You Can't Go Back: The Moth Radio Hour

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This is the material hour. I'm your host, Jennifer Hickson. In this hour, stories about putting fresh eyes on the past. Returning to the scene and finding new details you may have missed the first time around. Whether you see your past through rose color glasses, or one of those magnifying mirrors

that highlights every blemish, whisker and scar, the passage of time always sheds new light.

Our first story is by Ivan McClellan. He told this in Jackson Hall, Wyoming, where we partner with Center for the Arts. Here's Ivan. I was born and raised in Kansas City, Kansas. Go chiefs.

The neighborhood that I grew up in had many sides. It was urban and country at the same time. It was beautiful, and sometimes it could be terrifying. Last year now, I would run around in a five-acre field behind our house. All summer long, we would play, and we would eat blackberries until our fingers were sticky,

and then we'd run home to the Thistle, pick thorns out of our socks on the front porch. And then it twilight, the lightning bugs would come out, and we'd scoop them up and mason jars, throw some leaves in there, screw the lid on tight, poke holes in the top so they could breathe. At night, some nights, gunshots would ring out on the block. And my sister and I would lay on the floor and look up as the police helicopters lit up the street,

looking for suspects. There were a lot of gangs in the neighborhood, and they were walking around with pit bulls, and whenever they ran across the rival gang member, they would fight their dogs. I wasn't in a gang, I was a nerd, and a church kid. But when I ran across this one guy, he would sick his dog on me.

And I would go running, and all the backs of my pants got eaten up, and I got really fast.

“My mom worked two or three jobs to keep us fed, and we were latch key kids.”

And we determined it was unsafe to go outside, so we quit going out in that field and playing. As I got closer to the end of high school, my prospects were kind of slim. I could go be a delivery truck driver, I could be a pastor at Monkels Church, or I could go work at the assembly line at the board plan. I didn't really want to do any of those things, I wanted to be a photographer.

And so I decided I was going to figure out a way out of Kansas.

I never felt like I fit in there, and I knew somewhere there was a community where I belonged.

So I saved up $500 that summer, and I just upd and moved to New York City. And that money was gone in a week. And I just like worked any job that I could get, I didn't know anybody. So I like handed out flyers, blew up balloons, I played guitar in the park, anything I could do for money. Until some way through a bunch of luck, I got a job as a photographer and a junior designer at an ad agency.

I didn't know anything that anybody was talking about. They would say ROI, SEO, KPIs, and I would just not in my head in Google with what they had said. And I did that long enough that I actually started to get pretty good at my job, and I got promoted. I went from junior designer to designer. And I went from designer to senior designer and from senior designer to art director.

Every time that I got promoted, I saw a few words you were black people around. Until I got a job as a creative director, I moved to Portland, Oregon, and I hardly ever saw black people at all.

Like I was in the sea of white men at work, and I was never a culture fit.

Like I understood their culture, but they had no clue who Luther Band Ross was.

But they had no idea why it might be afraid of dogs.

“This led to a case of imposter syndrome.”

I felt like I didn't belong in the rooms that I was in, that I was going to be found out, thrown out in the street, forced to move back to Kansas. One day I was at a party. I didn't know anybody there except for the person whose birthday it was. And so I was just drinking by myself and sulking in the corner.

Somebody tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around, and there's a tall black man with a salt and pepper afro. And he introduces itself. He says his name is Charles Perry, says he's a filmmaker.

I say, "Oh, I'm a photographer. What are you working on?"

He said, "I'm working on a movie about black cowboys." I said, "What? Like a Western?"

“He said, "No, like a documentary. I kind of laughed."”

I was like, "Oh, this is not enough black cowboys to make a whole documentary." Like, I knew a thing or two about cowboys. Like, I grew up watching Benanza and Gunsmoke and Lonesome Delivery runs. Like my school choir used to sing the National Anthem at the American Royal Rodeo in Kansas. I viewed the cowboy to beat up archetype of American Independence and Great.

