Legends: The Moth Radio Hour

The master-writer has left her to be a soft-handed, so it's a master-writer.

“I'm saying, you can say that you're a hero.”

You're a master-writer, right? But you don't understand. That's right. It's just a challenge. Do you just do it with this story? And if you then do it, you'll be able to do it. -That's right? -Safe. This story.

You're going to do it with your own money. Now, let's try it out. What? A book? A book? What is it? -Have Nutella vergessen? -Me too, Ernst. It's been an hour since I've been here for a long time.

But Nutella is Nutella. This is the Martha Radio Hour. I'm your host, Jodi Powell. In my home, there's a photo of my grandmother.

“A beautiful, kind woman from the hills of Jamaica,”

whose strength has shaped my entire life. She's my definition of a legend. And she reminds me that legends are just found in history books or on giant screens. They're right here, in our families,

our neighborhoods, our classrooms, and in our communities. In this show, we're hearing stories from and about legends.

Our first story comes from Caroline Connelly.

Caroline told this at a grand slam at the town hall in Boston where W.U.R. is a radio partner. Here's Caroline. I spent the summer of my freshman year in college, living with my then 75-year-old grandmother in Boca-Retown, Florida.

If you don't know Boca-Retown, it is a place with a lot of 75-year-olds.

“That's what my grandmother told me when I called to ask.”

If I could stay with her while I was interning at a company nearby. Now, my grandmother goes by Lala in our family because we couldn't pronounce Abuela when we were little. And she is the ultimate Cuban matriarch, a fourth grade teacher

who raised four kids, some of her nine grand kids,

and never left the house without lipstick earrings,

and should you ever need it at least five packets of splendour in her purse. It's worth noting that Lala is begrudgingly a diabetic. And by begrudgingly, I mean, she just doesn't feel like being one. That's really the best way I can describe it. And that summer, she had been directed to change her diet

and do something that absolutely horrified her exercise. And because I was there, it became my responsibility to oversee all of this. So we established a routine. I would wake up early in the morning and make us two cups of cafe buxtello. I would take mine black, and Lala would take hers with milk,

and a huge fistful of cornflakes that she would cram into the mug every day. This is a recipe she concocted to quote, "trick the blood sugar level test." Now, I was a communications major in college. So I wasn't questioning her science. And the levels for the most part seemed fine.

We would take our coffee out onto her back patio table, where there was a small pool. And we would just chat about life. She would ask me questions that had been troubling her, like, "Why do so many white women do yoga now?" And she would dispense love advice, like,

marry someone who you can have a conversation with for the rest of your life. And in the same breath, do not marry someone who does yoga. And as for the physical activity, Lala had decided, allegedly with her doctor, that cleaning around the house and the occasional light stroll were sufficient forms of cardioactivity. So when I would point out to her, she had an exercise one day.

She would get up from the couch with a smirk on her face, walk over to her kitchen counter and casually wipe it down. It was Lala's way of saying, "Go to hell, granddaughter." And on the weekend to meet our strolling goals, we would drive to the local mall and do laps inside Nordstrom.

And so we would start in the shoe section and then make our way over to cosmetics and jewelry.

And eventually work our way to the second floor where they had the higher end designer stuff.

And we would walk around, like, two of the most lethargic robbers casing a joint. And we would reward ourselves for our effort. At night, we would lay in her bed side by side, chowing down on sugar-free wafers, watching a movie from her extensive VHS collection.

So the genre's ranged from Air Force One kind of action to not without my daughter, that controversial Sally Field Film. And this was us week to week.

“And I found myself a single 20-year-old with no friends in the area,”

getting so excited about a sugar-free jello night and a third viewing of the first wives club.

But several weeks into my visit, Lala wasn't feeling well one day. Her blood sugar had spiked, and we thought it was best she go to the hospital. And so while she was being driven there, I was asked to look after my then 10-12-year-old male cousins. And generally speaking, I am somebody who relates more to a 75-year-old than I do a 12-year-old boy. And that is true at like every stage of my life.

And so when I went outside to check on them, it was no surprise that things weren't going as planned. They had taken all of Lala's patio furniture and thrown it into her pool. So her white table and matching white chairs were all underwater. And by the time she came back from the hospital, I had only managed to drag out one of the chairs. I was someone after all who had spent the summer exercising at Nordstrom.

And at first, I could not tell what she was feeling.

