American Dreams: The Moth Radio Hour

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Streaming Banach Nizou Wow! This is the Morph radio hour, I'm your host John Good. Experts say that we all have several dreams over the course of a night's sleep.

“Dreams that we may or may not remember, but what about the dreams that keep us up at night?”

The ones we create while awake. Dreams of hitting the game winning shot of landing that job you've wanted since you were 10 or of getting that delorean up to 88 miles per hour and going back to the future. Dreams realistic, far-fetched and beyond our wildest imagination. As we approach the 250th anniversary of a nation built on the dream of a better life,

on the promise of taking the tired and dispossessed, you're earning to be free and showing them the path to a golden door. Let's hear some stories about the dreams and the dreamers that make America what it is. First up is a story from a grand slam in Birmingham, where we partner with Public Radio Station WBHM in Alabama.

Here's Alexis Barton, live at the mall.

They say you never forget your first time.

“Now, I'm not talking about that type of first time, but that's how I remember entering my very first beauty”

patent, no scholarship patent. Now, understand, I had never run for anything competitively in my life before. The only thing I'd won was the fourth grade spelling me. And among my classmates, I was kind of used to coming in second place. And I was nobody's performer. I threw up before every piano recital I ever had for 10 years.

Straight. But I wanted to know what it felt like to win. And to be honest, I wanted that crown, not just any crown, the Miss Alabama crown. Now, to understand how truly delusional that was.

“Remember what I said about throwing up before piano recitals.”

But a friend who supported my delusions suggested that before I enter the Miss Alabama patent system that I do a patent for practice. Unfortunately, there was a local patent right around the corner. We'll call it the Miss Jefferson County Legacy Jambury patent. Some of you know what I'm talking about.

I dashed off my application, nailed it in, and they called. We'd love to talk to you. And so I ran down to the five-point South Library and had a little interview with the Patent Committee and they accepted me. That was a piece of cake.

I thought she went.

To I got down to the local dance studio for the first of many

Patent Practices coordinated by a local choreographer. And I sized up my competition and I realized, "Let's, human danger girl, because they were prepared. They were talented." These other young ladies.

They were leggy. They were, "Oh, confident." One of them had performed on a cruise ship as a singer. And here I was a tall awkward ugly duckling.

But if anything, I'm not a quitter.

So I needed a graceful exit, right?

“And I hadn't told my parents yet that I'd signed myself”

and their credit cards up for this opportunity. So when I told them, I was shocked because they were all in. My dad turned into a mad man, literally. He turned into Ron Draper. He sold every ad that I needed for the Patent Program

and he wrote every line of copy. My mom, Miranda Priestley, had nothing on her. Because she prepared my wardrobe like I was going to the Ebony Fashion Fair or for those of you who are younger, rust talk. She even enlisted my aunt to design and put together

my opening number outfit, a crimson or gans-a jumpsuit with a big bow because southern girls love bows.

“And when the big night came, I rolled into the theater”

and I marched up to the microphone. Kind of like this one, and I said, "My name is Alexis Barton, and I'm a junior, majoring in English at UAB. And my motto is, it's not what you're called, what you answer to, and they bought it."

Just like y'all did. And then I was dancing to the edge of the stage in my fitness wearing holding my eight count. Like my life depended on it. Because I didn't know what an eight count was before Patent.

And then I was in my little tweet suit chewing up the scenery from my dramatic monologue because I was not going to perform on the piano. And by the time I went to change into my mother's evening gown that I had borrowed, I realized I was having fun.

And I realized something else as I looked at the other girls as they changed. I saw that they were shook. One was crying because she had missed the opening choreography steps and another was crying because her boyfriend hadn't showed up for the pageant and one was crying because she had a new pimple

that they didn't have concealer for. And I realized that we weren't all that different. We were all swans growing into our wings, paddling furiously, trying not to make fools of ourselves. And I went back out for that final question

and I could take a deep breath like I'm doing now and relax. And I found my parents' eyes and the audience and locked on them

and I realized that I had always been a princess to them.

