Meg Bowles (15:00)

Michael Steinberg served as the legal director of the ACLU of Michigan for 22 years. He's now a professor at the University of Michigan Law School, where he's the founding director of a legal clinic called the Civil Rights Litigation Initiative. Michael says the vast majority of the cases he worked on at the ACLU raised much more serious and weighty issues than the cussing Canoeist case, though he did once successfully represent a man who was arrested for flipping off a police officer. He called that the middle finger case. Michael still works with the ACLU of Michigan as a volunteer attorney, but as an educator, he says that he feels like he's back where he's supposed to be. He takes great pride in preparing the next generation of civil rights attorneys and social justice advocates. You can see a picture of Michael and Timothy Boomer, aka the Cussing Canoeist, on our website, themoth.org coming up, a story of the world's worst time capsule when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

Production Announcer (16:10)

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

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Caledonia Cairns (17:12)

Today's show is sponsored by Alma. I know I'm not the only one who turns to the Internet when I'm struggling. It feels like there are so many answers, from how to learn the ukulele to how to improve my mental health. But what I've come to realize is that while I can use the Internet to strum a stunted version of La vie en Rose, when it comes to taking care of my mind, there's no replacement for real human relationships. But even finding a therapist can feel like an inevitable online black hole. That's why I'm so happy to share that Alma makes it easy to connect with an experienced therapist, a real person who can listen, understand and support you through your specific challenges. You don't have to be stuck with the first available person. Trust me, it's important to find someone you click with. They can be nice. They can be smart. They can let you bring your Chihuahua. True story. But they also have to be someone who really gets you uniquely. When you browse alma's online directory, you can filter by the qualities that matter to you, then book free 15 minute consultations with the therapists you're interested in seeing. This way, you can find someone you connect with on a personal level and see real improvements in your mental health with their support. Better with people, better with Alma. Visit helloalma.commoth to get started and schedule a free consultation today. That's hello A l m a dot com Moth. We're all about to wrap a new year, and as this one closes and we reflect on all of the great ideas and skills we have, but haven't acted on. The New year is the best time to take the leap and start your business with Shopify. Shopify gives you everything you need to sell online and in person, and millions of entrepreneurs have already made this leap. I've been at the Moth long enough to remember when we were manually writing down credit card numbers and walking our merch to the post office. Shopify gives you all the tools you need to build your dream store. There are hundreds of beautiful templates. There's Shopify's built in AI tools that write product descriptions and headlines and help you edit product photos and marketing is also built in so you can create email and social campaigns. And as you grow, Shopify grows with you. Handle more orders, expand to new markets and do it all from the Same dashboard in 2026. Stop waiting and start selling with Shopify. Sign up for your $1 per month trial and start selling today at shopify.com moth go to shopify.com moth that's shopify.com moth hear your first this new year with Shopify by your side.

Meg Bowles (19:42)

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bowles. Our next story comes from Samuel James. Samuel is a composer, musician and journalist writing about racial issues from one of the whitest states in America, Maine. His great grandfather was a musician born into slavery, his grandfather a blues guitarist, his father a renowned jazz pianist. Music and storytelling are deeply entrenched in his DNA. Samuel traveled to New York City and shared this story live at Alice Tully hall at Lincoln center for the Performing Arts. Here's Samuel James.

Samuel James (20:21)

