Storytelling with Impact

The Superpower of Comic Con – Natalie Kaczorowski at TEDxSanDiego 2016

July 12, 2025/in Audience, Comedy, Community, Identity, TEDx/by Mark Lovett

Comic Con is like a multi-day thrill ride, more carnival than convention, packed with eccentric attire, celebrities, and all things pop-culture. For years, onlookers have viewed these masters of the geek universe with a sense of confusion and comic relief.

That’s about to change, as Natalie Kaczorowski, aka Comic Connie, looks behind the mask of Comic Con to explain the hype, the craziness, and the exceptional superpower of Comic Con. Strap in for the thrill-ride of your life, as things are about to get nerdy.

“We are who we choose to be. So choose.”

Back in the day, when I was the organizer of TEDxSanDiego, I would start lining up speakers 6 months ahead of time. The theme for 2016 was The Age of Magic. One aspect of this theme addressed the incredible technology that was being developed and deployed around the world in ways that could change society.

But another way to look at this theme was through the lens of human identity and the human imagination. That got me thinking about Comic-Con, the world-famous conference held annually in San Diego. And as luck would have it, I knew someone who approached the yearly convention with an unbridled passion.

The brilliance in Natalie’s talk comes from her ability to weave her personal story of finding her identity and her tribe to the broader story of how everyone is just playing a role in life, whether they recognize it or not.

Notice how she captures the audience’s attention and has them laughing — first by referring to the superhero outfit she’s wearing on stage, and seconds later, to the outfit she’s wearing in a photo taken at Comic Con.

When I was a kid, I always had a flair for the dramatic. Turns out I had a condition called being an insufferable pain in the ass.

She then takes us from the woman she is on stage that day, to the young girl she was growing up and the central topic of how we all struggle to find our identity. In her case, that journey was through the world of comic book heroes.

Comic-Con is really an invitation to celebrate self-expression.

And when she introduces the topic of cosplay, it’s an opportunity to connect to the audience on the topic of self-expression, and thus, personal identity.

I want to live in a world where we don’t have to have an identity struggle or change or hide our appearance to hide from who we really want to be.

As you follow Natalie’s journey of self-expression, connecting with her tribe, and becoming her most invincible self, reflect upon your own path and the struggles you’ve had to simply be yourself.

If you’re in the process of writing a personal story of your own, note how Natalie blends various story blocks in order to create a narrative tapestry that’s founded in her own experiences, but reaches out the audience with a universal message.

Transcript

I wish I could wear this every day.
No, I meant this.
That’s me, by the way.

Sounds like a funny request, but this photo actually reminds me of this photo. Which is also me. Now, I know the first thing that comes to mind when you see this photo is, obviously, future TEDx speaker. But if you look deeper, you’ll see there’s a similarity between these two photos.

This is me at my most amazing. And this is me at my most invincible. And in both photos, I am my most fearless. I didn’t realize that until I experienced the superpower of Comic-Con for the first time.

Society doesn’t tell us that we can dress in superhero costumes in everyday life. We need to get a real job, get a real degree, start a real family. We are supposed to be normal. We struggle, though, with identity our entire lives. It’s a common theme in superhero stories, too. Peter Parker struggles with the fact that he’s Spider-Man. Clark Kent changes his appearance to hide the fact that he’s Superman. Bruce Wayne doesn’t feel free until he becomes Batman.

When I was a kid, I always had a flair for the dramatic. Turns out I had a condition called being an insufferable pain in the ass. I wasn’t raised by my real parents, so I imagined my journey through life in the context of Superman. I always felt like the world was on the verge of ending, so I felt like a vampire slayer. All that drama actually made things more clear. It was good versus evil, right and wrong, black and white. With great power comes great responsibility.

Somewhere along the line, I quit looking at the world that way. We reach an age where we stop believing that we’re capable of saving the world or in magical lands where anything is possible. Which is why Comic-Con is such an enigma. I get it. Not everyone understands Comic-Con. First of all, you don’t simply just go there! It’s really hard to get tickets! Tickets to Comic-Con aren’t really bought so much as you win the privilege of paying for a ticket.

During open registration, badges sell out in less than an hour in the most stressful, indigestion-inducing process in history. Ask anyone that’s been through this, it’s the joy of being selected for Hogwarts matched with the sheer terror of surviving the Hunger Games.

I get asked all the time, why go through all that trouble? Or more commonly, you pay so much money and get dressed up and sit in some theater to watch a bunch of people talk. It’s gonna come out on YouTube. I mean, you guys get it, right? So annoying. Let it sink in.

Truth is, millions of people try to go to Comic-Con. It has something for everyone. It ranges from well-known comics and mainstream movies and television, to also include video games, anime, science, technology, everything in between. It’s the one place where the line to the men’s room can consist of Reed Richards, Han Solo, Captain Picard, someone cosplaying astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson, and the actual Neil deGrasse Tyson.

