Essay
TAKE THE STAGE WHY I TAKE UP ALL THE SPACE I WANT AS A STAND-UP COMEDIAN
WORDS BY JACKIE HOFFART ILLUSTRATION BY HANNAH CAMPBELL My mother recently visited the apartment I share with my partner, and although mom is 100% sweetness and light, she also has a preoccupation with trying to take up less space physically—she always feels in the way. I find it sort of exasperating and heartbreaking. I want to constantly yell: “Mom! You are not in the way! You deserve to take up all the space on the couch you need! You are our guest! We love you! Take up space!” Still, some of that feeling-the-need-to-shrink has rubbed off on me. Whether it’s pitching a short film or thinking about writing a book proposal, I often doubt whether what I say matters. Does the world really need to hear from me? Against all odds, however, stand-up comedy is the one area where I do not feel any paralysis vis-à-vis imposter syndrome and white privilege. In fact, my identity as a queer/fat/roughly-80%-woman-identified person is precisely what motivates me to take the stage and “speak my truth,” because I’ve realized that if I don’t show up (to painful open mics especially), the space will literally automatically fill up with random white guys (sorrynotsorry, random white guys!). But the quirk of comedy is that variety (and storytelling/joke-telling ability) is king. So, at least in theory, people who book shows are always looking to make diverse line-ups—if only because it’s boring to hear the same old (random white guy) shit every night.
The beauty of stand-up is that you entitle yourself to it. There are show-up-go-up shows (open mics) almost every night of the week in Vancouver. Do enough of those and people will book you on their shows—or you can just ask to be put on shows, and most folks will say yes unless you have a reputation as a sexist/racist jerk. It is really like that. You don’t have to be very good. Trust me! I’ve been doing it off and on for three years and still don’t feel like I’m any good. My imposter syndrome is my co-pilot! I feel like even my five minutes of talking about my weird pubic hair is somehow pushing back against all the grossness that exists out there. And if I don’t show up, then I’m letting grossness win. And that’s not OK with me. For an evenings-only unpaid (or very rarely paid) hobby, I am weirdly motivated to tell better stories and improve my craft, which I’m told takes seven to 10 years, lol. And the more women and queers I see onstage, the more I feel supported—like there’s room for me if I want it. I kind of want to do a girls rock camp for comedy. We have been mobilizing and taking the stage for some time, but like, now is our time, surely? Like, angst is at a high these days, so GIRLS/QUEERS/WEIRDOS TO THE FRONT is a sound way to approach art-making. It’s the ensemble piece of a comedy night that also reinforces the idea to me that there is room for me. At best you are always sharing the stage—even the world’s biggest comedians have warm-up acts. Literally no one is the only voice. There are many stages and many mics, and we need to flood them with as many different voices as we can. So I’m going to keep being my awkward queer/fat/roughly-80%-woman-identified self and bear witness to my experiences, five minutes at a time.
Now, don’t get me wrong. There are plenty (and I mean plenty!) of amazing straight white comics in town. (We really do have a juicy crop of good feminist boys here.) Of course that makes a lot of sense, if men are typically not taught to question whether or not the world really needs to hear from them. So why do I feel like stand-up needs me? Well, to be clear, I don’t exactly think it does. But acknowledging that I wasn’t raised to think the world needs to hear from me means I have to push myself twice as hard to be
-
heard. And if part of the charm of comedy is its ostensible relatability, well then I guess I have to step up and expand it. And maybe, just maybe, I can inspire other folks with broader experiences than my own to do the same.
57
-