My parents used to drop me off at my grandmother's house every Friday afternoon. Grammy was a tall, regal woman. She stood 5 foot 10 with ballerina posture even into her 70s and she kept her hair in that semi short curly style popular amongst grandmothers. I'd spend the night on Fridays and she would let me stay up late and watch our favorite show, the Dukes of Hazzard. She even gave me a little car that I would drive through the air and mimic the sounds of its Dixie car horn. No no no no no no no no no no no no. My car was not anything like the car from the show. The car from the show was called the General Lee and it was bright Orange. It had 01 racing numbers on its doors and its entire roof was one confederate. My little General Lee was one solid color carnation pink. It was a hollow shell made from a mold. It had no moving parts. But to my small child's mind it was exactly the same. So every Saturday morning She would bring me back to my parents apartment and she would come in, we'd all have breakfast together and she would get up to leave and I would start to cry and she would come over, make sure I had that little pink General Lee. And she'd say, hang on to this, take good care of it and I'll see you on the weekend. We can stay up late and watch our favorite show. And she would leave and then 24 hours would go by and I would have lost that car. Come Friday I would get to Grammys and somehow she would have found it and I would have it in my hand, ready for when our favorite show came on. This little pink Generalee is in all of my memories of Grammy, including the time that I lost it under her couch. And I jammed my arm under to get it and got my arm stuck and really freaked out. But then along comes Grammy with a smile and one arm lifting up the edge of the couch, saving the day. I grabbed that thing like it was Indiana Jones hat. Then there was the time that I was simulating one of the General Lee's famous jumps by throwing this car across the room where it landed perfectly between Grammy's left eye and her glasses. Then there was the time that I was five years old and I was laying on my stomach on the floor between my parents kitchen and living room. And Grammy and my parents were having breakfast at the table. Grammy liked to have a little sip of whiskey in the morning. She was having a little sip, She took a little bite of banana. She started to say something and then she fell backwards out of her chair. And my father jumped up and he caught her and he laid her on the floor. And I ran over and her. Her glasses had fallen off and she looked so strange without her glasses. And her mouth was open and her eyes were wide, but they had rolled back so they were entirely white. And I start screaming. And my mother picks me up and she brings me to the other side of the room. She has the phone cradled in her ear and she's talking to 911. But the ambulance did not arrive in time. Grammy willed her house to my mother and we all moved in. And this was a very old, old house. It was built by Grammy's father, who had been a veteran of the Spanish American War. Everybody who'd ever lived here was still kind of there. You open up this closet and there'll be threadbare monogrammed uniforms. And in this drawer is old sepia toned photographs of people forgotten to time. And in this drawer see old rusted tools probably used to build this house. When my mother died, she left the house to me. But I moved away and my father stayed. And I think these ghosts comforted him because he never changed anything about the house. Every time I would come to visit, it was the same. Our visits were almost always the same. I would bring a guitar and he would sit in front of the piano and we'd trade songs and we'd swap stories. We'd sing old songs, we'd swap stories and on and on until I would go home. But this one particular day, he gets up to get a glass of water and I get nostalgic and I go up to my old room. My old room also had not changed. My very same pretentious music and movie posters were still on the exact same walls. They were painted the exact same color. I painted them in high school black. The bed was still in the same place. Now this had been Grammys room before it had been mine. And the bed frame had been Grammys. And it was the same white and gold matching set from Sears as the dresser that was also still there. And opening the drawers to the dresser, inside you'll find Grammy's jewelry and old letters and hundreds and hundreds of photographs, at least 100 of which are of her and I. And they perfectly reflect my memory of Grammy. And I'm taken right back to this perfect moment of Grammy joy. She also has a closet. Now I never spent very much time in this closet because it always felt like Grammys. But this particular day, I walk up and it smells musty and there's cobwebs and there's old coats hanging up and my grandfather's tuxedo and Grammy's wedding gown. And then on the floor there's a walk in closet. It's built under one of the eaves so you kind of have to duck down if you're going to go all the way in. There's a plastic bag and it's an old biodegrading plastic bag, but it's the only thing plastic in this room. So I walk in to look at it and as soon as I set foot in here, I feel like a kid again. But like when you're a kid and you're gonna get caught, like any minute someone's gonna come around the corner and be like, hey, what are you doing? I kneel down and I open this bag and inside this bag is probably 150 little pink generalees. Right? Right, Right. I'm with you. Right. It's like somebody gave me the setup for the joke and then waited 20 years to give me the punchline. I'm just laughing. I thought that, like she had found the one singular perfect toy for only singularly me. She was probably at a church rummage sale and saw a bag of pink cars for a dollar and thought, kids lose stuff. So I grab this bag in full Grammy Joy and I run downstairs. I'm like, dad, dad, do you remember the little pink General lee? Because here's 150 of. And he does remember them, but there is no Grammy Joy for him. He's not laughing, he's not smiling. He looks half disappointed and half confused. And he begins to tell me how his relationship with Grammy had been very different than my own. Grammy's family has been in New England as long as there has been in New England. She was a pillar of her community. She was a sheriff's widow. And she was the very proud and protective white mother of a white daughter who had brought home and married and had a child with a big southern black man. She was never forthright in her expression of her opinion of my father's race. But she let him know in other ways, in more passive aggressive ways. For example, she would introduce his small black child, me, to a television show that whitewashed and glorified and romanticized racist symbolism of the South. She would go a step further by encouraging that same black child to run around his house literally singing Dixie. And she did this full well, knowing exactly how he felt about it. And so there I am, standing there with this nostalgic grin fading from my face, holding the world's worst time capsule, thinking about how she had found the one perfect singular toy just for only me. But it hadn't even been for me. And then my father laughs just the smallest amount. And he explains how every Saturday night he would wait until my mother was asleep and until I was asleep, and he would come into my room. And he'd take the little pink General Lee into the kitchen and he would throw it into the trash. So I take this bag of little pink generalise back up to Grammy's closet and I put it back where I found it. And I stop and I look at those pictures of her and I again. And they still reflect every grandmother's love for her grandchild. It's still true. But I also know that digging through the house a little more will find you a Barry Goldwater campaign pin and a little personal size Confederate flag. She was a loving grandmother, there is no doubt about that. It's absolutely true. But she was also a Cruel person who would manipulate her own grandchild in order to make his father suffer for their race. Both things are true. I'm standing there thinking about how it's easy to love a child while I am the exact same size and shape and color as my father. And I move through the world how he did, and it reacts to me, how it reacted to him. I went back downstairs and we played some more songs. But we didn't talk about Grammy ever again. About 10 years after this, my father died. And I went back through the house, and it was still the same. The closet still had those threadbare uniforms and. And the drawers still had the sepia tone photos and the old rusty tools. And up in my old room, those photos of Grammy and I were still in that dresser. And her closet still had my grandfather's tuxedo and her wedding gown. But that bag of little pink General Lees was nowhere to be found. Thank you.

