Sarah Austin Janess (16:52)

That was Dr. Ian Kerr. Ian's passion for conservation SC has driven him to run expeditions around the globe, and so far he's collected samples from nine different species of whales in the world. Ian and his team continue to evolve their drone designs and in addition to National Geographic, their work has been featured on the BBC's Blue Planet Live and the Equator from the Air. He's even spoken in front of the full UN General assembly in the Great hall addressing the need for innovative ocean research, and he used Snapbot as a case study. He's also a jokester and the life of the party in moth green rooms. Whenever he tells a story, you can see footage from his travels, truly incredible whale photos, and learn more about Snotbot if you go to our Radio extras page@themoth.org by the way, we met Ian when he called our pitch hotline with a very short version of this story and I called him back to develop it. If this story makes you think of some of your own, tell us. You can find information on how to pitch us@themost.org after our break. A woman tells us why she refuses to be called Young lady when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

Unknown (18:45)

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

Sarah Austin Janess (18:53)

Omg. Yes is a website of new findings from the largest ever research study into women's pleasure and intimacy in partnership with IU and Yale researchers. They asked tens of thousands of women what they wish they and their partners had discovered sooner, and then they found the patterns in those discoveries. The physical techniques, mental techniques and communication techniques and all that wisdom is organized on omgs.com as hundreds of short videos, animations and how to's. It's warm, honest and completely un seedy, if that makes sense. But most of all, it's eye opening. I've spent a lot of time on OMG yes, and it really does feel empowering to see these experiences and techniques detailed so openly without any blushing or shame. What they're doing is long overdue. See for yourself@omgyes.com that's omgyes.com at the.

Unknown (19:52)

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Sarah Austin Janess (20:55)

This is the Moth Radio Hour from prx. I'm Sarah Austin Janess and this episode is all about new ways of looking at the world and broadening your mind. Carolyn Meyer, our next storyteller, is the kind of 80 plus year old who actively defies almost every stereotype associated with growing old. She introduced herself to us while we were deep in Covid and not in theaters, and she'd leave messages telling me things like sarah, call me back, I'm getting up there. You know, I would love to tell my story before I die. Carolyn told this at our annual gala, the Mothball, where we celebrate all of the Moths programs and stories of the year. So in the background you'll hear some plates and forks and general merriment. Here's Carolyn Meyer live at the Moth.

Carolyn Meyer (21:48)

