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- [00:00]
Suzanne Rust
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- [01:31]
Whitney McGuire
Welcome to the Moth Podcast. I'm Suzanne Rust and in this episode, in honor of Black History Month, we'll be showcasing three stories from Black storytellers, all on the universal theme of growing up. First up, we have Whitney McGuire, who told this story at a community and education showcase in New York. Here's Whitney live at the moth.
- [01:57]
I'm 13 years old and I just got off of the school bus and I'm ascending forest green paint chip stairs up to a forest green paint chipped porch, being careful to avoid the cobwebs in the corners of the doorway, and I smell the spicy sweet scent of sandalwood incense coming from the doorway. My mom is in the kitchen mopping. She greets me and she hands me a tattered rag and I know I'm going to get an assignment, go wipe down the mirrors, clean the toilet, blah blah blah. I know this ritual because we do it often. Every Thursday at 7pm my home, our home, is briefly transformed into a Buddhist community center where some of the strangest characters from the west side of Dayton, Ohio, descend upon our living room floor to chant strange words from Buddhist sutras and study Buddhist texts and share from their hearts their struggles and their triumphs. Sometimes we even enjoy some good Japanese food. Most of the time I stay for the duration of the meeting. But recently I've been retreating to my bedroom more often during the meetings, but I always come down for the food. I don't know when I started lying about my religion, but I do remember why my mom and I were at Kroger's. We're in the checkout counter, we're in the checkout line and she spots someone that she used to know. They strike up a conversation. The woman starts telling her about her church, which is not an unusual topic of conversation for a predominantly black working class community full of great migration families from the Bible Belt south. And then the woman asks my mom, well, what church do you go to? And my mom proudly tells her that we're Buddhists. My mom converted to Buddhism when she was in her 20s, when she still lived in New York City. And so I guess this person knew my mother before then. And it was almost like in slow motion. I watched this woman's reaction turn from friendly to hostile and I watched her mouth form the words, well, you're going to hell. I don't remember what my mama said to this lady, but I do remember how I felt small and ashamed. If telling someone about my religion could elicit this type of reaction, then I gonna keep this close to my chest. As I got older, I started going to church more often with my grandma and my dad. My mom and I were the only Buddhists in the family. And then when I went to Buddhist meetings, I would listen intently, trying to poke holes in the logic, trying to understand why I was born to be an outcast. By the time I got to middle school, I was so excited I was in this new group of friends and I just was so excited to be a part of that group. Whenever the topic of which church you go to came up, I would say Mountaintop Missionary Baptist Church, which isn't totally a lie. It was actually my dad's church, but my dad lived 90 miles away in Columbus. And I would get sometimes blank stares like, why do you go all the way to Columbus first for church when there are like a plethora of churches to choose from in Dayton? Regardless, my response got people off my back, bought me some time. One day after school, I invited one of my new friends, Natassia over and we're hanging out in my mom's room, watching TV, chatting and giggling, talking about whatever eighth grade girls talked about in the 90s. And I start to smell the sandalwood. Oh shit. I was hoping that, you know, today was maybe a day that my mom ran out of patchouli. But lo and behold, the doorbell started ringing. I looked at Natasia and she looks at me. Are you having a party? Not exactly. I'm trying to grasp for a lie, but nothing was coming through. Nothing to explain why there would be some. A lot of people in my living room in a matter of like minutes. Because it was like 6:45 at this time, chanting and doing weird things. So I tell Natasia, can you actually call your cousin to come pick you up? The doorbell keeps ringing. The voices downstairs are getting louder. They're like happy to see each other. And she says, yeah, sure. Then the prayer bell starts. Ding, ding, ding. In Buddhist meetings, when we start. When we start meetings, we start with this thing called Sancho. So I hear downstairs, nam myoho renge kyo. Oh shit. Like it' about to go down. I'm looking at the clock, it's like 6:50, like, where is your cousin? And then, you know this. Then they start chanting