By Jared Gudnason

It almost always occurs on a Wednesday. Starting in 1997, The Moth is a nationwide gathering, that at any given show comprises 10 random storytellers. The main kicker is you show up at the door, and upon entrance put your name into a hat. If your name is called, you go up onstage and, from memory, recite a true story. This Valentine’s week the genre, appropriately so, was “love hurts.” I’ll hold off on the personal reasons why this was appropriate for now. There are three teams of judges, and every storyteller gets a score from zero to ten.

Doors open at 6:30pm, and the stories begin one hour later. As a box office employee, a minor detractor are patrons assuming they don’t need to present a valid driver’s license to gain entry. Whenever there is alcohol available for purchase, you have to legally prove that you’re over 21 years old, no matter who you are! It was an overall mix of stories, one concerning a wild tale about an awry Christmas gift, an amazing one about food and east Asian culture and parenthood, among eight others.

My personal favorite of the evening was recited by author Alison McGhee, concerning recent immigration mutual aid (she even called out Target, yay), and its relation to her own grandchild. McGhee simultaneously was the first Metro State professor I ever had for a class. The class was Creative Writing: Race and Identity in the Twin Cities. This was in September 2017, around the time of the Philando Castile killing. The class opened my eyes even more to what white privilege is. One of the best memoir’s I’ve ever read is The Latehomecomer, by Minnesota’s Kao Kalia Yang. McGhee, I’m pretty sure has won at least one Mothe Grand Slam, which is typically hosted at the Fitzgerald theater in downtown Saint Paul.