The Art of Storytelling
Ezekiel Krahlin
sorely need for our queer community in these difficult
times.
I have a handful of dear friends on the Internet (Guy
of Rivendell being the latest:
http://www.rivendell-ranch.com
). One of them is Laura, who authors
Laura's True Tales of NYC
http://www.laurasnyctales.com/
I discovered her tales in a review by Netsurfer Digest,
several years ago. And since then, I regularly visit
her site, and keep in touch. I STRONGLY recommend her
site to everyone: so wonderfully inspiring!
She is a young woman with much talent...a storyteller
like myself (and Guy, whose true ranch tales are the
rural equivalent of Laura's city tales). Story telling
is such a wonderful gift. And I am so proud to support
and encourage Laura in her ventures. Please let me
share my latest correspondence with her...followed by
another story by another person I never met. This is
not queer material per se...but nonetheless will touch
everyone's heart. (Though Laura is splediferously gay
friendly; has queer friends, and writes about them most
kindly in some of her tales.) Got your hot cocoa ready?
Are you cozy now, in your armchair? Okay, then: go for
it:
From: Ezekiel Krahlin <ezek...@myrealbox.com>
To: la...@laurasnyctales.com
Received: 06/11/03 01:08 pm
Subject: Re: R.O. screening process
<<
How are you? Thank you for your inspiring emails!
>>
Always glad to give a boost to a kindred spirit. I am
doing just great. Enclosed is a collection of my latest
venture...flyers I distribute. (They may inspire you,
too.) They are lots of fun reading (esp. at night, when
resting with a mug of hot cocoa).
<<
I will make sure to update you on my notification list
(not sure if you received the following "secret"
URL's):
>>
Thanks! I don't mind receiving "repeats", because you
never know: and I don't want to miss ANYTHING you've
written.
<<
I've thought of performing, but as of yet, don't think
I have the courage!!!
>>
What you speak of comes directly from the heart. You
are most eloquent and insightful. New Yorkers NEED your
type of spirit. The WORLD needs you! You can't afford
NOT to get out there and strut your stuff. And doing
this will put you through some remarkable changes, I
guarantee. You are simply TOO FABULOUS to keep under
wraps. To be such a great story-teller like yourself
(and myself) is an IMMEASURABLE HONOR.
Think of it this way: are you really so selfish as to
deny the healing power of your words to many
heart-broken, frightened, or lonely, folks? There is a
totally DIFFERENT impact when you tell your tales in
person, than on the web...and even when you get
published on paper.
You don't recognize, yet, the GREATNESS of your spoken
words...they are a FANTASTIC GIFT meant for comforting
the hearts of your fellow "Big Applers". You will be
celebrated and much appreciated, I ASSURE YOU. Do not
think that your only road to success is via "official"
channels, knocking on doors of publishing houses. You
are very counterculture at heart. Many of our greatest
authors became successful through the coffehouse
venue...think Alan Ginsberg.
Share your story-telling adventures with a friend; take
him/her along, for support. Have FUN with this. GO FOR
THE GOLD! It is in your hands to share, not to
jealously guard.
Every night, after I've done a show (just 5-8 minutes),
I am SO PROUD of myself, and relive in my mind, over
and over: "Did I really do that?" I put SMILES on
faces, and much gratitude is shown. Whoa...what an
HONOR.
I'll bet you, that were we to live in the same town,
we'd quick become best friends...and probably do skits
together, at these cafes and clubs. Who knows? It may
come to pass.
Take a deep breath, exhale, click those heels...and
voila! You're suddenly at the microphone, applause
rocking the house. I PROMISE.
And know I'm there right beside you, one of your
guardian angels who is SO impressed with your great
talent. Nudge, nudge.
I would like to share with you, the following AMAZING
story I stumbled upon this afternoon:
---begin story:
From cari...@mycaribbean.info
Newsgroups: alt.activism
Subject: Just Another Memorial Day (a true story)
Date: Tue, 27 May 2003 02:38:07 GMT
Every one of the past 50+ years I have paused at this
time to remember my boyhood friend, Bobby.
Before we became teenagers, we each lived on separate
floors of a public housing project in Jersey City NJ,
directly across the river from lower Manhattan. He and
I were virtually the same age, only about 30 days
apart. We were fatherless. His father had been a cop,
dead for some reason that was never discussed. Mine was
in a tuberculosis sanitarium, diagnosed when he tried
to enlist immediately after Pearl Harbor. Our mothers
worked. Sociologists of the day called us "latchkey
kids" because it was common that many wore a house key
on a line hooked to the belt.
Over the next couple of years we shared a lot of
adventures. Most were illegal, including a few
explorations in petty theft and trespass.
