The Moth Radio Hour: Rooted in the Past

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Moth Radio Hour. I'm Jennifer Hickson.
Memories are vital to storytelling. At the Moth, we ask that the stories people share are from their own memories, meaning that while it's tempting to tell a story that you heard from your grandmother about when she was a child, we always want our tellers to be first-hand witnesses.
In some cases, however, our ancestor stories are very much relevant to our lives today. Some stories start way, way earlier, like this first one.
Hannah Drake's tale starts before she was born, and even before her mother was born, and even before her grandmother was born.

Hannah Drake told this at the Muhammad Ali Center in Kentucky, where we partner with Louisville Public Media. The show was especially thrilling for us because Lani Ali, Muhammad Ali's widow, was in attendance.
Here's Hannah Drake. In 2016, I had the opportunity to travel to Senegal with a group of performing artists called Roots and Wings.
There were about 10 of us, and my daughter had an opportunity to join us on this trip. It was the first time that either of us were leaving the United States.
The week that we were leaving, I logged onto Facebook, and I remember watching Philando Castile being murdered by the police in the passenger seat of his girlfriend's car. And his girlfriend was streaming it live on Facebook.
And he had on a white T-shirt. And I remember watching the blood start to pull across his shirt.
And his girlfriend was screaming, I know you just didn't kill him. And her daughter was in the back seat, and she was saying, Mommy, it's going to be okay.
And the day before that, Alton Sterling was shot in the chest by the police. And someone had recorded it and put the video on Facebook, so I also watched Alton Sterling be murdered on Facebook.

And I was so ready to get out of here.

And I remember boarding the plane, and admittedly, I felt a little bit guilty

because I was leaving at a time as a writer and as a blogger

where everybody was asking me,

Hannah, what do you think about this?

What is there left to say? And I didn't have any stories. I didn't have anything to tell them that would make it better.
I just knew that I had to get out of here. I just needed a minute to breathe.
And the minute that I stepped foot into Senegal, I felt like I was home. I felt like finally there was a place in this world where I belonged.
And my friend and I who joined me on the trip, Cynthia, we went to buy earrings. And I remember we were in the shop holding the earrings in such a way that the shop owner wouldn't think that we were trying to steal them.
And when we went to pay for them, we realized that the shop owner was outside of the shop. She wasn't even paying attention to us.
And it finally dawned on us here in Senegal, being black isn't a crime. And just trying to shop while black, we weren't criminals.
And it was like the world finally opened up to me and said, Hannah, we've been waiting for you. And I was determined to enjoy every minute of being in Senegal, but I knew there would be one time, one visit that would be challenging for me.
And it was when we were taking a trip to Gori Island. And at Gori Island is the door of no return.
and it's the last point where enslaved black people were brought

before they were put on slave ships. And I remember we had to take a boat to get to Gory Island.
And you could see the door of no return from the boat. And it was so quiet.
And the mood was so somber on the boat. And we stepped off and went inside.
They call it the House of Slaves. And it's just a two-story stone building.
And in this building, they have rooms for men, women, young girls, infants, and a room for those that would resist. And I went inside of the room for young for women and my daughter went in the room for young women.
And I was staring out of the window in this room and when I say window mind you it's just two inches wide. And heard my daughter start to weep and she was crying this cry I had never heard come out of her and it filled up the space of this room with echoes and I started to walk to the door of no return.
And I stood in the door and looked out at the ocean. And I could hear my daughter crying in the background and I tried to imagine how it would feel in that time to know that I was getting on a ship and coming somewhere that I didn't know and I would have to leave my daughter behind.
And I never got that sound out of my mind and I never forgot how it felt to stand in the door of no return, but I also never felt, never forgot how I felt just to be free for a minute. And when we came back to America, I was so incredibly depressed.
I knew that I was back to being the other person and back to being racially profiled and back to being concerned about driving and back to my skin feeling so heavy. And I remember I called my mom and I told her we were there for two weeks.
I had 20,160 minutes of all my life just to be free. And we started talking about slavery and the South.
And so nonchalantly my mom says well hannah you know i used to pick cotton and i couldn't believe that my mother had said this and i said what did you say and she said when i was a little girl i used to pick cotton and i said well how long did you do this And she said, for three years from the time that I was nine until I was 12. And I said, well, tell me about it.
And she said, my grandmother would pick me and my brothers and sisters up and bring us to the cotton field. And we would pick cotton for 80 cents a day.
And I couldn't imagine that my mother had to

do that. And I said, well, what happened in the fields? Tell me about it.
And she said, I wouldn't

repeat the names that they called me in those fields. And my mother is 70 years old.

