Tom Beaudet (12:53)

I'm like.

Dan Kennedy (12:56)

You know, it's great. The irony is when I was like nine years old, I would read National Geographic and watch like Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom. And I thought, I'm probably going to grow up to be a pretty adventurous man. But this had not come to pass. We get back to camp and somebody has another great idea. They go, what if we take the white lipped pit viper and put it on your bed for a photo? Like a hilarious photo, right? And I'm feeling, I have to say, sort of confident about myself at this point after looking at the cool photo of me about 40 times. And also I kind of want to redeem myself for the 20 photos before it where I look like I'm going to cry and scream. So I go, yeah, it's totally cool, let's do that. I go, I get in my bed. They put the snake, the white lit pit viper, on the mosquito netting above my bed. This is really funny. I'm giving them my iPhone, going, here, put some on my phone. This will be cool. I want to show friends. So it's all great. They're like, act like you're sleeping. Okay, yes. This is hilarious. Then somebody goes, let's unzip the side of the mosquito netting. So, like, it looks like the snake has a shot at getting in. I don't know what happened next because I blacked out. Not from being bitten, thank God, but just because it was real terror for me. I think they unzip the side. This snake slithers over, arches its head down, and looks in like, hey, who's that? And I'm told the next day at the breakfast table that I said one profane word about 70 times in six seconds. No one. Everyone's laughing. They've never heard anybody say it that fast. I also apparently followed it up with the phrase not cool. Not cool, not cool. Everybody's laughing about this around the table. I'm laughing about it too. And then suddenly I think, man, it's not cool. Like, I could die down here goofing around, doing the stuff I'm doing. This is definitely a place where people who don't know what they're doing shouldn't be hanging out. So after that, the trip winds down. I get back to New York City, and the first thing I notice is anytime I'm in a restaurant or in my apartment and the lights are kind of low, I instantly think I see snakes out of the corner of my eye, and I'm like, oh, that's fun. How long is that going to last? Is that with me? Forever Now I was in the moment, and I'm left with paralyzing fear and hallucinations. Cool. I also have these nightmares where I think there's a snake in the bed with me even after I wake up. And. And I'm, like, thrashing around going, oh, gee. Oh, that snakes. And then I have to, like, realize, okay, I'm safe. I'm in here. So, man, that was a beautiful time. Yes. So aside from, you know, hallucinating snakes and having these nightmares, the piece isn't really turning out super funny. I'm writing it. It just basically is coming off like a guy who shouldn't be in jungles was in a jungle, and now he's got some really messed up, like, post traumatic stress disorder or something. And, like, the opening paragraph was something like it was like another. Another violent sunset bleeds against a bruised sky. I'm trapped in the bunker. I don't know how long I've got light, so I've got to type quickly. You know, it's like the editor is like, oh, I got your humor piece. It's not really funny. So the magazine actually didn't end up running it, so, which is really fortunate for all of us. It was very traumatic piece, I think. And I'm thinking, huh, that's interesting. So I'm sitting in my apartment one night and I get this email. No subject line. It's from the lead herpetologist, but there's an attachment. I click on it. The guys went back down there. They caught that big snake that they had heard about. It's not a world record, but it's pretty darn close for a wild, reticulated python caught out of captivity. It's like 22ft long. It takes 14 of them to hold it in this photograph. And I'm looking at the photograph, and I'm kind of looking around the apartment like the lights are adjusted perfectly. I'm watching a movie. I'm checking my SEP account on my laptop. At the same time, pretty screwed. Seeing how many Twitter followers I have, all the really important things. And it occurs to me, I like this. This is what I like. I like sitting on a nice couch with good lighting adjusted properly, watching a good movie, and then checking stuff on a nice laptop. I'm happy with that. And then I thought to myself, I'm really glad I'm not in that photograph, and I'm really glad I didn't go back down there. And then it occurred to me, oh, right. I literally was like, maybe that's all that woman in the cafe meant by being in the moment.

Kathryn Burns (18:00)

That was Dan Kennedy. He's the author of the novel American Spirit and the memoirs Loser goes first and rock on. To see pictures of Dan and the snake, go themoth.org while there, you can share any of the stories you've heard in this hour with your friends and family. We're also on Facebook and Twitter hemoth. In a moment. Tom Beaudet's power is cut off when no one remembers to pay the bill. So he decides to climb to the top of the pole and flip the electrical switch back on himself. Bad idea.