But black cowboys, the only black cowboys I knew were Sheriff Bart in Blazing Sattles

and cowboy Curtis on the Hewis Playhouse. So we kept talking and he said, "Well, you got to see it for yourself, man. Come with me to a black rodeo in Oklahoma this summer." I said, "Absolutely." It was exactly the opportunity that I had been looking for.

“Like, I had never felt more separated from black culture.”

And it would go into a rodeo seem like the furthest thing from working at a computer than I could think of. And so I went home and I bought my plane ticket and it just sat there for the next few months, anticipating what this could possibly be like. In my head, it was like soul-trained, but everybody was on a horse. So August came around and I caught my flight to Oklahoma City.

I drove an hour and a half to Oklahoma City. Park my car, got out and got just suffocated by 105 degrees. It was 105 degrees. It was 100% humidity. As I was walking through the grass, chickens were biting my ankles and they were grasshoppers jumping up on my clothes. There was just a haze of barbecue smoke over the entire lawn. I couldn't breathe. And everywhere I looked, there was a white horse trailer.

Glyssonin in the sun. And there was R&B music and gospel music and hip-hop coming out of the trailers. And everywhere around me, there were black cowboys, thousands of them. I saw young men riding their horses with no shirt, a gold chain, basketball shorts and Jordans. And they were walking up, hitting on women and talking trash to the other riders. And I saw old men just sitting stoically on their horses and they had precise

stetsons and trim moustaches, pinky rings. And their shirts were so starts to get here and crunch when they moved their arms. And the women, but dazzled from head to toe, but dazzled hat, dazzled shirts with fringe, but dazzled jeans. And they had long braids and acrylic nails. And they were settled in down these muscular quarter horses. And they were going to be riding 40 miles per hour in the barrel race later that afternoon. Like, I couldn't fit in any less.

I was wearing khakis and wingtips. But I felt so welcome by this group of people. Everybody was so eager to share a smile. Let me take their photo and share their story. I met a man named Robert Kriff. Robert had this leather raisin of a face. And he had this beautiful horse named summer time. He pulled on her reins and she put her legs down on the ground like she was bowing. Who's so elegant. And he shook my hand. He had these 12 grit sand paper hands.

My hand almost started to bleed because I've got dragonfly wings for hands from working in intact for so long. And he offered me a bottle of water, which I desperately needed at this point. Because I'm like, I'm like soaking wet. He's not a beat of sweat on his face. In fact, nobody else at the rodeo was sweating at all. And I look like I just got baptized. So he was wearing a Kansas City hat. So I said, where you from? He said, I'm from Kansas City

Kansas. I said, I'm from Kansas City Kansas. Whereabouts? He said, oh, I live just off of 58th in Georgia. I grew up off of 57th in Georgia. It turns out that he lived on the other side of the five

But he knew my grandma. He knew my pastor. We went to the same high school.

“In fact, he told me to have for the people at the rodeo come down from Kansas City every year”

for their family or unions. I was embarrassed. I felt silly because this entire culture was right under my nose, my whole life, and I knew nothing about it. And I felt kind of ripped off because I was hanging out with these criminals chasing me with their dog and I could have been hanging out with cowboys, a field away. It immediately changed my perception of home away from a place of pain and poverty and violence to a place of independence and great in cowboys. I was

proud to be from there. The rodeo started and a rider rode around the arena carrying a flag, a pan African flag. It's the American flag, but it's red, black and green. And a singer built it

“out, lived every voice and sing. And she sang it with so much sincerity and so much energy that”

I heard it for the first time. She said, sing a song full of the faith that the dark past has taught

us. Sing a song full of the hope that the present has brought us. And that to me was what this rodeo was about. What we had been forced to do in slavery, worked the land, worked with animals. We could now do an celebratory mood for our own profit and our own entertainment. I photographed that rodeo with absolute joy and I got home and I looked at the photos and I was just blown back by all of the fibers and all of the energy and the fashion. It was

like I had gone to Oz, clicked my heels back to great homogenous Portland, but I had proof that I

“had been there. My favorite photo was of this rodeo queen. Her name is Jasmine Marie and I asked her to”

take her photo and she stands there and throws her hair off of her shoulders and she's standing there with her chin up and her hair blowing back and her crown is glistening in the stadium lights and she looks like actual royalty. I love all of these photos. Whenever I'm feeling separated from the culture, I just open them up and look through them and I'm immediately taking back to Oak Muggy and I go back every year. I'm taking my family with me. I've been to dozens of black rodeos around the country.

