"That's the weird thing about explaining what comedians are like. Literally everything has a funny side."
-Trevor Noah
The recently promoted anchor of Comedy Central's The Daily Show cruises through New York City via a collector's edition Ferrari with the most famous (at least the richest) comedian of them all, Jerry Seinfeld. Noah then discusses how nobody would laugh at Nelson Mandela's joke despite his incredible humor. "they were releasing Kruggerands with his face on them", the press asked him 'Mr. Mandela, how does it feel to go from being labeled as a terrorist in your country to now having on the currency of that same country?'' and he solemnly said 'that's how you know you've made it. you have your own money. No more talking to poor people." Noah and Seinfeld both explode with laughter. As do I, the not that funny viewer. Whether or not I believe his premise, the fact that Mandela would crack a joke about class inequality is hilarious regardless of the punchline. The word punchline itself summons images of a wily boxer, slipping by uppercuts and absorbing hooks to deliver zany jabs. It's a skill, to retaliate from life's ills with humor. And comedians are so flexible they can find the humor from life surrounding them, as well as their own. And one with heavy rewards in our entertainment-drenched society. It got Jerry Seinfeld a few collector's edition Ferraris and Nelson Mandela's face on a Kruggerand. I'm not so into it for the money as I am for the emotional malleability. What if I could bounce back from anything with a laugh?
"When I googled pictures of America, all I saw were pictures of police and people fighting in the streets"
-Lasalo Vaitai
He laughed. The elderly couple and I didn't. Before laying a foot on U.S. soil he received a call to be a missionary for the LDS Church. When he got the news, he did what everyone does when they're moving: check out the new scene. He made that google search a few days after Tamir Rice was shot by Timothy Loehmann. Protests ensued, and soon the story shifted from a terrible shooting to the boiling unrest between police and protester. Without context Lasalo saw a tumultuous depiction of the United States, moments after discovering he discovered God wanted him to teach the gospel.
"Vaitai" is Tongan for "dead water," and the conversation remained dead in the water for quite some time. His islander mindset let him to dead water upon multiple occasions, often producing hilarious results. He understood that "rough" could mean difficult but not that when you repeat the word it becomes a noise dogs make, so when people talked about stories about evictions, abuse, and spiritual heartache he'd pause and go "ruff ruff." We received news that there may be race riots downtown after a local police shooting and he responded, "I'm kind of black, should we go?" but no conversation was more dead in the water than when that quaint retired couple and I realized that our country was defined by violent arguments between law keepers and law speakers. I couldn't find a way to make that funny.
"I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace."
-Sir Toby Belch, 12th Night
"That's getting cut." My drama teacher told me. I landed a sharp mark through the middle of the peeing joke, relieving my high schools censorship rules. Four years of Shakespearean acting, continuously playing the fool--Horatio, the Porter, Sir Toby--and I still wasn't allowed to have a potty mouth. Not that it was a personal hobby behind the scenes. To this day I've sworn three times offstage, and one of them was when I couldn't quite get the past participle of shoot. If I actively swore, not only would it be vulgar but it would be so awkward. Martha Stewart at a Korn concert would look more natural. But vulgarity onstage is different. Almost always there was art at its soul, whether comedic or tragic.
In some ways I use this to reconcile my favorite comedians bludgeoning their routines with curses. Even Bill Cosby, the superficial model of a modern major comic, let one slip into his acts. Like Stephen Colbert and Jerry Seinfeld I would fall asleep to his records, playing them on my portable CD player. I'd giggle and snort for 20 minutes during Why is There Air? and then fast forward through half of "Hofstra" to avoid the bad words. My innocent 10 year old brain refused to be corrupted, even by Bill Cosby (I didn't realize that was a losing battle until much later). But fast forwarding became more difficult as I discovered modern comics: Jim Gaffigan, John Mulaney, Dmitri Martin. Their wit and character were so brilliant and fresh, I began consuming their stand up bits just like I did with Cosby's. And when they swore, it was emphatic, purposeful, timed. I craved their humor, their ability to make lemonade from lemons. I quickly learned to extract laughs from vulgarity.