Production Team (18:58)

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

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Kathryn Burns (21:40)

Today by PRX this is the Moth Radio Hour from prx. I'm Katherine Burns. Our next story is from the writer Tom Beaudet. He lives in Vermont and so when we headed up that way to do a show, we hoped he'd join us. He worked on his story with director Maggie Sino and she and Tom recently sat down to talk about creating stories out of everyday human struggles.

Dan Kennedy (22:04)

Do you have kind of a reputation as a storyteller?

Intuit TurboTax (22:09)

And how is doing this kind of storytelling like or unlike other kinds of storytelling that you've done?

Tom Beaudet (22:15)

Well, I think that this kind of.

Tom Beaudet (22:18)

Storytelling is actually where I've been circling all my career. And part of it is, you know, I'm my own favorite subject, as most writers and storytellers are. And in realizing that I'm also a really ordinary sort of human heart and that the things that I go through, the things I think about, the things I feel deeply, the things that I feel repelled by, are pretty common. I mean, I'm not an exceptional human being in almost any way, but I've always sort of struggled with that. And what I've come to now, and with great help from you in telling this story, is that that's actually pretty interesting to people to just go into the bare common everyday human experience and talk about it. And if I have a gift, I don't know what it is, other than maybe the willingness to go there.

Kathryn Burns (23:25)

Here's Tom Burdett live at the mall.

Tom Beaudet (23:33)