Lala is someone who has always looked just as shocked by a car crash as she does the discovery that my boyfriend doesn't speak Spanish.

And so I wasn't sure how mad she would be. But as she looked from the pool to her white chair, she started laughing. Because the chlorine from the pool had cleaned that chair. It had never looked better. Lala is now 92 years old, and she no longer lives in that house.

“But I will always remember all the trips I took there.”

All the ridiculous funny things she said. And all the advice she gave me. But I will especially remember how we spent the rest of that summer, which was once a week. We would take our cafe go and let you in cornflakes out onto her patio. And we would throw all of that furniture into the pool because that was exercise.

That was Caroline Connelly. Caroline grew up in Massachusetts and spent 10 years reporting the news in cities all across the country. These days she's back in Boston where she lives with her husband, their son, and they're very dignified 14-year-old dog. Her grandmother Lala just turned 94 this year. She now lives with family who absolutely don't on her.

She says Lala has always had this beautiful ability to find humor in any situation.

And that's something the tool of them share, along with a sincere love of the dessert menu. Our next story comes from Stacey Sullivan. She told this at our Milwaukee Slam where Wisconsin Public Radio is our media partner. Here's Stacey, live at the mall. In two days, it will be eight years since my dad died in his sleep.

And it still hurts that I didn't get to tell him that I loved him.

“And I decided tonight about a half hour ago that I wanted to do something to remember him by that he never would have done.”

He never would have done something like this. My dad was kind of a peculiar guy. He had a big red mustache. He wore suspenders. And he was a welder. He loved my mom and he loved but wiser.

Probably a little too much. And my dad kind of started to become a little afraid of me. Probably when I started getting boobs and hit puberty. And we do they kind of ask out back padding hug. And my dad probably had some level of dyslexia and learning disability.

He stopped being able to help me with my homework when I was about third grade. But he worked so hard. He worked at the same steel mill since 1974. And he showed up every day and worked tirelessly welding in Phoenix, Arizona. And those are some very hot environments.

I can remember being a kid and writing in my dad's 1987 Chevy pick up.

And the heat would be on in this truck.

“And I would just be like sweltering and pulling at the window.”

And he'd be explaining to me that it helps him acclimate to his welding environment. So when I had to go home to Phoenix in February, it was unseasonably hot in 2016. It was like 90 degrees in February. And, you know, sudden death is such a chaotic thing.

And one thing that I was tasked with was dropping off my dad's debt certificate to the HR department at the steel mill that he worked at since 1974.

And I never had a reason to ever go visit my dad at work

or see what a steel mill was like. And I had this phenomenal existential crisis seeing where my dad worked. Where he showed up to every single day and worked so hard to provide a wonderful life for me.

“It's a very like cold steel environment.”

You know, no nice place to rest and have a lunch. You know, overhead cranes. A lot of heavy equipment. And so I had to drive to get to the HR department. And I had to approach this chain link fence with wheels on it to allow me to go in.

And there was a security guard there. And I rolled down my driver's side window. And I introduced myself as a Stacey Lansdown and explained that I needed to go in to drop off some paperwork for my dad.

And this man that I'd never seen before in my life kind of leans forward and says,

"Oh, boy. Are you Bruce's daughter? Are you the nurse? Boy was he proud of you?" And I just completely lost it.

“And just having this moment of knowing that my dad would never be able to tell me that he was proud of me again.”

And I would never get to tell him that I loved him. But knowing that he loved me as much as he did and talked to me, talked to the security guard about how proud he was of me. I'm just made it hurt a little bit less.

And two days will be at eight years.

And I still miss him. But yeah, I'm proud to have done this little thing for him tonight. [ Applause ] That was Stacey Sullivan. Stacey is a nurse practitioner.

And she put her name in the hat and got a chance to tell this story at our monthly story slam in Milwaukee. If you'd like to learn more about our slams or even tell your own story, head over to themoth.org. In a moment, we'll continue this hour of legends and take you into two kinds of magic. The kind you find inside small quaint shops and the kind that pulls you out into the middle of the streets. That's when the moth radio hour continues.

[ Music ] The moth radio hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. After a long winter, even a small shift can change how home feels. This spring, open the door to something lighter. Explore vibrant sense inspired by place from bright citrus terraces to blooming lavender fields

and layer them into their rooms you love most. For a limited time, get a free purer for diffuser when you subscribe to two cents for 12 months. It's an easy way to refresh your space without starting over. Visit purer.com and bring spring home. [ Music ]

[ Music ] [ Music ] [ Music ] [ Music ] [ Music ]

[ Music ] [ Music ] This is the moth radio hour. I'm Jodie Powell.

