The Moth Radio Hour: Autonomy

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From PRX, this is the Moth Radio Hour.

I'm your host, Jennifer Higson.

In this hour, we'll be exploring stories about autonomy, the ability to make your own decisions and the agency to do what's best for you, despite the obstacles that life invariably throws your way.

We'll hear about autonomy in the context of a family, a classroom, or in the case of this first story, a community, and the desire to be the one to tell its story.

This was part of a show in Whitesburg, Kentucky, where we partnered with Apple Shop, which is a media arts and education center known for celebrating all things Appalachian.

Live in Kentucky, here's Shaylin Clark.

I grew up in a small town, the small town of Lynch, Kentucky, which is located in Harling County, Kentucky, right across the mountain.

The thing I love most about my home is my close-knit community.

Everyone takes care of everyone.

We care about each other.

We take care of our home and our people.

I remember in grade school, we had this thing called Spirit Week, right?

And it was a week right before homecoming, and there would be different themes every day of the week.

So you had decade day and pajama day and all these different days, but one day that always remained the same thing was coal miner day.

And they had this because one thing that we had in common in my small community is everyone's family had a coal miner.

My father was a coal miner.

If your father wasn't a coal miner, then your uncle was or your papa was.

Didn't matter who you were, you knew a miner or you were related to a miner.

And so coal miner day was a day that all the kids got to go home and ask their parents, can I wear your uniform?

Can I put on your hat with the light on it?

Can I put on your jacket with your name on it or your big boots or your striped pants?

And I just remember coming home being like, mom, it's coal miner day.

I need to borrow dad's big coal miner uniform.

Do you think he'll let me wear his jacket or his pants or his boots?

And he was a much bigger man than me.

And so he would always let me wear his jacket with the orange reflection stripes on it.

And it was so big, it came down all the way past my knees.

And I remember finding the biggest pair of boots I had and wearing them to school the next day.

So proud.

All the kids would come into school with their family names on their jackets and we'd rub our hands in the dirt and put it all over our face and to make it look like we just got off a second shift.

We'd walk through the hallways and the teachers would be smiling and it was like our way of honoring the hardworking men and women of our community.

In high school, I remember I was a freshman.

And I made so many new friends that year.

One particular friend I remember, her name was Kelsey.

Me and Kelsey clicked immediately, became best friends.

Her dad was a coal miner too.

As the year went by, I remember there were whispers in the classrooms of people being upset because their families were having to move.

And I was like, why is everyone having to leave?

And it was because their fathers were losing their jobs.

The mines were shutting down.

There was no work.

And so I just remember pushing it to the back of my mind because my dad still had his job.

And so I was like, it's whatever.

Your dad can just find another job.

You're being dramatic.

Until one day, I walked into my science class that I had with Kelsey and she was crying.

And my immediate thought was,

girl, who are we fighting after class?

Like, who is it?

Who did it?

What are we doing?

What's up?

You know, I'm down a ride for you.

Like, Kelsey was good.

Just let me know.

and she was like no we're not fighting anyone but I'm moving I was like why why are you moving why would you leave you're my first friend that I made we click so well why are you having to leave she said my dad lost his job the mine shut down

that was the first time that it really hit me personally and I realized that

what is our community without coal mines?

We love it here and we love each other, but without these jobs,

my friends and their families had to leave.

It was my junior year of high school, the summer of my junior year, and it was in July.

And I remember coming downstairs, my mom was cooking dinner and she just got off the phone.

And I was like, what's wrong?

She had a look on her face.

She was like, your dad's mind shut down.

And I just remember thinking, oh my God, do we have to move?

Do I have to leave this place and these people, these mountains that I love so much?

Is this really what takes me away from my home?

And she's like, I don't know.

So fortunately, my father had been in the minds long enough to where he could get his retirement and I was able to stay in a place that I love.

But for a lot of other families, this wasn't the same outcome.

When I graduated high school, I got into film and I did the AMI Summer Documentary Institute internship here in Whitespur, Kentucky with Apple Shop.

And

they showed us many different films.

And I remember one day we were learning about perception and they showed us films of what outsiders see us as.

And one film they showed us was the Diane Sawyer's Hidden Children of the the Mountains.

And I just remember at the end of that film, there was steam coming out of my head because all I had seen for that entire film was kids with no teeth and them claiming it was because they were drinking too much mountain dew.

And kids with no shoes running around in the dirt.

And I was just like, I have all my teeth.

