When the World Shifts: The Moth Radio Hour

55 grams for 990 cents, or Golden Sea Food Reuer Lacks, XXL, 220 grams for 0.3 €, 970. Aldi, good for all. This is the month radio hour.

“I'm Brandon Grant from the month, and I'll be your host this time.”

In this hour, we bring you four stories about seismic moments and subtle shifts. An expectant mother finds power and trusting her body. A young artist follows her heart through divorce. A woman recalls the impact of a hurricane.

And in our first story, a claim to make an author, Marlin James, reflects on his time as a junior

exorcist. A quick note, there is some reference to sexual awakening in the story. Marlin told us, at a monk main stage in St. Paul, where we partner with Minnesota Public Radio. Here's Marlin James, live at the month. So it's teenage Christian summer camp.

“But I'm not a camper, I'm the camp marshal.”

And what that usually meant was that whenever there were congregations of people of different genital genitalia, I would show up at a ruler and just go, "make space for Jesus." And my genius was that I could appear anywhere. But if somebody with male genitalia ended up anywhere near someone with female genitalia, and then moved within 11 inches of each other, I showed up in between and I meant, "make

space for Jesus." And I was pretty good at this, but it wasn't until one service realized what my true talent was.

It was six o'clock, it was a second service, it was two services because we were devout

like that. And in the middle of church, in the middle of this service, 14-year-old girl, 14-year-old girl, starts screaming, she's screaming, she's hollering, she's running around the church. If you know anything about my church, that is normal behavior. But she's screaming at a pretty high volume, and the guest preacher who's from Texas,

I figure he knows his stuff. He comes towards her, and she just yells and runs straight out of the church, she dashes out of the church, and we don't even think I dash straight after her. And she collapses, she collapses to the ground and I catch her and I'm hollering her down. And the pastor comes up and says, "Bad it, bad it, power of Jesus, I cast you out."

And this is a 14-year-old girl who develops a strength of a linebacker. And I'm hollering her down and he's praying and he's casting out demons and he's saying, "Bad it, spirit of Jesus, I cast you out." And she looks at me and goes, "I'm not coming out." And before I could lose my shit, the pastor, the pastor, no, by the authority of Jesus,

I cast you out and he does some more authorizing, and this has, and she squeals, she screams, she shouts, and then she just sort of collapses in my arms, and opens her eyes and she looks straight at me and straight at the pastor. And she was fine, she was a 14-year-old girl again, and with that, I became a junior exorcist.

“Now, there are things you need to know about demons.”

These don't possess you, they influence you. Most of the time, they can't read your thoughts, but most of the time when they're talking you think it's you, and demons don't need you to believe. And I was very good as a junior exorcist. I was the devil driving muscle, but even during that and becoming really, really good at this,

there are always things that were plaguing me, and things I was struggling with, and it's

two o'clock in the morning, and you're on a website, you shouldn't be on, and I am having all these feelings, and I'm having these things that I'm seeing, and I'm seeing all these men, and you're always naked. And I'm having all these struggles, these demons, and I'm thinking, "You know, I can't

I'm supposed to live in church, and I'm not living in demons, and, you know, I am thinking

“of George Clooney, and he's not wearing any clothes.”

It must be demons, and more than that, more than that, I realized something that I wanted to be a normal person so badly, actually that's not true, I didn't want to be a normal person at all, I wanted to want it, I didn't want marriage and a family and kids, I wanted to want that, I didn't want to be acceptable, I wanted to want acceptance, I didn't want to wake up in the morning with my family, and we're eating cherios, and I asked how

was banned practice, I wanted to want these things, and I wanted to be normal, so badly, it didn't cure if I wasn't happy, and I got to the point where I realized as a junior exorcist that I needed to be exercised, so I call my best friend at a time who conveniently

“was a pastor, and I said, you know, I think I need to be delivered, because in charismatic”

churches we call them deliverances, not exorcism, I know you thought squee-like a pig, but so I call, and my exorcism date was set up, and I headed to another church because word couldn't get out that the exorcist was being exercised, and so I went to this other church, and there's a room, it was a small 12 feet by 12 feet room, it was beige, there were small windows at the top, it looked like prison, and I was thinking, even at that point, I can

leave, I can go, I can get out of this space, nobody will know, nobody will care, and just when I'm thinking that a man or woman come in, and they sit down, and looking at them sitting down, me and me look at the floor, and on the floor were two big black garbage