My work has been featured in museums. It's been featured in magazines and published in a book and I've seen the figure of the black cowboy elevated in film and television and it's become a part of a narrative about identities in the West. But I do this so that my kids when they draw a picture

of a cowboy, they'll color it in with a brown face and I'll do it so that I'll never again

forget that this is a part of who I am as a black man in America. Thank you. That was Ivan McLean. Ivan is a photo journalist and designer. His current photo project eight seconds focuses on the stories of black cowboys around the country. Ivan lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and two children. Between May and October, he takes pictures at rodeos around the country. To see some of his beautiful photographs, visit the Moff.org.

Ivan said he's discovered a bunch of trail riding clubs in the community where he grew up in Kansas.

Now when he goes home, he always hangs out with black cowboys. He's mostly on the ground taking pictures

but sometimes he even gets up on a horse. He might even be developing some calluses. In a moment a woman celebrates her honeymoon without her new husband and a grown man finds himself somewhat reluctantly back in high school when the Moff radio hour continues. The Moff radio hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Café in his best form. With Cuba we'll take a café at Knopfdruck for a dinner moment.

Then with the new Cuba-Wan capsule machine from Chibu, we'll take a look at the Café from special occasions. Follow Monday's Arômen, Danck Innovative Presbyterian Logie

Eléba Premium Café is from up now in 20 euros.

“And that's the Cuba capsule machine in Dinah Chibu, Fiala and of Chibu, De E.”

This is the Moff radio hour I'm Jennifer Hicksson. In this hour stories from people revisiting the past. In this next story, a new bride finds a unique way to walk in her husband's shoes. We met Rachel McCormick when we did a storytelling workshop for students at a high school in the Bronx, where she was a teacher. She told a story to model the form for the students and we were so intrigued we asked her to share more. Here's Rachel McCormick, live at a community showcase in the Bronx.

I spent my honeymoon in a tent in the desert alone. It was the summer of 2010 and I had just

married the man of my dreams. He was funny, smart and caring. He didn't really speak much English,

“but I figured hey, that was something we could work on. We had met four years earlier on a soccer”

field in Pekipzene, New York as I ate a mango on a stick and nurse to spring n ankle. When the game was over, Edve came up to me and he heaved me over his shoulders so I wouldn't have to limp through the mud and I was in love. I later learned that Edve had come to the United States from Waxaca, Mexico, one week before September 11, 2001 and he had come here by crossing the desert

between Sonoda and Arizona on foot. Because of this, some people call him illegal.

Other people say that he doesn't have papers. I mean he has plenty of papers, birth certificate, diplomas, tax returns, but none of those papers authorize him to live in the United

“States. Because of this, Edve can't travel, he rarely leaves the confines of New York City,”

because he fears deportation. Fear is a big part of Edve's life and it's rooted in several near death attempts to cross the border. In the months leading up to our marriage, we would sit on the couch and he would tell the stories of having to drink all sorts of nasty things to stay alive in the desert like water from car radiators and water from cow tanks and even water from his own pee. He told this one story about getting lost in the mountains and having

to slaughter a goat from somebody's ranch and roasted over tumbleweeds under the light of the moon. Knowing all of this a few weeks before wedding, I told Edve that I wanted to honey moon alone in the desert on the border in the same place he had nearly died several times. His reaction, like most other people, was why. Well, on one level, I wanted to have one last adventure before I had a bunch of his beautiful babies and I figured that traveling to the desert was the

only thing I could do ethically while my new husband stayed at home working 12 hour shifts as a bus boy. I also wanted to see with my own two eyes this border that had transformed Edve from a human being into an illegal alien. So in honor of Edve's struggle, I packed a bag and I went to the desert south of Tucson, Arizona to volunteer for two weeks with the organization no more deaths, which among other things seeks to end human suffering on the U.S. Mexico border.