The year I turn 80 which is about seven years ago. I walk into my neighborhood bar and the bartender says, what can I get for you, young lady? He's smiling. I said, well, I'll have a glass of red wine, but please don't call me young lady. Whether it's a bartender or a security guard at the airport, or even my doctor, they don't call a 25 year old young lady. But they call me young lady because I'm obviously not young. I haven't been a young lady since Richard Nixon was in the White House. Now, maybe they think it's flattering or cute. Well, it's not. It's condescending because of my white hair. Make assumptions about me. They have expectations. They deny the wholeness of who I am. So the bartender pours me a glass of Pinot noir and he says, oh, you know, age is just a number. Well, it isn't just a number. Back in the day, it meant I was old enough to drive a car and a few years after that to walk into a bar and order a drink. But when I hit my 80s, age took on a whole new meaning for me. I've been divorced twice, widowed once. But, you know, I still think I have a whole lot of living left to do if I'm willing to step outside my comfort zone and take some risks. So I signed up for online dating. You know, I have a pretty good idea of the kind of guy I'd like to meet. You know, a sapiosexual, a man who thinks the sexiest part of a woman is between her ears. I decide not to lie about my age. Low maintenance compensates for high mileage. And I write what I think is an intriguing profile and I post it with some recent pictures and the algorithms kick in. You don't smoke, you both like dogs, you both lift weights. What more could anyone ask for? So, you know, I start meeting some of these guys for coffee dates, and they're pleasant enough, but I always feel I'm interviewing a man I don't want to hire for a job he doesn't want to get. But then along comes Michael. Michael's an architect. There's a picture, a photograph of him, you know, silver temples at the, you know, good looking guy and, you know, candid shots of him riding his Ducati motorcycle and strolling through a museum somewhere. Now, Michael is 10 years younger than I. It doesn't seem to bother him. Doesn't bother me. So, you know, we. We make. Well, there is a problem. He lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, and I live in Albuquerque, New Mexico. And there's about 1,000 miles in between there. And that could present some problems, but not even thinking about that at the time. We exchanged messages through the website and then on our personal emails accounts. And then very quickly we're talking on the phone. We have a lot to talk about. We talk about the personal stuff in our marriages and our disappointments and our enthusiasms, our dreams. Pretty soon we are talking every day. Every day. He calls in the morning and says, talking with you is a ray of sunshine in my life. And he calls in the evening and says, you are my sweet addiction. Oh my God. Yeah, I just love that. And who wouldn't? So, you know, these are very intense conversations. And one night when I, you know, we've been doing this for a while and I've really come to trust him and feel comfortable with him and I tell him about the mastectomy that I had decades ago, but how it still affects how I feel about myself as a woman. We end the conversation and say goodnight and Michael sends me a message. My dear Carolyn, you're a strong woman. I'm growing fond of you and I want to thank you for sharing something so deeply personal with me. Well, I am growing very fond of Michael. And so naturally we begin making plans, you know, talking about how we're going to meet. Michael has an idea. He has to go to Kuala Lumpur on an architectural thing. He's the lead architect on a shopping center that's being built there. On his way back, he will stop off in Albuquerque and spend some time together and get to know each other on a real basis and see this, where this is taking us. Well, I am so excited about this. But I am also apprehensive when we actually meet and he sees me in the flesh. Is he still going to be attracted to me? I mean, you know, the wrinkles, the flab, the mastectomy scars. But, you know, we proceed with this plan, he flies to Malaysia and we still continue to talk every day because we figured out this 14 hour time difference. And he tells me about the delicious Malaysian food and he talks about the translator he's hired and the engineers and he has all sorts of funny stories to tell. It's almost like I'm on this journey with him. And so, you know, I begin to make plans about, you know, what we're going to do. I get a haircut and I buy some new underwear and. Yeah, and I plan the meals that I'm going to cook for them and, you know, the trips I'm going to take them around New Mexico. I'm really excited about this. The morning that he has to leave, he calls me and he sounds terrible. Michael, what's wrong? He says, oh, you know, I'm down at the port at the customs house, and I'm waiting to sign off on some equipment, specialized equipment that we need for this project. And the customs people won't release it to me because they haven't paid the customs fees. Oh, Michael, what are you going to do? He says, carolyn, you know I'd never ask this of you if it weren't that my whole career is tied up in this. Could you possibly lend me some money to pay those fees? I promise I'll pay them back as soon as I get back to Nebraska. Well, of course, Michael. Of course I'll help. How much do you need? $50,000. 50 grand? Michael, I don't have $50,000. My problem solving kicks in. Well, call the bank in Nebraska. Call your architectural partners. Call the shippers of the equipment. He has a reason why none of this will work. Well, he says, could you make it 30,000? Well, as the dollar number dropped, the red flag went up. There were probably red flags before, but I didn't see them. Or maybe I didn't want to see them. But all of a sudden, everything is crystal clear. His plan to come to visit being his sweet addiction. Who he says he is. None of it is true. Well, no, Michael, no. And I hang up, end the call. That's that. Then I go to Google. Well, might you ask why I didn't do this in the first place? And I enter his name and, oh, I know, add fraudster to it. Up pops his rap sheet. He's done this before. More than once. I am not his first sweet addiction. As it turns out, the photograph of the good looking guy with the silver temples, there's a Google thing for that, too. That's Peter McCallum, an Australian movie star. So I report Michael to the dating site and he is banished. Well, I'm beyond disappointed. I'm embarrassed that I let it go on for as long as I was fooled. For as long as I was. I am also extremely pissed. But, you know, I get over it. I move on. I get back to writing again. And then, I think, you know, maybe I should put myself out there. Take another risk. Step outside the comfort zone. Do something. And so I sign up for an improv comedy class. And a few months later, I'm back at that same bar doing standup. And I will confess to you that it's. It's pretty raunchy and yet the audience doesn't know what to make of it. Neither does the bartender. And then I go on and I develop a one woman show and perform that and I do another one. I keep putting myself out there, taking the risk. Well, time goes on. And you know, you think that I would have learned with Michael debacle to stay away from online dating, but no, what the hell, give it another shot. So last year I, you know, I signed up again. And along comes Robert. Robert is a photographer. He lives in Albuquerque. Turns out we met before. He came to see one of my performances. I knew over that first cup of coffee that here was a man who really looked at me. He looked at me. He sees me for who I have always wanted to be seen. He sees the wholeness of me. Tomorrow I'll fly back to Albuquerque and Robert will pick me up at the airport and we'll see where this takes us from here.