“bags, and the man says to me, "Tell me about yourself, and I have a script when everybody”

anybody asked me that, I go into hell, I love my dad, but I hate him, and you know, we're not together, we're not close, and you know, I've come to a certain point of acceptance of him, and I don't hate him, I just dislike him very much, and I was very, very pleased with this answer, you know, I was sexually confused, dude, with daddy issues, like half of the audience here, and I was very, I was very satisfied with this answer, and then

he said to me, "Tell me about your mother, and I had no, I froze, it never occurred to

me at all to think about my mother, and it just came all at once, that everything I was living at that time, the liar was living, the ways in which I was not being myself was all in this effort to never disappoint my mother, and I realized at that point my entire life was built around the sham of not displeasing my mom, and I opened my mouth to say all of this and a scream came out, and I couldn't stop screaming, I couldn't stop bawling, I was crying,

I was shaking, and the two pastors immediately jumped up and started to speak in tongues

I've never heard, and you know, I started to cry and choke so much that I started to vomit

and they grabbed the first garbage bag, they were screaming and they were laying hands up sometimes, and pulling hands off, and I was just, I just couldn't control myself, and I said, you know, if people knew the real me, you know what, it would love me, and he was like, "All love is in Christ, and there's a life from the pit of hell." And then I'd say, "There's no life of the man in a church, you're all morons."

And he was like, "That is life from the pit of hell," and so on. And then I said, "He sees men naked every time he prays."

And that was the first time it was my voice, it was coming out of my mouth, but it was spoken

in the third person, and that's when literally all hell broke loose. They grabbed me, they started to again, "Pray and lay hands, I am crying, I'm choking." And at one point, the woman who, up to this point, has not really said anything, looks at me and says, "You have to

so the idea of casting up my own demons, made no sense. And the second thing is, she said,

“"Yes, yes, you have many demons in you. You have to cast them out." And she led me in a spur,”

and I went, "You know, by the power of Jesus, I cast you all, by the power of Jesus, I cast you all, by the power of Jesus, I cast you all." And I said that eight times, because there are eight demons in me. And afterwards, she, when I was all done, she just held my face in her arms, in her hands, and smiled, and the male pastor said, "It's over." And he said, "You're free,

you're going to go home now, and I want you to purify your life. I want you to not give

the demons entryway, because I'm not a thing about demons, once they leave you day, come back with seven." And so I went home to purify my life. I got rid of TV, which was

“the first time I found out that my cable was canceled four years earlier, so that really”

wasn't very hard. And I got rid of, and this had also got rid of, get rid of that demon rock music, and that was horrible. But, you know, Patty Smith had to go. Elliot Smith Go. Kurt Cobain, gone. Pearl Jam, they could stay. And I felt really, I actually did feel pure. I felt pure. I felt cleansed. I, you know, I walked with my hand held, had held, had held high. I was really, actually did feel better. And then the demons came back,

and lost, and, and, and the thoughts of sins, and Jake Gillinhal, naked. And what, but something was different, because one of the, one of the musicians I did not throw away was David Bowie. And David Bowie has a song called "Rock and Rolls," who we say. And the really magical thing about that song is everything you hate about yourself when that song starts, becomes everything you love about yourself when that song ends. And I

realized something. Demons can't possess you. They influence you. Demons don't need you

“to believe. Do I believe in them? I did believe in them at a time. In the same way, I believe”

that Gabriel García Marquez is realism is no magic. It's real. And what, something else was different. You know, I think, yeah, sure, maybe they're demons, but maybe you have a chemical imbalance, or maybe your boy who likes boys, or your girl who likes girls, or maybe you realize that biology isn't destiny. And maybe you realize like, I did that maybe the thing I needed to exercise for me was my church. Because, you know, normality

in a lot of ways, you know, is a myth. And I was so obsessed with the obsessed with being normal. And I realize something. I realize something and it hit me almost like a whisper. That maybe the reason you're not normal is that you're not here to do a normal thing. That one I learned in church. Thank you. That was Marlon James. Marlon is the author of several award-winning books, including the Book of Night Women, a brief history of seven killings,

black leopard red wolf. His newest novel is Moon Witch Spider King. As a fellow Jamaican who grew up in a pretty religious family, Marlon's story brought

back many memories from my childhood. I never felt it ease, knowing I was different. It

wasn't until I came to peace with who I was as a gay man that I started to feel less at odds with everything around me. My perspective shifted, which allowed me to step into the world as my true self. In a moment, we'll hear a story about the birth of a child under unlikely circumstances

Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

“This is the Moth Radio Hour I'm Brandon Graham. This hour is all about turning points”

and new horizons. Hannah Brennan told this story at a Moth Community Engagement Programme Showcase in Brooklyn. The evening was presented by our friends at the Kate Spade New York Foundation. Here's Hannah, live at the Moth. I lower myself heavy and hot into my favorite yellow armchair. As I sit, my very large, very pregnant stomach weighs heavy on my thighs.