When I got there, I thought I knew what to expect based on the tales that Edve and his friends had told of their perilous journeys. I had even written my senior thesis at Vassar about narratives of violence on the U.S. Mexico border back in those days when I thought I knew everything. But I was not expecting this. What lay south of the airport and the urban sprawl of Tucson looked more like a cross between a science fiction movie and footage from a foreign war zone

than the country I thought I knew. Don't get me wrong, it was absolutely beautiful, not sanded like the Sahara, but bright marooned soil and prickly green plants and animals that howled. As I pitched my tent in the middle of this beauty, I started to notice other things too, like the helicopters that constantly flew overhead and the border patrol agents that would jump

Their weapons should have scared me, but unfortunately I realized that as a white woman,

“I was probably safe, whereas somebody browned like Edve certainly wasn't.”

In those two weeks in the desert, I thought a lot about Edve. He was my only real connection between what was happening on the border and was happening at home in New York. I thought about Edve as he danced at our wedding and I also thought about him as he guided our wedding because none of his family could be there. And it wasn't just Edve that I thought about, I thought about the millions of other people who had made the same decision as him

to leave their families behind and walk north. In my first week in the desert, I didn't actually meet

any of these migrants, but I saw signs of their presence all around. I saw their footprints

“in dry riverbeds and discarded backpacks everywhere filled with red bull and children's toys”

and photographs. And in the middle of all this, my task was to work with other volunteers from nomar deaths to leave jugs of water in different spots in the desert. Because if you decide to walk from Mexico over the mountains to some US interstate to get picked up, it's physically impossible to bring enough water with you to survive. So the volunteers and I would spend the daylight hours leaving hundreds of gallons of water in different places hoping that people would find them

and drink them and stay alive. At night, we would sleep under the stars as the desert came to life with hobalinas and rattlesnakes and so many different people from so many different places walking

north. It wasn't until my second to last day and the desert that I actually met one of the people

I was trying to help. I had been walking a trail with a couple of other volunteers when we heard this faint groan in the bushes to our right. As we got closer to the noise, we could see that there was a man there lying on his back and struggling to keep his eyes from rolling into the back of his head. As I got even closer, I could see that his lips were cracked and his complexion was nearly gray. I was in shock. All I could think to do was to stare at this man and to check to see if he was alive.

As I looked at his face, I could have sworn that I saw E2V, my new husband, so far from home and so close to death. On the flight back to New York, all I could think about was this man where had he come from, where had he been going, had he survived the damages of dehydration and

exposure. And I wondered how had E2V survived. I'll probably never really know, but frankly,

I'm just glad that he did. Thank you. That was Rachel McCormick. Rachel and E2V eventually had two daughters, Sarah and Anna. They created a happy life in New York City, but spent more than two decades battling the U.S. immigration system. After the 2024 election, they made the tough decision to leave the U.S. and move to Mexico, so they could stay together as a family and ensure E2V's safety. They are adjusting to life

in a new country. To learn more about their story, you can visit theMoth.org. To have a story about putting yourself in someone else's shoes, about revisiting your past,

“seeing things a bit differently, have you looked at life from both sides now?”

