The Moth Radio Hour: Occasional Magic

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This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX.

I'm Catherine Burns, and this time, we're going to hear about occasional magic, those moments of wonder and clarity that we sometimes stumble upon in life.

We're just going along in the day-to-day, minding our own business, and then bam, suddenly something happens, and we discover a piece of truth in our lives.

These moments often sneak up on me, and I can miss them entirely if I'm not paying attention.

Magic is definitely at play in our first story, told by Chinjarai Kumanyika.

He told the story at a moth event we produced in Las Vegas, where he partnered with Nevada Public Radio and the Black Mountain Institute.

Here's Chinjarai Kumanyika live at the moth.

So I was at this family barbecue earlier this summer.

You know, I don't know if y'all go to Black Family Barbecue because Frankie Beverly Mays is playing.

I was eating a second plate of mac and cheese I promised myself I wouldn't eat.

You know, and I was doing some card tricks for my seven-year-old nephew Jonathan.

And after a couple tricks,

You know, Jonathan looks up at me and he kind of goes, you know, how did you do it?

How did it work?

And I was like, ah, you know, it's magic.

He got excited.

He's like, ooh, magic.

You know, he kept asking me.

I'm doing more tricks.

He kept asking me, right?

And then, you know, for some reason, I started to think, well, maybe, maybe he's asking me something bigger than the card trick.

I was projecting, right?

I mean, you know.

And so, like,

for some reason, I went way too dark on this, right?

I started,

this kid's got to know.

This is the time for this seven-year-old kid to understand.

Like, this is a trick.

So I was like, I called him in.

I was like, yo, come here.

I showed him how the trick worked, right?

And then I was like, look, man, you know, this is a trick, man.

But

you got to deal with reality.

You know,

you just saw like his seven-year-old face just drop.

And I knew that I had failed as an adult human.

You know, I had told him that there was no magic.

And it's funny that I would be the one to deliver that because my own relationship to this question is much more complicated.

You see, when I was about 13, my aunt went to go live in Senegal, and she invited me to come stay with her for a month or so over the summer.

Now, like a lot of African Americans, I don't really know exactly where my ancestry is from,

but I'd never been out of the country.

So it was so exciting to go to Africa, right?

And when I landed in Dakar, it was like everything was new.

I mean, I'm talking about like just to go get some bread from the store was like an adventure, right?

You know, it's like you see everything, new buildings, new languages and smells.

And my aunt was going to be really busy while I was there.

So she hired a guy to kind of look out for me.

And his name was Ron.

He's about 30 years old.

And he was a chaperone, right?

So During the time I was there, Ron was like my big brother.

He told me about his life.

I mean, not just in Dakar, right?

Just as an older man.

And I told him about my life because, you know, things were starting to change a little bit, you know.

I was coming to terms with what it meant to be a guy in this black male body that looked tough, but I had the heart of like a podcaster or like a Lord of the Rings

fan or something.

Right?

You know, and

at that, you know, I I was trying to also figure out how I would make decisions.

Could I trust myself?

You know, I mean, my parents had done a pretty good job of sheltering me from the ugliest parts of life, but I was living in Baltimore in the 1980s, and it felt like the danger could walk right up to your door.

I told Ron about the time I was just playing tag with my friends, and the police had followed us home and questioned my mother.

I told him a lot of my friends, you know, knew drug dealers and had seen people killed and some even had guns.

Ron was like horrified right this wasn't the America that he knew about

and he wanted to get some protection for me so Ron knew of this elder who was skilled in making certain special talismans that could actually protect you from guns and knives

and he wanted he's like yo people in Senegal have these things and he wanted to get one for his African-American little brother to protect me from the violence of America.

So the next morning we found ourselves on a bus going out to the outskirts of Dakar.

We got off the bus and walked into this small white house.

When I walked in, I met this elder.

I was instructed to go into the bathroom by myself, take a bath, I put on this robe.

And when I came out, they handed me this white towel and it was filled with this little black powder.

And Ron and I took that towel to a local tailor and had it sewn into an animal skin belt.

And I remember when it was done, just holding it in my hands, feeling its power, like, yeah,

now I'm gonna be protected.