before the actual meeting starts. So they're. And they're like, I don't know, they had a lot to get off their chest. So they're like going at it like, nam y'alone angry on. And so. And so Natasia's cousin finally arrives and we're walking down the stairs and again, you know, the meeting is in full swing. And she's looking at me and I'm looking at her like I got nothing. And finally I tell her, you know, this is a Buddhist meeting. And she doesn't say anything in response. She just leaves. And I join the meeting because I need to chant that I will have friends tomorrow. So tomorrow arrives and I'm avoiding Natasia like we're two ships passing in the night. And finally, as fate would have it, we both end up at the bus stop. And she's looking at me and I'm looking at the ground and she's like, what's a Buddhist meeting? I thought you were Christian. Do you go to church? Do you believe in God? You know, she has all these questions and as I'm answering her questions, I feel the need to be defensive, just kind of melt away. And I start to respond to her questions more confidently. Then she asks me, well, when is the next Buddhist meeting and can I come? That question or that question really affirmed for me that it was okay for me to be who I am, which at the time was and still is an awkward black girl from the west side of Dayton, Ohio, who just happened to be Buddhist. About a year later, I got a full tuition scholarship to a boarding school in Newport, Rhode Island. And my mom and I are moving my things into my dorm room, and she starts to set up my altar. And much like a Buddhist meeting, setting up the altar requires chanting. So she starts in. Ding, ding, ding. Nam myoho renge kyo. And then I join her. Nam myoho renge kyo. Now, normally, my instinct would have been to, like, close the door and maybe even stuff a towel underneath so, like, no sound could come out. But I left the door open. I realized that reclaiming this ritual, this part of myself, was more important than pretending to be someone that I wasn't. Thank you.
- [11:05]
That was Whitney Maguire. Whitney is a sustainability strategist, lawyer, and consultant who helps arts and cultural institutions embed sustainability into their work. She's also the founder of the McGuire Consulting Group and a big believer in making sustainability more than just a buzzword. It's a necessity. This may be Black History Month, but every week the Moth showcases storytellers from all walks of life, including African Americans. Hopefully you see a little of yourself in these stories about growing up, no matter who the teller is. Next, we've got a story about getting your hands dirty. Aubrey. Anna Petton told this story at an education showcase in New York, where the theme of the night was uncharted territory. Here's O'Briana live at the mall.
- [11:56]
Aubryanna Petton
So my mother was very passionate about raising a very passionate and socially conscious child. And so while the other kids were watching cartoons and kids shows, she had me watching Rachel Maddow. And I remember as a little kid, much too little, really, she would tell me the story of how this city buzzed with a excitement after Obama was elected the first time. For context, Obama was elected in 2008, and I was born in 2006. So naturally, I did not understand what the word black president or first meant when I first heard this story. But it was important. And what I took from it is that passion, political action, and change comes from a community. And with those sentiments, I thought to myself a couple of summers ago, what can I do with my time this summer? And I stumbled across this environmental nonprofit called Earth Matter, which is an urban farm located on Governor's Island. And so I go to my mom, very, very excited, saying, mom, I'm going to volunteer on an urban farm this summer. And my mom said, what? Why? She said, you don't even like walking on the concrete on the Brooklyn street. Aubryanna, you cannot volunteer on a farm. And fair enough. I'm not a very outdoorsy child, it's true. But I just thought that my passion would outweigh my fear of trying new things. And my mom said, don't be mad when I say, I told you so. And in true teenager fashion, I was like, ugh, mom, let me do what I want to do. So I go off to my first day on the farm, and it's 90 degrees because it's August. Yuck. And they unfold this gigantic folding table, and there's this big crane that dumps off this load of garbage off the back of it. And they give me these elbow length yellow rubber gloves. And I'm thinking, who is this garbage for? Please save me. Like, where am I? And they tell me, your job today is to take this very, very smelly garbage and sort it into compostables. What belongs in the landfill. And recyclables. And some examples of things