And I said, well, can you tell me about your grandmother?

What was her name?

And she said, I don't remember.

We used to just call her Mamie.

And I said, can you remember anybody beyond your grandmother?

And she said, no.

And it was like the history of who I was was lost in that cotton field. And I knew I had to see them.
It was calling me. And as life would have it with my job, they said, Hannah, you're going to do some work in Natchez, Mississippi.
And admittedly, woman in America I didn't want to go to Mississippi but I knew something inside of me had to go to Mississippi and I was there to do some work with a young group of girls called Girls and Pearls teaching them art and history and heritage and I wanted to take my daughter with me. And they connected me with the tour guide.

And I called him, and he said, Hannah, when you fly into Baton Rouge and drive to Natchez, do not go through Jackson, Mississippi, because I cannot guarantee your safety. And when me and my daughter got in the car and started driving, we were so afraid.
And as we drove, it was like you were going back in time. And we could see plantation homes and cotton as far as your eyes could see and the Confederate flag waving everywhere.
And when we made it to our destination, I knew I have to see this. I have to bear witness to this.
So we started, my daughter and I started to tour the plantation homes. And when I say homes, this is not like a two-bedroom home here.
They are mansions, sprawling mansions, and you still have to pay to get into them. And I thought at this point, can I get in for free? I mean, at least a discount.
And we started touring them, and I remember my daughter and one started touching everything,

and I was looking at her, and they still had the fine china and the bedding and solid gold chandeliers,

and she was touching everything in the rooms.

And I said, why are you doing that?

I thought for sure they're going to put us out of here.

And she said, I wanted to touch things that I knew slaves wouldn't be able to touch.

Thank you. sure they're gonna put us out of here and she said I wanted to touch things that I knew slaves wouldn't be able to touch and we continued to visit other plantation homes and in one everything kind of started to look the same so I asked one of the tour guides well take me to the slave quarters show me that and I get that these homes are beautiful but that is not where I would have been take me to the slave quarter, show me that.
And I get that these homes are beautiful, but that is not where I would have been. Take me where my people would have been.
And she said, oh, we've covered those up. We've turned those into offices.
And just like that, once again, the history of who I am was gone. And I went to another plantation home, and there was a black tour guide.

And he showed me through the home, and we stood in the dining room table, and it was huge with the original china.

And they had a casserole dish, and the knob on the casserole dish was shaped into a cotton ball and it was solid gold and above this table was this huge fan and it had a string connected to it pulled off to the side of the corner and he told me that a little child often a girl would have to stand in the corner and pull the string so the fan would wave and keep flies off of the food. And I was so heartbroken because I couldn't believe that somebody was enslaved to keep flies off food.

And he told me, don't weep for her,

because she has a very important job.

When people eat, they talk.

And her job is to stand in that corner

and listen to everything that is being said at this table and go back and tell her mother. And I remembered that to go back and to tell.
And finally I knew it was time for me to go to the cotton fields. And I went to Frogmore Plantation.
They have 1,800 acres of cotton. And they showed me the bags that slaves had to put cotton in.
And I was thinking in my mind of a small bag, but when they showed me the bag, it's six feet long and three feet wide.

And I asked her, well, how much cotton can fit in this bag? And she said 70 pounds. And slaves were required to pick 200 to 300 pounds a day.
and I went out in the cotton field

and I went out in the cotton field and I started picking cotton and it was hot and I tried to get the seeds out of the cotton and it was difficult and I thought about my mother in those cotton fields and I thought about standing in the door of no return and I remember the curator of the door of no return said to us welcome back home you made it everybody didn't get a chance to come back home. And I started running my hands over the cotton.
And I thought about my life and my mother's grandmother, whose name I don't even know. And I thought about all the little slave girls named Hannah.

And I thought about all the stories that were lost in the cotton fields.

And I remember what the tour guide told me.

That I was like that little black girl in the corner,

waving the fan.

