My MOther Made Me

JASON REYNOLDS: I’m Jason Reynolds. And this… is my mom.

ISABELL REYNOLDS: So when is this podcast gonna happen?

[Curious, playful keyboard music comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): I’m mostly known for my writing. I’ve published a pile of books, and they seem to have struck a chord with a wide audience of readers, young and old, which I’m grateful for. I’ve won some prizes, and seen the top of The New York Times Best Sellers list a few times. I’m also the Library of Congress’s Ambassador for Young People’s Literature.

But this podcast ain’t about none of that.

[Music transitions to semi-frenetic piano music with strings.]

ISABELL: So that's you talking?

JASON: Well, it's all — it’s us. I think you'll like it.

ISABELL: Oh, I'm sure I will.

JASON (as narrator): My Mother Made Me is a four-episode series from Radiotopia Presents, where my mother and I talk about our shared history, our family, how she raised me, how we both live our lives now, and what we’re teaching each other.

JASON (to Isabell): I think it'll be an interesting take and look at our relationship and at our family dynamics, at the things that I've learned, the things you’ve learned…

JASON (as narrator): We go deep — you know, birth, death, spirituality… but we also keep it light.

JASON (in the car): Oh, Costco. Your favorite place.

JASON (as narrator): Pushing a cart through Costco, birthday lunches and hitting the casino together. That’s just how we do.

[Montage begins.]

JASON: [In casino, slot machine chiming.] You know, two-ninety. It took twenty-five…

ISABELL: Now, for me to take a selfie, what do I do?

JASON: What you think I’m gonna turn into? A monster?

ISABELL: They left and went to McDonald’s, came back, and they were still having the funeral. They went and ate. [Jason laughs.]

JASON: You made me like this… What do you think made you like this?

ISABELL: I think it’s just part of my makeup, son.

[Music becomes more thoughtful, reflective.]

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: But you are so much like your mother in more ways than you even realize. You may look like your daddy.

JASON: My fear is that I’ll wake up with all these beautiful stories around me, and I won't have one of my own. That's my fear.

ISABELL: And you said gratitude… Gratitude is [whispering] so important.

[Montage ends.]

JASON (as narrator): Ultimately, My Mother Made Me is about our relationship and the passage of time. And how the young get older, and the older get wiser, and the wiser sometimes find wonder again, before whatever comes next.

ISABELL: That's the way life is. It’s cyclical. And that day will come, and you're going to be where I am. But it’s life. That’s just the way it works, honey.

[Music becomes sweet and lovely.]

JASON (as narrator): You’ll hear much more from Isabell Reynolds — and myself — in the podcast. It’s called My Mother Made Me… because she did. And if you want to know what that actually means, tune in starting July 13, when it launches right here on Radiotopia Presents.

JASON (to Isabell): Yeah. I can play you — you want to hear the first episode?

ISABELL: No. No — no, no. [Jason laughs.]

JASON (as narrator): Please listen, because she sure ain’t going to.

[Music ends.]

END OF EPISODE.

JASON REYNOLDS: Here’s the deal. I’ve made many things. Most people know me for making books, primarily for kids. A few people — thankfully only a few people — know I used to make music. God knows I’ve made a lot of mistakes. But what I’ve never, ever, ever even thought about making is a podcast. Not because I don’t love them like everyone else. I do. But because I couldn’t fathom there could be anything left to explore. I mean, seriously, what podcast don’t exist?

[Semi-frenetic piano music comes in, with strings.]

We got docudramas. We got comedians working out their bits. We got shows about the makings of… pretty much everything — food, cars, movies, companies, a happy life. Shows on family — how to start one or manage the dysfunction of one in flux. Shows on writing, and literature, and music, and art, and acting, and architecture.

[Clips from other shows come in to demonstrate Jason’s points.]

PODCAST HOST 1 (whispering): I’m going to light a candle.

JASON: Podcasts that just, like, whisper to you.

PODCAST HOST 1 (whispering): It’s a pumpkin spice candle.

JASON: ASMR. USDA. WNBA. AFL-CIO. There’s probably even a podcast called LMNOP about the alphabet… of life, or something like that.

PODCAST HOST 2: Podcast gals, I learned from some of our previous… [Fades out.]

JASON: The biggest stories in popular culture, the biggest stories in unpopular culture, counterculture narratives about anarchy, because apparently the revolution will have a thumbnail attached to it.

PODCAST HOST 3: I’m going to tell you what anarchism is… [Fades out.]

JASON: You know… so we all know it’s the revolution.

PODCAST HOST 4: [Hard rock guitar music.] You’re listening to Toward Anarchy on the Republic Broadcasting Network…

JASON: We also got shows about evolution. The evolution of the human species, the evolution of our interior lives, spiritual shows, and religious shows, and shows about the differences between the two. Podcasts that help you meditate and mediate the every-day-ness of your every day.

Podcasts for children — shout-out to the kids.

CHILD PODCAST HOST: Hi! It’s me, Kian…

JASON: Some even run by children.

CHILD PODCAST HOST: The question is…

JASON: Shout out to those kids.

CHILD PODCAST HOST: … what is love? [Fades out.]

JASON: We got podcasts to help us declutter our lives, and others to help us learn to get every single thing we want. Podcasts that are scary…

[Creepy laugh fades in, then out.]

As in, actual scary stories. And others to help us sleep, whether they intend to or not.

PODCAST HOST 5: On today’s show… [Fades out.]

JASON: Podcasts about politics, which oftentimes tend to be scary stories or stories to help us sleep, whether they intend to or not.

PODCAST HOST 6: And the return of Joe Biden’s economic plan… [Fades out.]

JASON: Podcasts on sex and love. On crime, true and otherwise. And, of course, there’s no way to overlook the, I don’t know, at least 2 million interview shows.

[Voices from other podcasts come in, overlapping each other until they become an overwhelming cacophony. Then, they abruptly stop, along with the piano music.]

So, what would I have to add to this overloaded treasure trove?

Well… turns out… not much.

I’m only doing this because my mother made me. [Dramatic piano chord.] And my little brother made this theme song…

[Light, tinkling piano tremolos, joined by smooth, gentle violin. Then, tempo slows, violin drops out, and there is a final, euphonic tremolo.]

I guess I should begin the way most shows do. I’m Jason Reynolds, and this is My Mother Made Me, a podcast from Radiotopia Presents about some of the things my mom has taught me about life.

We’re very close — as a matter of fact she’s probably my best friend. We confide in each other, and we hang out all the time, and this gave me a chance to finally interview her. Which is funny, because usually I’m the one being interviewed. But even then, she always seems to pop up.

[Nostalgic folk guitar comes in.]

I was raised by a fascinating woman…

[Montage of clips of Jason talking about his mother in interviews.]

JASON (from an interview): My mom was raised by two farmers basically — a farmer and a farmer’s wife. So when I came around, it was kinda like, “I’mma give this boy everything I got and everything I didn’t have to make sure he grows up as a whole person.”

JASON (from another interview): I think about the things my mother taught us as kids, about…

JASON (from another interview): Even if it was an ancient belief system, she had no problem saying, “It doesn’t make sense, so we don’t have to believe that.”

JASON (from another interview): You know, no matter what else is going on, you make sure that your clothes ain’t wrinkled and your shoes are clean. This was a big deal for her. Ma, I got on linen right now…

INTERVIEWER: Your mom is a complete badass. I mean, god.

JASON: Yeah. Oh yeah, all the way.

[Montage ends.]

JASON (as narrator): Yeah, she’s definitely a G, and pretty much the star of this podcast. And you’re going to hear from her soon.

[Guitar music ends.]

But first, think of me as her warm-up act, and let me tell y’all a story to get you primed for the Isabell Reynolds experience.

[Light, slow piano music comes in.]

A few years ago I was on tour promoting a book I’d written called Look Both Ways, which is a collection of short stories exploring the moments young people get to become more of themselves without the watchful eye and wisdom of adults.

I’d been on tons of book tours, trekking across the country from the smallest towns to the biggest cities, and usually, when I showed up, I’d be given a lovely introduction, and then I’d basically stand at a microphone and talk for 45 minutes about the book, the making of it, maybe I’d even read a little from it and crack some jokes. It was sorta like a strange routine, a one-man show — performance art that ended with Q&A and an autograph line with some of the most adorable children on the planet. Kids who showed up ready to take pictures and tell me all their thoughts about my stories, which usually blurred into thoughts about theirs.

It’s an incredible experience for me. But over the years, it’s become difficult to lift it all by myself.

So, some time ago, I asked my publicist if I could do my tour in-conversation, which just means every stop someone would interview me about my work in front of an audience. And though it lacks some of the oomph that usually comes with my — let's call them “performances,” if the person sitting across from me is the right person, the experience can still be pretty entertaining.

[Piano music ends.]

Look, I’ve got my wishlist. I mean, I’d love to chat with Terry Gross, or Don Cheadle, or, I don’t know, Patti Labelle, Angela Bassett. Or somebody like Jonathan Majors. I feel like he’d be a good interviewer. Or maybe one of my uncles [light chuckle]. Like my Uncle Bob, who would only ask questions that would make me laugh. And we’d probably split a bottle of wine onstage and make a mess of things. Or maybe Jay-Z. Like I said, I’ve got my wishlist.

But one person who I was fortunate enough to be interviewed by on the Look Both Ways tour, is, to me, more legendary than everyone else I just named — well, except for maybe Uncle Bob. I mean, this person is a cultural cornerstone. A legend’s legend. A generational giant. And, on top of all that, he used to rock a mean hoop earring. I’m talking about the incomparable LeVar Burton.

[Piano music comes back in.]

Yes, that LeVar Burton. From Reading Rainbow. And Roots. And Star Trek. And should’ve been Jeopardy!, but we don’t have to talk about that.

It was a beautiful day in LA and when I showed up at the Barnes & Noble’s at The Grove, LeVar was waiting in the green room, which was actually the staff’s breakroom because book stores don’t be glamorous, right? We introduce ourselves and chat briefly for a few moments before taking the stage.

The first ten minutes of the interview we ended up talking about… our mothers. We spoke their names and waxed about how grateful we are for them. To have come through them, to have been of them. We even cried a little. And that was the beginning of the show.

And I wish I could tell you that moment was the highlight, but it wasn’t.

[Piano music ends.]

The most memorable moment, for me at least, came after we finished signing books…

LEVAR BURTON (on phone): Our first moment of bonding was over our moms, around our moms.

JASON (as narrator): Yeah, I reached out to LeVar to ask him if he remembers that conversation.

LEVAR: But as I recall, we spent some time that day also, you know — I prompted you, “Are you taking care of yourself?” Right?

JASON: Right.

LEVAR: And, you know, you sort of hemmed and hawed. And I got — [laughs] I got a very clear sense that this was an issue for you in your life, that this is something that you were struggling with. And I just wanted to, as someone who has had experience having to learn the need and necessity — painfully, painstakingly learn the need and necessity to prioritize my own health. And as, you know, someone who recognizes you, Jason — I see you, brother. I want you to — to be able to operate at your optimum capacity, right?

[Cross-talk.]

JASON: Yeah. Man, I appreciate it, man.

LEVAR: And self-care is a huge part of that. And — and I got the sense from you [laughing] that your mother agrees with me.

[Plucky music comes in.]

JASON: [Laughs.] She definitely does, yeah.

JASON (as narrator): Now that you’re all warmed up, let’s talk about my mom. Most Sundays I pull up to my mother’s house with a coffee and The New York Times. I stop in the middle of the driveway to grab the Washington Post she has delivered every week. Then I ring the doorbell.

I got a key, but I never use it, mainly because I love the look of excitement on her face when she opens the door, even though she’s always expecting me.

Other than holiday decor — and on this Sunday, my mother had broken out the browns, oranges and yellows for the upcoming Thanksgiving dinner — this house ain’t changed in years. From the green carpet, to the tchotchkes and old knickknacks that pepper the coffee table, to the gallery wall of random art, including a framed Washington Post profile on me from years ago, as moms do, to the strange assortment of clocks scattered around the living room, dining room and kitchen, all of which are set to different times — some ten minutes fast, others six minutes slow. The radio is always on in the kitchen unless the television is on, and on Sundays, it’s the TV. Which is strange because my mother don’t never sit in the kitchen on Sunday. She sits in the office, where there’s also a TV.