Maybe the greatest was the summer when we were 14 years
old. We walked under the Hudson River, through the
subway tunnel, and came up in Manhattan at the site
where the World Trade Center was eventually built. The
spot on the Jersey side where the trains dove under
ground was only a few blocks from the project. The
first time we did it, the subway workers were on
strike. The trains were not running and the stations
were closed at their street entrances. It was simple
stroll. When we came back to the housing project and
boasted of it, everyone called us liars.
So we invited two of the loudest wise guys and took off
to do it again, but by now the trains had resumed
service. At the tunnel entrance, one of them backed off
but one stayed with us. From our first walk we knew
there were wall niches for track workers and occasional
passages to the other tube into which we could
scramble. We soon learned that a woosh of air preceded
a train even before you could hear it, giving us plenty
of time to hide out of the way.
We had chosen a summer Saturday morning and as we came
to each station, we'd wait until the platform was clear
and then run the length of it before anyone else came
along. Were were heros of the housing project for a
long time thereafter.
We continued to look for more serious trouble until it
found us. When I was 16 I took a job on Wall Street,
4pm to 8pm, every weekday after school, as a messenger
delivering cablegrams (think email printed out and hand
delivered). I won't give any details but I got more
money some days from stealing wallets out of coat
pockets in unattended closets and desk drawers in
offices I'd find empty than my messenger job paid in a
month. Three days after I turned 17 in March of 1950, I
bought a car.
Around that same time, Bobby was doing rougher things.
One day he wound up arrested for burglary. It wasn't
his first offense but it was the first time he'd been
caught red-handed. The judge at his trial offered him a
deal. Either go to prison for three years or take a
verdict of "case dismissed for lack of prosecution" and
join the US Army "to become a man." By the end of
April, he was off in Fort Dix at the peacetime version
of Basic Training.
Sometime in late June, as I was walking out the front
door to leave on a two week vacation in the Catskills
(I was doing very well, thank you), I encountered Bobby
in his new uniform. He was home for a three day leave,
on his way to Japan to become one of the occupation
force that had been there already for 4 years after the
Japanese surrendered. The best part was, he was going
by military air transport via California and Hawaii.
The trip would take three or four days due to layovers.
We stood a for a few minutes and talked. He envied me
for the car and my two weeks in a mountain resort. I
envied him, and said so, for what Japanese women would
reportedly do for a pack of cigarettes. Maybe envy is
the wrong word. In fact, we were happy for each other.
But young men then, as even now, did not say such
intimate things to each other. So we settled for saying
we were envious.
By the time I came back from my vacation Bobby was
dead. It took a while to learn what had happened.
Before his plane landed in Japan, North Korea invaded
South Korea and its troops were over-running the South
Korean Army. The USA threw every soldier it could find
in Japan into the battle. The plane that Bobby was on
stopped in Japan only long enough to be sent on its way
to the front.
They went from the plane at a military airfield in
Korea, directly into battle. Three days later he was
among a group of soldiers that were captured. When a
brief shift in the lines allowed it, he was found in a
ditch with his hands wired behind his back. He had been
executed with a shot in the back of his head.
He'd never eaten in a restaurant with white table
cloths; never driven a car; never spent a night in a
hotel; never been fishing; never been on a boat; never
kissed a girl (although we each lied to each other
often about that, we both knew the truth) and he left a
widowed mother.
Bobby may not have "died for his country" in any
glorious sense of that phrase, but then who would be so
cruel as to find glory in a death such as his. Maybe,
had he lived, he would have remained just another petty
criminal, as I was for a while longer before I realized
what I was risking and before better opportunities came
my way. Maybe he too, had he lived, would have had that
same good fortune.
However, I know that the life I have lived in the 50
odd years since then, the places I been, the famous and
infamous I've met and interviewed as a journalist, the
exciting cars I've owned, the beautiful women I've
known, the good friends I have had, the 5 lovely
children and 5 grandchildren I have - all in some way
were purchased with Bobby's death at 17 years of age.
Today, in a park near my home, not far from that
housing project, there was a small ceremony in a steady
rain, before a plaque bearing Bobby's name and the
names of others of my former neighbors whose stories
may have been different in certain details but all of
which ended in similar fashion. The downpour caused
many to stay home. The soggy bunting on a wreath by the
plaque dripped its appropriately red dye onto the grass
of this gritty immigrant town within sight of the
Statue of Liberty. When the honor guard fired their
blanks, the sound was flat, absorbed by the rain. Thus
we had another Memorial Day.
May God Bless America and make her worthy of the
sacrifice of those who paid for it to be whatever it
will be.
---finis
---end of msg. to Laura of NYC
---
Homosexual reference in a Zits comic:
Gay friendly or not? You decide!
www.gay-bible.org/index.html#zits
--
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