Why Some Men Don’t Believe that Women Are Funny
So Christopher Hitchens recently wrote a big old article in Vanity Fair explaining, in great, vague detail, why women aren’t funny. And his article made me think of something I’ve been meaning to tell y’all for a while now.
There’s this guy who works at one of the grocery stores in Houston’s Inner Loop. He’s older – a big white guy a little older than the people you usually find running the registers at Randalls. He has a big, booming voice, too.
“Hello! How are you!” he booms at me whenever I go through his line. And then, he starts with the jokes.
I wish I could repeat one of his jokes to you, but I can’t, because they’re so incredibly lame that I can’t even remember them. But I have to give you an example. Let’s say that, while ringing up my groceries, he holds up a package of sushi that one of the kids made me buy, and says something like, “Let’s hope this isn’t still swimming!” or “Stocking up on the brain food, huh?”
And, if his “joke” seems to require a reply, I’ll give him one out of politeness. I’ll say “Yes” or “No,” or else I’ll do the polite one-second smile. If his joke needs no reply, I’ll say nothing at all.
Whenever he says something unfunny and I say nothing at all, I swear to you that this guy either passes his hand over his head and makes a whooshing sound (indicating that his joke went over my head), or else he literally mutters, aloud, “O-kay… Not getting through at all here, am I?” As if someone else (a TV audience?) is watching him and appreciating that I’m too stupid to get his jokes.
The funniest, creepiest, most fascinating part of his behavior is the obvious aggression that underlies it. It’s like he emanates angry sweat and bile from his very pores while addressing me with his loud voice and bared-fang smile.
I always have to wonder why he does this. He does it to me every time, as if he can’t remember me from the time before as the woman who’s obviously too stupid to get his jokes. See, in my family, we were raised not to laugh at unfunny remarks, as it only encourages people to continue being unfunny. And yet, there must be female shoppers who laugh at this man’s jokes. It must happen often enough for him to feel entitled to our laughter.
None of that has anything to do with Mr. Hitchen’s suppositions, I know. But that’s what they made me think of.
Not to be conceited, but I’m pretty funny. Seriously as hell, I’m one funny bitch. Not so much on this blog, maybe, and maybe not even so much in my books. But, if you know me in real life – if you ever drink with me or you’ve ever gone to one of my readings, or heard me on the radio – you know I can crack the jokes. Every time I do a reading, someone asks me during the question-and-answer part, “Why don’t you become a stand-up comedian?”
(And I say, “Because being a lower-than-midlist author pays so much more.”)
(No, just kidding. I say, “Because I don’t like being around lots of big, unfunny white guys who emit the scent of anger and joke about their hatred for the women who won’t sleep with them.”)
(No, just kidding. I tell them, “Because Christopher Hitchens says that women aren’t funny.”)
And, actually, I’m not being conceited at all, because I can’t take credit for my own joke-cracking ability. It’s all on my family. This is what I always explain to people at my readings, and this time I’m telling them the truth: Growing up, in my dad’s house, the rule was that if you weren’t saying something funny, you weren’t allowed to speak.
I’m not kidding. Every weekend night, all the neighborhood boys would come to my dad’s house to watch movies on his newfangled VCR. So it’d be my dad, all my (male) cousins, both my brothers, and all their male friends from the neighborhood. And we’d watch movies, and lots of the movies would be pretty stupid, because we watched whatever was newly for rent at the local convenience store. And, of course, people would shout out comments during the movies. And, if your comment was funny, everyone would laugh.
If your comment was not funny, everyone would say “Shh!” or even “Shut up.” Even my dad. My dad, loudest of all.
The third time you said something unfunny, in fact, you’d be ordered to leave the room.
I’m not kidding. You think I’m making it up, but I’m not.
So, in my house, growing up, if you ever wanted to find out what happened to Jean-Claude Van Damme at the end of Bloodsport you had to be funny, or you had to be silent. And God knows I could never be silent.
There aren’t a lot of women in my family, but the ones who are there are some of the funniest bitches I know. You know how I’m always telling y’all, in this blog, that I enjoy hanging out with my family on the holidays? It’s because all we do is crack jokes and make fun of each other. The women a lot louder than the men, sometimes. And, FYI, we work blue. In fact, the dirtier we can be, the better. Except for one of the cousins, who unfortunately didn’t get yelled enough in her youth. Sometimes she admonishes us. “The kids, you guys! The kids are listening!” or “Please don’t make jokes about my lost virginity in front of Uncle Manuel, y’all.” And we just tell her to shut up, and keep going. And Uncle Manuel laughs, and makes a really cold-blooded, messed up joke about the dirtiest thing you can imagine.
My boyfriend says I’m the funniest person he knows. And yet…
When I first met my boyfriend’s gang of guy friends, I immediately loved them. You know why? Because they were just like my family. They laughed and joked and made fun of each other. (Picture the gang on 40-Year-Old Virgin, and you’ll know what I mean, sorta.) I immediately felt comfortable around them, and I joined right in with the jokes.
And, whoa. They were taken a little off guard. No one laughed. They just looked askance, and then restarted the conversation.
And then I met their girlfriends, and then I understood. They weren’t used to girls being funny. They were used to girls sitting in the corner, talking about lipgloss and purses, and completely ignoring the men’s jokes.
Luckily, though, they all got used to me pretty quickly, and now we laugh and have fun. And I no longer have to lecture my boyfriend about wanting to be accepted as I truly am. Or whatever.
As I get older, I seem less funny in real life. And I think that’s because I’ve learned. Not that humor is inappropriate, and not that it’s immature, but that a lot of people get weirded out by women being funny.
On the elevators at work, I sometimes run into a guy who considers himself a humorist. A guy will bust out a witticism and, if it’s funny enough and I’m in the mood, I’ll piggyback on it and say something funny in response. Sometimes, something funnier than what he said. An invitation, as it were, for him to be even funnier.
Once in a long while, the guy will laugh, or – even better – banter right back.
Unfortunately, usually, though, he’ll act like I said nothing at all. Even if everyone else on the elevator laughed aloud. Or else the funny guy will look at me askance, as if he’s not sure what I’m trying to do. As if my sole purpose on that elevator is to be a part of his audience. And I feel like saying, “Dude, I’m not trying to co-opt your penis, okay? I’m just trying to have some fun.”
And there’s nothing sadder than a wasted joke, so as time goes by, I’ve stopped trying as much. Or else I make my joke, for my own ears alone, and then stare straight forward, not waiting for some man to appreciate it.
If I’m on the elevator full of women and I make a joke, the women will laugh, but none of them will engage. No other woman will make a joke back, banter with me, help me alleviate the hell that is our corporate existence. Because, I imagine, they’ve learned to stop trying a long time ago.
There are maybe two women in my building who say funny things, in front of women or men, and who don’t laugh politely when unfunny men make stupid jokes. And, from afar, I love those women like sisters.
And I love my family, and I love my boyfriend’s friends. And, if you make me laugh, with your words or your writing, then I love you, too, whether you’re a boy or a girl. But if you make me laugh and you’re a woman, then I also salute you. Rock on, my sister.
And eff you, Christopher Hitchens. Eff you, the sad horse you rode in on, and your bitter brother-in-arms at the grocery store.