So when they called the top 10 and my name was included, I wasn't really surprised. I had good chances anyone else I knew by the end. And then it was top seven, top five, top two. And it was me and one other girl standing there under the hot light like this one.

And my hope, my heart thundered in my chest and it rose up and then all of a sudden run her up, me, an audible gasp went across the crowd. Or so my mom says, but let's face it, she's biased. And as I took my roses and stepped back into the shadows so the queen could be crowned, I didn't stop smiling, even though I did have Vaseline on my teeth.

But really, it was because I knew that in the words of James Baldwin, my crown had already been bought and paid for. I just had to put it on. And there was a silver lining because I was named Miss Photogenic, which came with a year's worth of free hairstyle.

And so technically I did get a new crown twice a month for a whole year. And I considered that a big win because I was a brook college student. And now when I'm on stages like that, well like this one, and I want to run and throw up

“off stage, I look around and I remember that everybody else is nervous too.”

And that this is just practice, we're all practicing. Thank you. That was Alexis Bart. Alexis is an award winning journalist and writer-based in Birmingham

Alabama. She is the month Birmingham's first story slam winner, and I noticed because I was blessed

to be hosting that night. Alexis's work has appeared in the Washington Post magazine,

Early in her story, Alexis said that her dream of being Miss Alabama was delucional.

“But I think it was the great philosopher and prophet seal that once said,”

"No, we're never going to survive, unless we get a little crazy."

And we're definitely not going to get our hair done for free twice a month for a year without chasing our dream. That is for sure that is for sure my friends. In a moment, a city girl learns how to farm, and a daughter must become a fierce advocate for her parents. When the Moth Radio Hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media and Woods Hole Massachusetts.

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Our next story was told by Heather Angel. One of our open-my story slams in Boston, where we partner, a public radio station WBUR, here's Heather. So this summer, after my freshman year in college, I got a job as a farmhand. And it was 2001 and I was 19 years old.

“And a couple that were my new bosses, they were in their mid-60s,”

by the time I walked up their driveway in New Hampshire. And they'd been farming for 14 hours a day, for 40 years. And the husband would soon, and forever, become affectionately known to me, simply as the old man. And he would wear a different canvas hat every day,

perched, kind of like a bird on his bald head. And he had like a muddled brow, a furrowed brow, and like two watery blue eyes. And his parents were French Canadian. And so he had learned a little bit of French.

And he also spoke with a pretty good boss in accent, but it was so slow that it almost had like a down-east vibe. And that was the year that Koshina Aguilera's single lady Marmalade came out, on the Mulan Rouge soundtrack. And he would walk around the farm, singing, "Vulet, vukushe, efek, mwak."

Say, "Sawak." He was Malvi, he was charming, and he was nobody's fool. And I soon learned that farming was really hard.

The first week I worked there, he made me unload

a trailer load of 50 pound bags of soil twice. We would be so dirty sometimes when I at the end of the day that I'd have to take off my clothes and hose off in the driveway before my mom would let me come into the house. I almost, I thought I was going to die in his barn.

The hay was so thick in the air that it would get into your lungs, and it would cut any exposed skin and be in your hair, and you'd find it like the whole rest of the day. And nobody understood why I loved it so much. And the farm became really like a part of my life as I went on.

And it was so different from the life that I was leading otherwise. I was going to school in Chicago. And so every summer I would come home to the farm and every year I'd go back to school where I'd stay up till 2 a.m. And then at the farm I'd get up at 6 a.m.

But I got to do really cool stuff too.

and they had names like Cinderella and Jack B. Little and Racer.

And they all sounded like bedtime stories. And my life couldn't have been different, but it was more different than when I went back to school. I was a sophomore during this September 11th attacks. And I got really influenced by these Jesuit priests,

who talked a lot about non-violence and peacemaking. And I went to Teachins for the Iraq War. I wrote all night to go to protests on buses. And when I came back to the farm, I realized that the old man did not share my views.