We'd love to hear. You can pitch us your story by recording it right on our site, or call 877-799-MOTH. That's 877-799-6684. The best pitches are developed for Moth shows all around the world. [MUSIC] Our next story was told by Steve Peoples had a story slamming Chicago, where we partner with public radio station WBEZ. The musical he mentions is My Favorite Year, and just for context, in the movie version,

the lead role is played by Peter O'Toole. Here's Steve Peoples. [APPLAUSE] So I'm playing Templeton the Rat in a production of Charlotte's Web. It runs two shows a week for $30 a show, but it's not really the way that I thought my career

everybody Jonathan. He says, "Hey, man, you do want to show right now. I'm wearing the rat costume,

“and I'm like, not really, what's up." He says, "Main South is looking for an immediate replacement”

for my favorite year. You'd rehearse three days next week. You'd go on Friday Saturday." If you don't know, my favorite year is a musical about a TV variety show, and Main South is a high school. And I kind of focus on that detail. I said, "Main South is a high school." And he's like, "Yeah, the kid playing Alan Swan got caught drinking at a party, but they open tonight." So he's on this weekend, and then you're on next weekend. And like, I'm a full adult. I'm not trying to do

high school musical, let alone an actual musical at an actual high school. And I'm like, "Okay, so what is this high school want to pay me to learn a show in a week?" And he was like $2,000.

And I got in my car, and I got a copy of the script, and I went to the show that night.

And guys, it's a great show. Okay, so Alan Swan is this old Hollywood icon

“who gets called in last minute. As an emergency replacement, as a guest host on this variety show.”

And when he shows up, he's an alcoholic mess, which like, "Ouch, but okay, that's in my wheelhouse." And he's ruined his career. He's ruined his life. He's a strange from his daughter, and all he's got to do is pull it together. And this week, to do this show, and he does this muscatier sketch, where he sings, and he fights with a sword, and he wins his daughter back. I'm excited. And I go to meet the music director who was my

contact and said, "Hey, I'm Steve, we talked on the phone." She said, "Hey, you're saving my life. When was the last time you played this role?" I said, "No, I just got, I just got the script this afternoon." And she leans in. She narrows her eyes. She says, "The only reason I got the board to agree to let me hire an actor," as I said, "I would get somebody who would play the part before." So when was the last time you played this part? And I was like, "Last summer at my

college?" She was like, "Good answer. Let's go meet the director." So like Alan Swan on the back burner, I've got two hallways to figure out how to play Steve Peoples, who has totally played Alan Swan before. But can't do any of the things associated with having played that part. So I meet the director, we go over some scheduling, is there anything you want to change from the way that you did it in your last production?" And I was like, "No, this guy's good. I want to respect his

choices." And the fight choreographer is like, "How are you with a sword?" And I was like, "In my production, we did it with daggers." Which is not a good lie for a musket here fighting play. And then we go into another room and we meet the cast and crew of all that assembled. And the director says, "Hey, guys, this is Steve. He's going to be taken over as Alan." And that's the sound you hear. [ Laughter ]

And I said, "Hey, guys, I saw you show tonight. I'm really excited to jump into this with you." And that is the exact response that I got. Because I'm not the understudy in the situation. I'm the outsider who shoulder ring out their friend. And I was prepared to do it a show at a high school. I was not prepared to be in high school again. So I go home and I slam a script through

my ear. Because if I don't show up memorized, ready to go, these kids are never going to give me an inch.

And I do it. And I show up on Monday. And I'm playing. And I'm singing songs about losing my daughter and destroying my life. And they're playing with me. And then it's Friday. And if you've never gone on as an understudy, it feels a lot like this. You don't really know what's going to happen next no matter how much you've rehearsed. It's blind to adrenaline. It's like catch me if you can. It's just two hours of me being like, do you concur? Do you concur? Do you concur? And thank God they keep

concurring. And we take our bow. And the audience really erupts because they're so glad their kids got to do their show again. And they're so glad that I'm not a disaster. And it really feels like I gave a thousand dollar performance. And I have to do it again the next day. And I'm a little more loose. And I'm having a lot of fun. And I'm climbing the 15 foot ladder to go swinging in on this rope at the end of the show. And I'm up there for a while, so I got time to reflect.

