Deeper Than Our Cuts

I’ve had an odd time getting back on my comedy feet since the holiday break.
I’ve been performing at open mic nights here and there and feeling just a little off; which is fine because you certainly can learn and grow a lot from a rough patch. Failure can push you. I can feel it pushing me as I’m seeking for words in front of a blank audience. I’m working hard to find my footing. But I feel that I’m where I should be.
Tuesday night was particularly rough for me. A group of other Western Washington University comics and I did an open mic night on campus which went FINE. Then we had a few drinks and went down to an open mic night at our local hookah bar, “The Cobra Lounge.” I went first and bombed really hard which didn’t phase me too much as I was fairly faded. My friends went on after me and had similar (lack of) reactions from the audience. It’s one thing to do a set where the audience doesn’t laugh, it’s another when the audience doesn’t move or blink and are most likely just staring at the pretty colors they see dancing around you. After a few of us performed, the manager was encouraging people in the Cobra Lounge to get up and tell jokes themselves. They were telling fucking knock knock jokes. It was ridiculous. Was that their interpretation of what we do? After we pour out our souls telling material that took us real time and energy to write, some dumb fucks go up, introduce themselves as standups and tell knock knock jokes? I’m fine with that, whatever. But then this guy goes up and tells the following joke:
“What’s the difference between jam and jelly? You can jam your DICK DOWN A BITCH’S MOUTH!!!”
Commence Jessica Sele Melt Down (JSMD).
I started crying and shaking and was swiftly escorted to the Ranch Room (B’ham dive bar) by my fellow comedians. I was very clearly angry and I don’t think they really knew what to do. They made me laugh some and bought me chicken strips and a beer. I didn’t want to but felt I had to explain that I’m a survivor of sexual violence and that the “joke” we heard was very triggering for the image it presented as well as the language. It’s hard enough being the only girl but then to be crying about something uncontrollable and triggering makes it even more difficult. I knew that I shouldn’t have been, but I was embarrassed. It’s ideal for a comic to be able to take pain and anger and gain power from that through really good comedy. Through humor I can reclaim spaces. I can have the last word and the last laugh. I can make something terrible into something laughable. It relieves fear and helplessness. However on Tuesday night I couldn’t quite shake off my hurt. I felt alienated and disrespected not only as a woman and a survivor but as a comedian. Shitty jokes fucking insult my fucking art. FUCK. So I told the guys I’m not sure that I can do it anymore. Does the good of doing comedy out weigh the pain, the disrespect, the vulnerability, the cold nights at the Cobra Lounge, the bad grades, etc? Then my friend James said something that struck me; he said, “Our cuts are deep but we are deeper than our cuts.” Then we drank to it, “Deeper than our cuts!” Clink.
Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it, but I’m infinitely strong. I’m so much more than a survivor or a woman. Also, I’m fucking Goddess/ rising phoenix/ warrior who happens to be FUNNY ALSO.
ALSO.
I spent the entire next day pretty much just hiding in my room and watching Conan. It needed to happen. When rape culture gets you down, watch Conan O’Brien…
I feel like writing the sickest/ gnarliest jokes about rape culture and people who tell poorly written and uninteresting rape jokes. I want to use my voice to get people laugh with me about things that we cannot let have power over us. Watch out 18 year old culturally appropriating, privileged, hookah smoking stoners. Next Tuesday I’m gonna be funny with a fucking vengeance. I’m going to MAKE YOU laugh. Mwahaha! MWAAAH HA HAA!