I buried my dad last year in Michigan. He was dead, and I don't worry much about dad being dead. I died once and it's not that bad. It's pretty great, actually. And I'm pretty sure it's the best thing that's happened that did happen to my father in a long, long time. It always creeps me out when people say bad things about their parents. We're raised not to do that, but it's our parents who raise us that way. So there you go. So my father was a bitter right wing nut before it was popular. He was John Bircher, he was a Goldwater Republican. He actually said that if we nuked Hanoi in 65, that we'd have saved a lot of American lives. And even a 10 year old knows that that's stupid and wrong. My dad was wrong about a lot of things, but he was righteous. And I have to say, he came by his righteousness honestly. He grew up during the Great Depression in Chicago without a father. He went from high school right into the Navy, fought in a big war, went to college on the GI Bill, got an engineering degree, met my mom, had six children, got a job that he kept his entire career. And then it was just like one day he looked around at this paint by the numbers life he had and he said, well, this sucks. And he fell back into his La Z Boy chair. And kicked up the footrest in the front room. And that's kind of the last we saw of him. I remember how hard it was to come home through the front door because you'd have to walk through the living room between my dad and the television. And I hated that. I was afraid he would see me and say something. But I was mostly afraid he wouldn't see me. And he never saw me. Don't you see me? But I figured out pretty quickly that the best way to get my dad's attention was to piss him off. Now, my dad had gotten very sick on ketchup when he was in the Navy, and he hated having it around. So I started putting ketchup on everything past ketchup. Dad. And one night he was going on and on about all these. It's the hippies bringing this great country to its name. So I started growing my hair out and I went downtown and I stole Abbie Hoffman's Steal this book. And I started reading the Rolling Stone. That worked pretty well. And then in high school, they give you these aptitude tests. And all my tests said that I was good at math and science, I had great spatial relationships, and that I should be an engineer just like my dad. So I went off to college and declared my major English. But what I didn't know is that to be an English major, you had to read, like, James Joyce and Ezra Pound and William Shakespeare and these other insufferable writers. And I thought, well, you know, the only thing that would piss my dad off worse than being a hippie English major is if I was like, a hippie college dropout. The mountains are calling and I must go, said John Muir and my Western writers class, which I immediately dropped out of. I stuck my thumb in the air, my finger in his face, and headed out west, heading to Alaska. Alaska had been in the news a lot in those days. They're building this big pipeline up there. It's the Wild West. As far away from Michigan as you could get. As far away from my dad and that sad, lazy boy life of his as you could get. Now, I'd also read enough of Ken Kesey and Jack Kerouac and Jack London and Hunter S. Thompson to know that copious amounts of alcohol and other mood altering substances were required for any righteous adventure. And I found all of that in abundance when I got as far as Oregon and I fell in with these people. We were planting trees up in the Cascade Mountains and there was a bunch of us hippies all living together, and we're drinking Every night we're pounding trees into the ground every morning. And we're paid on Friday and broke on Monday. And this was going great. And there was this cabin that some of us squatted at on the weekends. And this one Friday night I hitchhiked out to this cabin and found that the power had been turned out and we needed it. It was our hot water, it was our record player. And I said, well, how did they turn it out and turn it off? And they said, well, they reached up and they, you know, threw that switch at the top of the pole. What they didn't tell me is they'd done it with a 30 foot wooden stick. So I shinnied up to the top of this pole and put my arm up there and pow, dead. Like, I fell backwards, like into the arms of a thousand happy strangers. It was like body surfing on a million souls. And it was wonderful. It was so real. It was like you ever had a dream that's so real that when you wake up, you're a little disoriented, like you're not sure what was the dream, what was life. And it was like that I felt like I had woken up from the dream. And it was so wonderful. And I could have stayed there forever. And I wished I had when I woke up, because I was in the hospital room and my right arm was blown almost off. I was burned all over my chest and arm and neck. And I'd fallen 30ft off this pole and landed on my back, which the doctors said is what restarted my heart. And I was in more pain than I thought was possible, even though they had me completely pumped full of morphine. And I laid there in my morphine haze and my mom and dad were there and it was really good to see them. And I listened to them talking to each other about me and how I'd get better and get stronger and get me back to Michigan where they could talk to the university, probably get me back in school in the fall. And another thing they had to do in the hospital once a day is these nurses would come in and they'd give me a fresh shot of morphine. And I would roll up the tops of my sheets and put them in my teeth and let go of my mother's hand so I wouldn't crush it. And my arm was open from the wrist past the elbow so that these nurses could do this thing called debriding where they would stick their fingers down into my arm, like up to their second knuckle and just pull this stuff out of there. And as I'm laying there screaming into my sheets, I look across the room and my dad is sitting in a chair in the corner and he's smoking a pipe. You could smoke in hospitals then and you know it's impossible to smoke a pipe without looking smug. And I laid there and I thought, you smell. Son of a bitch. You think you're right about this? You think you won this round? Well, I tell you, I am not going back to Michigan. I almost died here. I am not going back with you. But they did go back. They had five other kids to raise. And as soon as they left, I got on the phone and called the county welfare agency and got put on public assistance, which would have really pissed my dad off. And several weeks later, when I was well enough to be released from the hospital, I was covered with new skin grafts. And they gave me a bag of codeine pills for the pain and the morphine withdrawals and said, whatever you do, just don't get infected. So I head out into my new welfare life. They'd set me up in this apartment, which was like this floor fleabag apartment with tick infested mattresses and. And I basically just threw my junk in there and immediately looked up this young nurse that I had met while I was in the hospital and. And she invited me to join her and some friends for a party they were having out of the lake. And I have no idea what went on, but the next thing I know, I'm waking up in my tick infested bed, bleeding, hungover, alone. And I get up and I look in the mirror and I busted my skin graft on my shoulder open and there were two ticks in it. So I take a couple codeine and clean up a little and I'm looking at myself and I just go, God, this sucks. What have you done? And I said, you gotta fix this. I took a couple more coding. I said, first you gotta numb this. And this coding ain't gonna do it. There's gotta be something stronger downtown. So I head out the door and head down the stairs and there's a mailbox, my mailbox at the bottom of the stairs, there's a letter sticking out of it. And I pull it out and I immediately recognize my father's handwriting. Printing, actually. He was an engineer. He had this precise block lettering and I thought, oh, God, I know what this is. I know what this is. No son of mine is going to be living on welfare or you get your ass home, your mother's worried sick about you. I didn't want to open it, but I did and unfolded this single sheet of graph paper, of course, and it said, dear Tom says, I watched you in the hospital as wounded as any soldier in battle. And I watched how you handled it with such strength and such courage. And I just wanted to tell you how proud I am of you and that I love you and I hope you take care of yourself. You know, one of the, the earliest and clearest memories of my dad, I was four or five probably, and we were out at a lake swimming and I was standing near my dad and my feet slipped off his clay bank under the water and I went under and I was flailing and as I was drowning and then my dad just reached out and grabbed me by the arm and pulled me back up and he looked me right in the face and he said, you got to be careful. And he let me go and I was all right after that. I was never able to tell my dad how much that letter meant to me. We never did learn how to talk to each other. And the last time I saw my dad was back home. He'd lost most of his memory by the end of his life and I visited him in this assisted living home and he was laying there in his Lazy Boy with the foot rest up and the only things he had left of his memory were his war stories and he would just go on and on about that and, and that's how I left him and his Lazy Boy telling these circular stories from his glory days which had ended in his life about the same time that my life had ended the first time. But unlike my dad, I got a second chance at life and I did get stronger and I did get better and I took care of myself and I made it all the way out to Alaska that next year and I was on that boat going up through the Inside Passage. And about two days into this trip you go through this place north of Juneau called the Lynn Canal. And there's these mountains on each side of the pass that comes straight down into the water and it's like the proverbial gates of the north. You look through there and all you see is mountain range after mountain range after mountain range and there's this wind that comes down out of there with this deep throated howl and you can smell ice on it in July and it smells like danger. It smells like, I mean, you don't know if this place is going to make, you know, if this place was going to, was going to kill you. I mean, I had no idea that every adventure I'd ever imagined and every reward that I could never have imagined lived through there, that my whole wonderful life was through there. I was terrified. And I clutched that railing on the bow of that ferry and I went on through that passage. Did you see me, dad? Brave as any soldier. That's what you said. Maybe not, but brave enough. Who's brave enough? Thank you.