that are compostable are things that come from the earth, like paper and food waste and plant matter. And some example of things that are not compostable are soiled tampons, dirty baby diapers. Yeah, really a new experience, a life changing experience, and one that will stay with me forever in horror. And there's a lot of restaurants relocated on Governor's island, and they essentially give all of their food scraps to us. And I'm sorting through this garbage and I feel this little wiggle in my glove. I'm like, a little ticklish today. I don't know what's going on. I take off the glove and it's a live maggot. I'm like, this isn't. That's not. Where am I? So I come home after my first day, and naturally, I bought this gigantic floppy hat to work on the farm, and I wanted to be cute, so it was pink. And I walked through the door and my mom says, how was your day, Farmer Barbie? And I'm like, mom, my day was horrible. There was a maggot in my glove. Like, what's going on here? And she goes, I told you so. And I'm like, damn, she did tell me so. Like, she literally said, don't let me say I told you so. And so I go to sleep, and I wake up the next day and I'm thinking to myself, I'm going back to sort garbage. Like, no, but you know what? I'm Going to bring myself to do this because I made a commitment that I would spend 100 hours working with Earth matter. And it's wrong to go back on my commitment. And at the end of the day, it's not just garbage. They insisted that the garbage was resources. So I thought, you know what? I can sort through some garbage for what I believe in. So I go to the next day on the ferry to Governors Island. And I don't know if you've ever been on the ferry to Governors island, but it's absolutely beautiful. It's this lush green space of the island in juxtaposition with the cityscape, lower Manhattan. And it would be very beautiful and cinematic if I wasn't going to sort garbage for another day. Wish I could have enjoyed that. And I'm sitting there in my misery. And there's another group of high schoolers today who are not very excited to go sort garbage either. And their instructor is telling them, guys, what we're doing today is so important. Now, there's a culture of food waste in this country, and we don't think about where our garbage goes and who has to deal with it and how it impacts our community. And I think that's deeply true. I mean, when you throw your banana peel in the garbage, when you're done eating your banana, do you think about the methane gas that it emits once it hits the landfill? Probably not. Which. Fair enough. And that got me thinking of the story that I experienced spending summers with my grandmother. And I wasn't a big eater as a child, and I was a picky, picky eater. And we're Haitian Americans, so food waste is a big no, no. And so my mom, my grandmother would serve me rice and peas, for example. And I'm sitting at the kitchen table, and I didn't want to finish it. And my grandma would be like, what are you doing? We don't do that here. Like, eat that. And I think about the way that she approached the resources that we've been given and the gratefulness that she had for being in that present moment, and the understanding of that, that every single piece of food, or not just food, but every single opportunity that you've been given matters. That's the kind of rhetoric that I try to take into every aspect of my life. And I think that it's really important to take that into every new experience, every old experience that you have. And those life lessons that the women of my family have taught me is something that I'm going to carry forever. Thank you.
- [18:36]
Whitney McGuire
That was our report. Ohriana Petton Obriana is an undergraduate student of English and History at Wesleyan University who grew up in Brooklyn, New York. She loves her family, reading, knitting, and learning new things. She looks forward to dedicating her life to social justice. We'll be back in a second with another story about discovering who you are.
- [18:57]
Suzanne Rust
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- [21:11]
Whitney McGuire
Welcome back on this episode in honor of Black History Month, we've been sharing stories from black storytellers all about growing up. I was raised in a loving Afrocentric household. By exposing me to art, music, literature, and their own personal stories, my parents made sure that I grew up with a sense of self worth. One that made me not only proud of my people's past history, but also of our present strengths and capabilities. They taught me to know the power of that combination. Our final story is a favorite from the archive. Jacoby Cochran told this at a New York City mainstage where the theme of the night was pass and go. Here's Jacoby live at the North.