“And I think, man, this stupid gig want to be in a lot of fun. And while I'm reflecting, I think that”

this stupid gig actually taught me everything that I was supposed to know about being a professional. That was Steve Peedles. Steve is still a professional actor and is an artistic associate with shattered globes theater. He wasn't able to dig up a photo of himself playing Tempelton the Ratch, or his character from the musical. But did send us a picture of himself backstage, doing one of his all-time favorite plays, Spamel. I have something in common with Steve.

such a fun role. But then my college contacted my hometown newspaper and sent in a picture of me in costume. The caption read something like, Jennifer Hicks and plays a snivelling rat, which was cute, except at the photo that ran right next to my rat portrait, was a beautiful headshot of our neighbor's daughter, announcing that she was accepted into the London School of Economics. Perfect.

In a moment, a kid graduates high school and leaves Montana behind,

“but returns many years later to reveal a huge secret when the moth radio hour continues.”

The moth radio hour is produced by Atlantic public media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Our final story is from Kimberly Reed. She told it in New York City where WNYC is a media partner of the moth. Here's Kimberly. So I get a phone call from my mom and she tells me that my father is about to get on an emergency life flight from our home in Montana to go to Denver

to get an emergency liver transplant. My mom is kind of perennially optimistic, and she's telling me, don't worry, it's going to be okay, we're going to pull through this,

“it's going to be all right. But I know something is really wrong, so I get the next flight I can”

to go from where I'm leaving here in New York, hoping that I get there before my father dies. And I'm really glad I got that flight as fast as I did because I was able to spend a couple of hours with my father before it passed away. And before I know it, I'm at this side of his hospital bed with my mom and we're sobbing because he's passed. My dad was a strong, silent type, he was a group on a farm and he was the one of two town idolctors, so he could fix anything,

you know, he could fix tractors or eyes, he could, you know, no matter what. I mean,

it was always doing it like behind the scenes, you know, he never wanted to take credit for it. It was a

parent that my mom and I and my two brothers were going to have to be fixing things ourselves this time around. And the first thing my mom did was to call my two brothers, one's a year old or one is a year younger, and it was going to be really comforting to see my younger brother, we were really close, it was going to he was really going to support me. It was going to be much more complicated, seen my older brother. We'd always had a really complicated relationship and there was something

really big about me that he did not know. And that's that the last time he saw me years and years before, I was male. He was not aware that I had transitioned from being male to being female. And

you know, I always wanted to tell him, I was trying to find the right time, the right place, trying to,

you know, get up the nerve. I was worried about his reaction, maybe that, you know, he was a bit conservative, he had a temper, I didn't know how he was going to happen and I just kept putting it off and never found the right time. And here we are at the time where I have to deal with all this stuff. Mark wasn't the only one who didn't know my story, my whole hometown didn't know about me either. And you know, I was trying to find a way to tell Mark, I just kind of figured with my hometown,

I just, I just would never go back there again. So my mom calls my brother and in one fun girl

tells him that he lost his father and then he now has a sister. And I have to say, Mark was, he was really great. He got off the plane, we met him at the airport, he gave me a hug.

“But it was stock word, as he can imagine. And you know, I think we did want a lot of families”

do at times like that. You just kind of fall back on tradition. And we wanted to do something

He had passed away 20 minutes before his 65th birthday. So we only went to Applebees.

And we got a slice of sizzling apple palm. Put a candle in it. And my brother Mark who really worshiped my father got the honor of blowing out the candle. And winning was blowing out the candle.

“I'm still remember the expression on his face. He was, you know, trying to process”

my father's passing. He was figuring out why it had been so long that the two of us hadn't talked. Something that really frustrated him. And it was just all kind of coming together. I took a business card out of my purse. It was for this job that Mark didn't even know I had.