I've lived here my whole life.

All my friends have their teeth.

And we all have pretty nice shoes, although we prefer to be barefoot.

And so after that, they showed us another film, Harling County, USA.

This film struck me in such a way that it brought tears to my eyes.

And there are not a lot of films that can make me cry.

But I remember at the end of it being so proud to see what the people of my community fought for.

These miners were fighting against these companies for basic human rights.

And I just remember that's that's the way I see my community.

This is how I see my people.

We're fighters and we'll fight for what we work for.

So it's the end of this summer.

It is July 30th.

And I remember I'm sitting on a couch and I'm scrolling through Facebook and I see that black jewel miners

go on protest on the coal track, on a train track

in Cumberland, Kentucky.

They're blocking a train from taking coal out of the mines.

So what happened was the Black Jewel Coal Company shut down and went bankruptcy, and they had paid their miners on a weekend of the 4th of July.

They got their checks, they cashed their checks, they paid their bills, they went on vacation.

Come Monday, all of that money was taken out of their accounts and there were thousands of dollars in the negative

families having to leave their vacation to pick up their children and say, we can't stay at the beach anymore.

We can't afford it.

And so when I heard the news, I ran in the kitchen and I showed my mom, she was cooking dinner.

And she looks at me and she goes, well, I know you're going down there.

So I didn't have a camera of my own.

I called some friends at Aqua Shop, and I was like, I need a camera.

They were like, Girl, come get it.

And so, I came over here, I got the camera, I got the equipment, and I went straight to the protest.

And I remember pulling up by myself with this huge camera bag and this monopod, this camera around my neck, and I'm ready.

I'm ready to get the story.

And I walk up to a group of guys,

and one of them looks at me with a straight face.

He goes, Who were were you with?

Excuse me?

Well, sir.

I was a little taken back.

But there were some other guys there that I had went to high school with that recognized me immediately.

And they were like, no, dude, she's from here.

She's with us.

She's going to tell our story.

You can talk to her.

She's going to tell it right.

And I understood where that minor was coming from.

People come in here with their cameras and they paint us in a completely different light of what we are.

And I want the Black Jewel miners to know

that no matter how long this fight takes, the Bloody Harlan fight took 13 months, and we are six weeks in.

And we will continue, and they will have the love and support of their community behind them.

And I will be right there with my monopod, and my camera, and my microphone, ready to tell our story the way it should be told.

Thank you.

That was Shaylin Clark.

She's gone on to be a facilitator, organizer, and filmmaker, and is the director of an education workshop series.

She's passionate about creating safe and comfortable environments for queer people and people of all bodies.

Shaylin says that she will always be proud to be from Appalachia and call it home.

As for Black Blackjewel Mining Company, the bankruptcy went through and left miners in four states without jobs and the promised restoration of the land unfinished.

In a moment, complications from dating outside your faith and taking control when folks can't seem to pronounce your name.

The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org.

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This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX.

I'm Jennifer Hickson.

In this hour, stories of forging your own path.

Cultural traditions are vital to families, but time and time again, romantic love creeps in and stirs things up.

This next story refers to endogamy, the custom of marrying only within the limits of a specific community.

Live in Brooklyn, where WNYC is a media partner of the Moth, here's Daisy Joy Rodriguez.

That's interesting.

So I'm sitting in the living room of my parents' home and I am freaking out.

What I'm about to say

is going to change the way in which they thought my life was going to unfold.

What I'm about to say can change everything.

There were girls in our community that were shipped off to India, never to be seen again after saying what I was getting ready to say.

My family are not just

Indian Catholics, but they are Kana Indian Catholics.

So what I'm going to tell you about this is that in the culture, the roots are deep and the rules are endless.

Short story form, the Kanas are the descendants of a nomadic tribe that consisted of 72 families and seven clans that were all of Jewish Christian Syrian descent.

They were led to the southern coast of India and lived in the state of Kerala by Thomas of Cana, where they practiced endogamy since the fourth century.

So, what am I trying to say here?

Is that Canaz marry Canaz.

But I was in love with Ken,

And Ken is not Canaan.

But he is Catholic.

But Ken's Puerto Rican.

So

I'm telling myself, I can do it.

I can do it.

And there's my older unmarried sister next to me like, do it already.

But here's the thing, right?

I'm scared.

Actually petrified.

And when we think about rebels, we always talk about, oh man, they're so brave, they're so strong, and they're all those things.