Sarah Austin Janess (34:36)

That was Carolyn Meyer. Carolyn has written more than 60 children's books to date. And her first solo show called you guessed it, Don't Call me Young lady, opened in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she has lived for the past four decades. She says it proved that I could stand on stage for over an hour and hardly ever forget my lines. And Dear listeners, Carolyn and Robert married one year after their first date on the day before Carolyn's 87th birthday. To see the photo of their wedding day with Carolyn in a beautiful blue silk tunic, eating waffles with Robert and drinking champagne and doing things their way, go to themoth.org after the break. A woman in Kisumu, Kenya re envisions her life when she attends a ceremony where she must return her dowry. When the Moth Radio Hour continues.

Unknown (36:22)

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

Rosalyn Orwa (36:28)

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Sarah Austin Janess (37:39)

You're listening to the Moth Radio Hour from prx. I'm Sarah Austin. Janess Sometimes, in order to think outside the box, you need to write yourself a new story. Our last storyteller, Rosalyn Orwa, grew up in Wagoma, a small Gulf village near Kisumu, Kenya, on the shores of Lake Victoria. And that's where this story takes place. The story starts with a dowry refund ceremony, which is extremely rare for anyone who doesn't know. Dowry is a cultural practice in Kenya and many other African countries where the groom's family gives gifts of animals and sometimes money to the bride's family. And while the practice is evolving, it remains significant in some societies. With that, here's Rosalyn Orwa live at the Moth in New Bedford, Massachusetts.

H (38:38)