The people who make a moment on forgettable and make you grateful you got to cross their path,

even for a very short while.

“Our next storyteller is Marquoise Salestine. He told this at the Louisiana Historic Land,”

where New Orleans Public Radio is our media partner. Here's Marquoise, live at the moth. [ Music ] I must admit, I really appreciate this prompt because it's so much in the world out there that seems to be so opposed to enjoyed it. I really needed this reflection today.

So, I needed this. I needed this. [ Applause ] Y'all are right if I talk about Mardi Gras too. I know somebody already did that, but my joy really, really lives in Mardi Gras.

You know, I love it. I always have love Mardi Gras.

I mean, the whimsy, the charm of it all. I mean, it's just something about it. You can fall into it if you allow yourself to just be free enough to do it. I mean, the whimsy, the music, the movement. Mardi Gras are moved, and I'm here for it.

I even love the smell of Mardi Gras. [ Laughter ] Now, Mardi Gras does have its problematic parts too. I won't lie. I mean, its origin story is kind of shrouded in that lowest cause mythology. I mean, think about that next time a hooded horseman Gallup's past year.

As we stand in front of the mansions of the former sugar barrens and people traders in the flambo,

“I mean, they're amusing for sure, but is it just me or is that kind of problematic?”

You know, in the royal courts, the debutants and the monarchs, every man of king, but segregated his ever. That's all right. I still love Mardi Gras anyway. [ Laughter ] I still love it because, see, Mardi Gras not just a mirror. It's a magnifying glass of iron in the most impulses.

You know, the stuff we spend the rest of the year trying us to press. [ Laughter ]

You know, it's never been as much about the what, but the who-with.

See, those memories about those times we spend together with the people we love. That's, that's Mardi Gras for me. And now, I'm able to see the joy of Mardi Gras through the eyes of my daughter. And thank God, she loves Mardi Gras even more than I do. And before I even had words, I had memories.

I remember waking up Mardi Gras morning, crisp, grass from my mom's hand, chasing down float number 12, lower deck, neutral groundside. [ Laughter ] To see my dad and his full Zulu glory. [ Laughter ] Every moment, person on top his shoulders, I was mesmerized by the spectacle.

I couldn't get enough. You might even catch me at a parade in Metary if it's early enough in the season. [ Laughter ] [ Laughter ] Abby, you know, no, no shade to the suburbs, but y'all know what I mean.

[ Laughter ] But I'd be hard for us to share a Mardi Gras memory without thinking back to my dad, because it's almost cruel if not poetic that this one particular season we entered into it and he went into hospice. And a giant of a man reduced by his battle with dementia.

“I could remember back in my earlier years and it was a couple of months”

and the last parade had passed and my bedroom was still canal street, my bed was still a king's float. All my toys were the crowd and everything I caught that year. Those were my throws and my dad walked in on me. Mead Rout.

[ Laughter ] And he looks at me and he's like, he laughs, you know, he laughs a little bit. He looks at me like sign, come on now. Mardi Gras over. His age wins day.

And see that refrain would be a metaphor he used throughout my life, because it's signaled when I need to leave something behind and make way for what was in front. And my actual age wins day arrived. It was inevitable. We knew he was getting ready to depart.

But I held out pre to the god of my childhood for one last blessing. And I don't know if it was the conversation I had or the prayers that I had. Or just telling that nurse, hey, slow down on that LaRazapam. But I'm telling you something indeed did happen. Ashes on my head, ashes on his and a light shone.

My dad's eyes opened.

He cracked a smile, he even laughed.

“He did something he hadn't done in weeks.”

He got up and he walked. It didn't even feel real, almost like a tablovie hunt. And I'm going to tell you, he lasted eight more months after that. He even came home for a little bit. Even as I'm telling y'all, it's story now.

I'm taking back to those roles and roles of coconuts in my garage. It's the back didn't we used to shave them and drain them and paint them and decorate them ourselves. Couldn't audit it from overseas already done. I'm going to the first time we rolled the truck parade together. And the next year I'd best say, "Dad, I want to ride the real parade this year."

He did one bed I rolled on the king's floor. That was a page. And the next year I was a big time riding the big shot.

