Comedy

My inability to find humor in things other people find funny should have been a clue, an indication that I might be autistic. But I hid it well, only stating to others that comedy didn’t appeal to me, never admitting that I didn’t understand it, that it didn’t make sense because that would have made me sound stupid, and I already had a low self esteem. Why make it worse? And when I sought help, when I begged mental health professionals to tell me what was wrong with me, they never asked about my relationship with comedy. It never came up in conversation. Not once. So how was I supposed to know that my odd humor—or lack of it—was a huge piece of a puzzle I was desperately trying to assemble. It’s only recently that I’ve been able to look back at my life through this neurodivergent lens and say, “Shit! That’s so freaking obvious, how did I not get it?” But it’s always easy to look back when you have the proper framing or context and see what you missed. Autism was never on my radar—or anyone else's when I sought help—because I was too high functioning. Plus, I learned to mask the traits that might have identified me sooner. Like comedy and my brain’s inability to process it properly.

Ever since I can remember, I have disliked  comedy. Maybe ‘dislike’ is too strong of a word. Perhaps ‘indifferent’ is better.  I find movies that are categorized as comedy either boring or frustrating because I perceive them too literally and the plots tend to irritate me. Stand up comedians make me feel as if I am lost in a crowd, trapped in a maze designed by the chaos of words that confound me. And when acquaintances or colleagues tell jokes I’m often confused. I don’t get the punch lines quickly enough and I’m left scrambling to fill in the gaps while everyone else is absorbed in raucous laughter. Of course there are exceptions. Some movies make me laugh out loud, occasionally a stand up comedian will hit on something that makes me chuckle, and a rare joke told by a friend will cause me to smile, though when it does, there’s usually a few seconds delay while my brain untangles the meaning of what was said. For years, decades even, I didn’t think anything of this oddity. It was a quirk, sure, but nothing to get overly analytical about. At least that’s what I thought.

I remember in elementary school, one of my teachers showed a segment of Bill Cosby—this was years before his sex scandal was common knowldge—doing stand up comedy. During the entire clip, my classmates were engaged and laughing. I stared at the screen, forehead furrowed and head tilted to the side, as I tried to make sense of what Cosby was staying, but my brain didn’t work fast enough. Actually, it didn’t seem to work at all. By that point in my life, I knew I was different, I just didn’t know why. Not joining in the laughter that surrounded me was just one more thing that set me apart from everyone else. The difference, however, didn’t seem big enough to concern me, so I shook it off. 

Not comprehending jokes told in real time troubled me more. I hated being that kid in the midst of a crowd when someone told a joke or said something comical and everyone around them started to laugh—except me. The heat would rise to my face, I’d feel it burning my chest, and scorching my ears as I frantically tried to understand what had been said and why the kids around me were all reacting differently. In time, I learned to laugh with the crowd. Not because I suddenly understood things better. Not because the need to laugh was an instinctive reflex. And certainly not because I found anything funny. My laughter was simply a mode of self preservation. I stood out enough, I didn’t need one more thing to make me seem different—defective. Besides, faking amusement ensured that the laughter didn’t turn on me. 

As for movies, I struggle with most movies regardless of genre. The act of sitting still for extended periods of time has always been a challenge—that’s the ADD part of my brian. Plus, my interests are rather limited—the autistic part of my brain—which compounds my inability to pay attention. Mostly, I can’t justify paying exorbitant fees for the pleasure of sitting in a theater unless I know there is a chance I might enjoy the show. Since having a child, that has changed. I’ve watched countless movies that I would never have considered simply because I want to spend time with my son and he loves movies. Yet, even with that motivation, there are plenty of movies I just can’t watch. Often, Saturday nights are fraught with frustration because choosing a movie—at home, not even in the theaters—is difficult, and I fully accept responsibility. If it’s not historical or superheroes—a new interest since my dad died, a new way to bond with my son—I usually have no desire to see it. The thought of sitting idly in front of a screen for two hours unsettles me. And while comedy may not be the worst, it’s still really hard to sit through, to pretend I get it, to not become petulant because the characters often come across as being total idiots and I simply don’t understand the appeal.

But maybe the clue wasn’t really a clue because there are enough exceptions. Perhaps if I had been asked by a mental health professional to define my relationship with comedy I’d have focused more on the blips, the infrequent moments when my brain clicked appropriately and I laughed organically because I genuinely did find something humorous. The first time I saw My Big Fat Greek Wedding I laughed more than my friends. By the time the movie ended I had a stitch in my side and a feeling that maybe it wasn’t all comedy that sucked, just most of it. My son still can’t comprehend why I enjoyed The Hangover. Why after seeing the first one I eagerly watched the sequels. Honestly, I can’t explain it either. But I laughed and for me that was enough of a victory. However, it still irks my son that I do not care for Adam Sandler or Jim Carrey movies. I don’t doubt that both men are fabulous actors, I just can’t appreciate them because where others see humor, I see stupidity and worlds that are so unrealistic I can’t relate. I don’t know why my brain is capable of suspending reality in some cases, like with The Hangover, but not others.

Last year, my spouse and I went to see a lesbian stand up comedian. It was a fundraiser tied to the 2024 election. I went because I wanted to take a political stand, not because I expected to be entertained. My spouse, accustomed to me sitting stonefaced during comedy routines, was just happy that I was willing to attend. Neither of us expected me to laugh. Neither of us expected me to have a good time. And we certainly didn’t expect me to be half giddy by the time the performance was over. What happened? What was different? Why was I able to laugh so naturally? How did I go from being bored and befuddled by stand up comedy to being completely engaged? I don’t really know. I can’t explain the quirks and inconsistencies of my brain, but perhaps it had something to do with the jokes being grounded in lesbian stereotypes and cats—things with which I am familiar. As a result, my brain didn't have to perform any crazy mental gymnastics to parse out the humor. It was accessible simply because it was rooted in my everyday experiences. 

As for jokes told in real time, the world I suspect will always confuse me. Search as I might for exceptions, there are only a few. My friend Jake can get me to laugh in ways no one else can. I don’t know why. Perhaps it’s because he is so expressive it’s hard to miss the context, the larger picture. Since being clued into the fact that I am probably autistic, I’ve paid closer attention to the way in which I react to jokes and sarcasm. I’ve realized that dry senses of humor are more difficult for me. If jokes are delivered in a near mono-tone with little change in facial expressions, I often stare at the speaker as if waiting for more. Sometimes they give it to me, clarifying what they meant when they realize my confusion, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes I just turn away, embarrassed by my inability to comprehend what the speaker meant. More overt jokes are a little easier. Or rather, the instant laughter that flows so easily from others sparks my own laughter, covering the fact that I am lost while my brain seeks to find purchase, to grasp for understanding. It's work. And sometimes I can’t be bothered, so I let the moment slip. It’s just one of many reasons I’ve often felt as if I’m on the outside looking in, never fully part of any conversation or click. 

I don’t want to do it any more. I don’t want to keep pretending, puzzling over words and phrases that perplex me just to keep up a facade. It's exhausting. So forgive me, please, if I stay silent and dismissive when you crack your jokes. I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve come to realize that my comfort is important too. If I don’t laugh I won’t fit in, but that’s okay. I don’t fit in anyway. At least now I understand why comedy and I have such an awkward relationship. The puzzle is becoming clearer. It’s almost a relief, in this case, to finally pull off the mask I hadn’t even been aware that I was wearing.