[TV plays quietly in the background.]

JASON (in conversation): Yeah… Dionne look good, don’t she?

ISABELL REYNOLDS: Who is it?

JASON: That was Dionne Warwick?

ISABELL: That —

JASON: There she goes.

JASON (as narrator): Now, on Sunday, she makes what has to be a half a liter of instant coffee — which is why I bring my own — and holes up in her office, which used to be my older brother’s room, and watches the news all day long.

ISABELL: Take a picture of…

JASON: Wait, there’s more.

ISABELL: I — I wanna take a picture…

[Nostalgic keyboard music comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): Except…

ISABELL: Come on, love. I wanna take a selfie.

JASON (as narrator): … for when I come over.

JASON (in conversation): Please send me a selfie. I would love to get a selfie from you every now and then. And your beautiful face.

ISABELL: OK. Now, for me to take a selfie, what do I do? Hit this?

JASON: Mm-hmm. That means turn the camera around to face you. So that — hit that button. Boom.

JASON (as narrator): I’d say at least a third of my role as son is comprised of either fixing my mother’s printer or teaching her how to use her latest piece of technology — the computer, a new television, and of course, her cell phone.

JASON (in conversation): See, that's the one I took.

ISABELL: Oh, that’s great.

[Light percussion joins the keyboard music.]

JASON: [Jason laughs.] Yeah, but I — you know…

ISABELL: That’s a really good picture of you. You took that of you?

JASON: Mm-hmm.

JASON (as narrator): These Sundays are important to me because, in some ways, they serve as my church. As someone who’s not the most religious man, there’s some kind of altar for me to kneel at. And that altar happens to be at this home, where we’re sitting right now. The home of the great Isabell Reynolds, which also happens to be the home I grew up in. It’s where I cut my teeth, lost my teeth and grew new teeth. It’s where she taught me to eat the world.

ISABELL: So what’s new, baby?

JASON: Been a rough week.

ISABELL: In what way?

[Music shimmers and fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): Furthermore, it’s where I come to lay my burdens down.

[Something crinkles, and the din of the TV continues in the background.]

JASON (in conversation): I don’t know. Just a lot going on. Every now and then, I had those times where I'm just like, you know? Overwhelmed. Every day, every week, you sort of wake up, you start your week, you put everything where it needs to be in your mind about all the things you have to do, all the people you have to do it for, all the work you have to do. All the… I mean, you know. You know this. You've done it your whole life.

ISABELL: Yeah.

JASON: And then sometimes… [Melancholy piano music comes in.] You just want to scream.

ISABELL: Yeah.

[A beat.]

JASON (as narrator): But I don’t scream. At least, I try not to. However, I feel whatever the weight of a scream is in my body. And I’ve been thinking a lot lately about where a person puts that weight.

I mean, life is a lot of things, you know? Maybe it’s more accurate to just say, life is… a lot.

[Music fades out.]

I guess it’s this way for everyone, but I know it’s this way for me. Don’t get me wrong, there’s so much laughter. There’s So much joy, so much… But there are just as many moments where I feel so much pressure, the skin on my face feels stretched from the tension of tears, almost to the point of splitting some imaginary seam that runs from widow’s peak to goatee.

Days where one moment I’m basking in the weird affirmations of my life — that I’ve somehow made something of it — and I feel so useful to the world. And then, shortly after, I feel, well — I feel used by the world. Completely depleted after giving whatever I have to whoever needs it.

[The TV and crinkling fade back in.]

JASON (in conversation): You know, and I just — this was one of those weeks where I was kind of like, you know… because there's never a time where anyone who needs something from me says, “Maybe I won't ask. Maybe I — maybe I won't ask him to do it.” Except for you —

[Both laugh.] [Piano music comes back in.]

You the one I want to ask! You the one I’m saying, “Ask me.”

JASON (as narrator): But, don’t nobody wanna hear all that.

[Music fades out.]

Don’t nobody wanna hear me crying about how living my dreams should come with some kind of instruction booklet, or at least a warning label. And the only way to deal with it is to play perspective games. To force-feed myself emotional illusions, like, “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world,” or, “It’s better than what I used to be doing,” or, “Be grateful.”

JASON (in conversation): I’m talking like strangers, and the industry, and the… You know, it's like, “We need an interview.” “We need this.” “We need that.” “We need this, we need that.” “We need this thing and that thing and this thing and that.” And it's like, how? How am I supposed to do all of this and maintain some sense of mental health? Get rest? Take care of… [Fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): The truth is, I wouldn’t trade my life, for anything. And it is better than what I used to do. And I am grateful. But… I’m also human.

Sure, I’ve seen and done things my family and many of my friends could’ve only dreamt of, but that don’t mean there’s not a heavy cost. So when what feels like the collective boot is upon my back, I always ask myself: Where, exactly, am I supposed to put the weight?

And then, just in time…

[Plucky, hopeful music comes in.]

Sunday comes.

JASON (in conversation): What am I supposed to do?

ISABELL: It’s nobody’s fault, baby. It's not what happens. It's how you react to what’s happening.

You know, you can either get all flustered and upset and blah-blah-blah-blah about it, or you can just take it in stride. And one thing for sure, it will work itself out. Always does.

And when you take your time, it works out to your benefit.

JASON: All right.

ISABELL: It does. It really does.

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: But you are so much like your mother in more ways than you even realize. You may look like your daddy. [Laughs.] I have to accept that — I ain’t got no choice.

But you know what, Jace? Motivational people, or people who are driven, are basically that way.

JASON (as narrator): The irony is not lost on me that this is coming from a lady who struggles to take a selfie but clearly don’t struggle to see herself.

JASON (in conversation): You made me like this. What do you think made you like this?

ISABELL: I think it's just part of my makeup, son.

[Music ends.]

JASON (as narrator): And I kinda feel like it’s part of mine. Something in me that pushes me because I can do anything.

[Shimmery, plucky music comes in.]

And, by the way, I can do anything. Know how I know? Because my mother told me so.

Matter of fact, my mother made me tell myself so every night as a child. She made me say it loud enough for her to hear after I recited my nightly prayers. It didn’t matter how tired I was, it didn’t matter if I was upset, or annoyed, or if we weren’t getting along, or even if I was sick. I had to say it aloud every single night, in this same house, the TV playing in the kitchen loud enough for me to hear but never loud enough to distract me from those four words, my non-negotiable mantra. I… can… do… anything.

[Music fades out.]

But let’s get back to my mom. Let me tell you more about this amazing person. If I had to sum up her personality in a single word, well, first of all, I wouldn’t want to. But if I had to, it would be: “driven.”

She worked in insurance and her office was an hour away from where we lived, so she had to be out the house by 6 a.m. to avoid traffic. She started working for this company when she was a 16 year old, clawing her way up from the mailroom to the executive office, the only Black woman — the only Black person, period — in that position.

Driven. She was driven as a mom, doing her best to make sure my brother and I had everything we needed, food on the table every night, staying up to check our homework, and taking us to practices and games, even though she had to be up early to take that long journey to the office.

She was driven to be the best family member — wife, daughter, sister, auntie — doing her best to give everything she had. And on the weekends, when she should’ve been resting, she’d be micromanaging our chores.

My main chore was to dust, which, let me tell you, was tough because our house was like a bazaar, full of things that seemed like they were supposed to be dusty.

[Bittersweet piano music comes in.]

Today, she’s still that person. An I-can-do-anything kind of person. At least to me. Still spreading herself thin, trying to be everything to everybody. Only difference is, well… I ain’t gotta dust no more. Thank God.

[Music fades out and TV comes back in.]

JASON (in conversation): I grew up in a house full of things, ma. Right? I grew up with you in a home where we — there are things everywhere in this house, right? Old things. Everything's got a story. Everything. So that's what I value.

My fear is that I’ll wake up with all of these, with all these beautiful stories around me, and I won't have one of my own. That's my — that's my fear, because that's because so much of my life has been just work, work, work, work, work, work, work. And I don't know if I'm living fully right now.

ISABELL: To me, you live well.

JASON: My lifestyle is a good lifestyle.

ISABELL: It is.

JASON: But, am I living my life? Is what I’m saying.

ISABELL: I gotcha.

JASON: [Laughs.] Let me ask you this. What do you think makes you feel joy? Because that's what I'm trying to figure out.

[Melancholy piano music comes in.]

ISABELL: I think the main thing, Jace, what it boils down to that makes me feel good, is to feel needed.

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: More needed than wanted.

[A beat.]

JASON (as narrator): More needed than wanted… I get that. I really, really do. It’s like I said, there’s nothing better than the moments I feel useful to the world. It almost makes me wonder if service is addictive. A drug that causes some kind of strange endorphin rush. Or if service has become a crutch I use to prop up some insecurity I’m unaware of. Or maybe if it’s — if it’s a sexy way to hide my workaholism. And what if workaholism is genetic? I mean, I know it’s not. At least, I don’t think it is. But… what if?

[Music slowly fades out and TV comes back in.]

JASON (in conversation): I think this is a good thing that you've given me, but I think that it could be… I have to figure out how to — how to harness it the right way. I think it's taken you a long time to figure that out. And I think that it’s done great things for your life, especially the people — the lives of the people around you who've benefited from it. But I also think it's caused you tremendous…

ISABELL: Grief.

JASON: Grief.

[Melancholy music comes back in.]

JASON (as narrator): Grief. In so many forms. Like sleepless nights, or a drink too many, or cancer. Growing up, I watched my mother serve as a pillar holding up far too much. Our family, immediate and extended, the company she worked for, all her friendships. She’d become more of a — a “what” than a “who.” A machine. Perhaps, like a vending machine. And I know this sounds harsh, but it’s true that we all just took from her, and we took from her, and took from her, without ever depositing anything… just knocking against her and taking whatever she had to offer, only to look on in awe at her refusal to break down.

ISABELL: It didn't take me long to figure that out, baby. I figured that out a long time ago. I just wouldn't do it. I felt I was more of a coward to do it. I couldn't say no. I didn't want to say no.

[Hand percussion joins melancholy music.]

Especially the family members who were expecting me to do X, Y, and Z. And I felt within myself, I'm not gonna let them down.

JASON (as narrator): So I did, and still do, exactly what I was taught. I do anything.

If I want to do it, nothing tells me I can't. If I’ve never done it, well, I ain’t afraid to try. And if I don’t know how, I’m willing to learn. But sometimes, the weight of anything-ness gets heavy, because it’s not always about the things I want to do. Sometimes it’s about doing the things I don’t want — or need — to do.

But I’m so used to doing it all, whatever it takes to not just make my dreams come true, but to sustain them, while also figuring out how to quell the nightmares of my kith and kin, if possible. And to me, everything is possible.

Everything. But it don’t always feel that way.

ISABELL: So what are you gonna do?

JASON: I don’t know. I don’t know. Try to figure it out and… Try to give myself permission to just… to just not do what I can't do. Can't do everything.

ISABELL: No, you can’t.

[Music shimmers on a single note.]

JASON: And some things I just have to be OK with saying, “You know what? I can't do it. Not right now. Maybe not ever. I just can't do it, you know?”

ISABELL: It's just that you just don't want to disappoint nobody.

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: And that's OK, too. You don't know what life brings. It’s — it’s… [Music becomes nostalgic and thoughtful.] And it's important to live each day for what makes you happy.

[A beat to think, with just the music.]

JASON (as narrator): What makes me happy?

[Music fades out.]

Learning about the world and laughing with kids, and eating a delicious meal, and of course, catching up with my mom on Sundays.

But always Sunday mornings, because by the time evening comes her eyes are heavy and that old office chair becomes a mattress, if mattresses came in right angles. I also come early so I can get out of there around noon. That way I get the rest of my day, my Sunday… to work.

What can I say? My mother made me.

[Thoughtful, bittersweet music comes in.]

This podcast was supposed to be a tribute to my mom, honoring her for all she’s taught me, like how to always remember where I’m from, or how to look to a higher power, or how life is about service — gems to get me to a place she’d never seen.

But I realized in talking to her that now that I’m here, maybe I have to take those rules — the commandments of Isabell Reynolds — and tweak them just a little to fit who I am today. So I can really live this thing. And maybe — maybe that’s what this podcast is really about. What she and I are teaching each other. And how, perhaps, we both could use some lessons on taking selfies, so to speak.