And my job was to go back and tell the stories. Thank you.
Thank you. That was Hannah Drake.
She's a blogger, activist, and poet. Selected by the Muhammad Ali Center to be daughter of greatness, which features prominent women engaged in social philanthropy, activism, and pursuits of justice.
In her work, Hannah is not one to shy away from uncomfortable spaces. She says it's the place where significant change can take place.
I spoke with Hannah in the green room after the show. Because we don't know anything about Hannah and the others, your other ancestors who've been kind of lost, have you been tempted or have you done 23andMe or any of the ancestry services? Here's how I feel about that.
One, I think it should be free for black people. And two, I understand that these companies believe that they are doing the right thing.
But how can you truly tell me where I was from? What tribe I was from? What language did I speak? You know, where did I come from? How does it just end? And I don't know. And this is another thing.
If people, this kind of goes with your question. A lot of people take that for granted to be able to go back generations after generations.
And they saw my family came over here and we came to New York and Ellis Island and we come from. And for many black people, it just ends and we just don't know.
And we'll we'll never know. And even I've had people do the DNA and the thing.
And so you kind of get a guess.

Oh, well, I'm kind of Nigerian and I'm kind of from here. I want to know exactly where my people were from in Africa and I'll never know that.
How did I get here? Why am I named? Where did my last name come from? Was that the slave owner's name? I don't know. What could it have been? So it's so many questions, and I want people even just to understand that little part.
It's a privilege to know that about your family. That was Hannah Drake.
To see a picture of Hannah on her trip, visit themoth.org, where you can also download the story you just heard.

When we return, a young man holds on to some meaningful relics from his past,

and a new employee discovers that old habits die hard.

That's when the Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts, and presented by the Public Radio Exchange, prx.org. Hi, here's your report.
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This is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX.

I'm Jennifer Hickson. This next story is from Craig Mangum, who grew up in Ohio.
Craig told the story in New York City, where we partner with public radio station WNYC. The theme for the Grand Slam was growing pains, which sometimes includes shedding some family traditions and practices.
Here's Craig. It was two weeks into the relationship, and I was in the backseat of my boyfriend's red Mustang when he reached down and touched my knee and suddenly pulled his hand back in shock.
And immediately I knew why. It was my underwear.
And this wasn't any regular underwear. I was 22 and a student at Brigham Young University, a Mormon-owned university.

And as a devout Mormon at the time, I wore what you all may have heard called the magic Mormon underwear.

I wore it every day underneath my clothing except for when I was showering or swimming day and night.

And let me describe for you what this was like.

It extended ever so gracefully in a white white unbleached cotton down to my knee. And it was accompanied by an undershirt that had a very billowy mid-arm length sleeved and a swooping neck.
And in it were embroidered symbols that related to theological concepts of Mormonism. And it was sacred.
But when my boyfriend touched it he got very quiet because touching a garment mid makeout is kind of like stumbling on granny panties from God it's a really it's a mood killer to say the least and he got quiet and he said I can't tell you what to do but I'm falling for you. And the fact that you wear those makes me scared you'll go back to them.
The them being Mormonism, this religion that I loved, that was my home, but that taught me that our relationship was a sin. It was my mom who taught me the protocol of the garment.
I noticed as she sorted our family's laundry onto the floor, she would take the garment and place it in a special hamper. They were so sacred to her, she would never let them touch the ground and wish watch them separately from the rest of the laundry.
She told me that we don't really talk to people outside of our faith about the garment, but that we wear clothing modest enough to cover it at all times. She said, when a garment gets old and is worn out and needs to be thrown away, we cut out the special symbols and we burn them.
So the only time I was encouraged to ever use matches as a child was when I was literally burning my parents' underwear in the backyard. And when I received my own garment as an adult, I was told it would be a shield and a protection a symbolic shield from sin and temptation but also a literal one that would protect my body from harm and I believed it deeply so when my boyfriend said that I remember it was a very awkward end to the date and I went home and I just stood in front of my mirror and looked at myself in this garment.
And I thought, who are you? And what do you even want? And after a lifetime of having answers to that question, I realized I had no idea. And I knew I needed space and time away from this thing that had been so important.
And so for the first time, I committed the Mormon sin of taking off the garment with no intention of putting it back on. And I got a Rubbermaid container from my closet and I put that garment in and I went to my underwear drawer and I put all the garments into it.
And through the next weeks and months as I would clean my apartment, I would put anything that just radiated Mormon into that until I filled the entire thing and I put it in the back of my closet, which I thought was a great metaphor, right, to let gay Craig out and put the Mormon into the closet for a while and see how they liked it, right? And I left it there for almost two years as I began to experience life outside of the garment. And I wore a white undershirt so my friends and Mormon family wouldn't know the change that was occurring in me.
Until graduation rolled around and I knew I would be moving and taking refuge in New York City. And I finally had to decide what to do with the Rubbermaid.
So I pulled it out and I looked at all of these items and I knew I would never be going back. I knew I could never believe the way I had.
I knew I would never be straight again. And so I thought what do I do? It didn't feel right to just leave them at a you know good will or throw them away.
This was my life. This meant so much to me at one point.
And so then I remembered what my mother had taught me, how to get rid of the garment. And I drove down to southern Utah, to Zion's National Park, and I built a huge bonfire.
And I assembled the contents of the Rubbermaid on a picnic table table and I prepared my own little ritual, a ritual of goodbye. I started with the pamphlets that had taught me that my homosexuality was a sin written by prophets I no longer believed in and I tossed them in the fire and then I took the black name tag I wore as a Mormon missionary that called me Elder Mangum