I was, we were both Catholic, and I had been introduced to this really radical piece-nick outside the bounds of the norms Catholicism. And he was a New Hampshire Republican. So he would say really intense revenge stuff.

And I would pause and look at him and I would say,

“"I can never remember which gospel that's in.”

Was it Matthew or Mark?" And we like to have fun with each other. And the farm really became like medicine to me and his fields. My life at home was not great at that time.

My dad had died a few years earlier, unexpectedly. And my sisters and I weren't really getting along. My family had moved to a much smaller house. And I used to sleep on a cot in the porch. And I didn't really feel like anybody at home really liked me that much.

But when I came to the farm, they were always glad to see me.

It was sort of like a sober, daytime, dirtier version of cheers. And I knew that when I came back from school, I'd always have a job at the farm. And I started selling Christmas trees for them in the winter. And my college friends soon realized that the old man was more than just my boss.

He was something else. And he and his wife never anyone I called the old lady too much respect for her. For that, not that there's anything wrong with old ladies. But they kind of became like my surrogate grandparents. And I would come back from the farm and visit them even after I stopped working there.

I can't remember when they stopped paying me, but at some point I just would come and work. And that continued on in my life. And one time I was visiting them by this time I was in my early 30s. And his wife looked at me across the table of the farm kitchen, middle of the winter, and said, "More like it was a question that it was a statement.

You never met a guy you wanted to marry."

And I took a deep breath and I said, "Well, I don't really date guys anymore." And the old man nodded and said, "I knew it."

“And he had this like self-satisfied smirk, you know?”

And then he said, "Well, don't expect me to walk you down the aisle at your wedding." And we'd never discussed that. But he knew, if anybody was ever going to walk me down the aisle at my wedding, I would want it to be him. So I gave him the cold shoulder for a few months.

And then his daughter who started calling me her little sister, some point in the early odds, found out what happened and read him the riot act. And he called me, he's like, "I'm sorry, you know, I'll walk you down the aisle at your wedding if you ever need me to." And then pretty soon he invited my girlfriend to the famous farm Christmas parties.

And it carried on like that and they sold the farm in their mid-80s and they retired to a condo where they grew tomatoes on their porch. And if you've ever loved a 90-year-old, as these years went on, you hold on to every moment. You know, that you can feel the moments passing. And he would leave me these long, kind of sarcastic missives,

“voicemails with this like lyrical voice, like asking me what the hell have I been, you know?”

And I saved all of them, I listened to a bunch of them today. And a few months ago his daughter called me and told me that the end was near. He'd been sick for a while. So I took the back road to the hospital and drove past the old farm and the, like, the last gasps of autumn were turning the fields like this delgold. And everybody was there. And by that point, nobody was like, "Why is that old farmhand here?"

Like, I was part of the family. And the nurse that night was her family, friends owned a farm. And she said, "Everybody's out picking today because the frost has come in tonight," you know? And it gave us all this sense of urgency, but also this sense of peace. And the next morning I woke up before sunrise and took my dog outside and the frost had come in the night, like silent and crisp. And I knew he was gone before I even got the call.

He was a really good farmer until the end. He knew when it was done. And the night before at the hospital, right before I left, I gave him a kiss on the forehead.

The field is empty. I'll meet you there. Thank you."

That was Heather Angel. My goodness, listen. I can't speak for anyone else, but that last line. He's in the barn old man. The field is empty. I'll meet you there. That left me in the most reverential and joyous subteriors. That is the stuff dreams are made of words that touch our souls, that move our heart and its stir our emotions. Heather Angel is a proud new englitter and lives in Massachusetts with her wife and their dog

Samson. She has worked as a farm hand, a summer camp director and a freelance snow shoveler. She has now a high school teacher and health care chaplain. Heather enjoys public libraries, a proper cup of tea and being the fun aunt. Heather still keeps in touch with the old man's wife and his family. After living in the city for over a decade, she and her wife bought a house near her hometown. It's across the street from afar.