[Music fades out.]

So yeah, I can do anything, even start a podcast about my mother and all she’s taught me. But now, it seems like I’m learning that just because I can do anything, don’t mean I always have to.

[Music shimmers back in.]

ISABELL: And if you find time — I know you're busy and I have no right to ask this ’cause your schedule is so heavy.

JASON: But you gonna ask it anyway?

ISABELL: Yeah.

JASON: See what I'm saying? This is what happens. [Isabell laughs.] We just talked about this. [Both laugh.] Go ahead, ask — ask.

[Shimmery piano tremolos.]

JASON (as narrator): And if all else fails, I’ll just change this to an interview podcast. Or a podcast on new wonders of the world. Or maybe technology, or home improvement, or interior design, or floral arrangements. Or self-care, healthcare, welfare. A podcast on the changing definitions of everyday words, or regional slang. A podcast on the history of fashion, and how loose is in again. A podcast on just the color red. Or just wooden buttons. Or which eyeglasses are best for a heart-shaped face.

[Music ends.] [Semi-frenetic piano music comes in, with strings.]

My Mother Made Me is a production of Radiotopia Presents, and is written and narrated by me, Jason Reynolds, with my mother, Isabell Reynolds. The series is produced by Mark Pagán and edited by Julie Shapiro, with production support from Yooree Losordo. Julie Shapiro and Audrey Mardavich are executive producers for Radiotopia Presents. Special thanks to LeVar Burton, my homeboy Jason Griffin for the cover art, and to my brother Christian Reynolds for killing the theme song. Mixing, sound design and additional original music is by Ian Coss. This episode was recorded at WAMU.

Radiotopia Presents debuts limited-run, artist-owned series from new and original voices. For more information, visit radiotopiapresents.fm.

[Music ends.]

END OF EPISODE.

JASON REYNOLDS: I got this thing about birthdays. Actually, I think everyone’s got a thing about birthdays. I mean, how could you not? It’s the day that marks the beginning of your existence. The anniversary of your consciousness. The first time you actually change the world just by being born.

That being said, everyone’s relationship with their birthday is different. And over the course of a lifetime, how a person feels about birthdays can change, from tolerating celebrations imparted upon us by parents, to cultivating an array of questions that arise as we age.

[Jazzy, contemplative music comes in.]

Questions like: Are birthdays actually important? Should we celebrate them? What about half birthdays, are they really a thing? How long do we celebrate? And how do we choose to do so? Should I throw a party? Should someone else throw me a party? Please don’t try to surprise me, but I do love a surprise party. Will there be cake? Layer or sheet? Homemade or store-bought? Candles? Even after COVID? You really want me spitting all over the cake? Well, I mean, it is my cake, because it is my day. But you might want some. A corner piece? A piece from the middle? Also, am I really supposed to make a wish? And what exactly do I wish for? To see another birthday, and have to make all these decisions again?

[Music ends.]

And as birthdays do, mine will roll around in a few months in December. Maybe I’ll get out of here and go on a trip. Somewhere warm. Maybe an island. Scratch that. [Music comes back in.] Maybe I’ll go to Paris. Or maybe I’ll treat myself to something I’ve always wanted, or to something I’ve needed but have never gotten around to. A new pair of shoes, or new floors in my house. A deep tissue massage. Maybe I’ll spend the day by myself. Write in my journal and meditate on the year passed, and what I hope crystallizes in the year approaching.

Yeah, that sounds good. Just me. Alone.

[Music fades out.]

Because… if I’m being honest… like honest-honest… if left up to me, I probably wouldn’t celebrate my birthday at all. I’d just let it slip by as another day, with no fuss, no fanfare. I’d rather turn my phone off and let the happy birthday text messages pile up, and stay off social media so I don’t gotta perform all the weird niceties for people who I haven’t spoken to in years who’ve been alerted by the internet that today is the day we, apparently, reconnect.

But, who am I kidding? That never happens. [A musical buzz of anticipation begins and slowly grows.] I always end up doing something to celebrate, if only something small, even if it’s completely antithetical to my personality. And usually, I give in and… do the birthday thing, because my mother made me.

[Dramatic piano chord. Light, tinkling piano tremolos, joined by smooth, gentle violin. Then, tempo slows, and theme music ends.]

I’m Jason Reynolds, and this is My Mother Made Me, a podcast from Radiotopia Presents about some of the things my mom has taught me about life. And one of the things she’s taught me, inadvertently, is to not make a big fuss when it comes to birthdays.

My mom, who recently turned 76, though grateful for her life, doesn’t always see the need to take time out to celebrate herself, either. At least from what I’ve known of her.

[Light, slow piano music comes in. Muted conversation fades in underneath narration.]

As a matter of fact, both of us, for the last 20 years, have pretty much spent every birthday together. Just the two of us. [Conversation fades out.] And I think this small birthday ritual, at least for me, has something to do with our ideas around gratitude. I was raised to believe gratitude is a thing felt and given, but I’ve always been leary about it slipping into a kind of performance. To me, it feels like it should be more of an intimate thing. [The gentle crinkling of paper.] A handwritten note folded over on itself enough times to fit in the palm of my hand. A whisper that echoes.

[Paper crinkling ends. Music briefly fades out.]

But don’t get me wrong, I think we should exercise gratitude liberally, because there’s nothing too small to be grateful for.

Like my friend, Fred, from back in the day, who whispers “thank you” every morning when he puts his feet on the floor.

[Sound of floorboards creaking. Music comes back in.]

Or my father, who despite his gregarious personality struggled with bouts of anxiety and depression, began keeping gratitude journals [the sound of a pencil scratching across paper] — notebooks in which he’d get up and write a few things he was grateful for everyday. Mundane things, like a decent pair of shoes and a working car. He’d do this each day, and he’d try not to repeat himself, so when the darkness came he could see the physical manifestations of all that’s right in his life — all the ups, in a fleeting moment of down.

[Scribbling stops.]

Doesn’t matter how insignificant something seems, gratitude for it all has always been important to me. But it’s always felt so simple, so personal.

[Music ends.]

And maybe that’s the real reason my mother and I celebrate our birthdays together. Because who better to spend that day with than the woman who birthed me? And who better for her to spend hers with than the person who, in certain ways, rebirthed her? With us, there are no cakes or candles. There’s usually something more understated… some iteration of an easy drive and a simple sandwich.

[Wistful, slow guitar music comes in, along with the chatter and noise of a restaurant.]

JASON (in conversation): So, they got a tuna sandwich.

ISABELL REYNOLDS: Oh, OK.

JASON: What you always get here?

JASON (as narrator): There’s this restaurant she loves. High ceilings, wall-to-wall windows, pendant lighting, comfy couches and loveseats. Jazz music hanging over us like a soft fog. In the daytime it’s like eating in a museum. At night, like the parlor of a queen. But that ain’t why she likes it.

[Music ends.]

She loves going there for her simple sandwich.

ISABELL: The salmon burger.

JASON: They don’t have it. Shoot.

ISABELL: They got a turkey burger?

JASON: I can ask them.

WAITER: Any questions about the menu?

JASON: Trying to figure it out, man.

WAITER: Trying to figure it out?

JASON: ’Cause what she likes to eat here, y’all don’t have anymore. The tuna burger…

WAITER: If you like the tuna burgers, the tuna sandwich is pretty good.

JASON: She don’t want it.

[Waiter laughs.]

ISABELL: I can make that at home.

[Crosstalk.]

WAITER: No, it’s not —

JASON: It’s not — it’s not tuna fish. It’s not tuna fish.

WAITER: It’s not tuna fish. It’s almost like a tuna steak, yeah.

JASON: Like a tuna steak. Like a tuna steak.

[Crosstalk ends.]

WAITER: It’s good.

ISABELL: Have you had it, son?

JASON: I mean, I’ve had it other places. I’m going to get it here today.

WAITER: I was going to say, it’s pretty good. ’Cause I actually had that for lunch, like, maybe like five minutes ago.

JASON: Yeah, I’m — I’m — that’s what I’m going to get.

ISABELL: Maybe I’ll have that.

JASON: Just try it. I’mma get it… [Fades out.]

[Wistful music comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): When it comes to food, my mother is from South Carolina and grew up watching her mother cook everything from scratch. The biscuits and hotcakes, the stews and porridges, the greens.

I have fond memories of spending time on old slab porches, an assortment of wood and wicker chairs scattered about, some that rocked and others that weren’t meant to but did anyway. My mother and her aunts — my great-aunts — the matriarchs of our family, all sitting, adorned with dresses that looked like they were made from bedsheets. They’d let the extra fabric droop between their legs to create a makeshift satchel to hold the green beans. And for hours they’d laugh and take sips of whatever they were sipping, and snap the heads and feet off those beans to be cooked later. Sounded like fingers snapping.

[Percussive finger-snapping joins the music.]

Everything fresh. So later, when we gathered around that table and thanked God for the hands that prepared the meal, we were really grateful to God for those hands. [Music ends, but finger-snapping continues.] The water-weathered, arthritic fingers of Daisy, Maytrell, Elise, Ruth, Paw Jo and Blanche. Daisy, Maytrell, Elise, Ruth, Paw Jo and Blanche.

[Finger-snapping ends.]

We were thanking God for them, and in turn, we were thanking them. Because of them, we were nourished. Because of them, my mother knows food. Also, because of them, it’s hard for my mother to eat at restaurants, because she’s used to knowing what soil the vegetables have sprouted from and whose hands have plucked them, washed them, seasoned them.

But when she does eat out… she knows what she wants. And if you don’t got it, it’s hard to get her to budge and try something else off the menu. She won’t even drink the water.

Thankfully, whenever we’re hanging out, there’s always much more for us to chew on.

[Restaurant sounds fade in.]

JASON (in conversation): How does it feel — do you ever think about, like — I mean — birthdays come and go all the time. Are they important to you?

ISABELL: They’re important to me. People want to give you things, you know. They — that’s their way of showing…

JASON: Love. Appreciation.

ISABELL: Exactly. And I… [Fades underneath narration.]

JASON (as narrator): Speaking of appreciation… Can we just pause for a moment so I can say: my mother is gorgeous.

[Shimmery guitar music comes in.]

She’s got this air of elegance about her, and on days like today, her birthday, she always finds a way to accent her neckline, frame her face with teardrop earrings, just a bit of makeup — a little blush, a red lip — to remind the world that she is — or at least was — the party.

ISABELL: But for the most part, um, I was a birthday — a real birthday person. But I think what had happened, I could probably take it or leave it. [Music fades out into restaurant sounds.] But I treasure, son, believe me, when I tell you, I treasure each birthday now. I treasure each birthday. I treasure every day, as a matter of fact, especially since I was diagnosed with cancer. It’s very important. It’s really very important to me.

[Restaurant fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): Yeah, so… like she said, 20 years ago, just weeks before her 56th birthday, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. And though I have no recollection of her birthday that year, and whether or not we went to lunch or dinner, I can’t imagine it being much of a celebration. Surgery was coming. Radiation was coming. Chemo was coming. It was the toughest time of our lives. She feared leaving her children behind, I feared moving through the world without her. We’re both grateful she beat it, and continues to do so, but it would be disingenuous to believe we weren’t forever changed.

[Slow, contemplative music fades in.]

Maybe that’s why birthdays, though important to her, take no precedence over the gratitude she feels everyday. I mean, what gift is better than the gift of life?

But of course, with every birthday that rolls around — mine is just a few months after hers — we face the never-ending conundrum of actual, physical, thing-oriented gift-giving. My mother is always vexed about the fact that she don’t feel like she can get me anything at this point in my life. As if she hasn’t already given me everything. Again, what gift is better than the gift of life?

Well… there is one thing that, for me, makes the gift of life just a little bit sweeter.

[Restaurant sounds fade up and music fades out.]

JASON (in conversation): I think sometimes it’d be good to just know what people think of you. That’s the best gift anybody could give me, is to let me know that — that they know that I’ve tried to be good.

ISABELL: Well Jason, how do people do that?

JASON: Just tell me. Write me a letter. Say it to my face. Like, small things. I don’t need — for somebody like me, who — who saves everything, and who — like you, right? Who archives all that stuff and keeps all those things. You’d be surprised. Sometimes I think that people underestimate just how lonely it can get.