You might have heard that term cosplay before. It’s a big part of Comic-Con. Cosplay is the art of dressing up. And like any classic art, it revolves around self-expression. Celebrities even dress up to go to Comic-Con for the same reason everyone else does: because you can be whoever you want to be. Even if you just want to dress and blend in with the Stormtroopers.

Comic-Con is really an invitation to celebrate self-expression. I’m going to tell you an origin story about how my two identities became one. Natalie grew up in a small town. She didn’t win any high school awards. But if there was a trophy for most contributed screencaps of the Dharma logos on the Lost Wikipedia page, she would have won it. She found a small tribe of people that would put up with her crazy teen antics, even embrace her for it. She thought that familial bond she had was isolated to her hometown until she went to Comic-Con.

Now, here’s a place full of hundreds of thousands of people that not only got it, but celebrated it. It’s a utopia, a hub of energy, full of lights and sounds and culture. Comic-Con is like a parade, Mardi Gras, and Times Square, all at the same time. It’s Nerd Mecca. Of course I’d want to live there. I mean, she, she would want to live there.

So, Natalie moved to San Diego. And every year when Comic-Con came to town, it was like homecoming. But on the last day of Comic-Con, she gets this sinking feeling in her chest. She felt worse after Comic-Con. She didn’t know why. She did all the normal things: got a job, got a degree, gotten married. Something was missing that compelled her to change. So she began to dismantle all of the beautiful things she had, one by one, until she had none of those things.

A friend of ours came up with an idea about how to best utilize her talents. We called it Comic-Con-nie. All that was needed was a camera, her passion for Comic-Con, and to act like a super nerd. Oh, and she had to wear the costume. That changed everything. Wearing that costume, playing that part, it allowed her to unlock her passion for talking to people about the characters and the stories that excited her.

And when she ran out of different costumes to wear, she started wearing nerdy t-shirts, even off-camera. And then something amazing happened. People from diverse backgrounds would recognize those symbols. They’d strike up conversations she never saw coming. Sometimes it’s, “I love your shirt!”

Seeing that symbol gives them this freedom in identifying that we are members of the same tribe. That was my radioactive spider bite. That’s when who I was trying to be and who I was afraid of being finally came together. That’s when I realized, this is who I’m supposed to be. Comic-Con connects individuals with their tribe. But fandom is the connection that the tribe has with characters which represent an ideal that we admire.

It could come in the form of power, like Superman’s abilities. Iron Man’s financial strength. Sherlock Holmes’ superior intellect. Or maybe, maybe we just need courage. Like Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games, or Jon Snow from Game of Thrones, who in the face of insurmountable odds still have the courage to fight. And the best part? People are lining up to speak with Charles Xavier.

I understand there’s a lot of pushback with this idea of dressing up in large groups. For some reason, people find it strange to wear Vulcan ears to match your Starfleet uniform. But when you spend over $300 on an authentic jersey and paint your face in your team’s colors, I have news for you. You are a nerd! Nerd! We do this, though, for love of the story. It’s united humans together for thousands of years.

Maybe it’s a group of people sitting in an auditorium or watching online randomly chosen members of society tell their stories. You can nerd out about anything. I’ve stood in line overnight to watch a panel for a TV show called Supernatural. Thank you. In 2016, Supernatural broke a record by entering its 12th season. I’m not still watching to see which of the two main characters is going to get punched in the face by a ghost this week. I stand in line to meet other fans. The show speaks to us because it teaches us that home isn’t necessarily where you came from. Family doesn’t end with blood. We are stronger together than we are apart.

Comic-Con is a ritual that celebrates this transformation. For four days out of the year, you can be whoever you want to be instead of who you’re supposed to be. Define yourself. That’s the superpower of Comic-Con. Comic-Con was the catalyst for my own transformation. Natalie and Comic-Con-nie have merged into me. To become my most amazing, my most invincible. And they’ve led me to this stage so I can become my most fearless.

I want to live in a world where we don’t have to have an identity struggle or change or hide our appearance to hide from who we really want to be. What if being a superhero in everyday life was normal? You dress for the job you want. And dressing the part and playing the part means being the part. Then the real question is, who are you cosplaying as this year?

We are who we choose to be. So choose.

Thank you.

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Muneesh Jain Storytelling at The Moth in Traverse City

May 19, 2025/in Career, Emotions, Family, Identity, Relationships, The Moth/by Mark Lovett

You may remember Peter Aguero’s Moth story of how the simple suggestion of taking a pottery class altered his outlook on life. Different circumstances in this case, but Muneesh Jain’s Moth story told in Traverse City also happens to hinge on a moment in time that revised the trajectory his life was on.

But there’s always a backstory to such moments, and Muneesh talks about his parent’s expectations that he could never meet, no matter how hard he tried.

My parents are from India. So, in our house, that meant we had a high bar set for academic achievement, and a specific type of professional success: doctor, lawyer, engineer.

And he did try, to the point that his heath was at risk. But walking away from success resulted in his disconnecting from his family, as well as society itself. Rather than a short brief, Muneesh was out of sorts for five full years.

