's the last car I want to see.

It's SD.

He's a senior and he's not a nice guy, but he's cool.

And his girlfriend, Rachel, who looks like Dee Schneider from Twisted Sister, she's going to like dive one, but she's cool again.

And they see the pimpmobile, and they're like, oh my god, Adam waits here.

Oh my god, wow.

You know, Adam, Adam, Adam.

And finally, I look over and I'm like,

what's up?

And they're like, Adam, you stud, who are you with?

And Yaya leans over and says,

he's with his grandmother and great aunt, dear.

What a beautiful night to watch the airplanes

they start laughing and then other cars start noticing and they're flipping the high beams they're beeping the horn they're screaming wade and I just start sweating

and I don't know what to do I've never been so embarrassed in my life

And then Yaya looks over a concern and she says, what's wrong?

Are you okay?

Are you okay?

And I say,

no, I'm not okay.

And she's like, what's wrong?

I go, don't you understand?

I'm not who you think I am.

And they're like, what do you mean?

And I go,

yay, I'm a loser.

And she's like, no, you're not.

She's like, why do you think that?

And I go, like, I snap and I say,

I'm with you two on a Saturday night and we're at makeout point.

I'm a loser.

I start up the car and we drive away in silence.

I had never yelled at them before like that.

So this is all different and I'm shaking as I drive.

We get back to their house

and they start boiling water for hot chocolate.

They start getting the poppy cock.

They start getting the Swiss fudge.

And I'm just sitting there watching them do this.

And they're not saying anything to me.

And I have this shame now because I've disappointed them.

So then it's 10 o'clock.

It's time for the commish.

We always watch the commish on Saturday nights at 10 o'clock.

It stars Michael Chiklis and we're Greek and we support

all the Greeks.

We're not a Nielsen family but we're going to watch it you know.

So we sit on the love seat and I'm between them

And we're eating and they're bigger, so I'm like sandwiched in.

And then there's a commercial and again, it's really quiet and I'm waiting for them to yell at me and they're not

so I say

I'll tell you one thing you know this chicklis I mean he's just as good an actor as Tali Savalis and John Cassavettes I mean Greek actors these guys I mean he's right up there

and Yaya nods her head and she puts her hand through my hair And she says,

you got such a nice haircut.

You did such a good job.

And then Ariti puts her arm around me and says, I hope you know you're the best boy.

I hope you know.

So that Monday I go to school and it's a nightmare.

SD's telling everybody I'm taking Yaya to the prom.

I don't need it, you know?

But I'm surprised it doesn't bother me as much as I thought it would.

I just let it go.

Now, Yay and Ariti have been gone for a few years now, and every time I go home,

I find myself, I go a couple times a year, I find myself in a car and I'm driving around.

And I always retrace that route.

I'll go by the Clam King, and I'll go by the cemetery, I'll go by their gravestones, and out of respect.

Hi, Ariti.

And then I drive off.

I go to McDonald's, and then I drive by the airport.

In the time since they've passed,

I've tried to do everything I can

to be the person they saw me as.

And I'd do anything

to be able to go back and take them to the airport one more Saturday night.

Thank you.

That was Adam Wade.

I was all right.

Adam is, as he always mentions at the top of his stories, originally from New Hampshire.

He tells us that a huge turning point in his 23 years living in New York City was the first time he caught up on stage at a Moth Story Slam nearly two decades ago.

Adam says that not only was the crowd incredibly supportive that night, the man sitting next to him, Alan Manovitz, our longtime board member, offered him a few slices of pizza from a stack of pies Alan had brought along to the show to share.

Adam's been a proud member of the moth community ever since.

He wrote us to say, I'm often asked if you could now have dinner with any two people from history, anyone, who would they be?

My answer is still unquestionably my Yaya and great aunt Anariti.

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 Catherine Burns, who also hosted and directed the stories in the hour along with Sarah Austin Janes, co-producer Vicki Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch.

Additional Grand Slam coaching by Jennifer Hickson.

The rest of the the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cluche, Suzanne Russ, Brandon Grant, Inga Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Caza.

Special thanks to Tracy Mills-Seguera, as well as Stories Under the Stars, which puts on storytelling shows in Huntsville, Alabama.

Moth Stories Are True as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.

Our theme music is by the drift.

Other music in this hour from Stellwagon Symphonet, Loris Danielson, and Kina Osme, Croca, Pink Freud, and Roy Orbison.

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 Rhys-Dennis.

For more about our podcast, for information on pitching this, your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.