She told us, I think about the old man every day. I keep a picture of him in the visor of my car

“and I still go to call him and then remember that I can't. I'm also so grateful for him”

that a decision to walk up a driveway looking for a job when I was 19 gave me such an incredible

and unique relationship. Our next story comes from Ovia Begum Ali. We met Ovia through the Moth Education Program, which brings personal storytelling to high school and college students and educators around the country. The Moth EDU brainstorm stories and gives participants the tools and guidance they need to tell them. We loved Ovia's stories so much. We asked them to tell it on her main stage.

In Charlottesville, Virginia, A, listen, I'm from Virginia. It's the VA all day, two up, two down. We told you this Charlottesville will be partnered with the Paramount Theatre here. It's Ovia. I keep a paperable on my desk. It's signed and dated July 2025. And my father folded it when he was in the emergency room. And by the time he made that bill,

I haven't translated my mom and dad most of my life. And the first time this responsibility

falls on my shoulders, I am about 10 years old. And I am wearing a mustard yellow, below tracksuit with little princesses were in across the chest. Nothing says ready for court like rhinestones and anxiety. My mother and I take the e-trained to the Queen's Criminal Court,

“and we hold the same cold metal pole in silence. And we hold on like it's the only thing that's”

keeping us from falling apart. And in the courtroom, the fluorescent lights make everyone see more miserable than they already feel. It's the first time I see my brother in handcuffs and his lawyer walks up to us and she starts talking really fast. The translation back and forth is a bit slow because I am translating from celety to English at English celety except I can't find the word for payment. The closest translation I can come up with is he stays in jail

unless we come up with the money for the judge. Now I don't understand the criminal legal system but I do understand my brother is not coming home. So I cut her off and I say look lady, I am only 10 years old and my mother doesn't understand what you're saying. So she squats down so her eyes meet mine and this time in a softer voice she explains where my brother is going, what is bail and how much we have to pay. And I just not as if I am

comfortable using legal jargon in everyday life. In that moment I learned a rule.

“If I don't stand her from my mom and dad, no one else will. But the truth is I don't want this”

role. I want to sink into my couch and I want to watch Saturday morning cartoons with the giant bolt of cinnamon toast crunch because everyone knows the milk is the main event.

translating adult problems. My childhood felt less like a playground and more like jury duty.

“At school kids would talk about Disneyland and six flags and I want something to add without killing”

the vibe. But nobody wants to listen to stories of our question officers yelling at my mother to remove her burka. So I stayed quiet. My family is from Bangladesh. So that means I speak

siletean home, English out school and survival in between. My parents never sit me down and explain

the bill of rights, but they teach me the rules of survival in Queens. My mother teaches me how to move without asking for permission and my father teaches me how to fight without raising my voice. And those lessons follow me into every room I walk into.

“20 years later, I am at my legal internship and the hand me an assignment on something called an”

outle hearing. And I go all in until it makes sense because behind the case law is a 19-year-old kid looking at present time. Then I get a call from my niece. She tells me that my father's in the emergency room and he's diagnosed with cancer. I don't know what kind how bad it is or how much time we have together. So I go to the hospital to get the full story. And when I'm on the art train, I replay everything my niece told me. When the doctor spoke to my dad, it's all in English.

No one bothers to call an interpreter. And I know my father. He nods his head the way immigrant

do. When the sounds feel familiar, but the meaning never lands. He catches words like his name and

his birthday and hopes the rest will work itself out. And I hope that he misunderstood the diagnosis.

“Or maybe we caught it early. But the truth is, I am terrified. That there's one time I am not there”

to translate, is a moment everything falls apart. So at the hospital, I wait hours for updates, visiting hours and nothing changes. So I lead the hospital and I start working on the assignment. It felt safer to work on a legal memo than to imagine a life without my father. And I don't sleep. The next morning, I sent an alarm to call the hospital every hour. And every hour, the nurse gives me the same response. The doctor will call you.