Meg Bowles (33:41)

That was Samuel James. You can find links to his writing and music, which you're listening to right now on our website. His father, Mike DeFayette, died on Dec. 30, 2016, three days after his 71st birthday. And Samuel said it was many months before he was able to go back to the house. When he finally did, he said it felt strange, like a black hole. All the evidence of his father's existence was still there. A blanket tossed over the back of the couch like he'd just gotten up from a nap. All his stuff was still there, but not him. All these years later, Samuel is still going through the house, cleaning it out, trying to determine the value of things. Not monetary value, but emotional. He says that all this stuff meant something to somebody at one time, and now he's just trying to figure out what it all means to him. He says he'll probably keep holding on to the house because the ghosts of his family are still there. And they're loud. Part of why I love Samuel's story is the way it unravels and reveals how perception changes. How when we're young, we have this childlike understanding of things. But as we grow older, we fill in the blanks and realize how incomplete that understanding was. Like family relationships, issues of race, it's complicated. Samuel shared this story in several cities across the U.S. and without fail, there was always someone who would come up and say, but your grandmother would have loved you now, right? You've forgiven her, or your father forgave her, right? There was this tendency, this desire to center his grandmother. They wanted the story to be about white redemption, when actually it's a testament to just how difficult racial issues are in America. It's complex. It's hard. For Samuel, the story is more about black resilience and the weight of racism and who carries that weight and how easily it's hidden in plain sight. Redemption, forgiveness, exoneration is not the conclusion. It's about seeing and acknowledging the truth. Coming up, breaking the confines of tradition at a water park in Florida, when the Moth Radio Hour continues.

Production Announcer (36:11)

The moth radio hour is produced by atlantic public media in woods hole, massachusetts.

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Caledonia Cairns (38:23)

See mintmobile.com hi Moth listeners, I'm Caledonia Cairns, Vice President of Development. As an independent nonprofit organization, the Moth relies on support from listeners like you to keep our stories alive. In order to more stories fostering empathy and connection, we hope you will consider making a donation directly to the Moth. Every dollar will support the production of the Moth Signature live events, podcast and Radio Hour, as well as community engagement and education programs. We're proud to bring you inspiring stories from all over the globe. Please visit themoth.org or text give25 to 78679 if you've been moved by a story you've heard this year and thank you for being a part of the Moth.

