I once sat on a panel of female humorists at a Southern literary festival. And boy was my butt sore! (Bahdum-bum! )
But seriously, I think humorist is an unfunny word for a funny person that’s supposed to sound smart, because there is a rumor out there that funny people aren’t smart. This same rumor mill churns out the beliefs that smart women aren’t pretty, and pretty women aren’t funny, and “untraditionally beautiful” women had better memorize a hundred knock-knock jokes or learn how to code. Like, as a woman, you can be only one thing. So choose wisely. If you have a choice at all.
Our panel moderator was, naturally, a man. And that man asked us women in all seriousness in front of a large church basement audience: “Who gave you permission to be funny?”
And I thought: Say what now?
But I answered, “Garden & Gun, The New York Times, and Doubleday.” Because those were the publishers that had paid me to be funny. But I was wrong to say that.
I thought back to the number of times I’ve needed permission. Permission to be excused or to stay out past curfew. Permission slips to go on field trips to Moundville or the 15th Street McDonald’s freezer in Tuscaloosa. Hall passes to use the toilet. I had to raise my hand in class to get called on. In 2001, I needed permission from a Greek priest to marry my Greek husband. In 1982, my parents followed PG ratings to the letter and sat on either side of me during Poltergeist. I can still hear my mother screaming: “JoBeth Williams, when the TV that ate your baby spits her out of the closet, you don’t go back in the house and dye your hair!”
I never asked permission to be funny, because growing up in the South, where more people are born with funny bones than silver spoons in their mouths, I was surrounded by comedians.
Mama read The Best Christmas Pageant Ever aloud to me in a barbershop and made me laugh so hard I nearly peed my pants. Papa did Pillsbury Doughboy and Judy Garland impressions (not to mention he faked his own murder for my thirteenth birthday, which he thought was hilarious; read my Southern Lady Code for that one). My little sister was a preteen Joan Rivers and Phyllis Diller rolled into one sleeping bag at every slumber party. Grandpapa described our family dinners as a herd of buffalo: We’d take off with a story and run it around the table, cracking jokes, adding one-liners, and one-upping one another like a stampede.
Despite all this, I was slow to come around to being funny on my own. It wasn’t until I was thirty-six that I walked into my father’s hospital room after his open-heart surgery and pretended to pull the plug. I was forty-three when I started the anonymous Twitter account American Housewife, which got me a book deal.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard, “You laugh too loud.”
I’ve heard, “That’s not ladylike.”
I’ve heard, “That’s not funny.”
I know women who don’t believe they have a sense of humor. So they don’t watch stand-up specials because they think it’s a waste of time. I know women who don’t believe that they can tell a joke. Because they’ve gotten interrupted when they tell a joke, by someone who thinks they can tell the joke better. So they don’t. I know women who flinch when they hear a man say, “What are you laughing at?” and I’ll admit, when I hear that, I stifle myself too. Because sometimes those words are the last words a woman hears.
But here’s the thing: Life is better when we laugh. And we’re all born with the innate ability to be funny. If you’re feeling a little rusty, however, here are two easy ways to get a laugh:
1. Compare two things that have nothing in common. Wives are like bras. Sometimes the most matronly are the most supportive.
2. Say, “Like me!” A waiter says the wine is rich and fruity. You say, “Like me!” A friend says the movie was scary and full of plot holes. You say, “Like me!” You could also reply, “Scary and full of plot holes are my porn search words” or “Plot hole is my safe word.”
To be funny is to be brave, to cope, and to hope. You don’t have to choose to do that. You don’t need to be paid to validate that. You don’t need permission to be you.
Helen Ellis is a Garden & Gun contributing editor and the author of five books, including the national bestseller American Housewife and Southern Lady Code. Raised in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, she lives in New York City with her husband, Lex.
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