ISABELL: They do, because they’ve never been in your shoes.

JASON: Yeah.

[Pensive, slow piano music comes in.]

ISABELL: I’m glad we’re having this conversation, because this is something that — and I’ve told people time and time again. This is… And I’ve mentioned your birthday. “So what you going to give him?” I said, “Nothing.” What can I give him?

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: You know? But now you’re talking about it, and…

JASON: Write me a letter. I don’t want to have to — I don’t want to wait for you to go. When you’ve passed on and then discover — [to server:] thank you. [To Isabell:] And then find some beautiful note you left me.

ISABELL: Yeah.

JASON: I don’t wanna have to go through that. It’s the simple things.

[Restaurant fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): It’s the simple things. Seriously, for me there’s nothing better than a letter.

[Music ends.]

I think sometimes in the midst of our busy lives, we replace words with whatnots. And don’t get me wrong, objects are important to me. Anyone who knows me or my mother knows we love a good thing. Something to marvel at. Something with a story. But I’m not sure there’s a single thing on this earth, besides life itself, more valuable than a testimony of love — than for someone to spell out and spill out what you mean to them. That’s something I could never buy; a gift in the purest sense.

As a matter of fact, after I told my mother this, she told me how she’d gotten a birthday text message from one of our cousins earlier that morning that melted her.

[Restaurant sounds fade back in.]

ISABELL: I know what you’re saying is the truth because Colleen — Colleen wrote me a note today. She was — sent me a thing that said happy birthday, et cetera. And I texted her back and said, “Thank you. Um, I really do appreciate you guys.” And she wrote a little note back and said… She said, “Sis, I know you do.” Something like that. “And we love you.”

[A pause, and a small sniff.]

JASON: Why does that make you emotional?

[A pause.]

ISABELL: [Teary.] I don’t know. First, it was unexpected and then… I know it came from the heart. And I know she meant it. And it’s probably what I needed at the moment, you know?

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: At that moment, so… So, I was so touched. I’m sorry, I just… [Weepy.] Maybe I am going through something on my birthday, don’t even realize it.

JASON: Do you feel like you’ve gotten your flowers?

ISABELL: [Laughs.] Yes, I do. I’ve gotten my flowers, son. I — I’ve… I get them every day.

[Pause.]

I do. I do. I’ve gotten a lot of flowers, honey. Lots of flowers.

[Restaurant and conversation fades beneath narration.]

JASON (as narrator): So there we are, birthday lunching and talking about the old adage, “Give folks their flowers while they can still smell them,” which is apropos for my mother and me because there was no way we could celebrate her birth without also talking about the mysteries of death. It’s just… how we are.

Also, on this day, we couldn’t shake the fact that my father, her ex-husband and friend, had passed away just nine months before. That birthday phone call or text wouldn’t come from him this year. That “you gettin’ old” joke had finally expired.

But my mom has been studying all sorts of schools of thought and spiritual systems for over 50 years. She’s been meditating for just as long. And because of her thirst for a truth that made the most sense to her, conversations around how birth and death are tethered, conversations that felt esoteric for our community at the time, have been happening between the two of us since I was a child. So… even on her birthday… we got down to it. Par for the course.

[Restaurant and conversation fade back up.]

JASON (in conversation): Did you ever tell, like, your mother and father that you were meditating and into all that?

ISABELL: They knew it. Yeah, they knew it.

JASON: I was laughing at Dad. I tell you how — how before he died, maybe two weeks before he died, we were laughing about you? ’Cause he was like, yeah, “Your mother used to be into all that, like, woo-woo, this, that and a third.” And I was like, “She’s still into all of that.” [Isabell laughs.]

And then, a week later, he sees, you know, laying there in bed. He said, “Man, I…” He was having apparitions. Right? He was sort of experiencing, you know, like, these out-of-body moments. Because he was transitioning. And he was like, “I can’t explain it to you, but I could see, like, there was like these stars,” and there’s this, and there’s that…

ISABELL: Yeah.

JASON: And I thought, “Oh, it’s like a celestial.” And he was like, “You know what? Yeah. I owe your mother an apology.” [Both laugh.]

ISABELL: But, you know what, Jason? When you have beliefs like that, it’s kind of a lonely life because you don’t have very many people you can share it with.

JASON: If you Black.

ISABELL: I didn’t have not one friend — Black friend… until I met Barbara.

[Restaurant fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): Ms. Barbara was who helped my mother with her metaphysical studies. She also taught me to crochet when I was young, which was one of the greatest things I’ve ever learned. You know, I’m not sure I’ve ever thanked her. So, if you’re listening, thank you Ms. Barbara. I’m grateful for you. My mom is, too.

[Restaurant fades back in.]

ISABELL: So every morning I would get up, Jace — I’d get up about four o’clock in the morning and go downstairs. The house is very quiet. I lit a candle… a white candle… and I lit an incense stick.

JASON: Amazing, ’cause it feels like you were so far ahead of the game. I mean, for Black people, for Black Americans. I’m always curious about that. I might’ve asked you this one time before: of all the different spiritual paths you could have taken, despite your belief in Jesus, why did you choose the Catholic church?

ISABELL: It gave me what I was looking for at the time.

JASON: Which is what?

[Plucky bass music comes in.]

ISABELL: Serenity, peace. I wasn’t interested in all that… [Fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): What I remember growing up is a different altar offering her serenity and peace. This nook where she kept small totems, like figurines and cards and pictures and crystals. Incense and white sage. Things I knew not to touch as a kid.

It’s funny to see so much of this stuff at my friends’ houses these days, and listen to them talk about it all like it’s new. Something en vogue and sexy, worldly and progressive. Something that requires apps and name brand accoutrement.

Whereas for my mother, it was all ancient. [Paper crinkles.] And simple. A handwritten note, expansive in nature, folded onto itself enough times to fit in the palm of a hand. A whisper that echoes. [Paper crinkling ends.]

And though perhaps it was radical for a Black Southern woman to believe in these particular kinds of traditions at the time, she didn’t really see it as such.

[Music ends.]

Speaking of traditions, the Black death tradition bears some resemblance to the Black birthday tradition. It’s all about celebration. And even though I’m not for all the rah-rah, many of us see birthdays as such a grand ceremony, a day — usually a week, sometimes even a month — for us to be lifted up in song and dance. There’s a drama to it that I appreciate, though I don’t often partake in it. But the same goes for our death traditions. Sure, there’s a sadness, but if you think you’re going to make it out that funeral without a show, if you think there’s gonna be a shortage of laughter, food and booze… you’ve clearly never been to the repast of what we call homegoing services.

As cultural as it all is, I’m not the only outlier. Nor is my mother. Turns out, my grandmother wasn’t too keen on all the pomp and circumstance of it all either.

[Restaurant sounds fade in.]

ISABELL: You know my mother was a Southern woman, Baptist woman. She didn’t put up with no foolishness in the church. She’d get up and walk out of there in a minute. [Jason laughs.]

She said, “You know what? You can’t resurrect this person again. I’m not sitting here any longer.” Mama would get up and leave. They went to New York for a funeral. They left and went to McDonald’s. Came back and they were still having a funeral. [Jason laughs.] They went and ate… they said, “This is ridiculous.”

JASON: They went to McDonald’s?

ISABELL: Got them something to eat.

JASON: In the middle of the funeral?

ISABELL: Uh-huh.

JASON: Came back and the funeral was still going on?

ISABELL: Uh-huh.

[Melancholic guitar music comes in.]

You know something, Jace? Now that I’m older, I’m really glad that I had the opportunity to, um… get myself involved in, um… metaphysics and stuff at an early age. I think it was good for me.

JASON: Why?

ISABELL: It helped me to understand, more so now than ever, a lot of things going on in the universe. It helped me to understand more about mankind. I feel — and I may regret it later on — I think it helped me to understand death. You know? Even though it’s painful, it hurts and all that, but it always —

[Music cuts out abruptly.]

WAITER: How’s everything? You good?

ISABELL: Oh, yeah.

JASON: All good. We’re all good.

WAITER: You ready for the check? Or y’all need a moment? You want to look at the dessert menu?

JASON: [To Isabell:] You want — [to waiter:] Today her birthday, but don’t bring out a birthday thing or anything.

WAITER: I got you.

JASON: [Laughs.] But — do you want any dessert, ma?

WAITER: Yes, I’mma take care of you.

ISABELL: Uh-uh.

JASON: ’Cause she don’t like a lot of attention.

WAITER: I know, OK.

JASON: Yeah. But we appreciate that.

[A beat while the waiter leaves.]

ISABELL: I don’t know. It just — I think it made me a better person. [Melancholic guitar music comes in.] I think it helped me to realize… the truth about a lot of things.

JASON: So, death being one of them? No fear.

ISABELL: Death is hard.

JASON: For who? For — for — for the dyer or for — for the living?

ISABELL: For the living. The living. The living.

[Guitar music and restaurant sounds fade out.]

JASON (as narrator): And living is sometimes hard for the dying, and maybe the reason that’s such a weird thing to think about is because we sometimes forget we happen to be both: the living and the dying. That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth it to chase our dreams. Or laugh with our whole bodies. Or toast to the day we were born…

[Restaurant sounds fade in.]

JASON (in conversation): What do you think happens?

ISABELL: To what?

JASON: When you die?

ISABELL: I think you become a part of the celestial…

JASON: Plane. Like the astral plane.

ISABELL: I do. I think you become a part of it. I do.

JASON: Like your — your spirit, your energy.

ISABELL: Yup.

JASON: Your spirit, your energy.

ISABELL: Energy. And that — that never dies.

JASON: Right. Energy doesn’t die. We know that.

ISABELL: It does not die.

JASON: And that’s science, right? Physiology says that —

ISABELL: Exactly.

JASON: Physics says that.

ISABELL: It doesn’t die. It doesn’t die.

JASON: Changes, but it doesn’t die.

ISABELL: And — and — and… [Fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): I got to experience this firsthand the day my father died. I was holed up in my office working when I got the call. Admittedly, I was trying to stay busy, trying to avoid what I knew was inevitable.

[Slow, melancholy music comes in.]

But eventually my phone rang, and my stepmother, Camille, was on the other end with news of his passing. 12:28 p.m.

After laying it on me, Camille told me to hurry if I wanted to see him before he was transported to the crematorium. So I jumped in my car and took the hour drive to his home, the whole way trying my best to steel and prepare myself for what I was going to experience upon arrival.

When I got there, I climbed the stairs to his bedroom. And for the most part, things were exactly as they’d been a few days before when I’d last been there. A made bed, where Camille slept. Hospital tray table next to a mechanized twin bed, where my father lie. What was different were the people in the room. My aunt, my father’s only sister, standing over the bed, stroking his face. His brothers flanking the other side. And though it was somber, for obvious reasons, everyone was also lobbing jokes across my father’s body, volleying back and forth as if he wasn’t resting there between us.

But that’s what was most interesting to me, the fact that it was impossible [music ends] — even in the midst of the freshness of his death — to not acknowledge the fact that only his body was in the room, but his energy was no longer in that shell. That, coupled with our coping, allowed us to be so cavalier. But I could feel him all around us, because no one could find a moment to laugh like he could. No one loved an inappropriate joke like him. Energy doesn’t die. It just changes. Whether it’s outside the body or inside of it. Whether life as we know it has ended, or if it has persisted and has reached one more anniversary. Energy changes. And since we’re basically just energy, that means we change too, in form and in thought.

[Restaurant sounds fade in.]

JASON (in conversation): Immediately. Walk in the room, you knew immediately that he wasn’t in the room.

ISABELL: Wow.

JASON: It was the strangest thing. Strangest thing.

WAITER: You want some more — you don’t want no water?

JASON: I told you. It’s — it’s a thing. Can you actually — can you explain it? Why — why —?

WAITER: Yes, please!

JASON: I think it’s because she don’t trust the water. [Isabell laughs, then Jason laughs.]

WAITER: I could’ve brought you a bottle of water.

JASON: She don’t trust that either. She think bottled water, tap water…

ISABELL: I’m fine. I’m fine.

[Jason and the waiter laugh.]

JASON: When you get 76, you can do what you want to do.

WAITER: I know. No, I was gonna say, my mama —

JASON: You can do whatever you want to do, man. [Jason and the waiter laugh.] It’s probably good. Let me see what… this looks like some kind of chocolate mousse.