Meg Bowles (39:11)

This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Meg Bowles. Our next storyteller. Firmette Goldberger grew up in a community bound by history and religious doctrine. She's a writer and while sharing her stories has been a freeing experience for her, it's also come with a lot of inner conflict. Firmette told her story at an evening we produced in partnership with 3 CDC at the Anderson Theatre Memorial hall in Cincinnati, Ohio. Here's for Matt Goldberger live at the.

Firmette Goldberger (39:38)

Mosque so I am a Hasidic woman from one of the most pious Hasidic Jewish communities in upstate New York. Growing up, all forms of secular influences were strictly verboten. TVs, movies, the Internet, newspapers. We were expected to keep the highest standards of modesty. I wore shirts that covered my elbows, collarbone, skirts covering my knees, and thick, thick stockings from the age of three. This was the uniform of my childhood and my people. I knew of nothing else and I cared for nothing else. When I would catch a glimpse of someone in shorts and a tank top, I would think, ew. Why would you want to expose your private parts? Sneers or modesty was a concept so well ingrained in our minds and in our existence that we couldn't fathom why anyone would want to dress any differently. And I was a good girl, a wide eyed Hasidic edel medal. But I didn't always want to be. And I had a few transgressions under my belt. Like the time a friend and I went to Walmart and filled our bins with trashy romance novels and I would hide them between my bed spring and mattress and my friend and I would devour these titillating tails as if we were breaking the Yom Kippur fast. Marriage was my ticket to freedom, away from the prying eyes of parents and matchmakers. I met my husband for the first time in my parents dining room. I was 17 and pining for a strapping man to fulfill my Nora Roberts inspired dreams. He was 21 and just trying to clear the way for his two younger siblings waiting in line. They couldn't get married before he did, as is the custom in the Hasidic community. My mother thought it unsuitable for her young good girl to marry an older boy. But I begged and cajoled and she finally relented and agreed to this shidduch, or arranged match. I had heard through the grapevine of vientas that he wasn't in yeshiva full time, that he smoked and he drove. I had also heard that he moonlighted as a theatergoer and that to me was downright sexy. So for the bichot, or the half hour, ten hour meeting between a prospective bride and groom, we were ushered into my childhood playroom. And I broke the ice by asking him about his family, the number of children and grandchildren, even though I knew them quite well. His sister was my classmate, his other sister is married to my first cousin, My brother is married to his first cousin, and two of my sisters are married to two of his other first cousins. It's a doozy. So after a while my mother pokes her head in and she's like, noo, did you make a decision? Now there were trays of cakes lined up on the kitchen counter, cakes that I had baked that day for a potential engagement party, and no one wanted to see them go to waste. And there was no good reason for either one of us to say no. But I desperately wanted confirmation that he was indeed dabbling in secular matters. So when my mother left, I boldly asked him if he listened to the radio. And he blushed. And something about his blushing confirmed it for me. I knew then and there that he was my knight in shining side curls. We were not supposed to speak during our engagement, but he further confirmed his renegade status when he sent his phone number, scribbled on a note through a mutual acquaintance. And I would call him every Thursday evening, hiding behind the clothes in my closet so my mother wouldn't open.

Caledonia Cairns (43:59)

Over here.

Firmette Goldberger (44:01)