The delivery guy would just leave the food outside my apartment because I couldn’t even make eye contact with him. I was a failure.

And then… Something unexpected happens. Something that reignites is passion, and a lifelong dream. The journey he embarks upon connects him to new people in ways he couldn’t predict, and the process seems to resurrect him. (no spoilers here — you’ll have to hear his story to learn the details of his journey)

As these articles are fueled by java, you can always…

And I realized we weren’t really even talking about baseball anymore. We were talking about family connection.

While staying with friends in Seattle, a scene unfolds we can’t possibly expect.

The next day, I hear a knock at the door. Nobody’s home, so I walk upstairs and through the glass door, I see the silhouette of a 4 foot 10, 90 pound little woman. I open the door and just say, “What are you doing here, Mother?”

As the saying goes, “It’s never too late.” For Muneesh, the subtext is that it wasn’t too late to reconnect to his mother, and in doing so, come to understand her in a way that wasn’t possible while growing up.

Transcript

My parents are from India. So, in our house, that meant we had a high bar set for academic achievement, and a specific type of professional success: doctor, lawyer, engineer. By the time my sister was 12, she knew she was going to be a doctor, just like my dad.

When I was nine, I called a family meeting to let everyone know I was never going to be a doctor, or a lawyer, or an engineer. I was going to be a gymnast. My parents, they tolerated it, but told me that one day I was going to have to grow out of it. But I went to the gym six days a week, five hours a night. And by the time I was a teenager, I was training for the Olympics. Then multiple injuries ended my career. My folks, they said, “Alright, you got that out of your system. Now it’s time to focus on your education.”

I needed them to be impressed with me, the way they were my sister. I just, I couldn’t wrap my head around doing it their way. So I came up with a bigger idea. When I was 19, I got a job with ESPN. I was producing live segments for Sportscenter, ESPN news, hanging out with my sports idols. My folks, they kept reminding me, “Don’t let this get in the way of your schoolwork.”

Alright, fine. If that wasn’t good enough, I came up with a bigger idea. I left the network and moved to Detroit, Michigan, a city that I love, and I started a sports magazine. I sold ads, I found distributors, I built a staff with grown-ass people who had kids older than me. And we were killing it. We were up to 50,000 subscribers. People were recognizing me on the street. Hell, Muhammad Ali said he liked my magazine.

But every time I’d see my parents, they’d just ask me, “When are you going back to college? Get that degree.”

This time, there was no bigger idea. I had to make this work. I doubled down, worked twice as hard, which also meant that I pretty much stopped sleeping entirely and started drinking and drugging the nights away to manage my stress levels. And when I was 24, my doctor told me that I was six months away from a heart attack.

I either had to get rid of the magazine or die. So I gave up. And something broke inside of me. And I couldn’t face my parents. I took the money I’d saved from ESPN and the magazine, and I ran away. I moved to New York into a tiny 160-square-foot studio apartment where the windows didn’t even open, and it was there that my self-imposed exile began. Slowly losing contact with every human I’d ever met.

The delivery guy would just leave the food outside my apartment because I couldn’t even make eye contact with him. I was a failure.

My parents would call and I never knew what to say. My dad would lecture me that I wasn’t even a part of the family anymore. My mom would yell at me that I needed to get my life together. And every conversation just ended in tears. So I stopped answering their calls. Then they started sending me money to keep me alive, and I took it, and that made me hate myself so much more. And so I just stopped leaving my apartment entirely.

The TV would be on 24 hours a day. I wasn’t watching at all. I just needed flashing images and noise to block out the constant stream of shame, regret, self-loathing that was clanging around the inside of my skull.

And that became my life. Every day, all day, living in near isolation for five years.

One day, a baseball game just happened to be on. Now, I hadn’t watched a sporting event of any kind since the death of my magazine. It was always just too hard. But on this day, I was so broken, I just stared motionlessly at the screen in front of me. And within a couple of innings, something strange was happening. I felt myself sitting up in my bed, engaging with something outside of my own head. I was smiling. I mean, actually smiling, for the first time in five years.

By the time the game ended, I’d already ordered the MLB TV package and just started mainlining baseball. I was watching every game, reading every article, going back over the last five years to see everything that I’d missed. And in the middle of it all, I remembered a dream I had when I was six.

You know, “One day, I’m gonna see a baseball game at all 30 MLB stadiums.” It’s one of those silly things that a lot of baseball fans want to do, but few actually get a chance to do it. And the ones who do it, do it over the course of a lifetime, like a normal human person.

But in this moment, nobody even knew that I existed. I could disappear off the planet and no one would notice. So I said, “Screw it. I’m going to do it. And I’m gonna do it in one season.” I’m going to drive 17,000 miles in 95 days and go to a baseball game at all 30 ballparks. I started obsessively poring over maps and schedules, planning out my route.