ISABELL: It is. I’m only doing it because of my birthday.

JASON: It’s good.

JASON (as narrator): And we’ve come full circle, back to birthdays. [The sound of a spoon clinking down. Restaurant fades out. Slow, pensive music comes in.]

Specifically, my mom’s 76th. And you probably won’t be surprised but she, like me, has this thing about birthdays. I mean, how could she not? Seventy-six years of bumps and bruises on this earth has to make it almost impossible to not see every day as a moment of gratitude.

And maybe we all should. Maybe every day should be a day we make wishes, or throw ourselves parties, even if only in our minds. Maybe every day we should open presents, or have a slice of cake, or do something to celebrate the simple fact that we’re experiencing a new day, worthy of a drive, and a chat, and a laugh.

A new day to ponder life, how it’s fully happening and completely fleeting at the same time. [Percussive finger-snapping joins music.] A new day to learn something. To challenge ideas and conventions. To shake up the energy inside. A new day to thank the people we love and the people we’ve lost by not seeing them as lost at all. [Music picks up, becomes jauntier.] Thank them for new sight. Cite them when someone compliments our walk, our talk, our taste.

And sticking with taste, every day is a new day to thank the strangers who happen to help us. Who wait on us. Who accommodate us. I’m talking about the ones who pour the water we won’t drink, and even convince us not to turn away from the snapping of peas but to perhaps try a sandwich we never knew we wanted.

[Music ends. Snapping continues for two beats, then ends, too. New, joyful piano music begins.]

And on our birthdays, which I know, I know, is just another new day, but still the anniversary of the first day we changed the world, maybe we’ll even surprise ourselves, with an extra spoonful of chocolate mousse.

[Piano music continues for a few beats, then ends.] [Bouncy music comes in.]

My Mother Made Me is a production of Radiotopia Presents, and is written and narrated by me, Jason Reynolds, with my mother, Isabell Reynolds. The series is produced by Mark Pagán and edited by Julie Shapiro, with production support from Yooree Losordo. Julie Shapiro and Audrey Mardavich are executive producers for Radiotopia Presents. [Finger-snapping joins music.] Special thanks to my homeboy Jason Griffin for the cover art, and to my brother Christian Reynolds for killing the theme song. Mixing, sound design and original score is by Ian Coss.

Radiotopia Presents debuts limited-run, artist-owned series from new and original voices. For more information, visit radiotopiapresents.fm.

[Music ends. Finger-snapping continues for two beats, then ends.]

END OF EPISODE.

JASON REYNOLDS: As you probably know by now, my mother and I spend quality time together on Sundays. But that isn’t a new tradition. In my early years, every Sunday morning she’d come into my room at 7 a.m. to wake me up for church.

[A single organ note begins to hum under narration.]

Early service. Catholic mass. I’d put on a sweater and slacks, black and white Stride Rite saddle shoes, and zombie my way down the hall and out the door. Ten minutes later we’d pull up to Holy Family. Though I was always slow going, by the time we got to the door of the church I’d be excited about taking part in all the rituals. The holy water. The genuflecting before sliding into one of the wooden pews.

[The sounds of rustling and adjusting on a wooden pew.]

The shaking hands and wishing peace unto another person. The kneeling, and my five minutes of independence when my mother ventured down the center aisle with her hands ready to receive wafer and wine as body and blood.

[Organ note fades out.]

But as I got older, it got… old. It wasn’t as exciting as going to church with my family down South where the choirs would stomp a hole in the floor, and what everyone called “the spirit” would be sending people into enthusiastic convulsion, and the preacher would sweat through his suit and robe, screaming ‘amen’ at the top of his lungs, loud enough to be heard in heaven.

And also, I got old enough to notice my brother never had to go. My father neither. Plus, I had to go to Sunday School, which I hated, because Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday school was already enough. So eventually, I just didn’t want to go no more.

[Dramatic piano chord.]

But I had to, because my mother made me.

[Light, tinkling piano tremolos, joined by smooth, gentle violin. Then, tempo slows, and theme music ends.]

[A few light, sparse piano notes come in under narration.]

I’m Jason Reynolds, and this is My Mother Made Me, a podcast from Radiotopia Presents about some of the things my mom has taught me about life. And a big part of that teaching was in the belief in a higher power.

[Piano ends.]

ISABELL REYNOLDS: When you were little and couldn’t think for yourself, that was part of my job to introduce you to what I felt was something that you can fall back on, and this and that and the other.

JASON (as narrator): So, to be clear, she made me go to church… until she didn’t.

ISABELL: You're entitled to your own opinion. And it has never crossed my mind that I raised this monster and he don’t believe in nothing, and this and that. No, no, no, no, no, no. My whole thing, with you and everybody else — I'm not telling you that you have to believe in Jesus Christ. I feel you should believe in a higher power. There's something higher than you. There's something greater than you. There is something that is greater than who you are.

[Jazzy, smooth piano music comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): Of all the things my mom’s taught me, this has to be one of the greatest. She was raised in the church, but changed denominations as she got older and also studied lots of other ways to feel connected, so she was completely open-minded when it came to this vast idea around a ‘Higher Power.’ I remember telling her I didn’t want to go to church no more. That I had questions about judgment and punishment. Questions about who gets to go to heaven and who doesn’t. Perhaps I felt comfortable saying this to her because of our relationship, or perhaps it was because she’d told me the stories about how she’d had some of these same questions when she was a young girl. And her response was simply, “OK. You don’t have to. And I’ll support and help you navigate whatever path you feel is the right path for you. Just remember that Higher Power.”

[Music ends.]

I couldn’t have been much older than 12, 13. And when I think back now on that conversation, on the ease of it, on the understanding and respect she showed me, I recognize that moment not only as an act of love, but also an act of courage. A courage she attributes to her own mother.

ISABELL: When I was a little girl, my mother was really my idol. I adored my mother. A strong woman, brave woman, very courageous. Stand up to anybody — Black, white, it didn't matter to her. ’Cause she was vocal.

[Bouncy, thoughtful music with snaps for percussion comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): I don’t have lots of memories of my grandmother, but the few I do have of her… Daisy Bell Fulmer, or Bell as she was affectionately called, are indeed of her being… vocal.

[Montage of Isabell talking about her mother begins.]

ISABELL: Had a reputation of being one of the best basketball players, you know…

… My mother could drive anything. I admired that. How she could get on a tractor and drive a tractor…

… In the country, we had outdoor toilets. My mother was sick and tired of a stinky toilet. So she built her — her kids, her family, a Cadillac double toilet, outdoor toilet with two stools in it. Believe it or not she built it…

JASON (as narrator): It takes a certain kind of person to be willing to sacrifice blood, sweat and tears for her family to have a more comfortable place to put their… you know. Requires vision and the discernment to know there’s more than one way to do everything. And that we have the ability to try new methods, and build new things, even if it requires us to be introduced to new parts of ourselves.

[Music fades out.]

My mother knew this. Saw it modeled by her mother. So her allowing me space from church, and also introducing me to her spaces outside the church, was her way of building a Cadillac toilet for me. A place for me to sit and rest and… clear out. And yes, even a place where we bonded, safe in the shelter built by an emotional hammer and nail.

This bond. It’s been unbreakable from the beginning. As a matter of fact, one of the spaces this bond was spoken about, besides the car and the kitchen table, was on the couch in the office of a woman named Reverend Diane Nogorka.

[Quirky, plodding music comes in.]

Though a reverend, Diane wasn’t my mother’s minister in that way. She was my mother’s psychic. Yes, my mother had been seeing psychics since she was in her early 20s, another part of her spiritual exploration. And, according to my mom, when I came along, all her readings changed.

[Music fades out.]

ISABELL: She could never read me without picking you up. I never had to ask, basically, about you because she said that you just comes into — to the reading. And it's because of our spirits, that we are so closely connected. Because we'd been together in so many lifetimes, and she said this would be the last lifetime that we would be together. So, that's what she told me. I’ll never forget that.

JASON: Makes me sad I ain't going to see you again.

ISABELL: You will see me again.

[Music comes back in.]

JASON (as narrator): There are a lot of things that form this bond between me and my mom. Our ability to communicate honestly with one another. Our desire to always make the other proud. Our senses of humor. The fact that we’re friends. The reality that there’s no way around it — she wiped my butt, and there’s a good chance I’ll end up wiping hers someday.

But there’s something else. Something else between us that’s been a kind of glue. Something else that bonds us in a way I actually don’t think either of us has ever truly given much thought — and that’s our deep love for her oldest son, my older brother, Allen.

[Music ends.]

It was early on a Saturday morning when I drove up to Baltimore to see him, intending to take him to breakfast and reminisce over French toast and coffee. I told him about this podcast, and because he always says yes to me, he said yes to being interviewed. Which was a big deal. Because though we’re close, there are certain things my brother don’t like to talk much about. And though he knows he can trust me, there are wounds I know not to pick at. Not for private curiosity, and definitely not for public consumption.

Nonetheless, I was honored and grateful he would open up to me.

[Wistful, light piano music comes in.]

It had been about six months since we'd last seen each other, and we were so eager to catch up we never even made it to the restaurant. We just sat in my car in the parking lot outside his apartment, and talked and talked.

[Music ends.]

JASON (in conversation): Do you remember meeting her? You were what — 6?

ALLEN ERNEST REYNOLDS II: I think I was either 8 or 9.

JASON (as narrator): Allen Ernest Reynolds, the Second. Named after our father, who refused to make him a junior. Young Allen to our family, Big Al to his friends. You can ask anyone who knows him, and they’ll say he’s the kindest, most gentle, most compassionate man in the world. Now.

But when he was a kid, he was none of those things. Not to me. Not to our mother. See, Allen was her stepson, but we don’t acknowledge steps in our family, unless we talking about steps forward. A son is a son. A mother, a mother. So when he came into her life, and she came into his, she did the best she could to give him the love he needed. The love he deserved.

ALLEN: When I first met her, I mean, like, you know, she was a nice person. But then, you know, when he said, you know, he was getting ready to marry her, I was like, what about, you know, Mom? [Laughs.]

JASON: Right.

ALLEN: Yeah.

JASON (as narrator): Allen’s mother and our father were never married. As a matter of fact, they never even really dated. But whatever interaction they’d had brought forth a child. A little boy our father would eventually gain sole custody of.

ALLEN: You know, he sat me down and talked to me. I was confused ’cause they, you know, I was like, “Oh, why y'all take me away from Mom?” And, and he was like, “Well, you know, your mother can't take care of you. She's not getting rid of you, son.” She’s, you know, she just couldn't take care of me ’cause she couldn't discipline me.

JASON: ’Cause you was a wild kid. [Laughs.]

ALLEN: Yeah, I was wild. Every time I misbehaved she would buy me a toy. So, [laughs] yeah.

JASON: And then you met Isabell.

ALLEN: Right. And all that changed. [Both laugh.]

[Hand percussion comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): The thing about our mother is she’s sweet, and smart, and open and all that, sure, but back then she was tough. A disciplinarian. Only problem was she didn’t really know how to best discipline Allen, because he was different.

[Shimmery, contemplative music joins percussion.]

Different in a way that we didn’t have language for then, but we do now. Neurodivergent. Traumatized. And a host of other things that, had we just had the information, could’ve helped us understand what my mother couldn’t in Allen’s youth.

He was a soft spoken kid. A shy boy. He spent most of his young life drawing pictures of monsters, reading comic books and playing with bugs. He was bullied in school, betrayed by his friends, dealt bad hand after bad hand. Because of that, he’s had social anxiety dating all the way back to middle school. And he’s had to carry that the majority of his life.

[Music fades out.]

JASON (in conversation): You get to middle school, and now the bullying begins.

ALLEN: Right.

JASON: Do you remember the first time? Do you remember, like — what was — what was it?

ALLEN: Yeah, the first time this guy came to me and he hit me. Right? And I was like, I thought he was playing at first. And then he hit me again. He said, “Man, I need some money. Lunch money or something, man.” He said, “You know, every time, you know, I come to you, you got to give me money.” And I got scared. So that's what I started doing. I would — you know, like, when I did the little chores around the house, whatever money I got, I would give it to him so that he would leave me alone. And then, you know, after a while, other people started picking with me.

JASON: Did you ever tell Mom?