and tossed it in the fire with the white pants I wore as I baptized people into the religion I was leaving. I took the letters from a woman I thought I would marry.
And it's saved so our children could know the story of how we fell in love. And I tossed them in the fire.
and with other things I threw in the fire

all that was left was this mound of garments. And one by one, I tossed them in the fire.
And I said goodbye to this life that had been mine and it existed only now with me. And it was done.
I say that night I came out as

flamingly gay. Finally exposed, uncovered, and ready for anyone and everyone to see me exactly as I am.
Thank you. That was Craig Mangum.
Craig is a designer and writer and performer. He was the founding president of the Out Foundation, a philanthropic network for the LGBTQ plus alumni of Brigham Young University.
On top of his design job, he's currently doing research on a book about his three uncles, because not one, not two, but three of his Mormon uncles identified as gay, and all three lived with that fact in very different ways. We're looking forward to hearing some stories from that book.
In this next story, a woman's first real job demands that she modify some of her old tendencies. We first met Luanne Fox Sims at the Philadelphia Story Slam, but asked her to come to New York City to share this story.
Here's Luanne. All right, good stories.
Good. Thank you.
After college, all my friends went on to get jobs. While I stayed for years in our university town to hang out in grad school, hit the weekly bar specials, and have my parents continue to pay for my car insurance.
Sure, I had my part-time job at Lady Foot Locker, but when I could no longer afford

the minimum payments on my credit cards, I knew it was time to make a change. My friend Bonnie

suggested that I apply for an opening in her company, and it seemed like a good opportunity

to enter the professional world and have something positive to talk about at my upcoming high school

reunion. So I moved back to my hometown and started a new career selling medical supplies, full of confidence that my master's degree in philosophy had prepared me well for the corporate world.
Right off the bat, it seemed like a good decision. They hooked me up with a laptop, a flip phone, and a company car.
I had been in the job for only two weeks when Bonnie asked if I would be willing to drive to Maryland and take her place in a meeting with some co-workers from across the company and some very important clients. Stay in a hotel, Cinemax, room service.
Yes, I would take this free vacation. My only concern was I was so new to the company.
Was I really qualified to represent our district? But Bonnie assured me that all I had to do was show up. I just had to be there.
In fact, the last thing she said to me before I left was, it is impossible for you to screw this up. I got down there just fine and had a great night in my private hotel room, but I stayed up until the wee hours watching late night cable TV, which made it difficult to get ready on time to meet my co-workers in the lobby at 8 a.m.
But I came strolling out of the free hotel buffet at 8.05, feeling pretty good because 8.05 was the same as 8 o'clock in my mind. I saw them immediately waiting for me in a huddle, my medical supply sales executives.
And when I could see them looking at their watches and sizing me up in my big hair and the suit I had borrowed from my mom, I realized they weren't going to see me as the adorable intellectual rookie as I had hoped. One of them asked if I had the car, and that's when I found out that I was responsible for driving us all to our client meeting.
Because I had keenly observed that they already hated me for being late once, there was no way I was about to tell them that I still had to go up to my hotel room on the seventh floor to get my bags and the car keys. But I was quick on my feet, and I suggested that they wait around in front of the hotel, and I would go out to the garage and swing around and pick them up in the car.
Luckily, they agreed. The moment they were out of sight, I raced up to my hotel room, frantically packed my stuff, and then paced in front of the elevator, which seemed like it was taking forever.
I made my way down, found the car, hid all of my Burger King trash and my CDs, and finally I was ready to go get my colleagues. As I pulled out of the garage, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a sign, a very small sign, and it had an arrow.
It said, to lobby, and the arrow was pointing in the opposite way from the way I was driving. As it turns out, the way I was driving should have had a sign that said, this direction will take you further and further from the three executives who will now have now been waiting for you for 15 minutes.
It shot me out into a traffic circle, and I was immediately caught up in the vortex of swirling cars.