“I mean, tailing the spy boy, treeling the bands, the clayman bridge,”

and the gaulyahal stands.

Every single moment, powerful love.

Joy. Thank you. [ Cheers and applause ] Marcus Salestine is a New Orleans-born storyteller, whose travels around the world have only strengthened his love for his hometown.

His work has taken him from the Midwest, Asia, to the East Coast, and now back to New Orleans, where he's we're discovering the city's deep cultural magic. Marcus says he's still all about Mardi Gras, but it's still hard to watch the zoole parade, which was such a core memory he shared with his dad. But these days, along with his wife and daughter, they made muses their new tradition,

the old female parade that tosses the dazzled shoes. When I asked Marcus about his definition of a legend, he wrote, "A legend to me is someone who puts so much of themselves out there

that the impact they leave behind never dies."

They say you know a tree by the food it bears, and so much of how I try to live, parent, and give our extensions of how my father led his life. My dad's impact on me, and so many others, was nothing short of legendary. [ Music ] Our next story is from Brenda Williams.

We told it at our New York City Grandslam where WNYC is our media partner. Brenda mentions Obia in her story. It's a West African spiritual practice that shows up in all kinds of ways across the diaspora. Think rituals, spells, folk medicine, mostly for healing or protection. Here's Brenda, live at the mouth.

[ Applause ] Thank you. So, Haiti has Wudu. Cuba has Centuria. America has all kinds of witchcraft.

And some Caribbean countries have Obia. To this day, I don't know how my religious Jamaican dad connected with an Obia woman, but he did. After 25 years living in England, he emigrated to the US ahead of the rest of the family, and must have connected with her before we came over

to join him in New Jersey. I was 14 when we moved and beyond miserable. I had no friends. We were living in a really rough neighborhood. And the local high school, the stories about it terrified me.

Bullying, drugs, terrible teachers, I had been this nerdy scholar in London. I knew I'd just be minced meat there. I started having nightmares about it. My parents saw my distress and recommended the one thing guaranteed to help me. You can probably guess, ceramics classes.

Yep, they knew a lady with a killme, who I was to call aunt E.D. So right off, I knew something was wrong. Not the part about getting a new aunt. We were raised to call our elders aunts and uncles as a sign of respect.

“But ceramics classes, and why would my parents spring for this when we were so broke?”

Anyway, aunt E.D. was this plump, sweet and salty lady who kept praising my grades and how polite I was, so I knew my dad had taught me a lot. We did the ceramics in her basement, but we didn't create anything from scratch.

I was very curious about this shop.

Something else was really weird.

“She deliberately painted them to look unnatural.”

Like the little Dutch girl with a too long braid, flame orange, pitch black face, purple eyes, and these enormous ceramic cats, hot pink yellow eyes. I told my older sister Sonny about it. How ugly they were, and we laughed about it. That's my same sister. It was around late July. She took me to check out the high school. And when we got there, there were these boys at the entrance.

And they made really crude cat calls at us, so we were too afraid to go in.

Naturally, my nightmares continued. Around the same time, on ED, invited me to her shop, and my sister Sonny came with me. So the shop was on the side street, tiny space.

“We walked in and there were all her creations, and all those purple pink and yellow eyes.”

They looked kind of confused to me on the same shelf as figurines of profits and saints. And then there was the shelf of potions with labels like postulance brew and protection tonic. And my personal favorite, "Love or come back oil."

And then from a room in the back, a lady hurried out clutching a bag that smelled like rancid meat.

I was not going near that door. Sonny and I left as soon as we could. I got home and confronted my parents. Did you know Aunt ED is an obior woman? My dad, she officially said, "Well, do you not feel safe?"

And I actually, I did feel safe. I kind of liked her. That said, Aunt ED has no children of her own, and she's very well connected. You have to stick with it a bit longer. So the lessons continued.

“And after the visit to the shop, Aunt ED asked me, "What did I really think of her creations, her figurines?"”

And of course the words horrendous and hideous came to mind. But instead I said, "Strange." And she seemed, "Please, I didn't try to lie." She actually told me that her customers expected strangeness. They saw beauty in it because it made them believe that she might be legit.

And maybe could actually help them. She had been doing this kind of work since she was 16 years old. And back then she wanted to be a nurse, but couldn't afford to go for training. So she turned to a different type of healing from this very different direction. So after all of this outpouring, I was ready to leave.