When I was in my twenties, I returned to my rural village, to my home in western Kenya, to attend my own dowry refund ceremony. You see, in my community, dowry price, once paid, settles a woman into her marital home forever, in life or in death in most cases. And it's called upon, strange, almost a taboo for goats and cows paid as dowry price to be refunded to a suitor. In my case, it was two goats and two cows that became a refundable gift because in my community, a woman's worth is measured by the number of children she births. I did not give birth to any child, hence this cultural divorce. The eight hour bus drive to my home, to my widowed mother, was filled with a lot of fear and unspoken pain because three weeks prior to this trip, I chose to walk out of my marital home for good, a home I had shared for three and a half years. And what befell me were fateful events that would take a toll in any human spirit. I had just had two surgeries close by. One was endometriosis, and this one, ectopic pregnancy. But it wasn't the scars on my stomach that were most painful. My losses and my pain and my grief, no words could be put to it. But I was also afraid of something else, what the community would say and particularly what my mother would say. So when I arrived and my mother made that A long prayer. She often prayed. I bowed in shame, literally. As we waited for the collector's party to arrive, my mother had a slight argument with my uncle, who had wanted he be the one to lead that ceremony. My mother made it clear in my hearing that it was her sole responsibility to set her last born daughter free. So when the collector's party arrived, a group of three men, she was summoned to come to the front door. She walked in, her full power and authority, like a woman who knew her place. I must admit I admired her. Quickly they greeted her. She did not respond to their greeting. Instead, she pointed to the male relatives manning those two cows and two goats to release them towards the gate. And they did. The elderly man of the party, leader of the party, quickly shook my uncle's hands and muttered a quick it's over, it's over. And off they went. I was standing at the door and I said loudly, to no one in particular, who really takes back dowry? And could I have had my own children? Would they have taken the animals back? They all heard me, but no one responded. Instead, my mother went to sit back behind the house under that tree where she read her Bible. This ceremony was attracting villagers, especially women from the nearby homestead. Some were helping themselves to the snack that was at the veranda that the visitors did not touch. Others were murmuring in low tones, looking at me, pointing at me with their noses, the way people do when they consider you different than themselves. My uncle sat in our living room, throwing glances at me, bowing his head down, perhaps also feeling my shame. So I decided to get myself busy. I took the last night's dishes and went to clean them at a rack near. My mother was seated outside. I was hoping to catch a conversation. My mother's best friend arrived, a woman I had known in the church. And she began to question my mother why her prayers were not long enough, deep enough, strong enough, for God to bless her last born child with a child of her own. My mother did not say anything back to her. She went on and on. My mother said nothing back. I was cleaning those plates, putting them on that wooden rack that my father had built years ago. That rack had termites eaten on one side. It was slanting, falling apart. I was falling apart just like that truck, listening to the woman question my mother about me. Two days went by with an awkward silence in our house. And the villagers kept on coming to still trigger conversation with my mother. She did not respond to any of them. So I went into her bedroom that second day. In the morning, she was cleaning the floor, sweeping those corners that children often don't clean when they're asked to clean the house. And I stood at the door and asked her, mama, why did you not say anything back to your best friend? She heard me. She did not look up or say anything. I said, mama, I know you hear me. Why did you not say at least to your best friend? Forget the other villagers. Why did you not say anything back to your best friend? You are a teacher. You know it is endometriosis. It causes women infertility. You could have defended me. I am your last born child. She slowly lifted her head and looked my way, caught my eyes and said, what is there to tell them? There is nothing to tell them. Give me a new story to tell them. Use the committee in your head. The committee in your head was a common statement in our household. Six of my sisters and I were familiar with it. It meant you are the treasurer, the secretary, the chairperson and the member. You are to come up with the best decision and show it in practice. We had heard it too many times, so I knew what she meant. I grabbed my yellow notebook from on top of the cabinets in her bedroom. And I went and sat under that tree. Under that tree where she had prayed life upon my soul. When I got back a few days ago, she had told me, seated under the trees, that life was lived in the future with the lessons of the past. I knew she was on my side. So I began to journal my losses in my own handwriting in my notebook. I had lost a marriage, perhaps love. I had lost a business and an income. I had lost a job and a chance to advance my career. I was also losing parts of my body, but I was still alive. So I questioned myself in my notebook. Where were women like me? What was their story? What were they doing? And where could I find them? So that evening, when a male cousin who knew my situation came by for dinner, I asked him if he knew women like me, women in my village who lived with infertility. He gave me a list of five. Two of these women. I had known them in the church and in the village market. Coincidentally, they were called Margaret. So the next day, he walked me into the first Margaret's home. It was about lunchtime. She was preparing a meal to serve two children she was caring for. And when she saw me, she ran to her doorstep and hugged me in places I needed to be hugged, ushered us into her living room, served us a cup of tea and a snack alongside those children. And quickly those children went back to school. And when we were left alone. I asked her, do you also not have children of your own? And she said, yes, those two belong to my deceased sister. I care for them. She shared with me how she had lived with infertility and what her experiences had been. We quickly left to the second Margaret's home, which was also just nearby. It's a small village. It's a walking distance. We found her seated under the tree with some women who knew my story. I had made the village go. When they saw me, they threw the look, pointed with their noses and quickly bid their goodbye. Margaret instinctively knew why I was there and she shared with me her story how everybody in her family had passed away. She was caring for five orphans and often going to the village meeting to defend the land rights of those children. I tell you, those two women gave me a glimpse how women in my community lived with infertility. So immediately I invited them to come to my mother's kitchen the next Saturday. And they came. Two of my sister in laws, who are also widows, came with their children. That Saturday we cooked a large pot of meal, laughed and told stories and fed 17 orphans. While we were cooking. My mother was still seated there, throwing glances. How her firewood was going down, her cooking oil, her salt. But I did not mind her look. She had wanted a new story. I gave her one. After all, she had said, use the committee. In my head, I had used it. For me, it was the intimate stories we told. How the women laughed at all the demeaning names they called us. The one who zumbies dry. The one who zumbies closed. How they laughed. The one with an evil spirit and shall never have children. The one who committed a sin that bars are from having children. How they laughed. And when I showed them how women were pointing at me with their noses, they had known the same kind of stigma. And they told me I would be okay. It is that soul sisterhood conversation, a bond, a tribe of women who understood how to live with their infertility. In my community, I found my tribe. And what began with one daughter giving her mother a new story became a group of women showing another woman how to heal. When I showed them the scar on my stomach, that long scar where women carry children home with and because it was ectopic pregnancy, I bear it for life with no child. They told me it would heal. Indeed, I began to heal. So what began with the daughter giving her mother a new story has become a project and a school that supports 150 children daily and empowers more than 8,000 women in my community today. I am a mother. Not the kind of mother. My mother who had seven children of her own was. No, not that kind. I am a mother who will not bury any umbilical cord nor go into labor pains. I labor differently. I labor to provide love fees, support food accommodation. I provide emotional support, just like biological mothers do to their children. I am a woman using my personal story to support vulnerable children and give invisible women their voices back. Hopefully someday my community and the world will and mother the woman. Thank you.