Every time I’d go down to the bodega to buy another pack of cigarettes, instead, I would take that money out of the ATM, go back up to my apartment, shove it underneath my mattress. By the time the next baseball season came around, I’d saved $6,000 and quit smoking.

I was ready to go. I called my parents to let them know what I was doing, and they really didn’t know what to say. They were just happy that I was alive. And I hit the road. Every 48 hours I was in a new city. But I didn’t want to just sit in the ballpark alone. I needed a way to reintegrate myself into society. The problem was, I had completely forgotten how to even have a conversation with somebody else.

So I invented a podcast. I couldn’t have cared less if anybody actually listened to this thing. I just needed an excuse to go talk to strangers. And it was working. People were talking to me about the stats of their favorite ball players, the histories of their ballparks. One kid at Citi Field at a Mets game spent 20 minutes meticulously breaking down why it was that the Yankees sucked.

And I bounced from ballpark to ballpark. I noticed that my conversations, they were evolving. I talked to a father and son in Baltimore, where after our official interview, the father pulled me aside to quietly confide in me that he didn’t really have a relationship with his eldest son, but his youngest, his youngest loved baseball, so he knew that at least they’d be able to talk about that.

I talked to a mother and daughter in San Francisco who had been going to games together for 20 years. Three generations of women in Texas. The grandmother proudly shoving Little Laney, her nine-year-old granddaughter, in front of my microphone, saying, “Little Laney, tell the nice man what you do all your school reports on.” And Little Laney excitedly screams out, “The Texas Rangers!”

And I realized we weren’t really even talking about baseball anymore. We were talking about family connection.

By the time I got to LA, I’d already driven 8,000 miles on my own. I was halfway done with my tour. But this was my hell week, because the Angels and the Dodgers rarely play at home at the same time. I had to catch a game in Anaheim, drive 17 hours up to Seattle, turn back around, drive 17 hours back to LA, then 30 hours to Minnesota. That’s 4,000 miles in 10 days. But I was a man possessed, nothing was going to stop me.

After my Angels game, I hopped in the car and headed up north. But about halfway into the drive, my vision starts to get blurry and my body starts to uncontrollably shake. I pull over just in time to open the door and projectile vomit all over the side of the highway. I didn’t know what to do, so I called my dad. He just sighed into the phone and said, “You have food poisoning.” What am I supposed to do from here? “Gatorade and Pepto Bismol.”

My mom gets on the phone and starts screaming at me. This is ridiculous. You need to take better care of yourself and I hung up. I wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. I made it to Seattle in time for my game by double fisting Gatorade and Pepto Bismol. I was staying with some family friends so I knew they’d be able to take care of me.

The next day, I hear a knock at the door. Nobody’s home, so I walk upstairs and through the glass door, I see the silhouette of a 4 foot 10, 90 pound little woman. I open the door and just say, “What are you doing here, Mother?”

And she says, “I’m here to help you drive.” Now, she must have seen the panic on my face, because she followed that up with, “And I’ve been listening to your podcast. I know you don’t take bathroom or food breaks when you’re on the road, so I’m not going to take any breaks either. We’re going to stay on your schedule.” I didn’t know she was listening to the podcast.

And then she said one more thing. “I’m driving the whole way, so you’ve got two options. You sit next to me and you can sleep or we can talk.” Now, I honestly can’t remember the last time my mom and I had been in the same room together without it devolving into tears. So I said, “Okay, Mama.” I got in the car and I immediately went to sleep.

I slept the entire way to LA and when we got there, she said, “I’m not going to go to the baseball game with you.” I said, “Why not?” She said, “Because you’ve got work to do. And if people see you there with your mother, they’re not going to want to talk to you.” I said, “You’re being ridiculous, of course you’re going to come,” and I got her a ticket.

We’re at Dodger Stadium and I start interviewing the gentleman sitting next to me as I’d done at every ballpark before. My mom, she moves to the seat behind us to give us some space to chat. And after the interview is over, I can hear her talking to her new seatmate. And her new seatmate’s asking, “Wow, you must be a huge baseball fan to do this type of road trip.” And my mom just answers, “No. I really don’t like baseball. I like watching my son watch baseball.” I pretended like I didn’t hear that.

After the game was over, we’re walking back to the car and she stops me. She wants to show me a picture she had taken during the game. And I looked down on her phone and it’s actually, it’s a picture of me and the guy that I had been interviewing. And she just says, “Look. You’re smiling.”

I said, “When are you going home, Mama?” And she said, “No, no, no, no. I’m going to drive with you to Minnesota too.” This time, there was no panic on my face. I said, “Okay, we’re going to split the drive and let’s talk.”

As we made our way out east, I started talking to my mom the way that I had been talking to these strangers at the ballpark these last couple of months, asking her stories about her life. You know, this woman, she survived three wars between India and Pakistan. I didn’t know that.

She told me the story of how her and my dad’s arranged marriage came to be. I knew they were arranged, I just never knew how or why it happened. I don’t know why I never bothered to ask her that.

