My mother used to tell me stories about Jimmy Dean. The man’s super salty. And funny. But only in a mean way. Think sweet potato pie and knee socks.
These stories were only meant to make me laugh. But never in a vicious way. My mom knew perfectly well that her soft-hearted husband would turn over in his grave should I break that part of his mysterious code.
Her warnings spurred me on to great comedic acts including Mort Sahl. In “Nuts,” Sahl famously sings about a woman’s uselessness, confuses the great city of London, and forces three kids to shut down an Elvis birthday party.
My mom’s “Jimmy Dean” jokes inspired a small part of my budding love for comedy. In fact, I credit Sahl for the strong relationship I have with my own mother. My mom was smart and played Scrabble with my sister. She taught the four of us to sit perfectly still and listen when she read us stories. She loved movies. She often wrote her own jokes. For all my observations about my dad and me, in a way we were shaped by the great figures in my mom’s life and our day-to-day experience.
Now of course, I grew up to be a solo artist. And as a proud liberal, my mom always taught me that there are always two sides to the story. That you don’t have to choose to hate everyone who has a political or moral agenda.
But there is a line, and to cross it one must not compromise your basic humanity.
That’s where I found Hannah Gadsby. A smart, beautiful comedian, Hannah tackles the subject of sexual abuse with a frankness and honesty that is shocking. In “Not a CRAP Show,” she sardonically confronts sexual assault in modern society. While she does not deny rape, Gadsby refuses to use it as a weapon of mass political destruction.
My mother’s advice was that Hannah would be fine. That she would soon be the star of a Comedy Central special and, eventually, a movie. A role like Hannah’s would bring her fame and fortune, she assured me.
And yet I was certain that Hannah would crack up under the pressure of performing in front of a packed house.
Fear proved false. Sautel calmly showed audiences how she and other women had been systematically ignored for decades.
The shame and anger Hannah drew from her experience became fuel for her stand-up. The tactic of “trick humiliation” mesmerized audiences, energizing them to debate and blame each other and overlook the violence.
This technique proved effective for Sahl. It was one of the few scenes in the Judd Apatow-produced, Harold Ramis-directed, and Sahl-directed “The Harold and Kumar-Tranquilizer Hold Up” that I am still laughing at today. And it helped form my own stance on sexual assault: “I don’t hear you blaming me for being raped, but you sure can blame me for calling out your sex crimes.”
And yet I was certain that Hannah would crack up under the pressure of performing in front of a packed house.
Fear proved false. Sautel calmly showed audiences how she and other women had been systematically ignored for decades. And all this gave the story depth and complexity that the simpler formula couldn’t have produced.
The right thing to do isn’t to condemn victims and cast them out of the culture. The right thing to do is to tell their stories. All victims are human beings. And they are all worth listening to.
It took me three years of research and calling dozens of therapists to write a book called “The Meaning of Life.” But I finally understood what my mother and my mom’s stories meant for me.
At its best, humor has nothing to do with making people laugh. It’s meant to make us laugh, and in return, it can bring us compassion. Humor, like empathy, need not mean sacrificing one’s own truth for everyone else’s.
Sara Deon has written books on sex, religion, and comedy.