Kathryn Burns (37:27)

That was Tom Beaudet. He's the author of seven books and a panelist on the radio quiz show. Wait, wait, don't tell me. He lives with his family in southern Vermont in the middle of a hayfield next to a big woods. Here's more of Tom's conversation with Maggie Sino, who directed his story.

Dan Kennedy (37:44)

Yeah, in the story you say that.

Intuit TurboTax (37:46)

You were raised not to say bad things about your parents.

Dan Kennedy (37:49)

So what made you decide to talk about some of the tougher aspects of.

Intuit TurboTax (37:53)

Your relationship with your dad? And did the story make you think about your relationship with him differently?

Tom Beaudet (37:59)

Well, it did. And when I was originally pitching this story to you, as you recall, it wasn't about my dad at all. It was about my accident and almost being killed and how that gave me this great sense of bravado and adventure and how I went off to Alaska and fearless. And in the telling of that first story, when I mentioned this letter that I had gotten from my father, I don't know that I'd ever told anybody about that letter before. It was not something that I ever spoke to. And what you noticed, as you said later, was that my voice caught when I mentioned it. You know, my dad had not been dead very long, just a matter of months, and was only just starting to sort of get over the fact that I had old business with dad. And I never wanted to talk about my dad with other people because I didn't like him very much. But once he was gone, I started to lighten up about it. And I think mentioning this letter to him and then realizing how much that letter changed my life, it's just like, oh, my dad was not a complete loss. I mean, he did this one really important thing for me. And maybe that's enough.

Kathryn Burns (39:24)

To hear more of Maggie's conversation with Tom and to see pictures of Tom in his hippie phase as well as one of him standing next to the telephone pole that got him into so much trouble. Go to themoth.org in a moment. A father risks everything to get his children out of war torn Afghanistan.

Production Team (40:06)

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

Kathryn Burns (40:14)

Prx.Org this is the Moth Radio Hour from PRX. I'm Kathryn Burns from the Moth. Our last story is from Dori Samadzai Bonner, who we met when she called our pitch line. The pitch line allows anyone with a story to tell to leave a two minute version for us. Dozens of people who called have had their stories picked. Dori ended up telling her story in several cities including Portland, Oregon, Aspen, Colorado and Saranac Lake, New York. Here's Dorie Bonner live at the mall.

Dori Samadzai Bonner (40:49)