But that call never comes. By the time I submit my assignment, my exhaustion turns into anger.

And I first, I feel helpless. But then I realized, I've been doing this my whole life. And then I pull out my phone and I start Googling hospital policies. I start throwing out words like duty of care and patient rights. Like I am starring in a reboot of Alimic Bill. I'm not an expert. But I'm exactly whom my father needs me to be. So I go back to the hospital to visit my father and to speak with the patient advocate.

And I am careful not to lose my temper around it. And I explain everything. From the silence to the language barrier. And all this man did was sent one message to my father's entire care team. And that's when things started changing. They finally call it interpreter and as someone who speaks my father's language. And for the first time, my father understands what is happening to his body.

And for the first time, he has a voice in his treatment plan. The doctors also call me regularly and they explain the diagnosis and the next steps. And I have nothing left to say. And that's when the doctor pauses and asks, "How are you feeling?" For a moment, I imagine myself punching him in the face and yelling, "How the fuck do you think I feel?"

But here's a thing I never saw coming. Advocacy give me something unexpected.

“Moments to bond with my mom and dad. These moments weren't just about paperwork or”

pointless anymore. They were real conversations about their dreams and their fears and things they never set out loud. As a kid, I was zone out while my parents were running errands. I would tap the buttons on my game boy or feed my tumma gachi. Meanwhile, my parents were just trying to hold everything together. They never understood what it meant for me when I would miss school and fall behind on my assignments.

And I never understood what it meant to leave a community that knew how to hold them up

and start over in a country that never spoke their language. One afternoon in the hospital, I asked my father about his favorite memory of school.

“And he tells me that he dropped out in the third grade after his dad died.”

And like me, he carried his family on his back when he was just a kid. He smiles and says, "I like making paper crafts." So I rip off a piece of paper and I say, "Show me." He carefully folds the creases until it forms into a paper bow and I pretend I don't know, so he can take the lead. And when he's done, I ask him to sign it.

And he forgets the date. And the advocate of me will never allow him to skip that detail.

So I remind him, "Never sign your name without the date next to it." To avoid any legal issues and avoid being doomed.

“Now, if I can explain or translate my father's annoyance with me, it would probably be even on my deathbed”

you're giving me legal advice. He has a paper bow back to me. And that paper bow sits on my desk. It is evidence that being heard can change everything. And it takes me years to realize this, but every single time I was translating from my mom and dad, I was also translating myself, trying to find my place in their world and mine. And that's still my job now. I make sentences set up straight. Paper may sink in water,

bow words. If we make them strong enough, they can carry us. Thank you. That was Ovia Begum Island. Ovia was born in raised in Queens, New York. They are currently pursuing a jurist doctor at the city university of New York's School of Law. Over the past decade, they have developed a deep understanding of America's criminal legal system. When not drowning in coursework, they love taking their cat on walks, eating through Queens and Brooklyn and capturing

New York's beauty and chaos through photography. For the record, any story that begins with a mustard yellow, the lower track suit and ends with advocacy and love is speaking my language. Have you ever felt like you have a story that you'd like to tell us? If so, you can pitch us a story right on our site, TheMoth.org.

It was my dream to go to medical school, but we had no one medical in our family, so I wasn't sure if it was real. Just a dream, reality, who knew? But there we were driving to the medical school interview in the car broke down the amazing four-tempo broke down. She said, "I'm going to get you to that interview." So I'm not sure how, because we're stuck on the side of the road, and in comes a huge semi-parks right in front of us and my sister jumps out and goes to talk to

the semi-driver, and then motions me to come back and to also come into the truck with a semi-driver. So dream, death, dream, death, and not sure where we're going here, but for some reason that day I wore this outfit of a long tapestry skirt. I don't know, like an English professor and a sweater jacket. I don't know. Fashion is not my forte. So in I jump in the semi, and I asked the gentleman's name,

I turn around, and there's a bed behind me full of carnival stuff snakes." And I said, "Okay."