But deep, deep down inside, they're also very scared.

So I took a deep breath and I said to my parents, hey,

you know my friend Ken?

I think I want to marry him.

Okay, so a little side note about Indian parents.

Indian parents do not want to know who you are dating.

They want to know who you're marrying.

Kind of puts unnecessary pressure on a first date, like, hi, my name is Daisy.

Where's this going?

So Indian women, we tend not to share such details until we're 100% sure on where this is going.

So what that means is that Indian daughters are fiercely loyal to their parents, but they do keep separate worlds.

Keep their dating world a secret and then their traditional Indian world as well.

So

back in the living room, and I'm looking at my parents, and I'm like, if they go with this, I will be the first in the family to get to marry a Puerto Rican guy.

Marry outside the culture, not have an arranged marriage.

And so my mother is like looking at me and then she looks at my sister.

And then she looks back at me and she says, you have to ask her if you could get married first because she's older than me.

And remember, I told you, canaz, endless rules.

So I turned to my sister who knew about this plan all along and said, hey, are you okay with this?

And she's like, yeah, sure.

And I'm like, okay, great.

But unfortunately, that's when the questioning began.

So my parents,

where is he from?

And I said, Brooklyn.

Thanks to the evening news in the late 90s and the early 2000s, my parents had a terrible perception of Brooklyn.

Then they asked, well, what is his job?

And I said, well, he's a manager with Federal Express.

And all my mother heard was federal.

And she said, oh, federal job.

Very good.

And I was like, listen, I'm going to take this as a win right now.

There are a lot of details we've got to iron out.

Just going to skip through this.

So then they ask, well, what is his religion?

And I said, he's Catholic.

So there was common ground and a lot of silence.

So we're like in this living room, right?

And now all of us are like staring at the ginormous Sacred Heart of Jesus painting that is up on the wall.

And all these years, I have never thought about what my parents were thinking during that time, right?

Because I'm like, this is all about me.

And I know I was praying to that Jesus picture, like you would not believe.

But now that I think about it, I I think they were praying too

and so then my dad

kind of says well it's tradition we have to inform the elders of your plan

and so he stands up and he leaves the living room and he walks down the hallway and he opens the door to his master bedroom and my mom is right behind him and they shut the door And I'm like,

this is really happening.

They're making the call.

Like, that's the official, like, this is really happening.

And so I can hear them on the phone.

And with that one phone call, you wouldn't believe the number of phone calls that came after.

Because the Indian community does not play.

When there's dirt out there,

right?

So

I can hear bits and pieces of his conversation.

And I can hear the banter.

And it was like, well, she's not marrying an Indian person, so she can't have an Indian wedding.

She cannot follow tradition.

She's breaking tradition.

And I remember hearing my father say,

the only way I know to send her off is using the Kananai traditions.

So I'm going to marry my daughter off the only way that I know how.

And he said a lot to me that night, and as he, every phone call he took thereafter, his voice became like stronger and stronger.

And like the one message I remember is him saying, Daisy knows the way to her happiness.

So I'm gonna follow her.

I am so badass.

But you know what?

The truth is, it's actually my mom and dad who are the real badasses.

Because not only did they okay it, They had my back.

They gave me the greatest gift of all, and that's the the gift to allow me to be who I truly am.

And for that, I am going to be forever grateful.

Thank you.

That was Daisy Joy Rodrigo.

Daisy lives in New York with what she calls her Indo-Rican family.

She and Ken have three kids.

Daisy is a New York City school principal who proudly serves the same Bronx community her immigrant parents once lived in as they began their journey in America.

Before he passed away in 2011, Daisy's dad shared that he believed Ken was, in fact, the one, the best partner for her.

He said that good people are good people no matter where they come from.

Ken and Daisy have been married for two decades and going strong.

To see a picture of Daisy, Ken, and their kids, visit themoth.org.

You can share these stories or others others from the Moth Archive and buy tickets to moth storytelling events in your area through our website, themoth.org.

There are moth events year-round.

Find a show near you and come out to tell a story.

And find us on social media too.

We're on Facebook and X at TheMoth and on Instagram and TikTok at MothStories.

Our next story was told in Chicago, where we partner with public radio station WBEZ.

Here's a Quetzali Castro.

I am the Mexican daughter of two Mexicans, who would have thought.

And

my parents were born too late to be hippies and too early to be hipsters.

But I definitely know they did a lot of things before it was cool.

