trans

Why are some jokes universally funny to large swaths of people?

For my husband’s birthday, I took him and our two adult kids to a comedy show last weekend. There were around 30 people in the club that easily held 100 or more. The headliner was a Black guy, and I’m identifying his race with purpose. He’d won the distinction of ‘Winner of the Seattle International Comedy Competition,’ or so the stamp on his sales page said. Yet the club was two thirds empty, and after the show I could see why.

Standup comedy is likely one of the hardest forms of entertainment, so I give the comedian a lot of grace when they aren’t funny, often chuckling, along with equally gracious attendees, to help support the performer. The lineup at this club last weekend made it particularly hard to laugh at their routines.

The three warm up acts, in order, were a Black trans woman, a White man with cerebral palsy, and a gay Black woman who was so stoned, by her admission on stage, she kept laughing at her own ‘jokes.’ All three barely got even polite chuckles from the small crowd, including me. They bombed. Hard. And here’s why…

The first Black comedian up there started out by grabbing her crotch and telling the audience of mostly upwardly mobile White and Black couples that her “Big titties, and THIS,” meaning her pussy, were what made her special, valuable as a Black woman in America. Then she goes on to slam anyone who isn’t woke enough to not only respect, but vocally support the trans community. “Ya all so racist you won’t stand up for these Black titties?” She didn’t seem to understand that being at least 300 pounds, with her pants falling below the crack in her ass, and crass in the extreme—meaning to be offensive—wasn’t funny. It’s also likely why she seemed to feel her value was in her choice to become transgender, and not what she contributes to humanity. Instead of humor—delivering a moment of lightness to people’s lives—she radiated resentment, hate.

The White comic with cerebral palsy was hard to understand with his speech impediment, but what I did get was all his ‘jokes’ were about his disability. “Everyone thinks I’m drunk,” was his opening line. “But I’m not.” (It would have been funnier if he’d said he was.) He went on to tell the audience he’d had cerebral palsy since infancy, and how people in public avoid him because he walks funny and holds his body weird. It wasn’t physical comedy. He was clearly disabled. He described how people look away, like the reality of him will infect them. It was supposed to land funny, but really, it was just tragic.

The last comedian was stoned out of her mind, and beyond her: “everyone disses me because I’m a gay Black woman,” started laughing before finishing most of her ‘jokes.’

The headliner was considerably better than the warm up acts. His funniest bit was noting how tall he was, and how annoyed he gets with everyone always asking him to get stuff off top shelves in markets, and he’d like to turn that around and ask shorter people to please get him that item off the bottom shelf. But even he used racism way too often as his ‘jokes’ that came off more as bitter, angry commentary than something funny.

What is a joke?

My daughter says I suck at sarcasm, and it’s true. I think it’s fundamentally mean-spirited.

My father-in-law used to spout cruel ‘jokes’ about his wife constantly, little jabs of a knife—‘Oh, she hates to cook, which is good for all of us,’—death of intimacy by a thousand cuts.

There are private jokes—humorous shared experiences that are periodically recalled together.

But what is universally funny? Why did the tall and short joke land so well that the entire audience burst into laughter for the first time that evening?

Tall or short, we can all relate. Race doesn’t matter. Gender doesn’t either. Sexual preference isn’t part of the joke. The things that generally divide us didn’t exist in his story. It was just funny. Now every time I see a tall guy in the market I’ll smile with the memory of that joke. So will a lot of the audience. The comic spread a moment of lightness with that joke. You can call him out for being ‘tallest,’ or making fun of short people (which he didn’t, just people shorter than his 6’5”). But really? That’s a bit too woke, don’t ya think.

It is the comedian’s job on stage to get their audience to laugh—gift them that moment of lightness. Sometimes humor can be controversial, challenge us to view things differently, but only if we’re not offended, or bored. And attacking the audience for being racist, sexist, transphobic, isn’t funny. Especially to an audience of mostly young professionals in tech, medicine, or management, regardless of their race or sexual orientation.

If the cerebral palsy guy had tapped into the universal feeling of being ignored—on the outside looking in, which most of us have felt (and many frequently); or the trans woman had surfaced what it feels like to be judged by our gender—male or female—those types of jokes would likely have landed a laugh. There’s lightness in laughing at ourselves. Not so much when we’re called out for “All White people” think this or that about Blacks, and “all straight people are overtly or secretly homophobic.”

While I’ll agree we are all born sexist, racist—fundamentally afraid of ‘the other’—I didn’t spend $50 a ticket to be berated that humans (with the exception of the ‘comedians’) are flawed.

Black, White, Asian, Latino, gay, trans, straight, young and old, we all share FEELINGS in common, as being alive means FEELING. Good, bad, happy, sad…etc., humans all feel the SAME THINGS to varying degrees, our feelings evoked by stimuli/input. Universal humor taps into our sameness, feelings we all share, even when pointing out our differences. Social awkwardness, handling rejection, tripping over our own feet are embarrassing moments we’ve all experience, and can easily be woven with commentary on racism:

Saw this stunner coming out of Starbucks yesterday so I put on my cool, ya know, casually glancing her way, then when she noticed me I flashed her my signature grin (and he does, comically). And I’m thinking I’m all hot shit cuz I got her attention, and that’s when I tripped on a cracked sidewalk and almost face-wiped.