Right before we got to Minnesota, we made a quick pit stop in South Dakota at Mount Rushmore. And as we’re walking up to the monument, my mom peeled off to call my dad and I was eavesdropping and I could hear her say, “As immigrants to this country, we’d always wanted to see Mount Rushmore. We just never found a reason to make the trip. This is all so exciting. I can’t wait for you to be able to see… our son… is just so happy.”

Thank you.

Back to you…

As unique as the details of Muneesh’s story are, the themes are all too common. Expectations. Failure. Shame. And also being open to those times when a simple circumstance serves as inspiration to reclaim the life that’s been waiting for you. Yes, the first few steps require initiative, but success manifests when others are influential elements in your narrative.

If you have a story to tell of getting lost, then finding yourself, don’t forget the cast of characters that accompanied you on the road to recovery. With them, you would still be lost.

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Storytelling And Your Moral Compass

January 16, 2025/in Identity, Moral Compass, Personal Stories, Storytelling/by Mark Lovett

I recently had a discussion with a client about the principles which form a story’s foundation. As we delved deeper into the subject, three principles came up over and over: Honor, Integrity, and Respect. We talked at some length and the next day I decided to summarize and share what these principles meant to us:

Honor — the story being told is true, told honestly, without embellishment or fabrication. In this light, the narrative faithfully represents the authenticity of the experiences being shared and reflects the story’s true meaning.
Integrity — the story aligns with one’s actions, words, and personal values. It respects the privacy of others involved in the story, and in some situations, requires consent from the other party. (or a notification of your intent)
Respect — the story is cognizant of personal and cultural issues regarding what is going to be included in the narrative. That could involve narrative boundaries plus an understanding of the story’s emotional impact on the storyteller and the audience.

At the intersection of honor, integrity, and respect

Another subject arose as we discussed how those principles interact with each other: moral compass. As we considered the term it seemed evident that our moral compass must be positive in nature, as it’s based (as we saw it) on the three principles of honor, integrity, and respect.

When we abandon our moral compass

But as we had to admit, people don’t always align with their moral compass. In some cases, outside influences that are not in alignment with our central values and beliefs come into play. Religious dogma or political ideology are often times out of sync with the morals we hold dear. Greed has a way of masking our idea of right and wrong if there’s the possibility of a significant financial gain, and the seductive nature of being in a position of power also has a way of obscuring our convictions. The effects of fear and intimidation, of being persecuted by others or ostracized for our beliefs can cause us to transition into preservation mode. That’s when the stories we tell ourselves and others may take a moral detour.

Silence is a story unto itself

While some folks engage in a form of moral hypocrisy due to social pressure or personal gain, others remain silent as they’re fearful of repercussions whenever they tell the truth or share their honest feelings. I get it. We’re always evaluating the potential benefit of a decision against any associated risks, and history is full of stories about people who suffered, both physically and mentally as a result of publicly sharing their values and beliefs.

It’s a time for self-awareness

I’m not here to issue a moral judgement on anyone. That’s not the point of this article. Instead, it’s a call for a moment of self-reflection when telling a personal story. To be aware of whether your story’s narrative stays in alignment with your moral compass, or has deviated in some way from your cherished principles to serve another purpose.

Dealing with the dark side

We also need to recognize that in some cases a person’s moral compass can be damaged, and as a result, they no longer believe in respecting other people. We have all seen that happen in many parts of the world as fascist governments will lie, cheat, steal, and implement policies that impair basic human rights. This isn’t an instant shift, but instead happens over time. It’s a brainwashing process that replaces respect with disrespect. When that happens, the stories that are told damage society instead of being beneficial. Not the impact we’re looking for.

When it’s time to speak up

In such cases it’s more important than ever for those people who operate from a position of Honor, Integrity, and Respect have their voice heard by all. Positive change in any society always begins with the telling of personal stories. So if at all possible, share a personal story that can change the world — for the better.

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Liel Leibovitz at The Moth from The Avalon Hollywood

December 28, 2020/in Family, Humor, Identity, The Moth/by Mark Lovett

The Moth has been hosting storytelling events for 20+ years, and the thousands of storytellers who have graced their stages are proof that every story is unique, and that the best stories come from our personal experiences.

In this story, as told by Liel Leibovitz, we hear about a boy growing up who finds out that his father is really a bank robber. It’s not something that most of us can relate to. But there is a larger story about the stereotype of what it means to be a man, and Liel’s journey to deciding what that would be for himself and his son.

We’ve all had relationships with our parents during our younger years, and for those who decide to raise a family of their own, there is that ever present past alongside the desire to make our own child raising decisions. Think about your own experiences, then as you listen to Liel’s story, and review the manuscript, identify the story blocks that you could develop to craft a story of your own.

Transcript

I grew up in Israel in the 1980s, and my father’s mission in life was to make sure that his only son – me – grew up to be a real man. And so, as soon as I turned four, every Saturday he would take me shooting, which was funny because my arm was exactly the size of a Smith & Wesson .45. Two or three years later, when I was six or seven, my father would take advantage of Israel’s surprisingly relaxed car rental insurance policies and he would rent a car to take me on driving lessons, which were terrifying because even sitting in his lap I didn’t reach the wheel.