I am huge. I haven't been able to see let alone reach my swollen, tingling feet for weeks.

“And it is a hot, humid, sweaty, sticky July in Virginia.”

I'm at home waiting to give birth to my first child.

My midwife is soon to arrive with her senior student for what has become her daily visit because I am three weeks past my due date. Three weeks. What are they going to say today? When I first became pregnant, my husband and I did some research and spoke to other moms. It was 2017 and we discovered that in the USA medical intervention is common

in hospital beds and one in three ends in Caesarian section. That is major abdominal surgery. Some people said that it wasn't advisable to have a home birth at my right old age of 41. But I really wanted an undisturbed, unmedicated birth at home and my husband was in full support. Around four months pregnant we found our midwife. This woman had been delivering babies longer than I had been alive. It is no exaggeration to say that I loved and trusted her from our very first meeting.

My husband and I began monthly prenatal sessions with her and each one was over an hour. We focused not on charts or measurements but on conversations about my life.

Always giving me the lead she would ask me questions that made me reflect

in one of our early prenatal sessions with my characteristic desire to know and understand. I asked the questions that you ask when you've never had a baby before.

“How will I know when I'm in proper labor? When will you come? What will happen next?”

She sat on her stool in front of us swaying slightly, thoughtful and attentive and said, "You are not going to do labor. Labor is going to do you." For this birth to go the way that you want it to, you are going to have to get out of your head and trust your body's wisdom. Trust my body's wisdom.

Trust the wisdom that doesn't come from my head. What does that mean? How do you do that? As I reflected more childhood memories began to return. As a child and a teen, kids had ruthlessly teased me. Teased me for being sensitive and overweight.

Treating me like something, comic and unfelian. Because I was overweight, men would shout mean things at me in the street.

I received the clear message that I was neither valuable nor desirable.

This indelible part of me that everyone could see my body. I considered a failure, a liability. And I was angry and I was confused and I was really hurt. So I decided to be smart instead. And long after my body began to change physically, those messages stayed with me

and being smart and having a plan and being in control

“became key to my identity and my feelings of success.”

And then becoming pregnant and my body is growing and changing in ways that I don't understand.

It's still felt pretty important to have a plan and be in control. But that was because I still believed my body to be a liability, not a source of wisdom. As months went by my baby grew inside me and with my midwives, gentle probing, I started to rediscover my body's wisdom.

A true teacher, she made it clear in her method that she was the expert in midwifery

and she trusted and believed in me to be the expert in my body and in giving birth.

“I started to trust that if my body could make a brand new human being,”

it probably knew how to get it out. But here I am in pain and discomfort in my yellow chair, far too pregnant. My midwife and her student arrive and sit close to me. She presses her hands gently but keenly on my ankles, checking the level of swelling.

After careful observation, she says there is no indication that this baby is in distress. Nor is there any indication that you are in distress. All the signs suggest that your body is moving towards birth. Just very slowly. We can go to the hospital or we can wait a little longer.

It's your choice. We sit in silence. Tears trickle down my cheeks. Her advice seems so wise just a few weeks ago. And now, surrender to my body's wisdom.

I'm hot. I'm tired. Everything hurts and I'm not feeling too wise right now. I'm telling myself that my body knows how to give birth and I want to believe it.

“Am I fooling myself? Am I risking my baby's safety?”

I'm not supposed to be this far past my due date. Is something wrong and wait a little longer? This waiting and trusting is really hard. Plus, my family and friends are saying with more and more force you have got to go to the hospital. I've turned my phone off.

I'm too pregnant and too open to hear their fears and concerns now. Otherwise, I may just start believing them. Again, I notice her hands on my feet this time for comfort and reassurance. She knows that going to the hospital will likely lead to the interventions I so want to avoid.

She also knows that in over 40 years of practice, she has rarely seen a woman go this far.

“She looks at me with such love and says, "It's okay.”

