How Minneapolis comedian John Gebretatose turned his mother’s survival story into Good Camel Comedy
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“She was 15 — just a baby — and she had already endured so much. So why jump on this month-long trek for love? Who knows what’s on the other side of the desert?” Gebretatose said. “I don’t even know how to plan food for a week — I can do it if you make me, cram it all in — but a month? No way.”
Today, Gebretatose channels his family’s legacy of resilience into his work at Good Camel Comedy Theater, which he launched in November 2024, to foster joy and healing in communities of color.
Born in Khartoum, Sudan, in 1982, Gebretatose moved to Minnesota in 1984 with his parents. He grew up in the Riverside Plaza apartments in south Minneapolis, surrounded by a community of Black, Indigenous and Eritrean neighbors.
“Back then, I used to be sad about not having my own family around,” he said. “But looking back now, I had a bigger family than I could’ve ever imagined. Each household had its own culture, its own way of doing things. I didn’t get it then, but now I see how much I learned from all of them.”
Gebretatose’s childhood was more about survival than play — he cared for his mother, who has schizophrenia, and managed despite limited resources, but humor and community kept him going.
His comedy career began at the Brave New Workshop, a staple of the Twin Cities comedy sketch and improv scene since 1958, where he honed his craft as both a student and instructor.
“John has always been very much about community as he is about art,” said Caleb McEwen, artistic director of Brave New Workshop. “He sees art as a representation of the community, and that’s one thing that, in our earliest interactions, he always said. He had the feeling that what we see on stage should represent our communities.”
That vision carried into his work as the co-executive director and director of diversity and inclusion at Huge Improv Theater in Minneapolis from 2016 until the theater closed in 2024 due to financial challenges. At Huge, he launched improv jams and workshops for Black, Indigenous and people of color (BIPOC).
“To partner with Huge was taking a different kind of risk,” Gebretatose said. “I’m going to work with white people and say, ‘Hey, I actually believe we can work together and make this a communal art theater space.’”
While at Huge, Gebretatose co-founded the annual Black and Funny Improv Festival to uplift underrepresented voices and Minneapolis’ first all-Black improv group, Blackout Improv, whose comedians often performed at Brave New Workshop.
“He had a broader experience in the Twin Cities comedy scene than I did,” McEwen said. “I would talk to him when I was trying to figure out how to reach different communities or to find out about artists that I had not seen yet.”
His initiatives turned theaters like Huge Improv Theater and Brave New Workshop into welcoming spaces where BIPOC voices could unpack stories of identity, trauma and displacement through comedy.
“Wherever you go, there are always parts of the community that are missing or that you don’t hear from as much,” McEwen said. “His work has been very important in bringing out expression from people who maybe haven’t had the support or the audience that they deserve.”
Improv class will celebrate play and joy
Through Good Camel, Gebretatose hosts interactive events in Minneapolis, including weekly trivia nights at Du Nord Cocktail Room and the monthly “Oasis Laugh-Battle” at Lush Lounge & Theater.
Starting Sunday, March 23, he and improviser Ashawnti Sakina Ford will lead Good Camel’s 10-week improv class: Improv Decolonized 101: Playing With Care and Awareness, inviting participants to reconsider traditional improv narratives and practices.
“Going into Good Camel, it’s personal with my mom’s story and how she persevered,” Gebretatose said. “I genuinely feel like it’s my purpose to just play. I know that sounds very immature to say in the United States, but it’s really not.
“For the Black American families that took me in and raised me, it was part of the culture to make space for joy,” he said. “I noticed that outside, joy does not exist in our communal world, in our industrial market. It’s a whole lot of pressure for annual shows and Black History Month. It’s always got to be a special thing, so I always wondered if we could have it on the table more consistently — if there was an option for us to have joy on a more frequent basis.”
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