- [21:57]
Jacoby Cochran
I'm standing on the sideline of the largest roller skating rink floor in Illinois, and it belongs to Rich City Skate, my family's skating rink. Yeah, I'm 15 years old when my stepfather and his parents decide to realize a lifelong dream that I had never actually heard of. To own and operate a skating rink. And so somehow they bought it. Our entire family renovated and renamed it, and now it was our inaugural national party. Now, if you've never been roller skating in your life, a national party is kind of like the Grammys of roller skating. Yeah, I'm talking about some of the greatest roller skaters in America all in one place, showing off their moves, their music, their style. And the place is packed when all of a sudden the DJ starts the roll call, which means every city or state comes on the floor one by one to represent. So you got people in there from Texas doing the slow walk, folks from Detroit in there doing the ballroom. You got partners in there doing Kentucky throws and New York trains. They had come from California to Florida and the music was thumping, the synchronized lights were blaring, the fog machines were humming, when all of a sudden the sound of the Godfather of Soul, James Brown, fills the building. Now, when you hear those horns from the intro or the payback, you know it's time for Chicago to get on the floor. Suddenly, my mother skates by me and she throws me a wink. You see, my mom is one of the greatest roller skaters in Chicago, which means she one of the greatest roller skaters of all time. Everybody knows Sweet Tea. And when she skates, it's like time stands still. I'm lucky that she passed down some of her gifts and a little bit of her first love for skating to me and my siblings. So yeah, I grew up my entire childhood, from field trips to weekends to juke jams, all in the skating rinks on the south side of Chicago, from Markham to Glenwood to the famous rink on 87th Street. And now Rich City Skate. And I loved it. I mean, when my family bought this rink, it immediately became like a family affair. My stepfather immediately became the general manager. My grandparents were CEOs. My mom, the CFO, aunts, uncles, cousins filled a myriad of roles throughout the building. From the snack bar where we had to cook the food and serve annoying birthday parties, to the stuff shop where we sold light up trinkets and candy, all the way to the skate rental where we had to collect, repair and pass out skates. And me, well, shit, I learned how to do everything. You name it, I learned it and I loved it. All the way down to cleaning them nasty ass bathrooms. But I threw myself into the rink. Every free moment I had, I was at the rink. When I described myself, it was Kobe from the south side of Chicago. I work at my family's rink. And somehow that was cool when it came out my mouth. But I realized quick it just wasn't my family or my love, but the communities as well. You see, black owned skating rinks are far and few in between. And these places have been a safe haven for blacks dating all the way back to the Great Migration. So from the very beginning, our community supported us. They showered us with love as we threw bigger parties, as we threw political rallies. We were on the radio and skated at Bud Billiken parades every day. I had never seen so much joy in one place. It felt like a family reunion. We were flying high a few years later when I went off to college. But you know, don't worry, I only moved like two hours away. So every weekend or holiday I could visit. But college was an opportunity for me to define myself, for me to stop just being Kobe who worked at the roller skating rink. So I joined a speech team, joined Alpha Phi Alpha. I got a job on campus. But of course, every waking moment I could, I would go back to the skating rink and I would just like to fall into things. Like, I never left skating with my homies till 4am in the morning. And let me be clear, I'm a badass motherfucker on them skates. But that distance I had put between myself and the rink gave me a new vantage point. I started noticing things on my visits. Like, I started realizing that my mom and my stepdad were fighting more, but they were putting on smiles for the people. I started noticing that the growing pressure of running a family business was starting to heighten the tensions and the egos as people positioned themselves for more control. I started to realize that my younger siblings, who are now in high school had put a lot of space between themselves and the rink, which was a complete 180 from how things were when I was in high school. But throughout all of this, I just figured, hell, this is part of the business. This is what comes with turning a hobby into a hustle. Things didn't really crystallize for me until about midway through my junior year when I get a call from my mom, who is deeply angry but completely calm. Yeah, Sweet tea wasn't really one for small talk. She said, kobe, I called to tell you that I'm finished, that me and your father are splitting and I'm leaving the rink. I was shocked, but I just wanted to hold on to that fantasy, that family affair. So I begged her, you know, what can I do? What can the family do? How can we turn back the hands of time? And she said, we can't, Kobe. This was never my dream, and now I don't even feel the love. And I knew she wasn't just talking about for the rink or her