ALLEN: No. No, I was afraid. At that time, you know, I didn't trust her. I didn't like her, so I didn't know. I just kept it to myself. I figured as long as I paid them off, they’d leave me alone.

JASON (as narrator): And though they never really left him alone — the bullying would continue all the way through high school — he did discover holes to climb into. Holes to either protect him or help him disappear. Some safe, like the woods he’d run around in whenever he’d skip school, which was pretty much every day. In those woods he could be the king of his own world. Where he could dig up bugs and crustaceans and, for a few hours a day, peace.

But there were also other holes that weren’t so safe. Holes that were deeper than he’d needed and darker than he’d expected. Holes found under the caps of bottles of cheap wine our mother kept stocked in our home bar. My brother had his first sip at 13. Enough to numb him. And he’d continue to tap the spirits, moving on to vodka and gin, filling the bottles with water so our mother wouldn’t find out. Enough to almost kill him.

But there was one hole he almost never came out of. A hole that felt both deep and dark, but also safe and warm. And that’s the hole of himself. The one he never had to run to, and never had to leave. A hole that could become a home.

[Classical piano music plays, occasionally haltingly.]

As a kid, this kinda concerned me. Made me wonder if he’d ever be able to make it in the world. But now I realize that even though I may want more for him, he’s been making it just fine.

And I’m proud of my brother.

He’s just a homebody, y’know? Besides work as a custodian and his weekend movie dates — the dark, quiet theater, his personal public safe space — with his girlfriend, he’s pretty much chillin’ in his apartment. He has not traveled to another state since our family trips as children. He has not been to a party maybe ever. He has been to one concert, which I took him to years ago, which wasn’t the most pleasant experience — too many people. He rarely interacts with members of our extended family, and for years, has even excused himself during holiday dinners to eat alone, not because he doesn’t love us — he does — but because he’s more comfortable by himself. And, on top of all this, for as long as I can remember, he’s been terrified of flying.

[Piano music ends.]

You know who else has a fear of flying? Our mother. If she has to fly to get there, she ain’t going. As a matter of fact, the first thing I did when I started making a little money was try to take her on a trip, because she has this fascination with the Wonders of the World. But when it was time to make it happen, she couldn’t bring herself to get on a plane.

And I’m not knocking her. I’ve had my own anxieties with flying. It’s just strange to see her struggle with it because for so much of my childhood, she was flying around the country for work stuff, bringing me back souvenirs from her travels. Now, having grown a bit more cautious as she’s gotten older, her souvenir collection comes from her regular visits — we can call them “vacations” — to Costco.

I wonder if she’d fly there, if she had to.

[Playful, plucky string music comes in.]

I bet she would.

JASON (in conversation): You the one turn the air off.

ISABELL: Well, you didn't turn it on. It was already on, wasn’t it?

JASON (as narrator): Fortunately for her, she doesn’t have to. It’s Sunday again, and occasionally my mom and I break free from her house and go run errands. This was one of those days. The thing about running errands with my mother is that everything — and I do mean everything — she needs, she gets from one place and one place only.

JASON (in conversation): You the one who turned it off. Remember?

ISABELL: Yeah, I did. I’m going to faint now. It’s so hot in here.

JASON: [Laughs.] It’s so hot. Why you ain’t say nothing?

[Cross-talk.]

ISABELL: It’s so hot!

JASON: I'm sweating. I'm sitting here like, “Why did she turn the air off?” I thought you was cold.

ISABELL: No, I’m not cold. I'm sweating.

JASON (as narrator): As I’m sure you’ve figured out by now, we ain’t in no jumbo jet. Nope, we are in her old Volvo, which is all we need to get us to the country of Costco. Costco Island. Gotta have a passport to get in and everything.

[Music ends.]

ISABELL: And I told her, I said, you can — you can round up these guys when you need them to do something for you and stop getting people who don't do a good job. Because her doors and everything did not seal tight. And I was like, those guys don't know what they're doing. And see here, baby, you gonna get off in a few minutes. You gonna get off at the next exit.

[Plodding piano music comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): She’s catching me up on family drama about siblings and cousins — there’s always so much — a tradition whenever we’re on our way to The Land of Too Much.

ISABELL: And I told her, I said, you need somebody to do that ceiling for you. Take this first one right here. I said, Recinda can do that for you. But — I know he's high, but sometimes you have to pay for it. Now, those guys put her back door on, she got a big gap in there. I said, well, you — because they're not well-trained. All those yellow things up here, make a right…

JASON: Oh, Costco.

ISABELL: Oh. Perfect, baby. [Car door closes.]

JASON: Your favorite place. Costco…

ISABELL: It ain’t just mine. I've talked to the other girls and they tell me all the time…

[Music ends.]

JASON: What is it, though? Why is it that way?

ISABELL: Say it’s better if you're depressed, go to Costco. Costco will definitely get you out of your mood.

JASON (as narrator): Ah, so maybe it’s not a vacation. Maybe it’s therapy.

JASON (in conversation): What is it about Costco that makes that the case?

ISABELL: Because there’s so much to look at.

JASON: Got you.

ISABELL: And you just take your mind off it.

JASON: It’s a good distraction.

ISABELL: That’s exactly what it is — a distraction.

[Up-tempo drums come in.]

JASON: You ready?

ISABELL: Mm-hmm.

JASON: You got your mask, your wig, everything, strapped in?

ISABELL: Mm-hmm.

[Lounge-style piano music joins drums.] [Montage of Costco trip begins.]

JASON: Christmas tree.

ISABELL: Mm-hmm, good-looking.

JASON: This is supposed to be a discount store, right?

ISABELL: Yeah.

JASON: Why is the tree $900? They already got Christmas stuff out…

I need a hand towel, but I only want one.

ISABELL: Get it from me. I've got tons of them. I can't stand hand towels.

JASON: All right, well then, good. I can take one of yours.

ISABELL: Sure, glad to give it to you.

JASON: Right.

What is this for? For dishes?

ISABELL: Yeah, that's a spray-on. You want it for the dishwasher?

JASON: For the dishwasher. Like these. You want one?

ISABELL: Yeah, I’m gonna get one. I don't want the one on top, baby. Never get the one on top.

JASON: Never get the one on top, gotcha.

ISABELL: It’s going up on the pile.

JASON: This is what happens to y'all when y'all come here. [Laughing.] Now I get it. [Isabell laughing.] I finally reached the age that I — I understand exactly what happens.

ISABELL: Exactly. [Jason laughs.] You got it.

JASON: [Laughing.] Now I gotta tell my friends. Like guys, we've been teasing them all this time. Now we're reaching the age where it all starts to make sense… [Both laughing.]

ISABELL: All my favorite people in here that I go to, they all… they all not working.

JASON: You got favorites in here?

ISABELL: Oh yeah. Favorite cashiers.

JASON: [Laughing.] You know their names?

ISABELL: No. [Jason laughs.]

[Sound of items being scanned in checkout line.]

[Montage ends.]

JASON (as narrator): As my mother and I pay for our stuff… who am I kidding, I actually did most of the shopping — a case of ginger tea, a thousand laundry detergent pods, a big box of those delicious airplane cookies — we head toward the door, passing Costco’s strange, makeshift eatery.

[Music ends.]

JASON (in conversation): When I was younger, I thought this place had the best pizza in the world. And them hot dogs.

ISABELL: You learned better, didn’t you? The hot dogs are still good. Hickory beef hot dogs. If you grill it.

JASON: I don't like eating no hot dogs no more, but I remember.

ISABELL: I haven’t had a hot dog in years.

COSTCO EMPLOYEE: Good morning, folks. How y’all doing?

JASON: All right, brother. How you doing?

JASON (as narrator): Funny, my brother Allen, as far as I know, ain’t eaten a hot dog in years either. Year after year, cookout after cookout, he’d stack his plate with everything but a hot dog. And this isn’t just something I’ve noticed, it’s something we’ve talked about. As a matter of fact, I can remember the exact moment he swore them off. It was the day my mother found out about his drinking. And we’d had hot dogs for dinner.

Let’s just say… he was sick. And his room smelled like hot dogs for days.

When I think about that night, sometimes I laugh and wonder if he did what we all do when we get too drunk — bargain with God. Did he pray that if the Almighty could get him out of this, he would never drink again? Even though he never even went to church back then.

JASON (in conversation): Why do you think Ma never ain’t never make you go to church with us?

JASON (as narrator): I asked him about this, back in the car.

JASON (in conversation): I had to go to church every Sunday —

ALLEN: You know —

JASON: — at 8 o’clock in the morning. You and Dad.

ALLEN: I don't know. ’Cause, I mean, we used to go sometimes, um... It was boring to me. I didn't care too much. Because I wasn't getting anything out of it. But it was boring. [Jason laughs.]

JASON: Right, right. How do you feel about God these days? Like, do you have any sort of belief in any of that?

ALLEN: Yeah, yeah.

JASON: Really?

ALLEN: Yeah, I do.

JASON: Did you back then?

ALLEN: I didn't, but I do now.

JASON: Yeah?

ALLEN: Yeah.

JASON: Why? I'm curious. Because we don’t talk about this. Why?

ALLEN: I'm not a praying person, but I need to pray more though. But when I do pray, you know, things happen. And I know it's — it has to be a higher power. I believe in that. I really believe that there's a higher power and things — you know, things happen for a reason. You know? I believe — I really believe that.

[Moody, contemplative music comes in.]

There has to be more than just this. There has to be more.

JASON: There has to be more.

JASON (as narrator): There has to be. And I’ve told my brother that I think he’s probably closer to whatever that higher power is than most of us, because he’s been through so much it’s made him more of a compassionate, empathetic person. He could never call someone stupid or ugly. I mean, this dude can’t even hurt insects.

[Music ends.]

JASON (in conversation): And there's something about that that feels connected to whatever that higher power is. Right? Like there’s maybe something else… Like there's, like, the higher power that exists around us. And then it's like the higher power that maybe exists within us. Which actually… leads me to this last question, which is, like, are we still going to Puerto Rico?

JASON (as narrator): Puerto Rico. Yep. A few months ago, Allen asked me if I could take him to Puerto Rico. Actually, my mother told me on one of our trips to Costco that he’d talked to her about it. Admittedly, I didn’t believe it and told her I’d wait and see if he mentioned it to me. And he did. Told me he wanted to know what it was like to be on an island.

But when I told him he had to have a valid ID, which he didn’t have at the time, he told me he’d get that sorted out and get right back to me. I want to be honest about not believing he’d follow through. I also want to be honest about how elated I was when he did.

ALLEN: Yeah. Check this out. Hold up. I did it, all this, and look — I got my ID.

JASON: You got your ID.

ALLEN: I got it. That's done.

JASON: Aiight. So we going?

ALLEN: We going.

JASON: OK.

ALLEN: We going. I got the ID, so there’s no excuse.

JASON: I'm proud of you, man. That’s — damn. That's dope.

ALLEN: I did it.

JASON (as narrator): Of course, I couldn’t wait to tell our mother. The next day, which happened to be Sunday, I blabbed all about it.

JASON (in conversation): He told me — I asked him again, I said, “Look, man, you know, you said you want to go to Puerto Rico.” And he jumped up and he got excited. Because he went and got his license.

ISABELL: He got his driver's license now?

JASON: He went and got his identification so he can travel. His ID expired.

You know, what do you think about him wanting something new, or having a new experience, or…?

ISABELL: I think it's a sign of growth. I really do. First of all, Jace, I think he's got more confidence now. He feel good about himself. He has a job that they respect him on. And he wants something out of life. And I think that is a plus. I think it’s great.

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: I really and truly do.

[Wistful, slow piano music comes in.]

There's a higher power working with him.

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: It's, like, it's an unseen thing.

JASON (as narrator): But maybe it is seen. Maybe this version of the higher power is something we can actually lay eyes on.

That higher power that I think my brother has is the same higher power I think my mother has. That I think all of us have. But it isn’t necessarily a spiritual thing. Or at least not just a spiritual thing. Maybe it’s this idea that there’s more to who we are. To what our lives can be.

More than the holes we construct for ourselves. More than the holes of comfort or the holes of catastrophe. More than our Costcos.

JASON (in conversation): I wish, one of these days, we could all go on a trip. I know I'm pushing it, but I just figured… [Laughs.]