I couldn't merge, and I was forced off to the right down a one-way street.

And I'm looking in my rearview mirror at my three executives who are getting smaller and smaller in the reflection.

I keep making right turns trying to get back to the hotel, but the streets are all weird.

And before I know what's happening, I am headed north on I-95. And the first sign I see says, Next exit, nine miles.
I whimpered out loud in the car, and I immediately became drenched in sweat. My whole body was shaking as my mind tried to process the reality of what was happening.
And the only thing I could think of to do, the only decision that made any sense, was to keep on driving to Philadelphia. I would get home, put on some sweatpants, get some lunch, and start putting my resume out on monster.com.
But as I kept driving, I thought about the fact that this was a company car. And I'd already sold mine, and I didn't have the credit score to get a new one.
And I thought of my friend Bonnie, who'd gotten me the job, and thought it was impossible for me to screw this up. So as I hit that first exit, I got off and turned around and headed back toward the hotel.

I started doing SAT questions in my head.

If I go 85 miles an hour, how quickly can I get back there?

If I go 90, how fast can I do it?

And then I started trying to think of what kind of story, what kind of lie can I come up with that's going to explain the fact that I've been gone for so long getting the car from the back of the hotel. I made it back and there they were, my three executives still waiting for me.
I braced myself for their wrath as they got into the car and there was a lot of loud sighing and slamming of doors and then it got really uncomfortable in the silence as they got into the car. There was a lot of loud sighing and slamming of doors.

And then it got really uncomfortable in the silence

as they waited for me to offer an explanation.

But the only thing that would come out of my mouth was,

Hey!

There was a lot of tension the rest of the day. And a lot of passive-aggressive behavior aimed in my direction.
But can you believe no one ever asked me why it had taken me 37 minutes to get the car from the back of the hotel. Eventually, I got a haircut and my own suit, and I learned how to tell time.
And by the time our annual meeting came around, I was awarded Sales Associate of the Year for our district. But as I walked up through a crowd of my colleagues to accept the award, I noticed there were three executives who I had only met on one occasion who were not clapping.
Thank you. That was Luanne Fox-Sims.
Luanne lives outside of Philadelphia with her husband and two kids. To see Luanne's profound hair metamorphosis, you can find her before and after shots at themoth.org.
Watch her go from big hair to business associate of the Year.

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You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Jennifer Hickson.
In this hour, we're hearing stories about how we carry the past with us. Our next teller, Dan Ariely, suffered greatly as a teenager when some explosives burnt over 70% of his body.
While Dan has spoken and written about this a lot, even after all these years, sometimes the emotions come out. Live at the Carolina Theater of Durham in North Carolina, here's Dan Ariely.
It was summer. A couple of years ago, I was having dinner with some friends.

And all of a sudden, I got a call from somebody I didn't know.

And they asked me to go to hospital to meet a family I didn't know.

And I got to the hospital.

And there was this terrible tragedy.

There was a family that was involved in a terrible accident and the two kids were very badly injured. And the mother asked me, what do I think that her kids would want to know? And what would they not want to know? And she asked me because I was badly injured many years earlier.
I was badly burned in about 70% of my body and I was badly injured many years earlier. I was badly burned in about 70% of my body, and I was in hospital for about three years, and not in a very dissimilar situation to her kids.
And when she asked me this question, I went back to the early days in the burn department. I was thinking to myself, like, what was my state? And I remember the fear, and I remember the machines and the sounds.
The expression that kept on coming to me in the early days in the burn department was this idea of a pain person. I felt that there were moments

that there was nothing else going on.