marriage, but her first love for skating, which had become my first love. And after that phone call, the visits started becoming a little less frequent. Family members started to feel like they had to choose sides. And so when I would go back, the place started feeling like a ghost of itself. When I graduated, I went from living two hours to 12 hours away because, like I said, I just wanted to hold on to that fantasy. So I ran. But, you know, I told myself that even though I was throwing myself into something new, that I would go back and visit, that I would help out at some point. But, you know, a month became six months, which became two years. And then the summer of 2016 rolls around and I look myself in the mirror and I say, I can't for the life of me miss another rich city skate national party. It's our 10 year anniversary, and so I grabbed my skates and I headed there. And I knew that things at the rink had changed. But when I walked through the doors, many of those synchronized lights and humming fog machines were out of order. A lot of those thumping speakers had blown. And I'm standing on the sidelines of the largest roller skating rink floor in Illinois. And it now has humps and dips in a clear spot that's been roped off because that's where the ceiling leaks. And yet somehow this place is packed from side to side. And at that moment, the DJ starts the roll call. And my heart swells as you got people out there from Texas doing the slow walk, Folks from Detroit doing the ballroom you got partners doing Kentucky throws and New York trains. And when the sound of James Brown feels the room I sprint on the floor But I'm a little rusty. It's been some time but with each passing song as those humming the horns go on and on. The magic returns to my body. The moves start flowing through me like I never left. And I think to myself, this is what it was all about. The people. And the people are here. As the sweat pours from my face and the music fades, my father skates by me and he throws me a wink. He grabs the microphone and he thanks everybody for being there, for making this one of the best national parties that the rink has ever seen. He thanks them for their love and their support. And then he tells us that this is going to be the last Rich City Skate national party. Because Rich City Skate is closing its doors. And I'm hearing this for the first time and it feels like a punch to the gut. I'm looking around as people are sobbing and hugging. You can hear as people are begging, what can we do? What can the community do? How can we turn back the hands of time? And he says we can't. He says this was always my dream, but now it's time to wake. I'd never seen so much sadness in one place. It felt like a funeral. And I don't really know what to do. So I just sort of do what comes natural. And I start cleaning up from the nasty ass bathrooms to the snack bar to vacuuming the stuff shop to collecting skates when I come across this wall that is filled with pictures. Ten years of my family's history strung out in Polaroids. And there are birthday parties and graduations and rallies and parades. And I see this picture in the middle of my family during our inaugural national party and our freshly pressed polos with smiles as wide as naivety will allow you see, for years I started to resent this place. Wondering if it had took so much from us and if it was worth it. But as I stared at these pictures, I realized that for so many people, this place was home. So before I left, I went to my stepfather and I asked him for one last favor. And he walks into the DJ booth and the intro to the Payback starts playing in the background. And I hop on the floor, sweat intermingled with tears running down my face. And I take one last skate around the largest roller skating rink floor in Illinois and realize, building or not, I'mma always be a Rich City skater. Thank you.
- [34:19]
Whitney McGuire
That was Jacoby Cochran. Jacoby is a writer, educator and storyteller. He is the award winning host of citycast Chicago, Chicago's favorite daily news podcast. He has also been a Moth Story Slam host in Chicago for the past eight years. That's it for this episode. These stories remind me of the fact that being able to hear from people of different races, religions and cultural backgrounds is a gift from all of us here at the Moth. We hope that you will take the time to listen.
- [34:50]
Suzanne Rust
Suzanne Rust is the Moth Senior Curatorial Producer and one of the hosts of the Moth Radio Hour. In addition to finding new voices and fresh stories for the Moth stage, Suzanne helps curate special storytelling events. The stories in this episode were directed by Michelle Jielowski, Chloe Salmon and Melissa Brown. This episode of the Moth Podcast was produced by Sarah Austin, Janess, Sarah Jane Johnson and me, Mark Sullinger. The rest of the Moth leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Jennifer Hickson, Kate Tellers, Marina Clouche, Suzanne Rust, Leanne Gulley, and Patricia Urena. The Moth Podcast is presented by Odyssey. Special thanks to their Executive producer, Leah Rees Dennis. The Moth would like to thank unlikely collaborators for their generous support of the Moth Education program. All Moth stories are true, as remembered by their storytellers. For more about our podcast, information on pitching your own story and everything else, go to our website themoth.org.