“So he said, "I hear we got to get you to an interview." I said, "Oh, yes, please." So he drops us off at the”

next exit. I get to the interview, in the interview they asked me, and you reasoned to challenge us, but you could. And I said, "Well, a car broke down, sneaky snake, interview, here we are,

and so for now on, as a dog, when I have a patient who's a trucker, I always thank them

for making my dreams come true." Remember, you can pitch us online at the Moff.org, where you can also share these stories or others from the Moff Archive. In a moment, a woman learns the secret of her grandmother's cooking with the Moff radio hour continues. The Moff radio hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

Hey, I'm Anderson Cooper. Grief can feel so lonely, but talking about it and listening to others

“share their experiences' helps. It's probably the only thing that's really helped me.”

On my podcast, all there is, we explore grief and loss in all its complexities. You'll hear deeply moving and honest discussions with people who have faced and are living with life-altering losses, talking grief, building community. That's what the podcast is all about. Listen and follow, wherever you get your podcasts. No part of the globe was untouched, no life unchanged.

Experience the ultimate account of World War II. Every single person had a story. These are the stories that make us who we are. Listen to World War II with Tom Hanks on Apple, Spotify, or wherever you get your podcasts. This is the Moff radio hour. I'm John Good. Our final story comes from Amina Brown, who told it at a main stage in New Bedford, Massachusetts, what we partnered with the Zatirian Theatre.

Here's Amina, live at the Moff. There are two reasons I needed to get in my grandma's kitchen. One to keep her recipes. Two to catch a man. When I was a little girl, my grandma's kitchen lists this magical place. And it didn't matter whether it was your birthday or a holiday or just a regular old Sunday, she'd say, "Baby, what kind of cake you want?"

And I tell her, "Grandma, I want chocolate cake." And then I run outside to play. And I never

actually stayed in the kitchen to see what she was doing in there. I just figured she's probably clapping her hands like LeBron James in the middle of a basketball game all flour and glitter and abracadabra hands. All I know is, when I came inside from playing, there was a feast, fried chicken, and collard greens, biscuits, and cake. And after the whole meal was over, my grandma would take that leftover fried chicken, set it over to the side. She'd take the cake,

set it to the side, slice it, wrap each slice individually in wax paper, tape it closed, and then she'd grab an empty shoe box, line it with paper towels, half fried chicken, half chocolate cake, and each family got their own box to go home with. Maybe an hour into your journey in the car, on a bus, in a train, you'd lift the lid of that box and feel like heaven was singing back to you, which is why it's a grown woman. I needed to return to my grandma's kitchen, my dating life.

It wasn't going so well. And some of the old southern women said, "Maybe it ain't going well because you can't cook." And I resent the implication. I could cook, I could make spaghetti, and meat loaf, and tuna fish is tuna fish cooking. I went to my grandma and I said, "Grandma, the way to a man's heart is through his stomach. I'm not going to get there like this.

“You need to teach me all the things you know. She clapped her hands like she does when she gets”

really excited, and then she looked at me real serious." And I knew we were about to get to work.

First assignment, collar greens. I'm there, and my grandma's kitchen were hip to hip. There are no

and suggestions and take the best notes I can. We start with these big collar green leaves on the stem, soak them in salt water. She takes me through each step of the process. How you got to cut the leaves off the stem and roll them up just right. Cut them into one inch pieces. So they have

that perfect bite. We make my grandma's amazing collar greens. But now I got to go back to my first

apartment kitchen with its full granite countertops that I was really proud of and try to make these collar greens by myself. So I do and I put together a little tasting dish. Take it back

“over to my grandma. She tastes it and she says not baby. I think you got the texture right but it's”

a little salty. I go back over a period of weeks and I try this until finally. I hand her that tasting dish. And when it comes back to me, there are no collar greens left in it. She had no notes for me, which means I have graduated. I can move on to my next dish. I mean I got a lot to learn. I got to make the mac and cheese and the candy games, the cabbage and the root of Vegas so we do this

over a period of a few months until I finally learn all the dishes. Then I meet a man.