You can trust yourself." That night, under the full moon, I tell myself, "My body knows how to give birth. This baby knows how to be born. Please, Moon, help me. This baby has got to come out.

The next morning, I go into labor. My husband and my constant support.

“My midwives model of care is to stay out of my line of sight.”

I barely see them, but I know they are there monitoring me and the baby. My body labours as it needs to, and when it's time for birth, they are there with me. Their quiet presence makes me feel completely supported and that my body is completely in charge.

And it's like my mum has always said, "Beth is the only pain for something right

and after 15 hours labor. At 43 and a half weeks pregnant, shortly before my 42nd birthday in the special familiarity of our home, I give birth to our 10-pound four-ounce, healthy, happy, beautiful son." And I am different. I'm a different woman. My body is neither liability nor failure. My body is a source of great wisdom and I trust it more and more every day.

Thank you. Hannah H Smith Brennan, PhD, is a sociologist, educator, and author who focuses on childhood, youth, and families. Hannah's storytelling skills were mostly honed while growing up in London laid on Friday nights around the family pool table. Hannah and her midwife are now working on a book of birthing stories and are developing an

educational program together. She says "the birthing person and the baby are at the center of this process and that when we care for this process as a community, we can make a culture that is healthy, strong, and thriving."

I was in the crowd the evening that Hannah first told this story. I was transfixed.

It made me think about witnessing childbirth myself. One of my sisters decided on a natural birth for her first child. I was there throughout the entire birthing process and I have to say, I was amazed at how strong she was in the face of something that I found so utterly daunting.

“I'll never forget the look on her face as her son was placed into her arms for the first time.”

Everything shifted for all of us at that moment. She became a mother, I became an uncle again, and this little human entered the world. In a moment, surviving heartbreak and hurricanes, when the moth radio hour continues. The moth radio hour is produced by Atlantic public media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts.

where you end up, that anything is possible. Run for office, live off the grid, hit a homeer,

throw robots, teach goat yoga, anything. This spring, the moth main stage is traveling to cities

“around the country with stories of the American Dream. Does it even exist anymore? For who?”

What happens when that dream is dashed or deferred? And what happens when the dream is fulfilled? Let's come together and listen to people telling true personal stories of their very own American dreams. Experience the moth main stage live. Find a city near you at the moth.org/mainstage.

This is the moth radio hour I'm Brandon Grant. We continue this hour with a story from Trisha Roseburg.

Trisha told us at a moth story slam in Boston, sponsored by PRX and WBUR. Here's Trisha. I was raised that I should get married, that I should defer to my husband and that I should rely on my husband to make me happy. I can tell you firsthand that this is inherently flawed. When my husband and I separate after five years of marriage, he stays in our home and said bury in the suburbs right outside of Boston. And I ran an apartment in town in back bay.

And as it turns out without knowing it, I moved directly across the street from the woman my husband has been having an affair with. Now for months, I'd suspected he was having an affair, but he kept denying it and telling me I was imagining things and so I just felt crazy. So a couple of months after I moved in the new apartment, I thought to myself, I said, "You know God, I just don't want to feel crazy anymore." So if he's having an affair, please let me know it. And if he's not having

an affair, please help me trust him. And three days later, I'm driving to the school of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston where I'm a part-time art student. And I see my husband's car on the side of the road. It's this little white alpha Romeo, you can't miss it. And there's a woman putting something

in my husband's car. And the first thing I do is through my hands up in the air and say, "Thank

you God, I'm not crazy." And then I pull it over. And I say, "Hi, that's my husband's car." And she says, "Well, I don't know what you're talking about." And I said, "But that's my husband's car." And she says, "Well, I guess you're just going to have to talk to him about that." And I said, "You know, give me a break of a mirror to the guy for five years." And that's my husband's car. Whereas my husband. And right at that moment, he rounds the corner with an overnight bag. And I say,

“"You know, I think we need to talk." And he says, "Well, where do you want to talk?" And I say,”

"How about across the street?" At my apartment. I live at 304 BC and she lives at 309 BC and street, which he knows. He convinces me that it is not a physical affair, but a spiritual one. And a dear friend says, "Trisha, that's worse, plus he's lying to you." My husband and his girlfriend don't last. We start going to marriage counseling. And I plunge into a very scary depression. I'm pacing along the Charles River crossing the bridges and walking the same

circle over and over again. I keep looking at my arms because I'm convinced I have swords all over my body. My throat is so tight. I can only eat mashed potatoes and chicken broth. Nothing crunchy.