I reached a point of no return when I listened to comic geniuses Dave Chappelle, Wanda Sykes and Chris Rock. I realized they had a power searched for by ancients and contemporaries: emotional alchemy. They turned blackest moment to gold, maybe with some untouched coal still attached. Deep down, I insisted there was art behind comedy, and the further the mine went to discover it, the more valuable the art.
"We have an opportunity because I'm mad. But I don't have any good advice."
-"Killer Mike" Michael Render
Killer Mike got his name from being so good at rapping he would "kill the mic." I first became acquainted with him through his feature on Outkast's "The Whole World," when he was not a pop culture/political lightning rod but an Atlanta kid having a shot with rap legends. Then my brother told me to look up his collaboration with New York rapper El-P. Together they made Run the Jewels, which not only is stylistically innovative group but also incredibly funny. Their first three albums make you dance and cringe and laugh with lines like "Beware of horses / I mean a horse is a horse of course but who rides is important." And at this point, Killer Mike has become a spokesperson on cable news and talk shows, discussing his vision to implement MLK policies all with twisted humor. And his various appearances with Bernie Sanders made for a visual comedy--a tall, skinny Vermonter with a 300-pound rapper.
But their fourth album is almost pure anger. A few weeks prior, Atlanta native Rayshard Brooks was killed by a police officer in a Wendy's parking lot. Before, Minnesota cop crushed George Floyd's windpipe with the accumulated weight of a prejudice country. And America was enraged, Killer Mike included. In a press conference aired nationwide, he addressed the nation with raw emotion, buoyed by seemingly involuntary jokes. He called CNN "CartooN Network" and beating up prosecutors in the voting booth. Despite his wrath, comedy carried the burdens that became too much,
I watched the conference. I heard the album. I looked at videos of the millions across the United States brave enough to take the streets and demand a voice. It looked like chaos. Killer Mike, one of the most deservedly angry men in America, found a way to laugh. And I could not.
"Too Bad."
-Kelsey Phelps
We sat side by side every Music 101 class. She was incredibly bright and slipped pop culture witticisms under her breath during the lecture. I liked that she knew my favorite bands. A friendship made in heaven.
Until I asked her on a date. Knowing our quirky relationship, I thought it'd be fun to attend the weirdest concert BYU had to offer: Tuba Christmas! She loved the idea. The premise was absurd enough that nothing could go wrong. And nothing did go wrong because it never happened. I sat outside a modestly packed performance hall containing over 80 tubas for half an hour, and Kelsey never showed. I was astonished, defeating. The premise was too absurd. I may never see Kelsey again.
But no. She had the gall to show up to Music 101 and sit in the exact same spot--as if I never asked her out. It was hard enough being stood up. But now I'm being gaslit? I asked what she did that weekend to see if she had an excuse and forget to text me. Nope. Stayed in her pajamas for 48 straight hours. She then politely asked how my weekend was.
"It was alright. I got stood up on a date."
She gazed into my eyes with a cold fire. "Oh. Too bad."
Too bad....
Tubad.
Tuba'd.
Tuba'd at Tuba Christmas.
I look in the mirror, exhausted after my first dry run. The "Too Bad" story caps a 30 minute set. Because admiration begets imitation which eventually begets emulation, I find myself 23, studying for the LSAT, a senior in college, and practicing for a stand up routine. A new notebook is quickly filling with golden stories and sharp observations. Everything is on the table; everything can be funny. The time I watched a fly ball carom straight off my forehead. The time I was high on pain meds and spoke Spanish to random people. Why do we think life advice from Billy Eilish is valid?