But then Ron told me there was a catch.

He goes, In order for this belt to work, you have to believe in it.

And in order for you to believe in it, we got to go back to the heel, to the elder,

you got to put the belt on, and then I'm going to have to shoot you.

What?

Ron, little brother, no, I would never, I wouldn't put you in a harm's way.

Look, I know what you're thinking, right?

Like, this is supposed to be a real easy decision for me, right?

I mean, I wasn't the most street savvy kid, but I did know rule number one.

Don't let people shoot you.

Even if they ask nicely.

But, you know, I like I wanted that belt to work too, right?

I mean, can you imagine going back as a kid to Baltimore with this belt?

You know, that was like some Marvel comic type stuff.

I was like, I wanted that to work.

And then also, why was Ron doing this?

Like, Ron knew my aunt, you know, I mean, there must be, what was going on?

I didn't understand.

And I thought about it over and over, and I was like,

I just pictured myself looking down the barrel of a gun while Ron shot me.

I was like, hell no, I can't do that.

Can't do it.

I told Ron he was disappointed and we went back to Dakar.

At this point, I made an executive decision not to tell my aunt that the chaperone she had hired just asked if he could shoot me.

But, you know, I did want to know

what my aunt thought, because my aunt was like a real no-nonsense person.

So I was like, surely she'll validate my responsible choice here.

So I asked her, hey, Auntie, like, what do you think about talismans?

Or like, those kind of like madness, you know, she said,

well, actually, I think they work, but only if you believe in them.

Man,

so I went back to, you know, after the summer's over, I went back to Baltimore, and I kept this belt, you know.

And as I would, for some reason, I held on to it even as I got older, right?

Moving from house to house, sometimes I would put it on, you know?

look in the mirror, and I would just wonder if it works.

You know, it was really frustrating, you you know, because I kind of felt like I had just missed this chance to know.

Should I have trusted Ron?

Should I have trusted myself?

I would never know.

A couple years later, my aunt went back to Africa, this time to Ghana, to live for a couple years.

And once again, she invited me to come stay with her.

This time, we were in Ghana and I was, I spent a lot of time with a friend of mine named Quabana.

And, you know, Ghana is a very religious place.

But Quabana could never quite figure out what my religion was, right?

He was, you know, he was, all he knew was I had long dreadlocks and I didn't eat meat.

So he was like, he just decided I was a Rasta, you know,

a pure Rasta.

That's what he used to call me.

And he would yell at anybody who tried to give me meat.

He's a pure roster.

Leave him alone.

You know, but,

you know, Quabana got closer and I wanted Quabana to know like that that wasn't really the whole story.

So I told him, I said, Quabana, I respect the Rastafarian tradition.

I really do, but I'm not a Rasta.

And he was like, well, what are you?

Are you a Christian?

He was a Muslim, right?

So he was like,

you know, are you a Muslim like me?

I was like, no.

He said, well, what is it?

I said, well, I kind of respect traditional African religions because I feel like that's what was taken away from us.

When I said that, Kwabana's eyes got real big.

He was like, oh, you practiced a traditional religion.

He said, well, my family practices this religion too, right?

I want to take you to my village and show you how it really goes down.

So once again, I found myself on a bus early in the morning, headed to the outskirts of a West African town.

And this time on the bus, you know, Quabinas telling me, like, man, our families weighs our whole system, right?

It's not just tricks, but there are some things that to your eyes are going to seem like magic.

We got off the bus.

It was early in the morning.

It was kind of dark.

He said his grandfather had been the keeper of the family secrets, but his grandfather had passed the secrets down when he died to a young priest.

And that was who we had to find.

But after walking from house to house and knocking on doors, we quickly learned that this isn't the kind of person that you find.

He has to find you.

And at 11 o'clock at night, we're in a bar, pretty much having given up, and he found us.

He walked in.

He had an assistant with him.

You know, and I was, at that point, I was kind of like, I was a little bit, I was nervous.

I was like disappointed, but I was also kind of relaxed because I hadn't known what was going to happen.

You know, but then he walks in, and I was like, oh, shit.

Oh, shit, right?

And he's like, he says, you know, he comes in and he goes, look, I knew you were here the whole time.