I popped back up feeling like a fuckin idiot and catch her smiling before she turned away. Then this old guy sitting on the bench in front of Starbucks says outta nowhere, “Tragic, really. Another clear case of systemic bias.”

“What’d you say man?!” I’m like seriously pissed assuming he meant because I’m Black and she was White.

He looked at me deadpan. “Sidewalks have a long history of discrimination against dudes flagrantly struttin their stuff.”

😉

My 21-year-old daughter decided to give me an assessment of my parenting of both her and her brother on her visit home from college at the end of summer break. Among my many crimes, I was cheap, though my college senior has never paid a bill in her life, not for her education since we float those bills, not her phone, not her car, which I gave her mine when she needed one, not even car insurance. Every birthday she received piles of presents that she actually wanted, (not clothes, like my mom gave me), usually well over a grand. And let me be clear, we are squarely middle-class, and at times throughout their formative years, we struggled to make the bills.

Spoiled brat? Maybe. But both my husband and I felt our kids should focus on academics and socialization, and use their meager part-time job earnings for fun. Adulting would come after college, along with the pressure of earning enough to pay their bills.

We sat at Caliente’s eating chips and waiting for our meals as she continued to list my failures. I gave unsolicited advice when we spoke, and she just wanted to rant. I tell people when and why I’m disappointed in their behavior, like customer service reps who show no desire to help, but no one cares what you have to say, Mother. I was violent sometimes when I got angry.

Did I ever hit you, or even spank you? Throw anything at you? I asked her, trying to be patient, listen carefully and address her complaints.

No, of course not.

Have you ever been afraid I’ll strike you? Or hurt you physically, ever?

No. I know you’ll never hit me, or throw anything at me, or hurt me like that. But when you yell, or cuss, or throw your napkin down on your plate when you’re angry, it’s really aggressive, so those times you’ve been emotionally violent. My daughter is on the medical track, to become a doctor, with a minor in psychology.

Wow. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. Do you feel like I’m aggressive a lot? She was completely undermining my self-image. One of my best bits is I am non-violent in the extreme. I’ve preached to both my kids that violence is unacceptable other than in self-defense when in imminent danger.

No. Most of the time you’re pretty chill, except when you and Dad are at it, then you trigger quicker.

We went round about over aggressive vs violent, then she finally moved on to the coup de grace.

You raised your son like a girl, she said as the waiter put our meals in front of us, then retreated. You did, Mom. You taught him to share his feelings, and he does. Too much, for a guy. You made sure to point out sexism in social norms, movies, in politics, and business, and how often men think with their ‘little head.’ You raised your son to think like a woman, and it hasn’t helped him any.

I sat there chewing my first [and last] bite of the three Street Tacos on my plate. I chewed until it was basically mush in my mouth to swallow it because my throat had constricted with my daughter’s harsh critique. To her point, our son battles depression and has since his first year in middle school. But until my daughter called me out right then, I hadn’t considered raising him to be empathetic, more aware of his own feelings and how he affects the world around him as a ‘girl’ thing.

I raised you both the same, I told her, fighting the tears now welling in my eyes.

I know, she said with the confidence of a professor. That’s the problem. Beyond logistics, most boys don’t learn to communicate. They’re taught to compete, which is why boys make friends through sports.

We enrolled your brother in baseball, soccer, Boy Scouts, taekwondo—

Yeah. But he liked talking to his teammates more than playing the game. You made his life totally harder because he doesn’t fit into his gender. And he’s not gay. So, you really screwed him up —

I’m done, I said. You’ve spent the entire day beating me up. And I’m done. I threw my napkin on my plate. Oh, shit, that was aggressive, I said to my daughter, then got up, paid the lunch bill, and came back to where she still sat, staring down at her Carne Asada. I could not stop the tears from streaming down my face when I told her to take the car, and that I’d walk to get mine at the shop, but I didn’t want to be with her anymore right then. Then I walked away. I’d never, ever, walked away from either of my children.

I got maybe 100 yards, out of the mainstream and melted down, sank to my knees against a shop wall. It took me a good five minutes to stop hysterically crying before I was able to walk to the repair place and deal with the mechanic. I got my car and drove out to the lake, walked to the end of the pier and sat on the bench, sucking in the wet air to catch my breath, and reasonably, calmly, assess my daughter’s many assertions.

I’m cheap. Hmm, she didn’t use the word ‘cheap.’ She said, you’ve been tight with money. Too tight. A politically correct way to say ‘cheap.’ Since my daughter doesn’t have a clue about the cost of even her current lifestyle, I discounted her assertion I was cheap with her lack of actual knowledge.