ISABELL: You know, we might. Who knows? Don't have to fly. We can go on a road trip.

JASON: We could go on a road trip.

JASON (as narrator): We could go on a road trip. We can do anything we want to do. Tap into that higher version of ourselves, and be inspired by my older brother, who, perhaps, has never seen himself as an inspiration.

[Music ends.]

ISABELL: We might. I’m getting older and I… look…

JASON: [Laughing.] You getting older and what? And what?

ISABELL: I need to enjoy life probably more. Mm-hmm.

[Tinkling piano music comes in.] [The sounds of moving traffic from inside of a car.]

JASON: And what would you do to occupy some of this time? I mean, this was always a thing we tried to figure this out, right?

ISABELL: Well, I’m trying to figure it out now, baby. I really am…

JASON (as narrator): We’re back in the car, all our oversized goodies from Costco stored safely in the trunk of the Volvo. The truth is I enjoyed my time bopping around the warehouse of everything, but I think my mother and I both know that Costco don’t actually have… everything. And if she isn’t careful, Costco can become a hole, too. The kind of hole that might convince her it’s enough, when really it might be keeping her from something more. Something new. Or from something old. A part of her she’s never met, or a part of her she’s long forgotten.

[Music fades out.]

JASON (in conversation): … tried to figure this out, right?

ISABELL: Well, I'm trying to figure it out now, baby. I really am. It's a couple of things I really want to do and I wanted to learn, and… calligraphy.

JASON: You wanna learn how to do calligraphy?

ISABELL: Yeah.

JASON: That’s cool.

[Melancholic guitar music comes in.]

ISABELL: Yeah, and the place that I was thinking… [Fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): I found out later that my mother wants to learn calligraphy because she wants to use it to write me a letter. You know, that letter, the one I prompted her to write over our birthday lunch.

[Music ends.]

If that ain’t the sweetest thing in the world, then I don’t know what is.

ISABELL: And the other thing that I want to learn to do is sign language.

JASON: All right.

ISABELL: Those are two things I really would like to do.

[Slow, thoughtful piano music comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): Calligraphy and sign language. Maybe this higher power I speak of comes in the form of understanding my loved ones when they aren’t speaking. Maybe it’s in the bright smile of your older brother, happy to see you… Or in his shoulders, once slumped, now rolled back. Or an inflated chest. Or a strut into a crowded space.

Or maybe — maybe this higher power is in the reactivation of your curiosity. Or in imagining an island, or admitting you aren’t one, nor is anyone around you. Or maybe it’s in wanting to get up and move your body, a little exercise, a little dancing. Maybe it’s in saying no to things you’ve been saying yes to for so long, or in saying yes to things you’ve been closed off to because of fear and insecurity. Maybe — maybe that’s this higher power.

Maybe it’s in remembering who your mama is, who her mama was, and trying to locate that moxie in your own knuckles and kneecaps. Maybe it’s in forgiving those who’ve harmed you, or moving past your past.

Maybe this higher power is therapy. Or trying to better understand your kids, or giving grace to your parents. Maybe it’s in humanizing everyone, including yourself. Maybe it’s in sleeping in. Or learning to fly. Or skipping church. Or learning to pray. Or even spending hours practicing how to write “I love you” like it’s art. How to add a little extra to it, to make it look as incredible as it feels.

[A few beats of just piano music, shimmering. Then, music ends, and different, quirky, plodding music comes in.]

My Mother Made Me is a production of Radiotopia Presents, and is written and narrated by me, Jason Reynolds, with my mother, Isabell Reynolds. And for this episode, my older brother, Allen Reynolds. The series is produced by Mark Pagán and edited by Julie Shapiro, with production support from Yooree Losordo. Julie Shapiro and Audrey Mardavich are executive producers for Radiotopia Presents. Special thanks to my homeboy Jason Griffin for the cover art, and to my brother Christian Reynolds for killing the theme song. Mixing, sound design and original score is by Ian Coss.

Radiotopia Presents debuts limited-run, artist-owned series from new and original voices. For more information, visit radiotopiapresents.fm.

[Music ends.]

END OF EPISODE.

JASON REYNOLDS: There are many ways a person can think about life. I mean, the most commonly used metaphor for it is a journey.

[Semi-frenetic piano music comes in, with strings.]

And maybe it is that. A long, roaming, winding adventure. But people also consider it dust in the wind. [The sound of wind blowing.] An infinitesimal experience compared to the vast history of the universe. [The sound of raindrops.] Or maybe it’s just a single drop in the midst of a rainstorm. Or maybe, for some, a splash. [A splash into the sound of thunder.] Maybe life’s an oil slick. Or, perhaps, quicksand. Or a sandbox.

Maybe, life is the whole playground, or an open field. [The sound of birds chirping and wind rustling an open field.] Maybe life is a series of hills, ups and downs and ups again. Or a single mountain to climb. Or a river to roll on. [The sound of a wave.] Or a wave that comes in, and goes out. Or an ocean to dive into and swim around in, in search of treasure. [The sound of a school bell.] Maybe life is a classroom. Or homework. Or a test. [The sound of sneakers on wood floors.] Maybe it’s the ball court, or the football field, or the boxing ring. Maybe it’s the dance studio, or the uneven bars. Maybe life is a family reunion, or a detention center, [the sound of people on a rollercoaster] or an amusement park, or the strangest music festival of all time.

[The sound of a film projector.] Maybe it’s a movie. Better yet, a play, because all the world’s a stage, right? Maybe all the world’s a page and life is just a really well written sentence.

Or maybe life’s a casino, or a game to bet on. And I’m willing to make that bet, because: one, I know the dealer; two, I believe the odds are in my favor; and three… [music ends] because my mother made me.

[Dramatic piano chord. Light, tinkling piano tremolos, joined by smooth, gentle strings. Then, tempo slows, and theme music ends.]

I’m Jason Reynolds, and this is My Mother Made Me, a podcast from Radiotopia Presents about some of the things my mom has taught me about life, like how I can do anything, or the value of gratitude, or the importance of believing in some kind of higher power. And this is all important, but… she also taught me how to gamble.

JASON (in conversation): Wanna go in the morning? What time you wanna go?

ISABELL REYNOLDS: You know, we always go about it — before noon, whenever I go.

JASON: Yeah, let’s go, like — we’ll go around — before noon.

ISABELL: Mm-hmm.

JASON (as narrator): And, no, in this particular context, I’m not using gambling as a metaphor for life. I’m talking about actual gambling. And if you’ve heard other episodes of this podcast, you may be a little confused about why this woman who seems to be so “evolved” would expose her child to the risky and irresponsible world of gambling. [Tinkling sound of slot machine music.] Well… because she thinks it’s… fun.

JASON (in conversation): You up 290. It took 25 off. Max back credit 25. Max back credit over there was 10.

ISABELL: We better off over there. [Laughs.]

JASON: But you hit on the first one.

JASON (as narrator): We’ve made it to the MGM Grand, the only other place my mother loves as much as Costco, though they couldn’t be more different. Casinos are like walking through technicolor kaleidoscopes coupled with an onslaught of sound and emotion. [Slot machine sounds continue.]

JASON (in conversation): See? You hit every time!

JASON (as narrator): What Costco offers in size, casinos offer in stimulation. The biggest difference, of course, is what you walk out with.

[Smooth, cheery bass and piano music comes in.]

Here’s how this usually goes. I ask her if she wants to take a trip down to the casino. It’s not really a trip, because it’s right down the street from her house. It wasn’t always this way. We used to have to travel a few hours to Delaware or West Virginia, but now it’s just a 10-minute cruise to the bottom of our pockets, which has made our visits a bit more frequent.

We get there, park in the garage, make our way up to the casino floor where I predictably crack a joke about how my mother should be carded like everyone else. The security guard smirks and waves us through. Then, we go on our search for a very particular slot machine. Yes, though my mom loves to gamble, she likes to do it the way she likes to do it. And, for her, the Wheel of Fortune slot machines are the only way.

[Music ends.]

But, for some reason the casino moves them every week. I don’t know if it’s to make sure all the machines are being used, or if they think we’ll spend more money if we have to go on a wild goose chase — which by the way, we always do. I’m talking about a full-on hunt for the Wheel of Fortune. You would think Vanna White and Pat Sajak were meeting us there.

But we always find it, and when we do, my mother eases down into the chair. I give her a few bucks, and off she goes. Max bet. Max bet. Max bet.

[Tinkly slot machine sound effect. Slot machine music comes back in full volume.]

JASON (in conversation): When did you start gambling? That's what I want to know.

ISABELL: I was in a family that — that played the numbers.

JASON: Who played the numbers?

ISABELL: My mother and father.

JASON: They ever hit?

ISABELL: Yeah. And they played — it was the street number.

JASON: They played their street number?

ISABELL: Yeah, it was street numbers. It was illegal numbers.

JASON: Oh, street numbers.

ISABELL: Mm-hmm.

JASON (as narrator): And while my mom is telling me this, she’s pressing the “max bet” button over and over again. And losing over and over again. Five bucks at a time.

[Tinkly slot machine sound effect.]

JASON (in conversation): So Grandma and Grandpa played the lottery?

ISABELL: Exactly.

JASON: Played street numbers.

ISABELL: Oh yeah.

JASON: So what was the difference? Like, I don't even know how it works.

ISABELL: OK. When they were playing the street numbers, there was no…

[Slot machine jangles out a celebratory tune.]

JASON: Hey! A hundred and five.

[Casino sounds fade down.]

JASON (as narrator): Street numbers are something that I’ve heard about many, many times but I’ve never actually asked about it, and my mother’s never really given me any details. But now that my mom is opening up about this, I’m devouring every word. Especially since my grandparents both died when I was young and I was never able to really get to know them.

ISABELL: Every roll of them.

JASON: And back then it was like a… [Fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): And after about an hour — because we never gamble for more than an hour — of her telling me all this, and us winning money, then losing it again, we continue our conversation and move onto our next casino tradition: lunch, my treat. Crab cakes. ’Cause there’s nothing quite like talking about crime over crab.

ISABELL: Street numbers, illegal numbers. Let me tell you something: sometimes the authorities would raid — raid your house, with the number people, you know?

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: And they would catch all those number slips and all that money and stuff. Now, they went to jail, because it was illegal.

JASON: Why was it illegal?

ISABELL: Nobody’s paying taxes to it, baby.

JASON: Of course.

ISABELL: And my daddy used to play hundreds of dollars a week. That was his… that was his —

JASON: Back then? That's a lot of money.

JASON (as narrator): That’s a lot of money for anybody then — and even now — but it’s especially a lot of money for my grandfather.

[Plucky string music comes in.]

Eugene Fulmer was the stingiest man I’ve ever known. The grandson of a freed man and inheritor of a couple hundred acres of land in rural South Carolina, my grandfather was many things, but mostly a farmer. I don’t have too many memories of him.

My only memory of him in D.C. is of him taking me to the playground behind his apartment to play on the swings. The rest are from when he moved back to South Carolina. Then, I remember him always calling me “Jake” for some reason. That maybe sounds odd to some, but in my family, nicknames just kinda… happen. For instance, even though my grandfather’s name was Eugene, everyone called him MT, and no one, not even my mother, knows why.

Another memory is of him on his old tractor. Dressed in khakis and boots, he’d sit me on that tractor with him and we’d go row for row, turning over the soil, preparing it for planting.

And my last memory, one I will never forget, was when my mother and I had gone down South to see him for a few days, and when we were packing the car up to return home, he put a five dollar bill in my hand and told me to split it with my brother.

[Music ends.]

So I never knew Grandpa the Gambler, and had never even heard my mother or anyone in our family even talk about him that way… until now.

ISABELL: Mr. Morgan used to come to the house every Friday, ’cause Friday was payday back in those days. And he would come to the house and collect his money. Mama used to be so upset and so angry because she knew Daddy’s money was going to the number man.

JASON: So you think he had a problem?

ISABELL: Yes. He was addicted.

JASON: I did not know this about him.

ISABELL: He was addicted to… [Fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): My mother told me that whenever my grandfather would hit the number, which did happen occasionally, instead of doing something nice for his wife and children, he’d go and spend all the winnings on himself. Forget about his family.

[Bittersweet, nostalgic piano music comes in, gently.]

However, according to my mom, it was different when my grandmother hit the number.