He told Quabina he had to verify that he was really family.

And he verified that.

He said, I heard about you too.

And I did some divination.

I have something I want to show both of you.

And then we walked out of the bar.

And as we walked down like this long dirt road, because now it's night, it's dark.

And his assistant stops at this little vendor and buys a machete.

I was like, oh, that's interesting.

We walk a little further and we stop outside of this shed.

And they explain that we're going to go in that shed and there's going to be an initiation.

And that initiation is going to involve the machete.

Then his assistant starts sharpening that machete.

I don't know about y'all, but something about that metal scraping on metal like that just brings everything into focus,

right?

And I started thinking, right?

I was like, hell, okay.

You know, he goes in the shed.

I'm like, huh.

I'm like, on one hand, I'm like, man, I'm like,

I could die out here, right?

But I also had spent all these years just wondering about the belt.

And I was like, I'm here again.

So I was like,

I'm going to go in the shed.

I can't tell you everything that happened inside the shed, but I'm going to tell you a couple things that went down.

First, there were some prayers made in the shed.

Second,

there was a point where I was given a word by the young priest.

And he told me that when I was ready, I should say the word.

And then he was gonna take that cold, sharp blade of the machete and press it against my chest.

And then he would take a piece of wood and bang the machete, you know, really hard into my chest.

And then if I said the word, it wouldn't cut.

And then

he asked me if I was ready.

It's like, I took a deep breath.

Then I said, I'm ready.

And I said the word.

And he put the machete, he pressed it right.

I felt it going into my skin, the sharp blade.

And he pulled back.

It seemed like in slow motion.

Bang!

Knocked it into my chest.

Bang!

He knocked it on the other side of my chest.

Bang, he knocked it on my arm.

Bang, on the other arm.

I looked at my arms, looked at my chest,

and there were no cuts.

So I made it out of that shed alive.

When I reflect back on that night, I don't feel like I'll ever fully understand totally what happened.

Especially because, like, I'm a person who really believes in science, right?

Like, I believe in climate change, all like epidemiology, like everything, you know, disease, people.

I really believe in that.

But I had this experience that I can't explain.

And I also kind of want a do-over for what I told my nephew that day.

He's not here right now, but I want to kind of pretend y'all are Jonathan.

And here's what I would tell him if I had to talk to him right now: I would say, Jonathan,

listen,

a lot of decisions you're going to have to make in life,

the safe route is the best route to go.

But there are going to be those moments when you got to take that leap of faith because there is magic.

And when the time is right, it'll find you.

Thank you very much.

Dr.

Chinjarai Kuminyika is a scholar, journalist, and artist who researches and teaches in the Department of Journalism at New York University.

He is also the co-host, co-executive producer, and co-creator of Gimlet Media's Peabody Award-winning podcast, Uncivil.

And he's a collaborator for Seeing on Radio's influential season two, Seeing White, and Season 4, On the History of American Democracy.

I first met Chinjarai when he wrote an article at transom.org called Vocal Color in Public Radio.

The article later trended on Twitter and spawned a nationwide discussion about diversity in public media.

If you'd like to read that article and see a picture of Chinjarai's famous belt from the story, go to themoth.org.

Coming up, a watermelon seed spitting contest leads to trouble.

And later, a scientist has a profound moment while scuba diving in Antarctica when the moth 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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Mike and Alyssa are always trying to outdo each other.

When Alyssa got a small water bottle, Mike showed up with a four-litre junk.

When Mike started gardening, Alyssa started beekeeping.

Oh, come on.

They called a truce for their holiday and used Expedia Trip Planner to collaborate on all the details of their trip.

Once there, Mike still did more laps around the pool.

Whatever.

You were made to outdo your holidays.

We were made to help organize the competition.

Expedia, made to travel.

This is the Moth Hour from PRX.

I'm Catherine Burns, and in this show, we're talking about experiencing moments of magic in our lives.

Our next storyteller, Edgar Oliver, has been telling stories of the moth for more than 20 years.

He told this one in an evening we produced outside at night in the lovely Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn, New York.

Greenwood is a nature preserve.

At one point, a red-tailed hawk actually flew across the stage, and bats fluttered around overhead.