A comedian's early career often is terrifying and miserable. Trevor Noah worked six nights a week on two continents before becoming a staff writer for the Daily Show. John Oliver was so unpopular in England his audience often disappeared like cockroaches beneath a flashlight before he could finish his set. Dave Letterman's TV career was stymied for years after Robin Williams took over his comedy club. Steve Carrell, Stephen Colbert, and Louis C.K. all lost their first jobs as content writers after one season of The Dana Carvey Show. And here I was, tepidly dipping my toe in a big pool of pain at the Bar Stool Sports Comedy Club in Salt Lake City.
Jerry Seinfeld once said "You can't really become a comic unless you've been poor. Otherwise your a jerk." And while almost every comic began with public humiliation by unimpressed audiences while barely affording rent, I would say "poor" may be replaced with "struggle." And from that struggle comes an impervious wisdom and humor. It is the only way. I want their wisdom, so I voluntarily submit to the struggle.
"You have no idea. I have no idea. There's a difference between having a liberal arts degree and being black."
-My Mom
My mom is the funniest family member. And she could make that cutting statement funny.
Two months prior another horrible shooting was caught on a phone camera. Jacob Blake was shot. In broad daylight. Eight times. In his car. His children watching. And once again, the America flew into turmoil. My favorite baseball team boycotted two games in protest. A minor shot and killed two protesters (no, not rioters). My brother called me in rage. And I had enough. I could no longer watch people cry out in sorrow, I had to cry with them. The Saturday after Jacob Blake's shooting I drove to the state capitol to commemorate Martin Luther King Jr's March on Washington. I bought poster board from the dollar store and with black paint smeared the phrase "MLK WOULD SAY BLACK LIVES MATTER." My anger, sorrow, determination, and empathy led me to this moment. And I was not laughing.
At the time, it felt real. I remember being so nervous afterwards I told my best friend and brother and no one else. And when my Mom flung that scathing critique on me, I wanted to retort "but I took the streets. I marched mask-by-mask with my black siblings. I never will understand but I stand with them." But she didn't know I went to a protest yet. And the more I thought about, the more I realized I still wasn't one of th protesters Lasalo saw or achieving Killer Mike's anger.
The protest was protected by the police. We were flanked by a motorcade. The streets on every side were blocked off by several hundred streets. The march was one way and was completely downhill. When we reached its end, at the Salt Lake City Chamber of Commerce, BLM of Utah provided food and water while a DJ played dance music. I was not shot at like those in Kenosha or downtown Provo. I was not teargassed like those in between the White House and St. John's Church. In reality, all I did was hold a sign while on a brisk walk, chanting catchy tunes with some like-minded people. And thinking about it that way made me laugh.
"Try wearing the mask I've been wearing all these years! I can't even tell something true unless it has a punchline before it."
-Dave Chappelle
In one of his finest performances recorded, Chappelle controls the audience with incredible ease. They whir and shudder like a computer undergoing an overhaul. His audiences anticipate his impeccable craft, but his yo-yo-ing between explosive comedy and biting truths always take some adjusting. Once he finished his set with serious ideas on Kaepernick's protest, the #METOO movement, and on prostitution and capitalism's evils, solemn topics with an occasional gut-buster. They don't know when they'll be smiling and when they'll be moved, but both will happen.
It is the Saturday Night Live occurring only hours after major media outlets called Joe Biden to be president elect, and mixtures of exhaustion, celebration, frustration, and foreboding swirl around his feet. Chappelle not so-coincidentally was the host of SNL after the 2016 election. What most people assume when they hear a comedian with NSWF diction and irreverence is that he or she is out to watch the world burn, but he knows what it takes protest and laugh.
"Do something nice for a black person--just because they're black. And you got to make sure they don't deserve it. It's a very important part of it. They can't deserve it. The same way all them years they did terrible things to black people just because they're black--and they didn't deserve it. If you're driving through the hood one day and see a black dude standing on the corner, selling crack, destroying his community... buy him an ice cream. Just buy him an ice cream. He'll be suspicious... but he'll take it."
He asks the sparse group of masked New Yorkers on set to be humble winners. Learn how to forgive each other, and find joy in spite of that feeling, before leaving with one last joke. And I, in my own apartment, giggle while holding back tears.