And every two or three weeks, there was a special treat. We would stop the rental car by the side of the road and my father would make me go out and change tires, whether the car needed it or not, because in his mind knowing how to change a tire was the epitome of manhood.

I really hated changing tires, and I really hated spending these Saturday afternoons with him, but he didn’t care, because he was inducting me to the International Brotherhood of Macho Men. Every chance he got, he would take me to the movies to see his heroes – men like Sylvester Stallone or Chuck Norris or Burt Reynolds. I didn’t mind these guys too much, but they were not my idols.

My real idol was a real live person named the Motorcycle Bandit. He appeared on the scene shortly after my twelfth birthday, robbing bank after bank after bank all over Israel. He was in and out of the bank in under forty seconds, never leaving behind any clues to his real name or identity, and he just drove people insane.

He got so popular that Israel’s most famous comedy sketch show – sort of the local version of Saturday Night Live – devoted an entire episode to the bandit, speculating in one bit that he probably never robbed a bank in Jerusalem because he didn’t particularly care for that
city. So you can imagine what happened the next day, when, in an apparent tribute to his favorite television show, the Motorcycle Bandit robbed his one and only Jerusalem bank.

People went insane. Women who worked at banks would write their names and phone numbers on little notes so that if the sexy heartthrob robber happened to hit them up, maybe when he got off work he would find their number and give them a call.

But the people who loved the bandit most were us teenage boys. For us he was a complete hero, and on Purim, which is more or less the Jewish equivalent of Halloween, we all dressed up like him – in a leather jacket and a motorcycle helmet and a big shiny gun.

So about a year and a half later, I’m thirteen and a half, I’m walking home from the eighth grade, and no one’s home, so I sort of mosey over to the kitchen to make myself a snack. I hear a knock on the door, but it’s not a tap-tap-tap. It’s a boom-boom-boom. I open the door, and there are three police officers standing there. They’re not looking at me, and none of them are saying anything.

Finally, about half a minute later, one of them looks up and says, “Son, we arrested your father a while ago with a motorcycle helmet and a leather jacket and a big shiny gun.”

And I remember my first thought was, NO WAY! You think, you think MY DAD, with a beer belly and the receding hairline and the terrible jokes, you think THAT GUY is the Motorcycle Bandit? But in the hours and the days and the weeks that passed, I learned that he was.
The real story, as I soon came to learn, began about two years earlier when my father, who was thirty-five at the time and the son of one of Israel’s wealthiest families, was summoned by his father to have “the talk.” Now, if you’ve watched a couple episodes of Dallas or Dynasty or Knot’s Landing, you know “the talk.” It’s when the rich guy calls his wayward playboy son over and says, “Son, it’s time for you to grow up and be a man, take responsibility for your life and get a job.”

My father didn’t like that at all. So he stormed out of my grandfather’s office, and he hopped on his motorcycle – because, of course – and he drove to the beach, and he’s sitting there watching the sun set over the Mediterranean, and he’s thinking about his life. My father grew up in the sixties, so he believed in sayings like “do what you love” or “follow your heart.” So he decided to follow his heart, and his heart led him to robbing banks.

Now, as it turns out, he was good at it; he was great at it; he was an inventor, an innovator. He was the Elon Musk of the stickup job. And later I learned how he did it, and how he did it was incredible. He would rob a bank in under forty seconds, he would run out, jump on his motorcycle, drive around a corner, up a ramp he had custom-built, and into a van, where he would pause, and like some mad philosopher king, he would ponder this seminal, existential question of bank robbing, which is, “Where’s the last place you would ever look for a bank robber?”

And the answer is – and now is the point in the story where any of you contemplating this line of work may want to pay attention – the answer is that the last place you would ever look for a bank robber is the bank.

So my father would take off his jacket and his helmet and tuck the gun back into his pants, and walk out of the van calmly, around the corner, and back into the bank, which at that point was a crime scene sprawling with police officers. One of these police officers would inevitably run up to my father and say, “You can’t be here, sir, this is a crime scene!”
And my father would look at him with this dopey look and say, “Oh, can I please just make a quick deposit? My wife will kill me if I don’t”, and the police officer would say something like, “Sure, but be quick about it,” and my father would walk up to the bank teller and deposit the same exact cash he had robbed three minutes earlier. This being the 1980s and computers were still kind of new, he made the cash virtually untraceable.

It was a work of genius. He was so good at it, and he became so popular, that eventually he got cocky. He robbed one bank a day, and then two, and then two banks in two different cities. One time he was riding in a cab on his way to the airport when the urge struck. He told the cabdriver, “Would you mind stopping? I promise I’ll only be a minute.” It was literally true, he was only a minute. He robbed the bank, hopped back into the cab, drove to the airport, and flew off for an all-expenses-paid vacation in New York.