I was violent. As I explained to my daughter over our brief lunch, the word ‘violent’ means “using physical force intended to hurt, damage, or kill someone or something,” a la Google, as I asked her to look it up over chips and salsa. I abhor violence. Growing up, my 6’3”, 230-pound dad used to hit me when he encountered my resistance. My father was violent. I’ll cop to being aggressive when I’m angry. Maybe too aggressive, and I will work on backing that off.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a first step towards calm over anger, reason over rage.

I raised my son like a girl because I taught him the same lessons that I taught to my daughter…

I sat on that bench staring out at the lake until almost sunset thinking about her assertion. I realized I was shaking, I assumed from the chilly night approaching, until I got in my car and turned on the heater but didn’t stop. I was trembling with outrage.

I got home half an hour later. My daughter was in her room, very upset, my son assured me, though he didn’t know exactly why. She’d only told him we’d had a fight and I left. I went to her room and asked her to meet me in my office, a private space a quarter acre from the house, so we could talk. She came in a bit after me.

I love you, I began when we were seated. I love you, I repeated, locking my eyes on hers hoping to transfer the intensity of love I feel for her. I want the best for you, and for you to be the best of you.

I love you too, she said. And I’m so sorry for this afternoon. You are my best friend, and I’m sorry I hurt you.

I get it. Me too, for leaving. I’m sorry that hurt you. I needed space to think about all the stuff you said to me. I’m ready to talk to you about that now. And I may get aggressive because I am so hurt by so much of what you said, but I won’t ever be violent. I smiled to ease the tension.

She did too. I know, she conceded. I’m sorry I said that. I know it’s not true.

OK. Thanks. I took a breath but kept my eyes on hers. First, when you start paying for your education, your car, your insurance, your phone, and all your other expenses that we pay for, only then will you have the knowledge to assess if I am cheap.

I didn’t say you were cheap, Mom —

Yeah. Ya did. And I’m not going to sit here playing word games with you. You know what I mean. I felt my heart racing. A typical passive/aggressive play my husband, her father, engages in when we’re in conflict is grammar-nazi, nitpicking every word I use to derail the dialog.

I’m sorry, Mom. I know how hard you’ve worked to make sure we got taken care of through college. I’m really sorry I said that. And she started crying.

And so did I, seeing her hurt, and knowing I still had a hard lesson to teach. My talented, beautiful daughter, I began. I love you, I repeated, to remind myself how much I did amid the outrage I felt towards her right then. You accused me of raising my son like a girl. And out of all the things you said to me today, this cuts the deepest. Have you said this to your brother — that I raised him like a girl?

She looked down, said No, but I didn’t believe her. Then she looked at me and said, I don’t remember saying it to him. I don’t think I did, anyway…

If you’ve told your brother I raised him like a girl, you’ve diminished the best of him. The best of any human — man or woman. He is kind. Truly kind, not just words but actions, volunteering at the food bank, and working in nonprofit. Your brother is compassionate. He really cares about how people feel, knows how to listen, and empathize. He examines his feelings and has the grace, and humility to look for and admit his culpability, and then take responsibility for his screw-ups. And I get your brother may have a harder life being different from most men his age. But I refused to raise my son as most boys are still raised — to reflect their father’s bravado from our caveman days.

I felt my heart race and heard myself getting louder and faster with my delivery. I stopped speaking and took a deep breath. My daughter sat in my high-backed leather office chair, her hands clasped in her lap, looking rather small, way younger than her almost 22 years.

I love you, I repeated, to give her ground.

I love you too, my daughter said, tears streaming down her face.

You’ve admitted I raised both of you the same. And I meant to. I worked hard to treat you equally, and respect you both as individuals. I gave you the same messaging, not as male or female, but as people. I raised you both not to reflect your dad and I, but to be better than us — smarter, more connected inside yourself, and more responsive to the world you touch. Not boy/girl, or sexist norms passed through generations, but to meet our compassionate, creative potential regardless of gender — be the best of what we are. I fixed my eyes on my daughter’s, trying to impart to her what I know to be true.

Children can stop racism, when they are taught to understand instead of hate.

Children can stop sexism, when parents teach their kids that their value lies in their actions, not their gender.

Children can stop the greedy few from controlling the many by implementing laws for an equitable society, and sustainable stewardship of this planet.

Tears now streaming down both our faces, I stared at my daughter.

No pressure there, she said with a half-smile.

I smiled too. Between theory and the need to change the direction of our current reality is the grand fucking canyon. An audible sigh escaped me. Sorry, kid. You were born owing the gen before you to contribute to the living and the lives that follow yours. It comes with the privilege of being Human.

I get it, Mom. And I said things I didn’t mean today. And I’m sorry.

I know. Me too. For all the times I’ve failed you, I’m so sorry. I get you’re mad at me for something, but I’m thinking it ain’t most of what you said today. So, let’s explore what you’re feeling, and drill down on what you’re really upset about…

Tag: trans

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