There were rugs placed on the hills beside the stage and people sat on the graves listening to the stories.

That might sound odd, but one of Greenwood Cemetery's mottos is that Greenwood is a place that the dead create for the living, and their caretakers have been producing magical events inside the cemetery for more than a century.

Here's Edgar Oliver live under the stars at Greenwood.

And we're going to leave the intro in so you can hear how host Tara Clancy introduced him.

So, I should just say this quickly.

You may have noticed that I have an interesting voice.

It used to not be very interesting, but now people like to comment on it and ask me about it and all this shit.

Our final storyteller also has an interesting and wonderful voice.

My voice is real.

His voice is real.

Please don't ask us if our voices are real.

Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Edgar Oliver.

Hi, everyone.

I'd like to tell you a story from my childhood.

I grew up in Savannah, Georgia, with my mother and my sister, Helen, in a house surrounded by beautiful old trees.

One day,

I think I was ten,

so Helen was eleven,

we were all three on the back porch eating watermelon.

Helen and I were having fun spitting watermelon seeds over the railing.

We grew inspired by the many watermelon seeds, and we began planting them all over the backyard,

digging holes in the dirt with kitchen spoons,

and then pouring in watermelon seeds, and then covering up the holes,

thinking that in the fecund earth of Savannah,

watermelon vines would sprout effortlessly,

and that by the end of the summer there would be huge watermelons all over the backyard.

We waited and waited,

but at the end of the summer, to our great disappointment, no watermelons had sprouted.

The next summer, we decided to set up one of those collapsible swimming pools.

So we got one and we set it up in the backyard.

This huge drum of corrugated iron that came up to here on me, up to my neck,

with a bottom of swimming pool blue rubber.

And then we turned on the hose and began filling up the pool, which took hours.

We watched in fascination as the water rose.

Filling the pool was probably the most satisfying thing about it.

Before it was half full, we jumped in and let the water rise around us.

But after a few days, we barely used the swimming pool.

We were on the go in the car so much, driving to Hilton Head or to the beach at Tybee or to swim in the Ogeechee River.

Sometimes we'd

go downtown and get fried chicken at the Woolworths on Broughton Street and go with our sketch pads to the colonial cemetery to picnic atop the family vaults that were all shaped like gigantic brick bedsteads.

Helen and I loved to climb on these strange bed-shaped vaults

and lie on the gently curved bellies of the vaults and play at being dead.

And while we played, Mother sketched in her sketch pad

it was beautiful to lie there feeling so alive

pretending to be dead

meanwhile the water in the swimming pool grew opaque

ink black

leaves and branches floated across its surface, and God knows what lurked in its depths.

It was more forbidding than a swamp.

No one in their right mind would have gotten into it.

It remained brim full as well,

replenished by the summer's many rains.

All through that summer the pool exercised a strange fascination over the backyard.

It was it was tall and mysterious.

The rain went across it, and its mystery was stirred, and we wondered at its depths.

I would gaze at the black surface of the pool and imagine strange monsters lurking there,

ghastly things.

I know Helen did too.

I know mother did too.

Finally, one day we destroyed the pool.

We attacked it gleefully,

bashing down its sides and watching in delight as the black water poured out in all directions.

We kept waiting for monsters to be revealed.

I think we were all three convinced there was a human corpse hidden in those waters.

But there was nothing in the pool.

It was empty.

But at the bottom of the pool a mystery entirely unexpected awaited us.

The rubber bottom of the pool, now

black with sludge, rose up in strange humps

everywhere.

There were things

underneath the pool's bottom.

What could these things be?

The thought was horrifying.

We all three grabbed the sides of the pool and began heaving it up, peeling it from the ground.

What we saw was more horrifying than anything we could ever have imagined.

There were watermelons everywhere.

Huge watermelons.

But they were white,

absolutely white,

albino watermelons.

The watermelons we had planted had been growing there, trapped under the swimming pool, trapped, growing blindly in the dirt.

Their whiteness was as horrible as the horror of their fate.

We could not bring ourselves to touch them,

and the thought of slicing one open to see what it was like inside was unimaginable.

