MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE CHARACTER
CARL GORMAN
CARL GORMAN’S HORSES ARE AS DISTINCTIVE AS WOODY CRUMBO. HE HAD A LIFETIME LOVE AFFAIR WITH HORSES.
O
CARL MADE ME A MUG WITH THESE DONKEYS CARVED INTO THE SURFACE.
CARL GORMAN WAS AS HANDSOME AS HE WAS CHARISMATIC.
ne day in around 1968, I left my classroom at Wingate to take my break when I found a handsome Navajo with a leonine head of white hair, holding forth in the lobby, completely surrounded by people. I knew a master storyteller when I saw one. When I asked who the man was, I was given a chorus of strange looks: who didn’t know Carl Gorman? In the summer of 1971, I was working for the Duke Oral History Project under C. Gregory Crampton at the University of Utah. I got a call from him saying, “Get your behind over to the Navajo Museum, and take your tape recorder and plenty of blank tape.” He wanted me to take my wife and second tape machine. We didn’t really know what was going on until we got there and our friend Martin Link explained. Considering the secrecy surrounding them, I at least knew what the Code Talkers were. But I quickly found that I didn’t know much. Over a three day period, I taped a bunch of these amazing men. The only person I know who got multiple tapes was Carl Gorman. After that, I crossed paths with this amazing man rather often, and I believe I can call him a friend. Early in life, he did well as a bootlegger on the Reservation. Then he was one of the few native traders. His father Nelson Gorman had a post near Chinle. Carl’s language skills were obvious—during the infamous stock reduction, he was used as a Navajo translator for the government—and he was one of the first Code Talkers taken. Born in 1907, he was older than most of the guys—he lied about his age to enlist—but he was needed to craft the original code. It is a fortunate person who has heard Gorman the storyteller. Over the years, I noticed an interesting thing: he never bragged on himself, and he had plenty to brag about. The Marines skipped through the Pacific, but the men only had to make every other island landing, except for the Code Talkers who made every landing, carrying a battery and phone as heavy as a car battery, along with pack, rifle, and the rest of the gear everyone else carried. Carl had more life experience than most of the men, but they all shared one thing—life as a Navajo. More than one man told me he just skipped basic training. The Navajos were in good physical condition and they all knew how to shoot so they jumped the queue, so to speak. Many of the men had little or no education. One man told me when he was six or seven his parents took him to the local trading post. It was the first time he ever saw an Anglo. Carl was ten years old by the time his parents decided to put him in school. In a letter home, he described the teachers as “mean as scorpions.” There is an excellent biography of Gorman—two actually—by Henry and Georgia Greenberg who spent quite a lot of time with him. It is full of Carl Gorman tales. One of Carl’s stories that upset a lot of white folks was about his treatment during his boyhood school days. For a personality like Gorman’s, it was inevitable he would get in trouble. What he had not expected was the treatment he received. He waited for a chance to escape. A friend found out what he was doing and tagged along, and then his younger brother Wallace joined them. They went over 100 miles on foot in February. He finished his education at the Albuquerque Indian School, and the policies there were not too different than what he had seen already. Until 1970, the official BIA stand was to make little Christian White Men out of the kids. Carl’s diploma said he was “A competent farmer.” At least he got to play football.