There was just pain.

The pain was just engulfing every aspect of me.

It was capturing me.

There was nothing else.

There was no history.

There was no future.

There was just a moment of that pain.

I also remember the early days in the bath treatment.

Most of my body was burned,

and every day the nurses had to take the bandages off,

and they would tear it off,

and when they finished,

they would have to rub the flesh to get some blood going on,

and then they would cover me with bandages again, just to repeat the same process again. And when she asked me what to tell her kids, I was trying to remember those days and the fear and the noises and the pain.
And I told her that what I wanted to know was what beeps meant that everything was okay, and what beeps meant that something was not okay, and when was more pain coming and when is some relief going to come. And I tried to describe all of those to her as best I could.
And then I left. A few days later, I got another call, this time from the mother herself, and she didn't say much.
She just asked me to come back to the hospital. So I went back to the hospital, and she told me that one of the kids died.
And she asked me what to tell the other kid. And I was trying to figure out how do you deal with something like this? How do you grieve? How do you deal with going in and out of consciousness with the pain and at the same time trying to digest something like this? And I told her to try and hide it for as long as possible and not to share it with the kid.
And then a few months later, I got an email from her. She said the kid was doing better on the path for recovery.
And she asked me to record or send the kid some message, some optimistic note of hope about his future. And this question brought me again back to my days in hospital.
I remember that about that time, for the first time I was starting to walk a little bit. I felt a little bit stronger and I opened the door and I walked to the room next door which was the nurse's station.
And I walked into that room and there was this big full-size mirror. And I've seen parts of myself before.
I was laying in bed or in the treatment room, and I could see parts of myself, but this was the first time I saw my full self, and it was a shocking sight. It was not something that looked real to me.
It was hard for me to imagine that this was me. My legs were very bent.
The whole body was in a different shape. My arms, I couldn't really hold them.
They were disformed and there were skin coming out of different places. My face was all kinds of colors.
There was red and blue. There was yellow.
There were pieces of skin hanging. The right side of my face looked very strange, and my eyes were closed.
The only thing that looked real was my left eye. But even that didn't look that real, because I could recognize my left eye, but it looked from a mask that didn't look anything like me.
And I was standing there looking at some disbelief that this could actually be me. But very quickly the pain came over me.
Standing was very hard for me and I had to walk as fast as I could back to bed and the pain was so intense that I couldn't even keep on thinking about myself in the mirror.

And I remembered all of those things and I was thinking, what do I write this kid?

He was just starting his path.

And this was going to be a long, long path.

I was almost 30 years after my injury and my next treatment was still scheduled. This was not something that you get over very quickly.
I had no idea then and I was wondering what do I tell him? How do I give him a hopeful message? What do I do between the brutal honesty of the challenges and the difficulties that he's about to face and some hope. The truth is that I thought he would have been better off dead.
I thought that his family would have been better off this way. But I couldn't tell him that.
And I cried a lot in the next 48 hours. I cried a lot trying to figure out what is the right thing to say.

And eventually, my hands are not that good,

so I recorded the voice message for him,

and I was trying to find a balance between hope and realism,

and I recorded something, and I sent it to his mother,

and two days later, I get another note from her

telling me how much she appreciated it,

how much her son appreciated it, and asking me to write him another one. And then a few months later, I went to visit him in hospital.
And before I went to see him in hospital, I was very worried. I've been to hospital before.
I went to see my nurses, my doctors, but this was the first time I was going to see a patient, and a patient who was a teenager much like me when I was injured, and somebody that I felt close to by that time. And I didn't know how things would turn out, how would I feel? And to my surprise, things went quite well.
We spoke about all kinds of things, in hospital, out of hospital. I shared some things about my own life.
He told me a little bit about what was going on with him. And things were really going on quite well for the first maybe two, two and a half hours.
And then the nurse came in, and she informed him that he was going to have a new treatment. And he asked her if they could wait until tomorrow.
And the nurse said no. And he asked if they could wait a few hours, and she said no.
And he asked if they could wait an hour. And she said no.
He asked if they could do it for just one part of his body today. And she said no again.
And at that point, I couldn't stand anymore. I had to sit down and I put my head down and I was trying to breathe very heavily.
Some, almost an anxiety attack came over me because I remembered all the times when I was trying to negotiate with something that would delay the treatment a little bit, give me some control. But then the treatment came and I had to part way and live and get out of the hospital and go on my way.
But it made me realize that until that moment, I really thought about my injuries being mostly physical. It's easy to think about the pain.
It's easy to think about the scars, looking different to other people, having difficulty regulating temperature, physical limitations, disability, all of those things are easy. But the reality is that helplessness was a huge part of that.
And I think it's actually the part that made me hate hospitals the most. And the sad thing about it is that it's the part that we create for ourselves.
This is not part of the injury, it's just the way we treat people in all kinds of ways, not just in hospitals, but more generally. And I still get lots of emails and letters and phone calls from people with all kinds of injuries.
About once a week I get a letter from somebody and I still don't know what exactly to tell people. People need to figure out how to reconfigure their lives, how to deal with the things that disability eliminates, and how to deal with the new opportunities, how to deal with pain.
And I try to give people the best advice about how to reconfigure their lives. But the one thing I have learned was to try and give people advice