How we got rid of them, I don't remember.

Such was the fate of the albino

watermelons.

That was Edgar Oliver.

Edgar is a writer and performer who has lived and worked in New York City for many years.

The New York Times lead theater critic Ben Brantley called Edgar a living work of theater all by himself.

Not long ago, Edgar appeared as a butler in a mattress ad, which also starred football legend Tom Brady.

You can can find it by, well, googling Edgar Oliver and Tom Brady.

It's a trip.

I sit down with Edgar in the cemetery to talk about his story.

You'll hear him mention Bonaventure, and he's referring to the famous Bonaventure Cemetery in Savannah, Georgia.

I'm sitting here in the middle of Greenwood Cemetery in Brooklyn.

It's about eight o'clock at night, surrounded by beech trees and candles and graves.

And you know, I love graveyards, and I think you do too.

What is it about graveyards that draw you in, sweetie?

Well, I love all the trees and

the desolation.

I love the solitude of graveyards.

Yes.

And

I know that

you lost mother when you were fairly young, right?

Yeah, I was 26.

Yes.

Mother was 62,

which is how old I am now.

Oh, wow.

That's kind of haunting.

Yeah.

So, is Mother in a graveyard somewhere, Edgar?

Well, no.

Well, part of Mother is in Bonaventure.

Some of Mother's ashes I buried

enough on top of our father's grave in Bonaventure.

Some of Mother's ashes are in the glove compartment of Helen's car in Italy

and

and

then Helen scattered some of mother's ashes

in Greenport

and also some of mother's ashes Helen scattered

in Sicily.

Oh beautiful.

I love that your mother is at least part of her is spending

at least so far, eternity in the glove compartment of Helen's car in Italy.

Because when I think of your mother, I always think of her as driving.

Mother loved to drive.

She did so that's why Helen decided to put some of Mother's ashes in the glove compartment of the car.

It's perfect.

Our interview was being recorded by our talented intern, Mia Figueroa, and she asked Edgar if he ever regretted not cutting open the watermelon.

Opening the watermelons.

Well, um

in retrospect, yes, it would be amazing to know whether they were red inside or not.

But at the time, they just seemed so repulsive.

It just

would have been inconceivable to cut one of them open.

But yes, I do very much wonder.

That was Edgar Oliver.

To see a photo of Edgar and his sister Helena's children, go to themoth.org.

Next, we're going to go to one of our Story Slam competitions in Melbourne, Australia, where we partner with the Australian Broadcasting Corporation.

Here's Matt MacArthur live at the moth.

I'm standing beside a hole, and inside the hole, it's cold and dark, and there's no air.

A lifelong fascination with Antarctica and a love of working underwater have collided, and I'm standing on the shores of Ross Island, about as far south as you can go and still work as a marine biologist.

I take my deep breath and step into the dark, cold, airless hole and descend through three metres of sea ice and 12 metres of sea to begin my work on the sea floor.

And my task engrosses me.

I know what I'm doing.

I'm calm.

So long as I don't think too much about where I am and what I'm doing, I stay calm.

And then I feel a current go go past and it gives me a bit of a knock.

And normally when I feel that, I think, shark.

But I'm too far south for sharks.

I'm too far south for orca.

It's cool.

Nothing's going to eat me.

I'm probably the biggest thing nearby.

And then I look up and there's a Waddell seal.

I'm not the biggest thing nearby.

The Waddell seal is the biggest thing nearby.

400 kilograms of seal has just swum over the top of me.

Underwater, they look like a hot water cylinder, almost a perfect cylinder of blubbery meat.

And they do this neat trick where they look at you over their back.

I can't quite pull it off.

Big, dark eyes to take advantage of what light is available and it watches me as I watch it.

And then it touches the sea floor.

Now

We've brought our warmth and our oxygen to this spot by very different paths both in terms of what we did that morning to prepare for this dive that brought us together, and in terms of the huge arc of evolutionary history that separates us all the way back to the last time our ancestors met.

But the seal and I are watching each other and I don't think the seal's watching where it's going and it hits the seafloor.

And the seafloor is covered in anchor ice.

Now,

we normally think of ice as floating,

but anchor ice doesn't because it's anchored.