And she kind of held onto my hand. And on impulse, I gave her a tiny peck on the cheek. Come, mid, August. The lessons had been continuing, and my parents got the call they were hoping for. Aunt ED had a client, an elderly Jamaican lady, who agreed to let me use her home address,

which was zoned for an excellent high school about an hour from where we lived. The lady would not accept money, but she and Aunt ED insisted on seeing my report card every quarter. And so it was, I gained another new aunt, Auntie Mildrid, from this circle of Jamaican ladies, who occasionally gave a gift to a young immigrant girl. And I repaid them simply by receiving, by receiving the kind of education that had not been available to them.

Thank you so much. That was Brenda Williams. Brenda is a writer and human resources professional based in Brooklyn, New York. Brenda said the home address arrangement only lasted one year.

And enough time for her parents to move to a neighborhood with a decent high school.

“When I asked Brenda how she's being it forward, she told me,”

"I continued my nerdy love of school all the way to college and was able to qualify for an attend and Ivy League university. Something I owe entirely to the circle of ladies. I've carried that gratitude with me and I've tried to pass it on through years of teaching and mentoring both formally and informally. I started with kids and teens and now I mainly work with young professionals. In a moment, we take a trip down memory lane and meet a legend as their becoming one.

A reminder that legends can show up at any age. That's when the mawth radio hour continues. The mawth radio hour is produced by Atlantic public media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is our glass. On this American life, when they mean like, it's a good mystery.

Sometimes about really big things, things here in the news. But most times, the little mysteries are the best.

“Our lost and found is currently filled with pants.”

I don't know. I've never seen this happen. I've got skirts. I've got shorts.

This is true. Mysteries of every size each week, this American life. Wherever you get your podcasts. This is the mawth radio hour. I'm Judy Powell. Our final story comes from Pastor Herbert Brum.

Pastor Brum told this at our main stage in Boston, where we partnered with WGVH and the Wilber Theatre. Here's Pastor Brum, live at the mawth. This is the pastor's dream to see so many people out here in the audience, while I stand before you.

But I promise you I'm not going to preach tonight. But can I get a amen? February 2020.

“The Mississippi Civil Rights Museum in Jackson, Mississippi,”

had opened door in celebration of Dr. Martin Luther King's birthday. I had just retired, so I'm like, I got time on my hand. Let me go and experience some of my paths. As I walked into the main lobby, I was really amazingly pleased to see so many people there.

Matter of fact, it was a lot of people older than I am. And they were sharing their stories with their grandchildren, their great grandchildren.

When all of a sudden, I heard of a million sound.

It's the same sound we sang at our church, sang Jain Belt, the missionary Baptist Church, in two new communities, every Sunday. The song is this little light of man. As I turned to find out where it was coming from,

I was really shocked because it was coming from the Jimmy and Sarah Boxdale Expo. Now what made it shocking was, I had just retired from being an automotive sales consultant from Jimmy Boxdale, he owned a car like dealership in Jackson.

I never thought that he was involved in civil rights.

So naturally, my curiosity, I went into and explore the exhibit. I found a map of the state of Mississippi, and if you know Mississippi looked like a great big nose, the map had indication of those counties that had voter registration.

So as I looked at Wilkinson County, which is the tip of the nose, there was no map. Now I knew that that was voter registration going on in that county, because I am a living witness. I witnessed an EY witness that voter registration occurred.

Both of my parents taught school there. My dad was industrial, he taught algebra. And he also was a football coach. My mom, she taught English, Mississippi history, and home economics.

Which other words mean I know what fork and knife to use to cut a state. Let's go back 61 years,

I had just turned 10 years old.

“That afternoon, two cars pulled up in our yard,”

a sedan, and a station wagon. The men in the sedan got out to car. They walked to the door. And I heard a few of you knock. My dad opened the door.

And these men came in. They were so tall. They had to kind of bend down and go up under the doorposts. They literally walked in each one of those rooms. And they made sure they looked in the bedroom.

They looked in the closet. They looked everywhere. Matter of fact, one of the tall men made one step on the ladder, and he could shine in the attic.

“They were making sure that the only people”

that was at that house was the broom family. The other two men went around the house, and because our house was placed on the center blocks, they shine in the flashlight all up under the house. Making sure there was no bottom there.