“So I'm incredibly thin and I look like I should be hospitalized. The only way I can get out of bed”

is to figure out how many hours until I can get back in it. I can concentrate for about five minutes at a time and my nerves feel the way sunburned skin feels when you open up a really hot oven. With a help of a bevy of therapist and heavy medications, I'm able to continue working and pay my bills and keep going art school. And art school is what gets me through this separation. Art school and church. And both places challenge how I was raised in very different ways but they're saying

and you're going to be happy. Now as an emerging artist, I craved anything that art school had to

“offer. And so I went to Ireland with the Museum School on a painting trip. And I chose Ireland”

because I wanted mist and rain and tragedy. I was looking for drama and angst. Instead the sun

shown every day for three straight weeks. It was the first time in 20 years they had a stretch

of sunshine for that long. One day it was hotter in Ireland and it was in Greece. Right before I left for Ireland, there was this slightest chance. My husband and I could reconcile but with distance brings clarity and I realized I couldn't even write that guy a letter or much less be married doing. So I went into this little church and I said, you know what, God, I am so

“happy to be alone. I don't want a husband. I don't even want a boyfriend. All I want is to make art.”

And I mean this from the bottom of my toes. And I don't know it at the time but I meet my future husband that night. I'm standing on this one of those Irish stone walls and I'm looking at this

amazing sunset. And I'm having a hard time getting off the wall because I have these pretty but

stupid shoes on. And things look kind of precarious. And out of the blue, I hear someone say, do you need a hand? And I look down and there's this incredibly handsome Irishman. And I'm confused because I've just announced how happy I was to be alone. And then I say, yes, yes, I do need a hand. And he helps me off the wall and we start walking down the road together. And I know that I would go through all that pain all over again if it

brought me to this moment. Thank you. That was Trisha Roseberg. Trisha and the incredibly handsome Irishman have been married for more than 22 years. She's also the host of the podcast No Time to Be Timid, which helps aspiring artists find the courage to make their creative work. To see photos of Trisha and her husband on their wedding day in Ireland in 1998, visit the

Moth.org/extras. While you're there, you can share your story with the Moth. Visit our pitch line to leave us a two-minute version of a story you'd like to tell. Some of the most classic Moth stories started on the pitch line. Head to the Moth.org/pitch or call us at 877-799-Moth. You can share these stories or others from the Moth archive and by tickets to Moth storytelling events in your area through our website TheMoth.org. There are Moth events year-round.

Find a show near you and come out to tell a story. You can also find us on social media. We're on Facebook and Twitter @TheMoth or on Instagram @MothStories. Our final story is from Kim Sikes. Kim shared this at a Moth main stage in New York at City Hall.

A quick note that the story was told over 20 years ago when we never imagined the Moth would

have a national radio show. So our audio recordings weren't the greatest, but we think you'll be

“fine with it. Here's Kim, live at the Moth. I'm saying yesterday that I think I'm the only”

Southerner who doesn't have an accent and has because I think I spent the first 20 years in my life trying to erase everything Southern about it. And then, of course, I've been in the next 20 years

Should I repeat what I just said? Here's a memory.

“When Hurricane Betsy was coming to New Orleans, my daddy took me and my brothers and sisters all seven of us”

eight of us, actually, and my mother, out to Lake Pantitrain, to watch Betsy arrive. My daddy, he sat on the living and he liked to look out at the sky and the lake. The sky, the longer we say, got blacker and blacker, and the lake looked like a sheet of black granite. It was so still, you can almost walk on it. My mom, you know, she was so angry. She wouldn't get out of the truck. She sat right back to my father and the lake, refusing to come out.

She turned around every once in a while and said, "Well, it's time to go home!" And he'd say, "In a minute, bye!" And he said, "Right where it was." The kids, all of us were too busy having fun to

“want to go home. We ran around the decorative functions that would shoot water up into the air,”

and the lights would change the water to color to my blue and then yellow and then red.

My father, he didn't want him home, but my mother finally grabbed the keys and she said,

"Well, I'm taking these children home!" And she headed for the truck. He started to laugh, "That is everybody, my mom couldn't drive." And then he'd take his home. Sit down on the ledding, watching a hurricane approach must have been looking into a mirror, let light looking into a mirror for my father. They told me, "My uncle, until me, that his anger, silent, and intense, like an oncoming storm, but then burst forth violently at

“my mother and older brothers and sisters, destroying everything in his bath.”