We were married on a cold December evening, the first snow of the season blanketing the streets. The next morning, my mother showed up to shave my head. All of it, down to a stubble. As is the custom in this very stringent Hasidic community, Everyone did it all. Married women were required to shave their heads monthly for the duration of their marriage. And we Settled into married life or as best as you can, settle in as two strangers. And after three days I decided it was time my husband knew me better. So I bedecked our little kitchen table in this dollhouse sized apartment and I whipped out a 2 by 2 inch DVD screen. The next day he one upped me with a box of Yankees painting paraphernalia and a computer that he kept hidden in his parents home. We were a match made in heaven, except we were practical strangers. We watched movies and we went to the library every Friday afternoon. And we would have to look right and left and back before making a beeline for the Blockbuster door or the library door because no one could see see us heretics. And after a while, about two to three months, we decided it was time to take our rebellion on the road. My husband suggested Florida and this place he had heard of called Wet and Wild Water Park. Now I had never been to the beach, I had never been to a water park, never really traveled before and certainly never flown on a plane. So you can imagine I was excited. In preparation for this trip, we went shopping. I owned a bathing suit and this bathing suit was called a Schwimcleid. It's the kind of garment I imagine Mother Teresa would wear when and if she allowed herself a dip in the water. This Schwimcleid hat sleeves and it had a skirt reaching down to my knees. And I knew it was unsuitable for a water park. So we went shopping. I can still feel my heart buckle when I think of the way we crisscrossed those bathing suit racks at Walmart and darted every time we saw a familiar hasidic face. They all looked equally immodest to me. My husband picked up this backless one piece and I am in this cramped woman's dressing room imagining a thousand eyes peering in from under the door slit. And I strip out of my clothes and I pull on this bathing suit that simultaneously reminds me of hell and also of a delicious piece of babka. And I turn to the mirror and I am so seeing my bare arms and bare legs full length, possibly for the first time. And this backless bathing suit has a sun rising from the nether regions, which kind of sounds like a metaphor for my life. And I look at myself in the mirror and I imagine that this is what it must feel like to be on the covers of one of the magazines I peruse. I am young, I am perky in all the right places and I know it. We were giddy for days leading up to this trip. We told everyone about this trip and we told no one about this trip. My mother called a few days prior to wish us farewell and did we pack warm clothes? Do we know that it's warm in Florida? And I laughed. She had no idea what we were up to. So we land in Orlando and we visit Universal and Disney. And we missed all popular cultural references. I mean, I marveled at this thing that was part spider, part human. We were so sheltered. We felt like aliens walking around in those parks. Except I can assure you, we did not know what aliens were were back then. And I am. Then came the big day. Wet n wild water park. I'm wearing a bathing suit for the first time. We are newlyweds, fair skinned, who had never used sunscreen before. I mean, bodies covered from head to toe literally have no use sunscreen. And on my head I am wearing a chill length wig with a Yankee sun visor securing it. My husband was a fan and of course that meant I was too. Even though I'd never heard of baseball before. A chuppah. So I'm wandering around on my husband's tail ogling this bevy of bikini clad chiks in all their tan glory. And I keep my arms on my chest and alternating between that and my thighs and knees and elbows until I realize I am practically in the nude and I just walk around in a self conscious daze. My discomfort was so palpable. A constant reminder of the grave sin I was committing. I felt like everyone around me could see right through my shame. I might as well have been curtsying in front of the Grand Rabbi. It felt so wrong to expose all these parts of my body that I was taught to keep hidden. And yet it felt so right and so darn liberating. So we make our way through the park and up the tallest ride in the park, down a winding tube into a shallow pool. And I am having the time of my life. And as I get into the shallow pool and I bob my head out of the water, I feel a muggy breeze. And I turn around to the guy manning the pool and he's holding up my wig with a limping sun visor. And he's like, ma', am, Ma', am, did you lose this? I was mortified. But more than that, I was afraid. I feared that someone would recognize me and and report me back home to the authorities. And before you know it, my mother knows and my neighbor's bubby knows and my mother's heart is broken and my good girl facade is stripped from me. And you know my future children won't be accepted into the only school in town. I risked losing a lot. So I grab my wig and visor and I start heading out of the pool when I feel eyes on me. And I turn around and their pitiful eyes. They must have thought, poor woman. Poor, poor woman with cancer. I was relieved they didn't know me. Cancer sounded plausible. And I'd rather they believe I have cancer than know my shit. That way at least I can hide my shame behind their pity. So I grab my wig and visor and I head out of the pool. And I'm both mortified, but kind of also owning my pity. And my husband is completely traumatized and will leave the park soon after. And thankfully, no one back home did find out. We've been married for 16 years, nearly half of our lives. We just celebrated our 16th wedding anniversary last December. Thank you. Thank you. We are no longer Hasidic. We moved out of the community a little over a decade ago with our two children. And what a decade it's been. It's been a decade of heartache, both for us and for our families. And it's been a decade of loss. Loss of a community, a people, a lifestyle. The only life we ever knew and the only life we were taught was worth living. And we've made every effort along the way to be respectful of our families, their customs and their traditions. And even though I know that my mother doesn't understand my choices and she doesn't appreciate the life I live and that I have veered from her beaten path, she has come a long way in learning to accept me. And for that, I love her dearly. I no longer cover my hair with someone else's natural hair. I am not obligated to wear long sleeves or skirts reaching my knees. I am also no longer obligated to be a Yankees fan. My son stepped into those shoes and we've returned to Orlando several times since. But I can never bring myself to go back to that park where I imagine a thousand eyes are still staring at my bald head. Thank you.