When the thumbs came up, the door of the station wagon opened up. This man walked to the house. My dad was so excited to see him. They did a manly hug and a hand shake. And my dad introduced my family.

He said, "This is my wife Hurley. She shook his hand." He said, "This is my daughter hurt to genus." And she five years old, he reached down and he shook her hand. Then he introduced me and said, "This is my son, Hurley James."

When I reached up to shake this man hand, I was shaking the hand of megalwally Evers. He was the secretary of the state of Mississippi in WACP meeting. My parents and Mr. Evers immediately sit down at the table. Now back in '63, children were allowed to just hang around and see what grown folks were talking about.

That next morning, I was walking by the smell of breakfast. My mother had fixed everything that you want to imagine. Because my dad's friend, who by the way attended all cornstate university together, located at Lama, Mississippi. So they was all classmates. But they had stayed up all night long talking.

My mom had grits, eggs, bacon, toast. Even dad's favorite biscuit alone was served, coffee, and milk. We all had a wonderful time. After they left for a few days later, they had the first NAACP meeting in WACP meeting in WACP.

I was in county. It was held at the local metallist church. Now, the meeting started at 7 o'clock. But here was 720, and we were still at home. My mother, bless her heart, was just so slow.

She used to frustrate my dad because she was always slow.

When we finally got there about 730, the parking lot was full of cars and trucks. As a matter of fact, there was bicycles leaning on side of the church. Now, in 63, they didn't have Central Air. So the winners of the church was open.

The latest there was in there. They had the little fan along with a patented other person. They were trying to stay comfortable. I don't recall everything that was said that night. But I do remember there was two songs that we sung. The first song was, "I'm not going to let nobody turn me around."

The guest speaker he got up and he's still talking about how important it was to be registered voters. And that we didn't have to count beans in the jar. You know how to pay poll taxes.

“The only thing that was required was that you was a citizen of the United States.”

And you go down and you register a vote. Road trip. My dad got all of us together. And we stopped by the St. Clair's service station.

Now, my dad pulled up and the first name he said was, "Ooh, weed is gas is so hot."

When I looked out the window, 17.9 cent of gallon for premium gas. After we filled the car up, the next stop we made was that the Gulf service station. Of course, in 1963, black people couldn't go into the restaurant and order their food. We had to go by the kitchen, though, on the side. Which was okay with us, because the main cook will miss Parley Lacy.

My best friend, Mom. And miss Lacy put our hamburgers in separate bags.

It had lettuce, tomatoes, onion, pickle.

“And even the grill was toasted to a nice crunch.”

The barns was excellent. We drove 100 miles one way to Jackson, Mississippi. They drove downtown on capital street, and they pulled in front of the federal post office. They was mailing the letter to Washington, D.C. Of course, what I observed was they put that letter inside another letter that was dressed to my aunt in Chicago.

Because in '63, if you mail a letter in hookets and county tower might go on to Washington, D.C.,

I promise you that letter would have never left the county.

June 12, 1963.

“My dad, friend, after attending an NAACP meeting in Jackson, Mississippi, pull up to his house.”

Only to be shot in the back. His wife rushed him to the emergency room at the local hospital. Only to be rejected and turned down because the hospital was segregated. He died right there on the spot. We got the news while my parents and us, we only had one TV in the whole house.

And we always watched in Dad's favorite show.

When all of a sudden the new flash came on, a Nelson that mega watered it was dead. That was the only time I saw my strong dad break down and cry. As a matter of fact, we all cried that night. But it was too late to run and hide. As a matter of fact, instead of burning the stores down and looting the stores, they put on one of the most vicious

block out in that county. No bad people even spent one red cent in the white stores. A few days later, people came to our house when their dark suits. These were men from Washington, D.C., who presented my mom a letter. The letter that she sent to Washington, D.C., was a request for a grant to put on voter registration driving that county.

And it was approved. That next day, thank you. That next day, it was voter registration day.

“And I stand before you and I promise you, that was the only time that I can remember my mom being on time.”

As a matter of fact, she was blowing her on time. I come on Jane, we're going to be late. She sent my sister across the street to Mr. Johnson House because we remember she was only five years old. So I rolled down town with my parents. They got out of the car and they went in the courthouse. That passed me the keys to his 57 Chevy.