I had my new name on it. And I wrote my cell phone number on it. And I gave it to Mark. I said,

"Look, you know, we haven't talked for so long, but here." Anytime any place, no barriers call me, any where we can talk any time you want. And my mom started crying because her children were reuniting. And also because, you know, for years she had been running interference between

“the two of us and using every excuse in the book to explain why I wasn't getting back to”

Emma or why, you know, packages to me were being returned because they had the wrong name on them. And, you know, her job running interference was over. So Mark was in shock. We were all in shock. I was in shock because I was thinking about the fact that, you know, nobody in my hometown knew. And I'm wondering if I can go back for the funeral, if I should go back. If my mom and my brothers really want me to really deep down. And I'm thinking that, you know,

I never even thought I was going to go back to my hometown. And now I'm being pulled back right

into it. As contradictory as it may seem, as soon as there was a reason to go back, I had this really deep, strong yearning to go back. I mean, I had gone to school in New York, came San Francisco and traveled all over the world in this place that I thought of as home

“that I think I've really repressed knowing that I couldn't go back there, right? I don't know”

need to go back there. But as soon as there was a reason for me to go back there, a very strong reason, I really, really wanted to go. I wanted to see the house, the only house I had ever known growing up. I wanted to go back to my hometown and these people that, you know, comprises community that I thought of as home, right? And my mom reassured me that she wanted me to be there, that she in fact needed me there for support. My brothers too. And my mom had a plan to get us there.

You know, our family had been separated for a long time. So she had the idea for all of us to rent a car and drive the 20 hours from Denver, back to Montana. So before you know, then we are in the car. You know, my brother hasn't seen me for years, especially not as female. And here we are. And we had so much to do. We were planning his service, my father's funeral service. We were writing his obituary. My mom wanted to figure out, and I did too want to figure out how we could

introduce the information about me while still keeping the focus on my father. So she had me driving down the, you know, across Wyoming, 70 miles an hour. She had me take dictation of her friends, and she wanted to invite them over for tea. So she had this really strategic list. It's like you invite Judy and she's going to tell all the people on the arts community that my mom was involved. And you're going to tell June and June is going to tell all the people at Dad's office. And we'll

find somebody else and she's going to tell everybody at the church. And the next night, there they were, 18 of my mom's best friends and the minister from the church where the service was going to be performed. They're drinking tea. And my mom says, you all know very well by now that I've lost my husband. And I know a lot of you have wondered what happened to my middle son, who seemed to disappear. And she said, I want you to know tonight that, yeah, I have a daughter

focus on this tonight. We can talk about this tonight. You all are my ambassadors. If someone has

“questions at the funeral and I'm caught up in things, I'm going to point them to you and like you”

tell this story because you can talk about it in a sensitive way. And she, you know, took a couple of questions from the people there. And the whole tea party ended slightly different than the tea party we hear about in the news. The whole thing ended with everybody raising their tea cups and saying, "Hip it, parade for Kim. Hip it, parade for Kim." There were a couple of A men's and some applies. And then everybody went home and I swear there was a brown out from all the simultaneous phone calls.

There were being made dispensing the information, right? So then the next thing, there was a viewing

“of my father's body at the funeral home. And I elected not to go because, you know, I didn't”

want the focus to be on me. I was going to keep it on everybody and keep it on my father. But my best friend, Kim from high school, was at the viewing and he calls me up. He had only known the new me for a couple of days. I hadn't even told him. But he knew me really well. And he knew I was chickeny now. And he called me from the funeral parlor and he said, "Hey, I got a lot of people here. They really want to see you." I should probably tell you that the people he's talking about

are the football team, because I used to be on the football team. And so, a flaw is for that man. And so, Kim says, "Where are you? I got a lot of people who want to see you. I'm like, yeah, I don't want to go and, you know, I want to keep the focus on my dad. I don't want to be. He's like, yeah, whatever. Either you come down here or we're going to come up there. What's it going to be?" I said, "I've got to come up here, I guess." So, before I

know, the football team is at my front door. And a couple of them have cases of beer under their arm. One case gets tossed in the snow bank to keep it cold. It's just like high school. And all of a sudden, they're in my living room. And it's this wake instantly. And this show of support for me and for the memory of my father, right? And they're in my living room. This living room,

I never even thought I would see again. And people were either laughing or crying, mostly laughing.