But you know how this story ends. Eventually he was caught. And after he was arrested, life got really weird, in no small part because Israel, as you may have heard, being a small state surrounded by enemies, has its own ideas about prison. And one of them is that prisoners get one weekend out of the month off to go home on vacation. The logic being that since the country only has one really secure airport, if you want to go ahead and try to escape through Gaza or Syria, you know, be our guest!

So every fourth Friday, I would go to the prison to pick my father up, and we would go out and have ourselves a weekend on the town. People would come up to him and high-five him and pat him on the back and say things like “Bandit, we love you, you’re cool.” But to me he wasn’t cool. And he wasn’t even the bandit. He was my dad, who had just done something so incredibly stupid that it landed him with a twenty-year prison sentence.

But even weirder than that one weekend a month together, were the three weekends a month apart. Because here I was, and it was Saturday, and there’s no shooting practice, there’s no driving lesson, no changing tires, no Burt Reynolds, and I didn’t know what to do.

So one afternoon I got dressed, which, by the way, was also an ordeal, because when the police searched our house, they took not only all of my father’s belongings but, because we were more or less the same size, also all of mine. So I put on one of the few outfits I had – which was this really ratty, disgusting purple sweat suit with the Batman logo up front, which I assume the police thought no self-respecting bank robber would ever wear.

I walked out and started walking around town, literally looking for a sign. And then I saw it. It was a sign above a theater advertising an all-male Japanese modern-dance show. And I thought about it for maybe five seconds, and then I did something that I’m pretty sure my father would disown me for: I bought a ticket, and I went in.

And I loved it. Here onstage were these amazing, elegant, graceful men, and guess what? They weren’t punching each other in the face, they were not riding Harley-Davidsons, they were dancing. And yet they were so secure in their bodies and their masculinities, and I thought to myself, “If that’s another way of being a man, what other ways are there?”

And thus began a two-decade-long process of trial and error – of trying to figure out what kind of man I wanted to be. And look, some of the things I learned didn’t surprise me at all. I love bourbon, and I’m the kind of guy who would watch as much sports as you would let
him in a given day.

But some other things were really surprising. Like some French poets moved me to tears. And even though bourbon was great, you know what else tastes really good? Rosé wine. And even though I’m really, really good at changing tires, if I get a flat now, I’m calling AAA. I didn’t share any of these insights with my father, because for one thing he’s not really the kind of guy who’s into insights. But, for another, by the time he got out of prison, I was already a man in full – it was too late for him to shape who I became in any meaningful way.

He still comes to visit from time to time, in New York, where I live with my family. And on one of these recent visits, he and I are sitting in my living room, not talking, as men do, not talk. And my son comes prancing into the room – my three-year-old boy. Now, that boy looks exactly like me. Just as I look exactly like my father.

And if there’s one thing in the world that boy loves, it’s his older sister. And if there’s one thing in the world that his older sister loves, it’s Disney princesses. And in prances the child dressed like Princess Anna from Frozen. I look at my son, and I look at my father looking at my son – who, by the way, looked amazing in this light green taffeta with a black velvet bodice and some lovely lacing – and I know that my father is judging me.

But you know what? I don’t care. Because at that moment I realize, strangely, that by going to jail when he did, he didn’t just free me up from the burden of this macho nonsense, he also freed up my son to grow up as a happy boy who can pretend to be whoever he wants to be, even – or especially – a pretty, pretty princess.

And I can’t tell you how grateful I am that instead of going through life mindlessly as two tough guys, my son and I are free to become real men.

[Note: all comments are my opinions, not those of the speaker, or The Moth or anyone else on the planet. In my view, every story is unique, as is every interpretation of that story. The sole purpose of these posts is to inspire storytellers to become better storylisteners and to think about how their stories can become more impactful.]

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Aleeza Kazmi at The Moth from The Beacon School in New York City

December 14, 2020/in Discrimination, Education, Identity, The Moth/by Mark Lovett

I’ve always felt that storytelling should be a required course in high school, as it’s fundamental to how we formulate our thoughts and how we’ll express ourselves throughout our lives. I was delighted to discover this story by Aleeza Kazmi when she was still a student. (she’s a professional storyteller now)

Children of color often deal with issues related to identity when they’re growing up, and in this story, Aleeza recalls such an incident from when she was just six years old. Beyond her particular circumstances, it’s a narrative which speaks to the courage we sometimes need in order to express the fact that we are proud of who we are.

Transcript

So I’m six years old and I’m in the first grade and I’m sitting at a table with my three best friends and we’re all really similar. We all wear the same clothes from the children’s place that our mom’s by us, and we play on the monkey bars during recess and we play house underneath the playground at St. Catherine’s Park, which was behind our elementary school. All of our names start with A, there is Anna, Amanda, Ashia, and Aleeza. We’re working on self portraits, and this is sort of an icebreaker project of the first grade. My teacher, Ms. Harrington, presented it as a way to get to know each other’s faces. These were gonna be hung up on the wall, and I was really excited because we were on our third day of self portraits and we were going to color them in finally.