ISABELL: And Mama hit the — hit the number for… something like three–hundred and… Whatever she hit for, and this is no lie, she gave each one of her children a hundred dollars.

JASON (as narrator): Different mentality: You gamble. You win. You share.

[Music ends.]

This was the origin story — her addicted father and generous mother — of my mother’s love of gambling. And though I have fond memories of going with her every day to the liquor store where she’d buy cheap wine and play her numbers — she’d let me pick some and even buy me scratch-offs — and even memories of being 9 years old going with her to Vegas for the first time, I was still curious to know more.

Like, when all this started for real for her. When she made her own first wager. When she first won. When she first lost. When she first lost everything she’d just won. Turns out, all this happened years after Mr. Morgan came round the house to collect those paper slips and cash. By then, she was all grown up.

JASON (in conversation): When was the first time you pulled a slot machine? When you was like…?

ISABELL: I was an adult. But I enjoy — always loved gambling.

JASON: What do you think keeps you from going over the edge?

ISABELL: I think it’s just plain old common sense. I got responsibilities.

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: Say, I got — I got bills. I got responsibilities.

JASON: Keep your feet on the ground.

[Bouncy string music comes in.]

ISABELL: Yeah. Baby, that's the story of my life.

JASON (as narrator): Keeping her feet on the ground has definitely been the story of her life, which is funny since this whole conversation has been about gambling which seems like the flightiest thing in the world. But my mother, even in the midst of gambling, always knows exactly how much she’s come to spend. And when it’s gone, it’s gone.

She also knows that if she wins, I win. And the same goes for me. If I win, of course, she wins. We all win. And if we lose, at least we got to spend a little time together, before the final ritual — heading back to the garage to see if we remember where we parked the car.

ISABELL: I’ve enjoyed this. Thank you so much. And I didn’t have to spend any of my own money?

JASON: [Laughs.] Yeah. That’s funny.

JASON (as narrator): Who am I kidding? She always wins.

JASON (in conversation): That’s funny. You my mother!

[Music ends.]

JASON (as narrator): This commandment, if you will, about keeping one's feet on the ground, has also been the story of my life. I remember being a young poet in high school, excited to know people were coming to hear me read my poetry…

JASON (in recording): … for this guy who would guide me through the poison ivy of my life, but no one ever said he was also stuck in me like IV. And if I wanted to seek his face, all I had to do was… [Fades out.]

JASON (as narrator): Or winning talent shows against singers — nobody ever beats singers.

[Shimmery music comes in.]

Or when I was in college and was profiled for the first time by The Washington Post.

I’d come to my mother to tell her the news. And she’d smile, and say without fail, “That’s all good, but just make sure you keep your feet on the ground.”

It used to annoy me. Make me think she was more concerned about my feet being on the ground than all the cool things that were happening to me. The accomplishments and milestones that were coming in waves well before I was even 21 years old. It seemed like such a killjoy. “Keep your feet on the ground. Keep your feet on the ground.” Not only was she beating me over the head with this, but it was something she’d even taken up with God.

[Music fades out.]

JASON (in conversation): What were the things you prayed for most about me? [Isabell chuckles.] As I got older?

JASON (as narrator): We’re back at my mom’s house having a post-casino chat. My mother has already checked to see if there were any missed calls while she was gone, and we’ve both pulled up to the kitchen table.

ISABELL: You know what? And this really may come as a surprise to you. But the thing that I prayed for the most about you is health and safety. I do. Before it was always to live your dream. Make something of your life, and do something for somebody else. And that's always been important to me — do something for mankind.

JASON: Mm-hmm.

ISABELL: You know? And I think you've already proven that. And you're doing that, you know? And now I just want you to be healthy and want you to be safe. And through that health and safety, I think you'd be happy.

JASON: Got you.

ISABELL: Do you follow me?

JASON: I do.

ISABELL: OK.

JASON: There was another thing, though, that you was always on my back about, that you said to me every day.

ISABELL: What? Keep your feet on the ground?

JASON: Yeah. [Laughs.]

ISABELL: Absolutely. That is — son, that will always be among the top.

JASON (as narrator): Sometimes it made me self-conscious about celebrating. Like, to be happy about hitting the jackpot is a mistake. Or… a character flaw.

JASON (in conversation): What's wrong with feeling good?

ISABELL: Nothing. Nothing at all. There’s nothing wrong with feeling good. There’s nothing wrong with letting other people know you feel good, either. I don't see anything wrong with it, but I do see something wrong with it when it goes to extreme.

JASON: OK. So when it goes —

ISABELL: Don’t let it go to the extreme.

[Gentle, thoughtful piano music comes in.]

I think when I talked to you about ‘don't let your feet leave the ground,’ I think it's — I think it’s the fear that I have of what that can lead for you or what it can turn in for you. [Phone dings.] Is that yours or mine? Mine.

JASON: Mm-hmm. What I might turn into.

ISABELL: Yeah.

JASON: What you think I would turn into? A monster?

ISABELL: A self-conceited brat. [Both laugh.] And you have the tools in which to do that, you know?

JASON: Absolutely.

JASON (as narrator): She’s right. [Music picks up, adds hand percussion.] I definitely have the tools to be arrogant. We all do. As a matter of fact, I’ve used those tools before, wielded them recklessly a long, long time ago.

I — reluctantly, because this is being recorded for a podcast — spoke to someone who was right there when it happened.

[Music shimmers to an end.]

AARON HOLMES: You know, it was an interesting time…

JASON (as narrator): That’s Aaron, who could best be described as my Day One. My brother, not by blood, but by bond. We met as 4 year olds in kindergarten and have been close ever since. My mother treats him as her own, because he practically grew up in that house with me. And he practically lives in my house now. We’re still that close.

He’s been a consistent source of trust and truth in my life. Even when the truth don’t feel so good.

AARON: Your junior year of high school, I think, was a year when you sort of… came into your own. And that transformation, which was beautiful in some ways, also had… some stickier parts to it. Right? I think some of that, um, confidence that you gained came at the cost of others. And we went somewhere, and I can't remember what it was, but you said something to somebody. And I was like, “Nah, that's…” [Both laugh.]

JASON (as narrator): He did remember what it was. He just ain’t want to say. He’s protective like that, which is why I love the dude so much. But basically, we’d hung out with some folks, and once we’d left them I told him how much better we were than them. How much better I was. And, to make matters worse, that wasn’t the first time I’d said something like that.

AARON: Because it's one thing to — to grow in confidence. It's another thing to… grow that confidence by tearing down somebody else. Right? And, and that's what it started to feel like for a second. And you didn’t need to do that. I don't think any of us needed to do that. Right? Like, that confidence is with you today.

JASON: Sure.

AARON: But it's — but it’s different. Whatever conversation we had in that moment we've never had to have again.

JASON (as narrator): I don’t think I’ve ever been more embarrassed and disappointed in myself than I was that day, once I’d been informed of the way I was treating people. People I knew and loved. People I thought I’d respected. I’d lost my footing, and I guess one of the most dangerous parts about floating is that you don’t always know your feet have left the ground.

I’ll always be grateful to Aaron for being honest with me. And in wanting to be honest with my mother, I told her all about that moment, and how afterward I dug my heels in and became almost obsessively concerned about it ever happening again.

JASON (in conversation): So I know it's in there and I know I could — I could be a monster. I could be. Right? So I'm always reminding myself that, like, this ain't nothing but a job. And this stuff ain't nothing but stuff. And attention is just attention, and that's it.

JASON (as narrator): But… I’m also not comfortable with faking it. This strange way we make ourselves small just because we think small is less threatening. That don’t sit right with me, either.

JASON (in conversation): I don’t know if I want to be falsely humble. I think I want to be humble because I’m grateful, but not humble because I’m afraid of being arrogant. And I’m trying to find that balance. Right?

ISABELL: I don’t think you need to be humble because you're afraid of being arrogant. You still gotta be you.

JASON: Yeah.

ISABELL: You still gotta be you. And you’ll work it out, you know? And once it comes out, you know whether you felt comfortable with that or you didn’t feel comfortable with that.

JASON: I think I just want to live a life of gratitude.

ISABELL: That's a great life to live.

JASON: And I think — and I think humility, and the idea of keeping your feet on the ground, comes directly from that.

[Slow, ruminative music comes in.]

JASON (as narrator): That’s the jackpot. But this jackpot, which I’m certainly grateful for — it don’t mean nothing if I can’t acknowledge that it's been built by many things, some of which I’ve laid out on other episodes of this podcast, like trusting myself and the belief in a higher power.

But it’s also been built by two other pieces. The first is that… I’m a gambler. This time, I am using gambling as a metaphor for life. I gambled on Jason Eugene Reynolds. I’m not a slot machine kind of guy, despite the rush that comes from pulling the lever, because it seems like too much of a fool’s bet. I’m the kind of guy who plays the tables. Who pulls up a seat and looks at the cards in his hand, and bets on himself. And, I lost hand after hand after hand, but I kept playing until I finally won one. Then another. Then another.

And number two, if the tides turn, which is always possible, I’ll be able to sustain because of something else that has helped to build this life — the fact that my feet are firmly on the ground.

[Music slides from a single, buzzing note into a hopeful, driving tune.]

But it isn’t just about humility for humility’s sake. It’s because the ground my feet rest on is a ground that’s been tilled by so many other people. This is sacred ground turned over, and nurtured, and fed by my grandparents, and my brothers, and my father, and LeVar Burton, and Aaron, and so many other loved ones, the most important being my mother, who I’m most grateful to have learned so much from — fortitude, faith, and the essential nature of… fun.

ISABELL: Same here, honey. I’ve learned so — how much I’ve learned from you. Believe it or not, don't let nobody think your kids can't teach you anything. ’Cause if they don't, you're not even trying to learn. That's the only thing I can say. Because God knows, there's so much your children can teach you. And I'm — I’m truly — I’m grateful. Grateful for the changes that I've made in my life, that have come about in my life. And so much has happened in my life, I think, that has helped me to make some of these changes, too, you know… Difficulties and illnesses and stuff like that. It’s… And you said gratitude. Gratitude is [whispers] so important. It's really, really important. So you doing OK.

JASON: I’m doing OK.

[Music hums from a single note into slow, thoughtful music.]

JASON (as narrator): I’m doing OK. We’re doing OK. Life is OK, though I’m not sure ‘OK’ is the best way to describe it. Maybe it’s more like life is an open road, or a runway for airplanes or for models. Or maybe a train ride, or a car ride, or a bike ride, or a few revolutions around a roller rink. Or a rollercoaster. For some, maybe life is war. For others, a negotiation for peace.

Maybe it’s the corny family photo in matching outfits framed on the wall, or maybe it’s the candid shots from a disposable camera, never developed. Maybe life is one big Thanksgiving dinner, where there’s grace, and laughter, and nourishment, some uninvited guests, a few arguments, and some good rest at the end of it all. Maybe it’s a wishful hour in a casino, or a lazy trip around a Costco, or a long lunch in a nice restaurant, or Sundays at the kitchen table.

[Music resolves into a reprise of elements of the theme song, full of hope and promise.]

Or maybe, life… is just a few much-needed conversations with your mother.

[Music ends.] [After a beat, credit music comes in — semi-frenetic piano music, with strings.]

My Mother Made Me is a production of Radiotopia Presents, and is written and narrated by me, Jason Reynolds, with my mother, Isabell Reynolds. The series is produced by Mark Pagán and edited by Julie Shapiro, with production support from Yooree Losordo. Julie Shapiro and Audrey Mardavich are executive producers for Radiotopia Presents. Special thanks to my homeboy Jason Griffin for the cover art, and to my brother Christian Reynolds for killing the theme song. Mixing, sound design and additional original music is by Ian Coss.

I also want to thank the following folks from PRX who worked their butts of for this show: Donna Hardwick, Dave Cotrone, Anissa Pierre, Gretchen Borzi and Maggie Gourville. Also, I want to shout out Candace Greene McManus, who works tirelessly to keep me on course.

Radiotopia Presents debuts limited-run, artist-owned series from new and original voices. For more information, visit radiotopiapresents.fm.

[Several seconds of music. Then, music ends.]

ISABELL: But it’s life. That’s just the way it works, honey.

JASON: I — I — I’ll take it any day.

ISABELL: Yeah. Oh yeah. [Both chuckle.]

END OF EPISODE.