I was born in Kabul, Afghanistan and lived there until I was 10 years old. Under the Russian occupation, I lived there with my family. My dad was a high ranking officer in the military, my mom was a typist and my brother was two years older than me. By the time we left, I had witnessed eight years of war. It started when I was two years old. Bomb explosions, missile attacks, and my dad imprisoned and tortured by the communists. For me personally, life was absolute hell. Not just because I was being raised in war, but because of my gender. I was automatically denied many things because of it. I was not allowed to participate in any sports. I could not go outside, I could not play with any boys or have any male friends. If I went anywhere or had to go anywhere, it would be in the company of a male guardian. At an early age I had household chores, the equivalent of what you would expect of a homemaker here. So after school, when my brother came home and then he went outside and played with his little friends, I stayed home cooked and cleaned. So you see in society in Afghanistan, as a young girl, I always knew my place. But it was until the day that I spoke up about being violated and made to apologize to that person for having accused an authoritative figure of such a heinous crime is when I realized I just had absolutely no rights. Not as a human, not as a child, but of course not as a girl. After that day, I just stopped dodging the whistling sound that the missiles make right before they reach their target. One day the coolest thing happens to me. I get this postcard from my aunt in America. And the postcard is of this two little kids, this little one, blonde boy and a blonde girl at the beach making sandcastles. I'm so obsessed with this postcard because looking at it, this whole image, everything about it is completely far from my own reality. First of all, the little girl had blonde hair. I had never seen anything like it. She was wearing what looked to me like a cut off top in underwear. I had never seen a bathing suit before either. She's outside playing with a little boy. I thought she was absolutely crazy, but I absolutely loved everything she stood for. I would come home from school and stare at this postcard so intensely that it eventually became my ultimate dream to one day be just like her and to one day be under the same sky as her. One day I came home from school and noticed four backpacks in the corner of our living room and didn't really think much of it. That night I was awakened by my mom pushing my hands through these bangles. And you see, my life is so unpredictable that I don't know what's happening. I mean, for all I knew, they could have been marrying me off to somebody I just didn't know. That night, my parents told us to grab a backpack and we were leaving our house. Everything inside of our house was completely intact. You see, my dad had been planning our escape secretly. He was afraid. He had gone to the bank and he was afraid that if he withdrew all of their savings that the bank teller was going to report him to the government. So he only withdrew a certain amount and told the teller that he needed to buy jewelry for his daughter and his wife. He was planning on liquidating that later on where we went similarly, so they had to leave the entire house intact because they were afraid the neighbors were going to tell on him. That night we put a lock on the door. And what I remember even more distinctly about this evening is seeing the dirty dishes in the sink, which they purposely left there, but I was just so glad I didn't have to wash it. That night on the plane, my dad explained that the American embassy in India was giving Afghan refugees visa entries and that all we had to do is show up there. A couple hours later, we land in India, grab a rickshaw and go straight to the embassy. And we are ecstatic. We are just so happy beyond our wireless dream that we are coming to America. Except on the back, on the outside of the embassy, there's a big note. We are no longer doing that outright. Instead, they're going by the visa lottery system twice a year. 50 people each time. We were very, very poor. We could not afford anything. My brother and I, in fact, would sleep in until late in the afternoon just to help skip a meal in the morning or when. Around 4 o'clock, my brother and I decided to take a nap because the ice cream man would come around our our little street and my parents couldn't afford to buy us ice cream. So we decided to take a nap so that they wouldn't feel so bad. The one thing that we were always waiting for and we didn't, that's why we didn't mind being poor, is that the day that we could go and put our name down to come to America, we woke up in the middle of the night. We ate and we prayed and then we started our one hour walk to the embassy because we couldn't afford to grab a cab and buses didn't run at that time. And we had to make sure that we were going to fit in that 50 people that they were going to give lotteries to. So we would go in, put our name, come back, and then you waited. We wait outside for the mailman. And around 11 o'clock he came around our street and we were waiting for him. And of course we're not going to just stand there. So my brother and I started running toward him and after a few years he would start nodding his head. No, money was running out and my parents were really desperate. So one night my mom woke me up, introduced me and my brother into this man we had never met before. It's this large Indian man with the long beard and the whole towel thing. We had never seen him before. And they said that. They said that he was going to take us to America. And it was only until my mom started sewing this envelope inside of my dress. And when she starts giving me instructions like, here's a little bit of money, this is contact information that I realized they're not going with us. There wasn't enough money. So my dad sold the last bit of those bangles that they had purchased and hired this smuggler to bring me and my brother here. We get in the cab with the smuggler and I remember this day like it was yesterday because it was the very first time I ever saw my dad call, cry. See, he's a military guy, he's tough and he's strong and. And people saluted to him all my life, and that's what I remember of him. But now he's standing on this side of the cab as me and my brother get into it with the smuggler inside of the cab, tears are rolling down my dad's face as he's trying to force on a smile and waving at us while holding my mom back as she started screaming after us. Our cab leaves and I remember feeling so guilty because I may never see my parents again. But the mere thought of coming here to America made me feel like my heart was going to burst out of my chest. The smuggler told us that we had one stop In Thailand. And after that we were going to come here. And as soon as we arrived at Thailand airport, he asked me to give him the envelope. And he said, my mom said to do that. I trusted him because my parents trusted him. So I yanked the envelope and handed it to him. And he said, you just wait and then I'll be back. Hours passed and he never came back. So now we're in Thailand, we don't speak any English, we don't speak Thai, and we're stranded at the airport. I am 13 years old. My brother is 15 years old. And up until now, we had never been anywhere without our parents. So my brother comes up with this plan and he says, you wait on one end of the airport and I'm going to wait on this other end of this room. Because if one of us got caught, then it would be worth it. At least one of us would get there. Except by each moment passing, I'm kind of scooting closer and closer to him, or I would wave at him from far away or just making sure that I keep some kind of contact with him. But it was only until I started crying that he just got up and grabbed my hand and we walked out of there. As soon as we exit the airport, we cannot read anything because everything is written in Thai. And not that we spoke any English, but it was a little bit more familiar. We see these letters kfc, so we think, okay, that's fine. Americans are over there. We're going to go and ask for help. And so we start walking towards kfc, but it was closed. So we just sat out there like two homeless children, which we obviously were, and waited until somebody came in. And this very, very nice man let us use the phone to call our parents. And my parents contacted that group of smugglers and they sent somebody else to help us. Hours later, by the way, the entire time we were in Thailand, I ate so much kfc, obviously I would never ever touch fried chicken again. So we're waiting in Thailand, and this new smuggler, we're living in this one hotel room with him, and we don't know him at all. And now we're just completely losing hope, my brother and I, we don't know what's going to happen to us. Honestly, we wondered if he would sell us. We didn't know what he would do. So one time I asked him what we were waiting for, what was taking so long. Were we going to get to America eventually or not? I wanted to know. And he said, I'm waiting for a holiday in America called Christmas. During this time, people are really happy and they're kind, and they're probably drinking a lot. And it is then that they're probably going to overlook the deficiencies on your passport. In December of 1999, my brother and I finally arrived at JFK. As soon as I exit the plane, I see from the corner of my eye this red, white, and blue colors, this huge American flag that I've never seen before. And in fact, I had never seen a cloth American flag before. So I run toward it, and I'm standing there, and these vivid images of the burning American flag at the opening ceremony of my school is just rushing my mind, and I'm completely overwhelmed. And the only thing that comes to my mind is just to hug it. My brother comes from the corner with the two police officers, and he's kind of nudging at me, and he's like, say it. Say it. We didn't speak any English, but the only words that they had us memorize was I need asylum. And we had been memorizing this on the plane over and over again, but I forgot it as soon as I was supposed to say it as soon as I got out. So they take us into this room, and on the left side, there's a tinted window. And I see a little blonde girl. And I'm looking at her, and I associate this with the little girl from my postcard was here, an arm's length away from me, and we were under the same sky. When I finally became a US Citizen and when my family finally became a US Citizen, I did not only pledge allegiance to my new homeland, I also promised myself that until my dying days, I will thank Americans for giving me a place that I can finally call a sanctuary and a home. Thank you.