He said, son, I want you to go and get somebody else and bring them down to vote. My dad could trust me driving his car at 10. Because he taught me how to drive at six years old. As a matter of fact, at seven years old, I had my own keys to my own transportation. I could literally drive downtown, would be a Mississippi, way back to police,

till my hat to the chair and they didn't pull me over. Now you all might think it was that 57 Chevy, but no, it was that little 435 tractor on my way to the sweet potato field. Come on, dad was also a farmer. As I went back to our neighborhood called Kegels Bottoms, I drove past Mr. Monroe House. And instead of turning to the right, I decided to go straight.

When I got to the inner that drive, it was a dead end street. When I turned around, that said on that porch was Mr. Sidney and his wife, the millies.

And he said, and I said, "Are you all registered voters with some excitement?"

“He looked at me with a deep voice, "No, son, we two old little boat."”

I'm like, "I know he was served in an army, and he's a well-dressed person." So in my mind, I just immediately said this. Well, Mr. Mr. Miller, were you all registered the boat, so one day I can vote? Mr. Miller didn't say a word. She got up, she went in the house. Now I'm thinking, "Ooh, is she going to get that old pump shot gun?"

Because they did say they were too old to vote.

Instead, Mr. Miller came out, she had her little pattern that was purse.

And ladies, you know those shoes you used to wear out. Now you make house shoes out of them.

“That's what she had on. She touched the husband.”

She said, "Shoot, come on. We go on downtown, and we're going to register the boat." They got in the back of my car, and I remember I'm 10 years old. I'm driving like this. Looking through the stern wheel and the dashboard. So I can reach the gas and the brakes.

They were quiet all the way down the street. One of the reasons they may have been quiet was because, during that time, if a black person wanted to register a boat, he could possibly lose his job. He could go to jail.

“But worse scenario, he could even be hung to register the boat.”

When we pulled up at the courthouse, they got out the car, steal quiet, and they slowly walked into the courtroom of the courthouse. I stayed in the car and I looked in the rearview mirror and that was people on the other side of the street. And you know who I'm talking about. They was taking names and writing tags down. I wish everybody here could have seen what I saw when the military came out of that courthouse.

The hit was high. They was actually holding hands. As if they went into the courthouse and just got married. They walked back to the car and got back in the back seat. Now all of a sudden, I went from being their driver to their chauffeur.

When we got back to his house, he said, "Young man, I am so glad that you took us down and now we are registered voters." When I turned 18 years old from my birthday present, my parents took me down to the courthouse, a chance to record office, and I became a registered voter. And the feeling that I got when I cast my first vote,

that was the first time I really felt like I was a true American citizen. As long as I live, the story of the millers, the broms, maybe I was malu to king.

Those stories were never that, not on my watch.

This little light of man, I'm going to let it shine. This little light of man. Pastor Brum was born in Laurel, Mississippi, to the late Reverend James D. and Mrs. Halle Pearce Brum, who were both teachers and community activists. Service was a part of his everyday life.

He began spreading the good news more than 60 years ago. I called Pastor Brum with a few questions, and he answered the phone over his Friday night game of Domino's. Hi, Pastor Brum, so a question that I asked all of the storytellers in this hour is, what or whom is your definition of a legend? My definition of a legend, we have to be my father, our pastor James D. Brum.

He is teaching young men in scouting, passed about court football court, but he raised me to fish to hunt.

“Just to be a man, a family man, and I love him forward.”

And you know, he passed away on father's day, which me got himself feel like he's a legend to be remembered. So that's really my father, where Brum would be my legend.

That was Pastor Herbert Brum.

“That brings us to the end of this episode of The Moth Radio Hour.”

Thank you to our storytellers, to the Moth team, and to you for listening. We hope you'll join us next time. [Music]

“This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Jody Powell, who also hosted.”

Coproducer is Vicky Merrick, the socioproducer Emily Couch.

Additional grand slam coaching by Meg Bowles and Jennifer Hickson. The rest of the Moth leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Christina Norman, Marina Cluché, Sarah Austin, Janes, Jordan Cardinale, Caledonia, Karen's Kate Tellers, Susan Russ, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Eurena. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the drift.

Other music in this hour, from Ry Kudder and Manuel Galban, Brad Meldell, and Daniel Rosson. James Andrews and Trumbone Shorty Brothers, Ernest Rangland, and Bruce Coburn. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media, and Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including Executive Producer Leah Rees Dennis. For more about our podcast, for information on pitching as your own story,

and to learn all about the Moth Go to our website, TheMoth.org. [Music]