Ice just forms wherever it's cold enough for ice to form, and anchor ice forms on the rocks of the seafloor.

And it is buoyant, it wants to float, but it can't until it reaches a size that it's able to loft the rock that it's attached to.

So sometimes you'll get a rock drifting past in the current.

Or sometimes it'll peel up like an old carpet.

But in this case, it's been dislodged by the seal that wasn't watching where it was going.

It was watching the monkey.

Now, anchor ice forms incredibly beautiful interlocking plates and facets.

They're very delicate, so as the seals hit it, this anchor ice has shattered, and under its own buoyancy, it begins to rise.

And it's rising in a shaft of light.

The water that the seal and I are diving in is almost optically pure.

It's probably the clearest water on Earth.

And you could see for kilometers if there was light to see by, but there's not.

The sea ice and the snow on top of it block the light.

And other than the hole that I came in through and the hole that I'm going to leave by,

it's like someone's dropped a dark curtain through the water.

Black velvet.

You can't see a thing.

Except underneath these holes where the bright sunlight of the Antarctic summer is streaming through this clear water.

And these ice crystals are now rising into that shaft of light.

and this beautiful coruscating chandelier starts to loft

and each facet of the ice is catching that light and splitting it and rotating as it rises and this incredible kaleidoscope is on the rise.

It's the most beautiful thing that I've ever seen and I don't know if anyone else that can communicate with language has ever seen it.

And while as a scientist you train very hard not to anthropomorphize, you're not supposed to put human values onto the organisms that you observe, it's hard not to think that the seal might have gone out of its way to show me this, that it wasn't just an accident of navigation, that it's thought to itself, hey, monkey, watch this.

And it's almost impossible not to feel incredibly privileged to have shared this moment alone under the sea ice, but for this Waddell seal,

and to feel grateful to that seal for what it showed me.

Thank you.

Matt MacArthur's fascination for the seventh continent developed early when he first understood the concept of there being a land of ice to the south of his Australian home.

He spent two summers as a diver at Scott Base, New Zealand's research station on Ross Island.

Matt wrote to tell us, I feel tremendously privileged to have visited Antarctica and and work hard to share the experience in the hope that I might engender in others a sense of ownership and concern for that wild place.

Matt has his own podcast called Ice Coffee, The History of Human Activity in Antarctica.

Coming up, while fleeing a soon-to-be war-torn country, a mother tries to distract her young daughter with a little magic.

That's next on the Moth Radio Hour.

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

This episode is brought to you by Progressive Insurance.

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This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX.

I'm Katherine Burns.

In this hour, we're talking about moments of occasional magic.

Our final story was told by Sofia Stefanovic at the gorgeous St.

Anne's Church in Brooklyn Heights.

Here's Sophia, live at the Moth.

So I was five years old when I left Belgrade.

My dad had left a couple of weeks before us, so it was just me and my mother and my newborn sister.

And we were leaving Yugoslavia and going to our new home in Australia with a fuel stop in Singapore.

And at the airport, my grandma, Sania, held my face in her hands and she said, you will never see grandma again.

And when my face crumpled at this, she said, by way of consolation,

that's because I'm very old and I will probably die soon.

So

the last time that we had been at the airport had been under happier circumstances.

We were going for vacation in Croatia, but now there were tensions between the Republic of Croatia and the Republic of Serbia, where we were from.

And some people, including my dad, thought that there might even be a war, which is why instead of going for one hour to a place that we knew and loved, we were picking picking up all of our things and traveling for about 30 hours to the other side of the world to start our lives again.

And in the plane, I cried a lot, not just because of what grandma had said, but because I really liked my life up until then.

Like, I really liked the little communal yard where I would play with the kids from the surrounding buildings.

And I loved how in the winter Belgrade smelled smelled like snow and cigarettes and chestnuts and I loved that all our family and friends lived there and I was scared about going somewhere new.

And so for the first half of the journey I basically cried and vomited and pulled on my mother's sleeve while she tried to get my newborn sister to sleep.

And finally we landed for our fuel stop in Singapore and we kind of miserably trudged out of the plane

and hit this, like we went through this tunnel, this air-conditioned tunnel, and suddenly we were at Singapore airport.