I was super excited about this because my mom had bought me a coloring book over the summer and I learned how to color inside the lines. I learned all these, yeah, really excited about that, and I learned all these really cool techniques for how to draw properly. I was basically young Picasso and I was ready to show off my skills to my friends. I knew this was an extremely special project because Ms. Harrington had brought out oil pastels. Every table got one box, and every box had one of each color. I love oil pastels because I used there really soft, and so I used to take them and pinch them between my fingers and feel them melt into my skin almost. Because there’s one of each color in every box you had to be patient and wait for your color to not be used, and the color I wanted was being used.

I was ready to color in my face, and all of my friends had colored in their face peach, and since we were all the same girl, I figured I would use peach as well. So finally, peach was available, and I color in my face and I’m going slowly and I’m watching the oil pastel melt into the paper and I color inside the lines. It’s beautiful, and I look down and this self portrait, this girl I had just drawn, is exactly how I see myself. It’s like I’m looking into a mirror, and I’m proud, and I feel Ms. Harrington, my teacher, looking over my shoulder, and I get really excited because Ms. Harrington loved it when people drew well. And I was like, she’s gonna say to me that she’s gonna hang it above her desk, so that when people came in, they knew that I drew this amazing portrait.

I was getting ready for her to compliment me, and instead she looks down and she says, “Aleeza, that’s not your color.” And I’m confused by this cuz I don’t understand how colors can belong to people. So I start panicking and I’m like, Was I not supposed to use oil pastels? You know, did I do something wrong? What did I do wrong? I couldn’t figure it out, and I couldn’t find a way to ask her.

She didn’t explain further, she just grabbed the oil pastel box and started looking through it. Didn’t find the color she was looking for. So she went to the crayon bin. Now, every elementary school had this infamous crayon bin where little bits and pieces of broken of crayon that were unwrapped and disgusting and mixed together over years and years and years and never went away.

And I never used crayons. I always used markers or color pencils or something. But Ms. Harrington went to the crayon bin, and she’s rummaging through it, and she pulls out this crayon, and it’s this nub of a brown crayon that’s unwrapped and gross. Ms. Jill Harrington hands it to me and she says, “Lisa, this is your color.”

I still don’t understand it because how can colors belong to people? But I can’t figure out a way to ask her, and so I take it and she tells me to color in my face, and so I do. But crayon and oil pastel don’t mix together and they’re not friends and they don’t wanna be on the same page together. So I’m pushing in this crayon and I’m going in all different directions and trying to make it mix with the peach, but it’s not doing it.

I’m coloring outside of the lines now and I’ve colored into my eye and my lips and now’s red on my chin. I’m panting, and Anna, Ashia and Amanda are all staring at me and I’m embarrassed. When I’m done, I look down and I’m this grotesque monster that can’t decide if it wants to be peach or brown. I wanna scream at Ms. Jill Harrington, “Please do not hang this up, I’ll do it again. I’ll do it your way this time.”

But she grabs my self portrait before I’m able to say anything, and she puts it into the pile with all of my even tone, beautiful peach friends, and it’s hung up on the wall. I go home that night and I ask my mom, “Why am I not allowed to be peach?” And she explains it to me as well as a mother can to a six year old who’s going through an identity crisis.

You know, I’m not peach and your dad isn’t peach. She does her best, but I still don’t understand it, and I don’t wanna ask her cuz I don’t wanna sound stupid, cuz everyone else seems to understand this concept of color, but I cannot wrap my head around it. So I put this idea on a shelf and I don’t think about it again until the sixth grade when I’m in a new school, and we’re all asking each other questions like, “Where did you go to elementary school and what’s your favorite book?” Just trying to get to know each other a little bit, and this one boy comes up to me and he asks me, “What race are you?” Which might be a complex question. Some people, they can’t look at me and know what race I am.

I didn’t know what race I was because I never really thought about it, so I’m trying to look for an answer. I think back to this Jill Harrington and that brown nubby crayon, and I tell him, “I’m brown.” And he looks at me, and he’s so confused, and he says, “What do you mean you’re brown? Brown isn’t a race.”

I find the words finally and they come up, and this little six year old me inside is screaming, and then now I’m screaming and I’m saying, “Who are you to tell me what I am? If I say I’m brown, then I’m brown and deal with it.”

So this boy never spoke to me again, which is fine, because I finally found the words and was able to stand up for myself.

Watch Aleeza’s video, make some notes about what impressed you, then read the manuscript and watch again. You’ll see and hear it differently the 2nd time around. You will also notice a bit of editing. To avoid the talk from reading as a run-on sentence, the word ‘and’ was removed in several places.

[Note: all comments are my opinions, not those of the speaker, or The Moth, or anyone else on the planet. In my view, every story is unique, as is every interpretation of that story. The sole purpose of these posts is to inspire storytellers to become better storylisteners and to think about how their stories can become more impactful.]

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