Meg Bowles (53:48)

Firmette Goldberger is an award winning writer and investigative journalist. Firmette has written a lot about growing up in an insular Hasidic community. She's currently working on her first novel, which she jokingly says you can look for on bookshelves. In 2080, after Firmette shared her story, she talked with Moth producer Emily Couch about what it was like to leave her community.

Firmette Goldberger (54:11)

They were confused, understandably. My mother asked, what's wrong with this community? Why do you have to leave? Whenever I wanted to do something that was outside the norm, it was always my mother that gave me pause. Should I do it, I'm gonna break her heart. Even now when I write and I stand up on stage and I'm organizing, always thinking of my mother and thinking, this woman does not deserve it. You know, she did her best and she has been through so much in life and, you know, and I think it's my Jewish guild speaking. Are you, are you still in touch with your mother and the rest of your family? Very much so, yeah. But in the past few years, I have strengthened my bonds with my sisters and my mother, and we have really made every effort to be respectful of them and they've come to accept us. But as time goes on, I am constantly revealing another part of me that they didn't know before. And I find that they are okay with it. Like, I met my sister. We had a. My niece's wedding in Montreal. And everyone was so surprised that I traveled all the way there to attend the wedding, but I wanted to be a part of it. And in between the celebrations, the wedding, and we went, we just went on a few outings, my husband and I, with the children, and we were at the old Montreal court for, for a fabulous boat ride through the rapids. It was so fun. And of course, I'm wearing shorts and, you know, and when I come out, I change into my jeans, a short sleeve shirt, and here, like regular clothes, right. And my son comes to the room and he's like, your sister is here. And I freaked out because they had never seen me in pants and short sleeve shirts and my hair. And I'm taking a breath and I am going to face them. There is no hiding. I can't stay in this little cramp, you know, toilet. So I exit and there she is with her grown children and her husband. And they're just smiling at me and they're like, hi. Oh, you're here. And it took me a moment like, oh, my goodness. They're totally fine with it. Nothing happened.

Caledonia Cairns (56:50)

It's really nice that you have that sort of like mutual respect and understanding.

Firmette Goldberger (56:55)

That's wonderful. Yeah. Sometimes I say, you know, my family is special, or my mother is special for that. But then I think, you know, isn't that what it should be?

Meg Bowles (57:07)

That was Firmette Goldberger talking with Moth producer Emily Couch. Ferment says that it's been a long, exhausting path to where she and her family are today. Although she's confident that she made the right decision she often wonders whether the trade off was worth it. She says despite best efforts to reconnect, she will always be on the outside looking in. You can see a picture of ferment on that fateful day at Wet N wild waterpark on themoth.org that's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us again next time for the Moth Radio Hour.

Production Announcer (57:51)

Your host this hour was Meg Bowles. Meg directed the stories in the show along with Larry Rosen. The rest of the Moss directorial staff includes Kathryn Burns, Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin, Janess and Jennifer Hixon.

Samuel James (58:04)

Margaret.

Production Announcer (58:04)

Production support from Emily Couch. Most stories are true, as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the Drift. Other music in this hour from Blue Dot Sessions, Samuel James and Oscar Schuster. 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. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Rhys Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching us your own story and everything else, go to our website themoth.org.

Caledonia Cairns (58:49)

The moth is supported by AstraZeneca. AstraZeneca is committed to spreading awareness of a condition called hereditary transthreatin mediated amyloidosis, or hattr. This condition can cause polyneuropathy like ner, pain or numbness or heart failure. It often goes undiagnosed and can be passed down to loved ones. Recently, I directed a show for AstraZeneca featuring storytellers with HATTR and its impact on their lives. Here's a clip from Otis, who shared how the legacy of faith that was passed down to him gave him the strength to see beyond his diagnosis.

Samuel James (59:22)

I never asked why me? But I knew that I wanted to try to turn something that was negative into a positive. My parents instill this faith in me because sometimes we're going to find ourselves in lives, sometimes even to no fault of our own. We're going to find ourselves in a condition that we must rely upon our faith.

Caledonia Cairns (59:44)

To learn more about Hattr, visit www.myattrroadmap.com.