“And I remember looking around the room, and there was Kevin. He was one of the co-captons”

of the football team with me. And I look over there. And there's my brothers Mark and Todd. And they were, you know, we were all very close in the age that we had friends in common. And they're telling stories about my dad. And I look over on the couch and they're spring. I probably should have told you that not only was I on the football team, but I was quarterback. And so I look over the couch and there's Frank. He's an offensive lineman. As a job of an offensive lineman to protect

the quarterback. And Frank is protecting me once again, 20 years later under very different circumstances. And he's got his armor on my girlfriend. They're laughing and knocking back cans of cheap beer. And that was the moment that I knew things were going to be okay somehow. And there was one more person there, that night. And that was my mom. And she told me something that we ended up repeating

quite a bit that weekend through the services. She came up and she said, you know, dad was always

fixing things. And it looks like he fixed this too. She said, you know, even though your father has died, you've been reborn. Thank you very much. That was Kimberly-Vide, about a year and a half

her camera and her award-winning film, prodigal sons documents that trip. She also directed the

“feature documentary "Dark Money," which explores political corruption in Montana and elsewhere in the”

US. She also co-wrote an opera that's been performed all over the world. Recently, I got a chance

to catch up with Kim about life since her mom's story, which she first told in 2011.

When you went back to Montana that first time and subsequent times, I'm wondering, what did you expect from people? I tended at that time in my life to presume what other people's reactions to me were going to be instead of letting them have their own reaction. And I was wrong about a lot of people. I thought that there would be rejection there and there wasn't, you know, I had sort of set up this barrier that wasn't really there. And the fact that that barrier got broken with my father's

death and then the subsequent reunification with my brother that happens, I'm just so glad that that happened

because if it hadn't and if, you know, we hadn't kind of documented that and told those stories, I don't know that I ever would have figured it out. And there's a lot of people that don't and I think that that said, there's a flip sign to all of that. I think what happens to me is that in the story that I tell for the month is a really beautiful story of reunification and love. And it's, you know, still warms my heart to think of it that way. That's not everybody's story.

“I think it's important to tell my story and to tell stories of trans joy and love.”

And just the fact that we're just kind of like everybody else is boring and is everyone else.

And I mentioned earlier that we've come a long way in the way that our society accepts LGB and especially T folks. But there's a flip side to that and that's that there's been more talk about trans folks in our society. But that also comes with kind of a dark underbelly of reaction and blowback and especially violence against trans folks. And that's an important thing to acknowledge as we take in these stories of, you know, how far we've come. It's also creating a lot of

blowback in certain sectors of our society. I mean, half of the states in the country have laws that are designed specifically to target trans folks and to remove rights that we have right now. So especially when you're talking about medical treatment for trans kids, I think it's like especially targeted and cruel and it sort of feels like we're becoming sort of feels like we're becoming the latest social wedge issue. So two steps forward, one step back, you know, just keep

moving forward. Well, I'm so glad we have your story of how a family can react at hopefully

“will lead the way for other families, open their hearts up to it. Yeah, that's that's why we tell”

these stories, right? That was Kimberly Reed. Visit themoth.org to get a link to the trailers for Kim's films and projects. That's it for this episode. We hope you'll join us next time and that's the story from the moth. This episode of The Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, Katherine Burns, and Jennifer Hickson, who also hosted and directed the stories in the show, along with Larry Rosen. Co-producer is Vicky America, associate producer Emily Couch. The rest

of the moths leadership team includes Sarah Haberman, Sarah Austin, Janesse make bowls, Kate Tellers, Jennifer Birmingham, Marina Cluchay, Susan Rust, Brandon Grant, Inga, Gladowski, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Aldi Kaza. Most stories are true as remembered in the firm by the story Tellers. Our theme music is by the drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound. podcast music production

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 Ries Dennis.”

For more about our podcast, for information on pitching this your own story and everything else,

good-row our website, themoth.org.