They met each other at a Mexico city ashram, they got into vegetarianism, they did a lot of yoga and meditation,

and

then they decided to immigrate to America with me.

And in their wisdom, they decided to give me the name of Quetzali.

Let me spell that for you: Q-U-E-T-Z-A-L-L-I.

Quetzali.

Quetzali.

Now,

I love my name, I really do.

And my parents have told me the stories, and I've done the research.

And Quetzali means beautiful feather of the Quetzal bird.

And this bird is important to Mesoamerican mythology because

these are probably the feathers that go on a feathered serpent god named Quetzalcoatl, or as the Mayans call him, Kukul Kan.

And that's so cool.

I love this name.

I loved it even when I was little until I got to school.

Now,

everyone knows this moment.

It's the first day of school, and the teacher's like, shh,

I'll wait.

I'm not going to talk while you're talking.

Erin Anderson.

Brittany Barton.

Miss Castro.

And that's quickly followed with, do you have a nickname?

What's your middle name?

Isabelle.

Izzy, you're an Izzy.

Now normally, I guess I didn't mind mind that when I was a kid, but nowadays it makes me think about Ellis Island and how so many people came into the US

and

at that island, they had to make some big decisions, right?

They probably just came from their home country where they had just been rejected, and they are not about to get rejected by the US.

And neither am I.

All right?

And in these moments where I'm back in this classroom and this teacher is asking me what my name is,

I guess it's Izzy.

All right?

In other moments, they'll start off with,

I'm gonna butcher this.

You know it's the first day of school and I'm gonna butcher some names and probably yours for the rest of your life.

So let's start now, okay?

Quidzilla?

Cat Sally?

You know, there was this one really nice white lady teacher who didn't even pause and proudly called out for Cassadia Castro.

It's Izzy.

Call me, call me Izzy.

I've been Americanized.

And that's okay, but I want you guys to realize that it takes quite a bit of nerve for a student to stand up to an adult and kind of fight about how their names are pronounced.

And these decisions have to be made really quickly.

And when these moments start happening,

you sort of get this sense of like a small rejection from a community, like an emotional paper cut.

And you really have to decide:

do I fight this teacher today?

Do I take this paper cut?

Do I change?

Do I become less of who I am?

You know, and that really created a craving in me and

a reason to start fighting back in my own way.

I dared to dream of a future where

people would be culturally competent.

And they would say names, my name, the right way,

the first time.

And so I started this crusade.

And one eternity later, I'm the teacher.

I'm the teacher now taking attendance.

And oh my goodness, so much and so little has changed in public schooling.

Let me tell you.

There are Black Lives Matter posters, there's all sorts of rainbow things everywhere.

You have the hate has no home here,

and I'm glad for that.

But I still see that Ellis Island is alive and well in a lot of my students.

One of them didn't even let me take attendance first.

He's like, call me Aki.

Okay, akindele.

I practice though.

My Lisienne wants to be called Leslie.

A teacher will come in looking for Gail.

You mean Gael?

Gael's here.

Go, Gael.

Gaiel.

And

it takes a lot of coaxing, but I get most of them to really start thinking about how they are valued and they belong, and their name is their name.

Sometimes when I give my spiel to students, they also get interested and they're like, Miss Castro, what's your name?

And that's when I like playing this game.

It starts with a Q and you'll never guess what it is.

They usually never do.

Until one year,

this girl raises her hand and she's like, Is it Quetzali?

What?

Who told you?

Who told you?

Oh no, that's my little sister's name.

What?

I am so ready for her.

Oh my goodness.

And

if Ketsali

is on her way and I get to teach her in a couple of years,

if she knows now what I wish I knew back then, I would get her to tell those teachers and those bullies, often one and the same.

But I would tell her

to tell them

that you are named after a precious feather of a feathered serpent god.

That this god has a pyramid in Mexico that many travel to go see, and it is a wonder of the world.

And they should probably take better care of your name, name, lest they displease these gods.

That was Quetzali Castro.

She is currently a seventh grade teacher.

I asked her if she had advice for fellow teachers, and she said that learning about and honoring all your students' cultural identities ultimately enriches the experience for everyone in the class, including the teachers.

When I was growing up, I had a classmate, Siobhan, the Gaelic spelling, with a BH right in the middle.

It threw some teachers at first, but they eventually got it right because that's what we do in a nation of immigrants.

And to all who have had their names botched, I know there are a lot of you, thank you for taking the time to let us know.