My aunt Ellen told me that I'll try and save her life one day and my mother picked up a pair of

pinking shoes and stabbed him with a chest nearly killing him. But I never saw any of that,

and he never hit her again. Back at my house, Anne's cousins, I never even knew, uncles all came to my house when the hurricanes would come. They all agreed that it was the only time the housing projects were safest place for me. The kids all of a set in the living room under covers and blankets telling those stories scary me to other half to death while the adult set in the kitchen listening to the radio and smoking insurance. But he was made in our hour and a half

away, but outside you can hear the rain and wind, scream and scream and down the street, big chunks of metal and wood, clink and aggression. The adults run into the living room, peaking out the curtains, trying to pass the tape and wood that was boarded over the windows, and they'd be whispering things to each other, trying not to scare the kids. They're already tasked here to death. But the time the eye of the hurricane hit, everybody was in the living room. The radio was going all the

lights gone out by that time. We listened to some crazy newsman or weatherman who they sent out to the eye to storm. The weather's really blowing hard. By the time a Betsy had come and gone, I fall and sleep thank God. We walked out the next morning and the first thing I thought was that it looked like a war. Except minus the bodies, trees have been snapped in half and cars turned over and dragged down the street. On TV we watch families and kids who were stranded on top of their

houses because the water had risen so high. We were safe. Just like I was safe from my father's brutality.

I never saw the worst of my father's violence. I saw a man who was kind to me and affectionate.

I saw a man who would sit me on his knee and say, "All you want for Christmas is your two front teeth." A man who would take me with him to take my mother to work. And my mother and her clean white uniform would get out of the truck to go to the house. She had to clean and she walked

stretched running toward. They grabbed her around me and she'd been down and grabbed them and all

“got the pain and jealousy and hatred I felt for those two kids and my mother got and my father's hand”

resting on my shoulder and on my knee and he knew how I felt. Every day I struggle with the memory of those kindnesses and history of his abuse. I can't hate him but I've given up liking him. My father planted trees and flowers for the city in New Orleans. I'm sitting on land. He planted all the trees in the projects. We had a big fat oak tree right in front of our house. Our backyard looked like a little small English garden. It had roses and hydrangeas and daisies

and the two nids. You native we had it. He'd bring home side too. He'd lay the perfect green and the squares and the front and back yards and at least the lie on the grass and make angels like it should have noticed it in the snow. It sounds so good but there's not a date that goes by that I don't think about woolly and violent. My parents, my father's been dead for almost 20

“years and my mother for about 10. But every time I look at the mirror, I think of one. My mother's eyes”

and smile and gestures. I keep looking for woolly. I would know him if I saw him. I never knew

him. But when I see a tall oak tree that gray brown cracked trunk, I think of my father's hands and how he's to bring home flowers and my mother's garden. Thanks. Tim Sykes is a writer, actress and painter living in New York City. She's been seen on episodes of Homeland, Bull in the feature film Pariah and his busy writing, screenplays and a novel. As I mentioned, Kim told that story over 20 years ago. We asked her what sharing it was like.

She said she was still wrestling with her family's history and that listening back

“she can hear the struggle in her voice. She went on to say that New Orleans has been the scene”

of many devastating hurricanes that have torn her family apart. But at the same time,

brought them closer together. To see photos of Kim and New Orleans alongside a tall oak tree that reminds her of her father, visit them off.org/extress. We hope this hour inspired you to share your own true stories. At the dinner table with family and friends, with the strangers sitting next to you or on a moth stage. And that's it for this episode. Join us again next time for the moth radio hour.

This episode of the moth radio hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Katherine Burns and Brandon Grant, who also hosted the show. The stories in this hour were directed by Meg Bowles, Larry Rosen and Joey Sanders. Co-producer, Vicky Merrick, associate producer, Emily couch. The rest of the moths leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin, Genes, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cluchay, Suzanne Rust, Inga Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson,

and Aldi Kaza. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by the drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound, podcast music production support from Davy Sumner. We receive funding from the National Endowment for the Arts. The moth radio hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer,

Leah Reese Dennis. For more about our podcast for information on how to pitch us your own story and everything else, go to our website www.themoth.org. Simon, you're over the story, and you're over the story. You're over the story, and you're over the story, and then you're over the story. Paul, no, I'm not. You're over the story, so my safe space.

Yeah, exactly. This story is the story of Epidemic. Egalobstudium, Job, or Unzug.