And that is the moment that my life as I knew it completely changed.

So my first five years had been spent in socialist Yugoslavia and I had loved it, but that's because I had never been to Singapore airport

and

it was amazing.

Welcome to capitalism.

I realized that actually my whole life up until that moment had sucked.

And that this was the best place on earth.

So

I forgot about grandma and Yugoslavia and all that stuff.

And I just started like taking in all of the things around me.

And my mum said, wow, it's as clean as a pharmacy, which is what we say in Serbian when a place is clean.

And

I had to agree with her.

It was like we had been plopped into one of the Disney films that my dad used to get for me on the black market.

And then she said, you could eat off the floor.

And I had to agree.

Like, I felt like actually doing it.

I felt like getting on my butt and kind of like sliding across the beautiful gleaming tiles.

I wanted to jump on the escalators and travel up and down, singing and dancing to the beautiful music that was playing everywhere that we went.

I was kind of amazed that no one else was marveling in the way that we were.

And my mum said, look, orchids.

And I looked around and actually everywhere, like every few steps, there were these beautiful flowers growing out of planters.

And I realized that my life,

you know, that the world was this big and beautiful place and that I had been confined to this small grey corner of it up until now.

And everything smelled like perfume.

And copying my mother, I put my wrist out, and this beautiful Singaporean woman in a suit like spritzed us with perfume.

And we walked around looking at these like beautiful glass-fronted stores that had this like beautiful, colorful apparel in them.

And there were these massive screens everywhere.

And on the screens, there were ads for all the latest stuff that you could get, like entertainment systems, and shoes, and Walkman's.

And then this ad came up that just stopped me dead in my tracks.

And on this screen, there was this ad and there were these little kids about my age and they're all like laughing and having this great time while this tiny, gorgeous, squiggly worm toy just like wriggles around everywhere.

And I was just watching this ad and up close the worm, like its face is really beautiful and pointy and it has these little googly eyes and this like soft pink fur and it's the most amazing thing I've seen.

And apparently at that moment my mother becomes an immediate convert to consumer culture

because she grabs my hand and we march over to the currency exchange counter and she slams down her Yugoslavian dinas, gets some dollars, we go into a store and she buys me the worm.

Now this is pretty unheard of.

I know that If my dad had been there, there would have been like an argument between them.

There would have been a discussion about money and and how we didn't have much and how we were moving to a whole new country that was expensive.

But with just us there, my mother doesn't even look at the price tag.

She just gets the worm and buys it for me.

And on the plane, I'm trembling with excitement.

I'm not thinking about grandma anymore or any of that stuff that has happened in the past.

I'm just thinking about how as soon as we take off, I get to open this box.

And the worm comes in this little round box.

And I open it up and it's kind of coiled inside

and I touch it and its fur feels like the softest feathers and I whisper to it in like one of the three English words that I know so I say girl girl and I expect it to kind of come to life and start wriggling around like in the ad

and my mum's kind of looking at me with this weird expression because I guess she thought that I was smart

and she explains to me that the worm isn't in fact alive but that it has this little invisible string that's attached to it, and that's how it moves around.

And so once I get the hang of this, it does actually move around in this adorable way that it had done on the ad.

And when I get the hang of it, I kind of get the attention of this little boy across the aisle in the plane, and I stick my arm out, and I make the worm crawl up it, and he watches very solemnly, suitably impressed.

And I think, this is

pretty amazing.

Like, I decide I'm going to carry this little worm around in my pocket, like a gorgeous, fuzzy secret.

I start to think about my life in Australia, and I think maybe the kids will love me.

Like, I imagine this beautiful classroom with these little kids, and I imagine them saying to each other, wow, did you see that new magic girl?

And I'll be standing there with my worm, the new kid on the block.

And on the plane, I practice the three English words I know, so girl and hello, and tomorrow.

And I think

this is the start of my new life, and I think that we can agree it's a pretty good start.

Meanwhile my mother she puts her arm around my shoulders and she wipes tears from her eyes and looks out the window as we travel further and further away from our little world.

Cut to the present day.