Getting your name right is important.

Thank you, Quetzali.

Do you have a story to tell us about staying true to yourself, bucking the system, or circumventing the traditional way of doing things?

We'd love to hear a pitch about it.

You can leave a pitch right on our site, themoth.org, or call us and leave a less than two-minute pitch at 877-799-MOTH.

Transitioning from fifth grade to sixth grade was my opportunity to have a fresh start.

I could break out of the confines of a Catholic school uniform where my options were a dress or a skirt and and put on whatever I wanted, girls or boys' clothes.

I could finally create the vision of myself I had in my head already, confident, cool, and with a fresh new haircut.

That summer, my mom and I walked to our local hair salon, Estetica Mari, with my hair in a braid.

I remember sitting in a salon chair and seeing my braid leaving my head.

The hairstylist tried to convince me I looked beautiful with a bobbed haircut and I shouldn't go any further.

I had to call my mom for backup to convince her in Spanish that I wanted it shorter and shorter.

Finally, they raised a mirror to the back of my head and I could see how short it was, evidence of what had happened all over the floor.

I was so damn proud of myself and ready.

On the first day of school, I stood in the entranceway dressed in the t-shirt and skater boy shorts from the boys section.

For the first time, I felt like the inside matched the outside and that I didn't have to compartmentalize who I was at school and who I was at home.

For the first time, I was showing up as myself by myself.

Remember, you can pitch us here story at 877-799-MOTH.

That's 877-799-6684.

Or online at themoth.org, where you can also share these stories or others from the Moth Archive.

When we return, a man who loses almost all control finds ways to stay grounded.

That's when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

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

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You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX.

I'm Jennifer Hickson, and in this hour, we're hearing about autonomy.

Our final story is told by Brian Johnson.

As soon as he begins, you may notice that Brian's voice is synthesized by a computer.

Up on stage, everyone in the audience could see that Brian's lips were not moving.

That's because his story was written with his eyes.

He will explain.

Here's Brian live in New York City.

Good evening, good people.

My name is Brian.

I happen to have ALS, also known as Lou Gehrig's disease.

A very rare neurodegenerative disease that affects less than one out of every 1,000 people in the US.

No need to fear.

You are all safe.

I am the one in the room.

You're welcome.

Now, I am not much of a public speaker, and I am nervous AF.

I literally feel like I can't move.

I'd like you to imagine a world with me, before COVID.

The year is 2019.

It is a beautiful morning in September.

I awake early and head to the gym.

Following my workout, I lace up my running shoes and begin my morning run.

On this day it's just a short three-miler.

My pace is brisk as I run along Bayou St.

John, in the heart of New Orleans.

The morning breeze cooling the beads of sweat rolling across my freshly shaven head.

At the one mile mark, I notice something wrong with my gait.

My left foot is not making its full stride, but instead is hitting the earth beneath me, as it tries to make its way through.

Eight months later, after more than a dozen doctors' appointments and multiple MRIs, in April 2020, exactly one month after COVID broke the world.

We finally got an appointment with Dr.

Edwards, a neuromuscular specialist.

We arrived at his office.

There were no administrative staff.

No nurses.

No other patients.

Dr.

Edwards literally turned the lights on for us.

After examining my body for about four minutes, he put his instruments down, placed his hand on my knee, looked me in the eyes and said, Mr.

Josan, I am so sorry.

But this is ALS.

And then told me I had 2 to 5 years to live.

I was 43 years old.

As we left his office, I fell to the floor, feeling like a piling in the shaft of a pile driver.

I had been smashed to dust.

My wife, Christy, fell with me, held me, and we wept in that corridor for what seemed like hours.

Once we were able to get our legs back under us, we made the five-mile trek from the doctor's office to our home to see our kids who at the time were ages 15, 14, 13, 11, and 8.

I had just been handed a death sentence, and I felt as though my life was over.

It didn't take long for ALS to destroy my body.

In just two years, I had lost the ability to walk, to talk, to eat, to move, to bathe myself.

Actually, the bathing part excited me because I knew that meant more showers with my wife.

However, when I realized she was going to keep her clothes on,

it suddenly became less thrilling.

I had lost all autonomy, every morning someone would give me an enema, and return a few minutes later to wipe my butt.

I could no longer hug my kids.

Or squeeze my teenagers tightly when they would stand in front of me, crying, because their life is difficult.

And I can't do anything.

And a dad should be able to hug his own kids.

