What Are You Laughing At? No. Really.

Disclaimer: this gets a little preachy. Read it anyway.

The other day, I innocently approached a conversation two friends were laughing over, hoping to join in the joke. Almost immediately, I wished I'd stayed away.

The topic of conversation? Women jokes.

"...why are women's feet smaller than men's? So they can stay closer to the oven."

"Oh, I love women jokes," chimed in the second participant, who was, to my profound sadness, a woman. "You want to hear a funny joke? Women's rights."

They continued in that vein for awhile ("Why did the woman cross the road? Doesn't matter, she shouldn't have been out of the kitchen"; "What do you do if your dishwasher stops working? Beat her") as I awkwardly stood to the side, stone-faced and silent, the dreaded stereotype that I trip over myself to avoid: the Feminist With No Sense of Humor.

The thing is, I like and respect these two people very much. I don't think they would have continued if they knew their jokes honestly upset me. And I understand, from the female perspective, the urge to sell out your own sex, to be in on the joke--to be "one of the guys." I not only understand it; I've done it. I've ignored the sting of these barbs--the iceberg of truth buried beneath the punchline--and betrayed my femininity by one-upping the joke teller in misogyny. And I've cruelly laughed at far too many jabs told at the expense of other races and/or minorities.

But--what to say?--I just don't think I can do that anymore.


This goes far beyond the "woman thing," but that is where my story begins, so I'll start with that. And--hold on to your hat-- I'm going to use a word (again) that makes a lot of people very uncomfortable: "feminist." Over the past six months or so, I have been, with the aide of a few beautiful female trailblazers, reclaiming that particular f-word, and what it means for myself and the planet. (Interestingly, as a little girl I was a very vocal feminist. I stopped when I learned that that was a bad thing). I have surprised even myself at the depth with which this word has resonated in my heart, and befuddled many of those close to me with my ostensibly sudden passion on the subject. (It must be said, though: a number of people--men, even--have cheered me on in this awakening, or whatever you want to call it. To those people, God bless you). I don't know who reads this blog anymore, so I hope what I'm about to say won't give offense, but a lot--a lot--of my baggage concerning women has to do with the church (and I know about a dozen women who could heartily "amen" that). I don't want to get into biblical doctrine, but when little girls grow up digesting that the spiritual heavy lifting is a boy's job, that little boys can lead prayers and little girls can't, that boys grow up to lead and girls grow up to support the boys, something profoundly damaging happens to the female psyche. She grows up internalizing the message that boys are just more valuable to God--God, the King and Father: the ultimate Him. The level to which this subjugation lies buried in the heart of every good church daughter varies, but to any woman who grew up in this paradigm--in which her voice and ideas were relegated to the periphery of the church experience--I don't see how it can't exist.*

And the marginalization of women in church, though damaging, is by far one of the kinder, gentler faces of gender discrimination. Aside from the domestic abuse in our own backyards, the brutal misogyny accepted as standard operating procedure in so much of the developing world is enough to shatter your heart a thousand times over. Girls kidnapped and trafficked into sex slavery, women raped and then killed by their own families in the name of honor, infanticide of value-less baby girls--I could go on,** but you get the idea.

The cries of these women and girls simply makes it impossible for me to laugh at beating a woman dishwasher.


I read the following quote in a wonderful book*** recently, and it's about the truest thing I can think of right now:

"The quality of our laughter is a measure of our sanctity. It tells us how we feel about others. It tells them, too."

So, I'll ask it again...what are we laughing at? Specifically, whom are we laughing at? And would we still laugh if we considered the subjects of our laughter, in all of their beauty and scars, insecurity and individuality?

Would you tell a woman joke to your sister, your mother, your lover, your friend? And, if she laughed, would the smile reach her eyes?

This isn't about feminism, or racism, or any other ism. This is simply about operating from a place of love and respect for all of our brothers and sisters. For, in the words of the eminently quotable Joan D. Chittister, "Feminism makes humans of us all."

It may not seem like much, but the surest way I know to distance ourselves from each other is to trivialize a fellow human being's experience. And the surest way I know to do that is to laugh at it.

I don't pretend to be perfect, and I certainly don't pretend that residing on the higher plane of empathy will always be easy, or even desirable. But, honestly--what's the other option?


* If any of this strikes a chord with you, please, run don't walk to your nearest bookstore or library and pick up this book. Warning: you will not be the same after you've read it.

**This book does go on. Read it, get angry, get inspired, and get involved.

***Heart of Flesh by Joan D. Chittister. A bit dense, but completely worth the effort.