Sarah Austin Janess (52:27)

That was Rosalyn Orwa. Rosalyn told me she once dreamed of giving birth to a child, but now she's woken up every morning by more than 27 young children and she wouldn't have it any other way. Rosalynn is a graduate of the MOTHS Global Community Program and she encourages others to use storytelling for advocacy to influence their own change. She's also the founder and executive director of RONA foundation and the RONA School of Excellence, Excellence in Kenya. And she's seen these kids she's nurtured receive almost 200 scholarships in the last decade. The oldest student is now 23 and at a local university. To see photos of Rosalyn surrounded by her children, head to themoth.org if you have challenged yourself to think outside of convention at a pivotal point in your life, consider telling your story at the Moth. We could all use a little innovation these days and we want to hear from you. Find an open mic Moth Slam near you through our website themoth.org and find us on social media too. We're on Facebook, he Moth and on Instagram Mothstories. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. Thank you for opening your hearts and minds and challenging your way of thinking. We hope you'll join us next time.

Unknown (54:08)

This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison and Sarah Austin Janess, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show. Co producer is Vicki Merrick, Associate producer Emily Couch. The rest of the Moth's leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Jennifer Hickson, Meg Bowles, Kate Tellers, Marina Cluce, Leanne Gulley, Suzanne Rust, Brandon Grant, Sarah Jane Johnson and Aldi Caza. Special thanks to the Bill and Melinda Gates foundation for their support of the MOTHS Global Community program. Moth Stories are True as Remembered and if by the Storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Corey Wong and Bela Fleck, Hot Club USA and Ariel Besson. 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 us your own story, and we hope you will and everything else, go to our website, themoth.org.

Unknown (55:30)

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Rosalyn Orwa (55:31)

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Carolyn Meyer (55:33)

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Rosalyn Orwa (55:50)

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Unknown (55:52)

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Rosalyn Orwa (55:55)

Get complete bill assistance info@cngc.com help.