I could not use my voice to tell them that I love them.

Before I lost my voice.

I wore those three little words out on them, even making sure the last words I ever spoke were, I love you, to each kid in Christie.

I could no longer enjoy my favorite foods, fried shrimp po-boys or my mom's chicken and onouille gumbo.

I couldn't smell or taste that delicious black coffee from my neighborhood coffee shop.

I could no longer savor cigars or sip on a wonderful bourbon-like Hancock Reserve, with my buddies.

I could no longer smell the love of my life, or taste her kiss, or make love to her the way she enjoys.

I could hear my daughter in the backyard playing basketball.

Bounce.

Bounce.

Bounce.

But I couldn't go out and play with her, like I could with her four older brothers before I got this awful disease.

So, as I was working through the grief of so much loss, I was still breathing really strong.

And then, in October of 2022 I got the flu.

We were out of town visiting a friend where I stayed in bed all weekend and high as a kite to keep me relaxed as I gasped for for air.

Upon our return home, on October 10, 2022 I journaled, quote, I am in a really dark place.

I'm legitimately scared for the first time.

I am fearful.

Episodes like Thursday night and last night and this morning, I literally feel like this could be it.

Because I can't breathe, and then I start sweating, and then I am having a panic attack.

And it's dark.

This morning, I felt like tapping out and that scares me.

⁇ End quote.

The next morning, I found myself in the back of an ambulance being rushed to the hospital, having no idea if I would ever return home.

Seriously wondering if I had just seen my kids for the last time.

After being stabilized in the ER, I was transferred to the ICU.

The next day, my favorite doctor and one of the most beautiful humans I have ever met, Dr.

Candreau, sat next to my bed and said, Brian, we are at decision-making time.

We can either make you comfortable as you transition from this life to whatever is next, or we can do a tracheotomy in which you will live the rest of your life on life support.

It will be incredibly difficult and very expensive, but you will still be here with us.

I figure most people would say that is a no-brainer, but the truth is, 90% of ALS patients decide not to get traped.

Reason being, this is a challenging way to live.

You are basically a fully cognizant human being who is incapable of doing anything except thinking.

So, when my doctor asked me the literal life or death decision and I was hopped up on all kinds of drugs, I was ready to die.

But in the midst of the pain and fear, and chaos, I had a brief moment of clarity where I was fully in tune with my wife, my own soul, and the oneness.

I whispered to myself, Micah, Jonah, Nate, Lucas, Zoe Moon, and I looked at my amazing doctor and I said, I have five kids at home who are waiting for me and I'm not done imparting myself to them, so do whatever you have to do to keep me here.

That is the last thing I remember.

I woke up 14 days later and asked Christy, when is surgery?

And she replied, baby it's done.

You are traped.

And you are back.

Six months later, I am hanging out with my four teenage boys, a meeting we have together every Sunday night.

We call ourselves the Diamond Dogs.

I am in my bed.

The boys are situated around my room.

One is in bed with me, two are on the sofa to my right and one is sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed.

The room is dimly lit by a lamp with an Edison bulb in the corner.

Somehow, on this particular night, unprompted by me, the boys stumble into uncharted territory and start talking about how my disease is forming them in positive ways.

This is one of those moments when you don't know what is happening, but you do know that whatever it is, it is

sacred.

Micah, 18, said, I think ALS has made me more understanding towards what others are going through.

And it has brought me and you closer together.

Jonah, 17, ALS has taught us to cherish all the moments we spend together.

Nate, 16, ALS taught me how to deal with unrequited questions and how to embrace what may not be there tomorrow.

It is also teaching me how to love what seems unlovable.

And, Lucas, 14, ALS is helping me learn to be patient and it's taught me maturity in a form that is important at my age.

They,

are,

teenagers.

They know ALS means our time together will be shortened, and to hear them speak of their own formation in positive ways left me speechless.

It was the most validating moment of my life.

That the way Christy and I chose to parent might, actually, work.

I mean, who are these humans and how did I get to be the lucky guy that gets to spend part of my life with them?

This was one singular point, on the timeline of my life.

When beauty showed her face, in the midst of the chaos, in the middle of the cluster fuck, in the black, burnt, ashes.

I am, however, a man who also values authenticity and balance so, a few weeks ago, I chose to face one of my fears and ask my daughter the question.

Remember, she was 8 when I was diagnosed.

She is 12 now.