Kathryn Burns (52:57)

That was Dory's Samudzai Bonner. Eventually, Dori's parents also made it to America, where they're thriving. Dorie's a writer, and she lives with her husband, a lieutenant colonel in the U.S. air Force. To see pictures of Dorie and her family, go to themoth.org we met Dori when she called our pitch line. And you can pitch us your own story by calling 877799, MOTH. Again, that's 877799, MOTH. Or you can pitch us your story@themoth.org that's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. We hope you'll listen next time.

Production Team (53:46)

Your host this hour was the Moth's artistic director, Kathryn Burns. The stories were directed by Maggie Sino. The rest of The Moth directorial staff include Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin Jeunesse, Jennifer Hickson, and Meg Bowles. Production support from Jenna Weiss Berman and Whitney Jones. Moth Stories are True is remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Moth events are recorded by Argo Studios in New York City supervised by Paul Ruest. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Little Bang, Bill Frizzell and Regina Carter. The Moth is produced for radio by me. Jay Allison edits Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts with help from Vicki Merrick. This hour was produced with funds from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the John D. And Catherine T. MacArthur foundation, committed to building a more just, verdant and peaceful world. The Moth Radio Hour is presented by the public radio exchange prx.org for more about our podcast. For information on pitching your own story, story and everything else, go to our website themoth. Org.