to try and gain some

control.

Just imagine what would happen if the nurse

would allow this kid

to delay the treatment a little bit.

To have it on part of his body

first. Maybe

they would have allowed me to remove

some of my bandages by myself.

All of those things would have made a big difference.

As for the other big question,

the question is how to manage the conflict

between brutal honesty and hope. That one I'm still struggling with.
That was Dan Ariely. Dan is a professor of psychology and behavioral economics at Duke University and a best-selling author and an award-winning filmmaker.
He also has a fantastic sense of humor. You should check out his bi-weekly advice column in the Wall Street Journal called Ask Ariely.
To find a link to his work, visit themoth.org, where you can also download the story you just heard. Do you have a story to tell us? You can pitch us your story by recording it right on our site or call 877-799-MOTH.
That's 877-799-6684. The best pitches are developed for moth shows all around the world.
The fair had come to Cleveland County in rural North Carolina like it does every late summer. I was on my way home to spend the weekend with our aging father.
It was my turn after mama had died. I get there and there he is on the front porch, hat in hand, ready to go to the fair.
Growing up, the county fair was the highlight of the summer. Me, my sister, my mom, and dad would go every year, but it was only Daddy and I that rode every ride.
We never had the money to go to Disney or someplace like that, but it didn't matter. The fair was all I knew, and I thought the fair was wonderful, and so did he.
I really thought it would just be a quick night, you know, eat some hot dogs, have some cotton candy, going back home. But the minute we got there, he handed me a crumpled five dollar bill and said, go get us some tickets for some rides.
Well, he pointed to the pirate ship, you know, that one that slowly arcs back and forth to the point where it goes so high that everybody loses their stomach. I said, are you sure? Yeah, yeah, it looks like fun.
So we get in line going up these steps with about 25 other rednecks under the age of 16. As the ride started going, I was loving it, but he had his eyes closed.
And I said, Daddy, are you okay? And he just smiled. When the ride was finished, he opened his eyes.
I said, are you okay? So I'm a little swimmy at it. I thought, oh, no.
I said, you ready to go to the house? No, you still got tickets left, don't you? So I said, okay, well, I'll ride the Ferris wheel. You just watch.
He said, okay. And as I was going round and round in a seat all by myself and feeling like an idiot, I looked down and there he was standing with his arms crossed and his head tilted back with a huge smile across his face.
And I knew in that moment that he was transported as I was back to my wonderful childhood where life was simple. His body was young and I was, back to my wonderful childhood,

where life was simple, his body was young,

and I was his little tomboy once again.

Remember, you can pitch us at 877-799-MOTH or online at themoth.org.

That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll join us next time.
Your host this hour was Jennifer Hickson. Jennifer also directed the stories in the show.
The rest of the Moth's directorial staff includes Catherine Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin-Chinness, and Meg Bowles. Production support from Emily Couch.
We'd also like to thank the Education Foundation of America for their support of our Louisville show, where Hannah Drake told her story. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers.
The pitch came from Marion Stafford. Our theme music is by The Drift.
Other music in this hour from Rhiannon Giddens with Franco Teresi, Boombox, Blue Dot Sessions, and Gustavo Santolala. You can find links to all the music we use at our website.
The Moth Radio Hour is produced 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 the Public Radio Exchange, PRX.org. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story, and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.
For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story

and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.