Things get serious with him and so I say it's time for me to make my grandma's food for him. I make him this meal and several months later he proposed to me. Which means grandma's magic. It really does work. My boyfriend becomes my fiance, becomes my husband, we buy our first home and my mother-in-law gives me the perfect symbol of a southern woman's domesticity. The standing kitchen aid mixer. It doesn't matter if you use it.

It's just supposed to sit there on your counter so other people can be jealous of you.

But me, I wanted to use mine. So I called my grandma and I said grandma, I'm turning 35.

This is what I want from my birthday. I want you to come to my house. Let's break open this kitchen aid mixer. Teach me how to bake your cakes. You taught me how to make everything except your cakes. She says, "Baby, let me check my schedule." Changes the subject hangs up the phone. I wait a week. I call back again. Hey grandma, I just wanted to touch a base about this again because my birthday is coming up and I thought maybe

you could come to my house. We could bake a cake together. She said, "Nah, Mina."

“That was so long ago. I don't even know if I remember how to bake those cakes anymore.”

Changes the subject and hangs up the phone. Again, I wait one more week. I call her back grandma, "Hey, my birthday is coming up right here." I thought we could come to an agreement about you coming to my house, bake in a cake. She says, "Mina, I got to tell you something." Now I know you thought I made those cakes from scratch. But Mina was using a box mix. And I don't know if you've ever heard the sound of your child

who had deflated. But this is what it sounds like because no, not my grandma, my grandma has no use for a cake mix. My grandma surely gets the eggs directly from the chickens. I mean, surely when my grandma needs flour, she thrashes the wheat herself. No. My grandmother does not need a cake mix. She said, "And baby, I don't even know if they make that mix. I used to use anymore." Starts Googling, small batch, cake mix, North Carolina because that's where my grandma's

“from. I said, "Well, grandma, you don't even remember what it was called?" She said, "Well, baby,”

they used to call it. Superma." And I don't know if you have Southern grandparents, but when you do, sometimes they say things to you and then the consonants just disappear at the end of the things they say. And you're left there to decide for what is being said to you and she keeps repeating it. And I don't understand what she's saying. And she said, "Baby, you don't understand me. I said, Grandma, I don't know what you're talking about." She said, "Baby, you smell it. S-U-P-E-R-M-O-I-S-T."

Superma. And I said, "Grandma, you think they don't make Betty Crocker super moist anymore?"

you wouldn't know that when they go in that one abandoned grocery store to get formula for that one,

“baby, you know what's still on the aisle, Grandma. Betty Crocker's super moist.”

Grandma, did you know you could drive into rural America, pull up to any gas station, and you know what's going to be sitting there on the aisle, Grandma. Betty Crocker's super moist.

They're never going to stop making it. It's going to survive. There's not going to be a

apocalypse. Let's not worry about this. Can you just come to my house and bake a cake?" She agrees. We're back in the kitchen together. Hipped to hip. I tell her, "I want to make a pineapple cake. I find a from scratch recipe the closest to what I can think her cake would have tasted like. We get in the kitchen together. She starts remembering some things. How you've got to gently

“take your cake layer out of the cake pan, how you've got to poke holes in that middle layer so your”

pineapple sauce will soak through just right. She teaches me how to make an egg white frosting,

and we make a really delicious and really ugly cake. The ugly part was a me thing, not a

earth. I don't know how to frost a cake. Which is why when my grandma turned 85, all of us have to gather together her kids, her grandkids, her great grandkids. We all gather together in a big old beach house and now I'm the one in the family who cooks all the food that she taught me how to make. So I slide up to her and I say, Grandma, what kind of cake you want? And she said, "Now baby, you know I want to chocolate cake. I want yellow cake with chocolate

frosting." And I said, "You're going to get that cake and that cake is going to be super moist." I get in the kitchen. I've cooked all my things. The cake is my last thing to make. And as I'm stirring up this box mix, I'm just thinking, I'm one of the older grandchildren. Maybe she started this cake mix thing for the younger kids. Not for me. I bake that cake and take a little corner off to taste it and yes, taste exactly like my childhood. And she tells me an older woman in the