I'm in my new home in New York.

pregnant, having another consumer experience in which basically I'm being sold things left, right, and center and I'm panicking because I think that I'm not going to be a good mother in advance, that

if I don't buy like a machine that heats up butt wipes for babies

or if I don't buy this special mobile with elephants that speak in French and sing.

And the more I'm stressing about this, I suddenly remember the best toy that I ever had, which was the worm, right so

while I've got my computer in front of me and I google magic fuzzy worm and it comes up immediately

and

so remember when I first saw this worm it was like the best thing that I had seen in my entire life and now I feel very confronted because this image that has come up in front of me the worm looks really crap like it just looks like this piece of matted fuzz with this piece of fishing wire coming off it and these little eyes that are stuck on with like bits of glue coming off the side of them and the image is so disturbing to me that I kind of don't even know what to do with it.

I'm really upset by it so I immediately pick up the phone to call my mother in Australia even though it's the middle of the night but this is an emergency.

So I call her up and she picks up and I say, hey mum, do you remember that worm that you got me at Singapore Airport?

And she says, Of course I do.

And I say, Well, I have just found it on the internet and it looks really terrible, and I can't believe that I loved it so much.

And my voice does this involuntary wobble because I'm thinking about how much I loved the worm at the time and how pathetic it all seems now.

And there's a little pause, and my mum says,

Impossible.

The worm that we got in Singapore was wonderful.

You must be looking at a completely different worm.

And then I think back to that time and I remember me

crying and then Singapore Airport and how impressed I was by this worm.

And for the first time I think about what it would have been like for my mother.

And I realised that she was also leaving her whole world behind and we were traveling to a whole new country, a whole new language.

She was leaving behind everyone, grandma, who happened to be her mother.

And it must have been really frightening for her as well, but she didn't let on.

She kept it together.

And even more than that, she managed to offer me a distraction and make me less scared in that moment.

And like even now, you know, decades later, when I have called her as this distressed adult who's waddling around on the other side of the world, my mother is still trying to protect me by keeping the myth of the worm alive.

And for some reason, I think of that Belinda Carlyle song, Somewhere in My Heart, I'm Always Dancing With You in the Summer Rain.

And I remember me at the airport and my young mother holding my hand.

And I think about how when we got to Australia, the kids didn't actually love me.

Like those three words didn't really help me out much.

I got laughed at and I got bullied and kids called me stupid and dummy and things like that because I couldn't speak English.

And I know that I can't actually protect my future kid from the world.

I'm sure that he'll get teased because maybe he'll have big ears like his dad or he'll have a big nose like me.

And there are plenty of far worse things that he's going to have to learn about in the world that I can't protect him from.

But what I can do is offer

some sort of protection in the form of that magic that my mother offered me,

a way of seeing the world as a wonderful place instead of just a frightening place.

And I know that it works because somewhere in my heart, that worm is still dancing like it did that day, and it is still the most magical thing that I have seen.

Thank you.

That was Sophia Stefanovic.

Since telling this story, she had her baby and published a memoir of her childhood called Miss Ex-Yugoslavia.

She also hosted a monthly show called This Alien Nation at Joe's Pub in New York City.

Sophia says she's finding motherhood to be even more magical and terrifying than she imagined.

That's it for this edition of the Moth Radio Hour about occasional magic.

Speaking of which, the Moth has published an entire collection of stories in a book called Occasional Magic.

We believe the Moth stories are best told out loud, but we think they're pretty fun to read too.

So we hope you'll join us next time, and that's the story from the Moth.

Your host this hour was the Moth's artistic director, Catherine Burns.

Catherine also directed the stories, along with Kate Tellers.

Additional Grand Slam coaching by Michelle Jolowski.

The rest of the Moth's directorial staff includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Janess, Jennifer Hickson, and Meg Bowles.

Production support from Emily Couch.

Moth's stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.

Our theme music is by The Drift.

Other music in this hour from Hot Sugar, Mark Orton, Ludovico Anaudi, and Penguin Cafe Orchestra.

The Moth is produced for radio by me, Jay Allison, with Vicki Merrick at Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

This hour was produced with funds from the National Endowment for the Arts.

The Moth Radio Hour is presented by PRX.

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

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