I was sitting in my chair as she stood in front of me, and with my computerized voice I asked, Zoe Moon, can you think of any good things that have come into your life, because of my ALS?

She thought for about 30 seconds.

Dad, I don't really remember life before ALS.

As I began to weep.

I was heartbroken to hear her say what I already suspected to be true.

That my daughter would never remember a time when I didn't have ALS.

She She would not remember my hugs, or our tickle fights.

She would not remember all of the times we walked home from school together hand in hand.

On the ever-growing list of things that life is teaching me, is that even in this, I trust that something good will spring forth.

Because in the chaos there is always something beautiful to be experienced.

Sometimes, though, you might just have to hold on for dear life before you experience the beautiful.

So, I hold on.

I have now been living with this 20 pound black box on the back of my chair for almost two years and it is an incredibly difficult way to experience life.

But I am here with my wife.

My kids.

My neighbors.

My friends.

And in a life that ALS was determined to burn to the ground.

There is beauty and love rising from the ashes, all around.

No matter where your life takes you, always remember: life is a beautiful cluster fuck, and love is here.

Thank you.

Love.

That was Brian Johnson.

Johnson.

ALS stripped him of his neuromuscular capabilities, except for his eyes.

The story you just heard was composed via Brian's eyes on a special computer.

Although Brian's not able to move his body, his face is still very expressive, and you can even see when he's laughing, which is often.

On the flip side, when he's emotional, as he was in the story you just heard, tears roll down his face.

We first met Brian at a story slam in New Orleans, where he was born and raised and where he currently lives with his family.

On social media, he, his wife, and kids educate the public on ALS and share their triumphs and struggles and lots of laughter.

Here's Brian's oldest son, Micah, sharing what it was like when they first got the news.

It was clear there was something wrong with his leg, but nobody, no one, not even the doctors, were like, this is serious.

Honestly, when they texted us onto the porch, it all hit us like an 18-wheeler.

That was the first time I saw him.

Not the first time, but that was the

I saw him cry, like,

like fear cry for the first time, I think.

And it was the worst thing in the world.

And then I think I asked if they could cut his leg off.

And

he said no.

It was in his spine.

And I was like, well, we can't take that out.

So.

But everything from then on, it's gotten easier.

But I don't know.

It was that porch meeting that

just the world was different.

Before Brian lost the ability to speak, he recorded his voice and trained a computer to synthesize it.

So even though it is through a computer, we are hearing Brian's voice.

I asked Brian if there was some magical muscle he built up when he was healthy that has helped him be so positive in the face of this disease.

He sent me this answer.

Not so much a muscle, but I had spent years paying attention to my inner life and caring for it by spending time in silence and solitude and meditation.

This, I believe, put me in a better position to navigate this disease.

Brian's wife Christy shared some insight about how the family is able to manage.

There's like big things that we've gone through, so we're a really good team.

Katrina, our house was destroyed.

We had to rebuild.

We just kind of took the same mentality when we chose, right?

We chose to move forward.

We chose to not just sit and cry.

We cried when we needed to, but we just wanted our kids to see us pick up and go.

Like we're going to keep moving.

Things are going to look different.

Things are going to be harder, but our family can do it.

It's interesting in life how when the kids were toddlers and Brian's at work all day and he knows when he walks in that door that I'm going to hand him a kid, he doesn't get off of work at five.

You know, next job starts, me and daddy walking in that door.

Well, for our kids, that's what happened to them.

They would go to school, and then when they got home and walked in that door, they were hands-on taking care of their dad.

And they never complained about that.

Never.

Finally, I asked Brian how his family is so good at savoring the good times when faced with so much loss.

As parents, we have always encouraged and modeled for our kids to live in the present.

Upon my diagnosis, we, as a family, decided that we would take some time to be scared and sad, but then we would get back to living and be present for whatever time we had left together.

To see pictures of Brian and his family and to find out how to follow them, visit themoth.org.

They'd love to hear from you.

I want to thank Brian and all the storytellers in this hour, each sharing the ways they work to stay true to themselves and others.

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

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 Jennifer Hickson, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show.

Co-producer is Vicki Merrick, associate producer, Emily Couch.

The rest of the Moss leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Sarah Austin-Janess, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluche, Leigh Ann Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Casa.

Our pitch came from Crystal Vega in Bellflower, California.

Moss 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, Renee Aubrey, Erasmo Petringa, and Dan Romer and Ben Zeitlin.

We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts.

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

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