“church told her, use the cake mix but make your frosting from scratch. That's how you'll fool”

them and she did a whole family. So after this meal, after we feast, we sit around, soaking her in, asking her all the questions we can think to ask. So I say, Grandma, who was the deal with the shoebox, the fried chicken and the cake? Why'd you do that? She said, "Oh, I did that because it's what my parents did for me during segregation." In case we took a trip somewhere and there wasn't a safe place to stop. We made food to keep our family safe. She said, "I did it for my children

during Jim Crow." In case we took a trip and there wasn't a safe place to stop. I made that food to keep our family safe. She said, "I did it for you grandchildren because I want you to get home safe too." And then I thought, "There's my grandma making magic again, taking injustice, taking a painful history and pouring love in all the places she could get it." Which is why when it's time for my cousins to leave when they say, "They gotta leave early, they gotta head back to work." I mean,

I gotta keep the tradition going. I gotta take that cake, slice it, wrap it in wax paper, tape it closed. I gotta hope that cake and wax paper can somehow be a prayer that my cousins will get home safe too. And all these years later, I still got my kitchen aid mixer. I'm still married to that man. We've been married for 14 years. My grandma's 93 years old and she is still telling us what to do.

And I'm always going to be grateful for my grandma for the magic of her kitchen and, of course,

for a small batch, rare to fight, little-known cake mix, called Betty Crocker's Super Moist. Thank you. I mean, the Brown is a spoken word poet, author, and performing artists whose work

a meaner is the author of the comedic essay collection, "Never tell a black girl,

“how the black girl, you gotta love that title, you gotta love that title." And it is out right now.”

It is also our sincere hope that she invites us over, but thanksgiving dinner this year. A meaner's grandma is turning 94 this year and was in the audience at the Atlanta main stage,

where a meaner closed the show with this story. After the event was over,

audience members lined up to take pictures with her grandma, like she was a celebrity, and she

“absolutely is, she absolutely is for it. Every year, a meaner make sure her grandma gets yellow cake”

with chocolate frosting that is super moist. To see photos of a meaner in her grandma or

Heather in the old man, and to find out more about them and all of our storytellers, go to the

Moth.org. You can share these stories or others from the Moth Archive. There are Moth events year-round. You can find a show near you and come out and tell a story. The Moth can be found in all major social media platforms. That's it for this episode. We hope that you keep

“streaming, that your wildest dreams come true, and that you will join us next time.”

This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was hosted by John Good. John is a regular host for The Moth, an Emmy winner, a spoken word poet, and John and Barbara's boy. The show was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Michelle Jolowski. Co-producer is Ficky Merrick, Associate Producer Emily Kouch. The stories were directed by Chloe Sammon and Kate Tellers, additional grand slam coaching by Jennifer Hickson, and education program coaching by Jonathan Cabral. The Moth leadership team

includes Gina Duncan, Christina Norman, Marina Cluchet, Sarah Austin, Genes, Jordan Cardinaly, Caledonia, Karen's Suzanne Rust, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Eurena. Special thanks to unlikely collaborators for their support of the Moth education. Our pitch came in from Dr. Mary Wenson, from Chigrin Falls, Ohio. Most stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the story tellers. Our theme music is by the Drift, other music in this hour from Blue Dot Sessions,

and Stellwagon Symphony. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Lea Reest Dennis. For more about our podcast for information on pitching this your own story and to learn all about the Moth good-or-web site, theMoth.org.