True Stories of Healing and Laughter
Let me start by saying that
there’s nothing remotely funny about thousands of innocent people dying.
There’s nothing funny about the senseless evil of terrorism or the
unceasing sorrow of families and friends. Surely there’s nothing funny for
a humorist like me to say right now.
Or is there?
Since I’m from New Jersey
originally, I know at least a half dozen people who regularly do business in
the World Trade Center but were lucky enough to be elsewhere that morning,
as well as another half dozen who live or work nearby. I spent that horrible
Tuesday anxiously making frantic phone calls all day.
But even in the midst of
panic, there were times I couldn’t help but laugh, and I thank God for it,
or else I might have lost my mind. The situation wasn’t funny at all, but
sometimes people can’t help but be, particularly in an emergency.
I come by this will to
laugh genetically. I call my aunt to make sure my cousin who lives in
Greenwich Village is okay and what do I hear in the background? My Uncle Joe
playing the piano. This is a prime example of The Acito Family Emergency
Response System. In case of disaster, lift cover and play.
I read an e-mail from a gay
couple in downtown Manhattan forced to evacuate their building. As their
apartment fills with smoke and debris falls outside their window, they
quickly grab emergency supplies: a first aid kit, flashlights, batteries, a
change of clothes and a wheel of brie.
A friend here in Portland
gets a call from his parents who are vacationing for a month in Tuscany.
“We just wanted to let you know we’re alright,” they say. He is
relieved, of course, because whenever disaster strikes New York the next
thing he always thinks of is the scenic hill towns of Tuscany.
I talk to a friend whose
son works on Wall Street and had been frantic with worry until he called.
“How are you feeling now?” I ask her a couple of days later. “Pissed
off,” she barks. I respond gently that lots of people feel the same way
right now. “Yeah,” she says, “but I had tickets to The Producers this
week.”
I watch the news and hear
the report of the woman who, upon waking to learn that her entire lower body
has been reconstructed by surgeons, whispers to the doctor, “Does that
mean my ass is smaller?”
I get a call from a friend
from L.A. who’s stranded in Manhattan. We talk about the firefighters we
see on TV and what heroes they are. “Absolutely,” he says, “and
they’re such hunks, too, aren’t they?”
Admit it. Surely he’s not
the only gay man in the country who, for a split second, forgot his grief,
his shock and his rage and admired the broad shoulders of some big fireman.
I understand that lots of
people aren’t ready to laugh yet, some aren’t even ready to cry, but I
firmly believe that the ability to laugh even when the world is falling
apart around you is as stirring a testament to the strength of the human
spirit as any.
And if ever there was a
time we needed to laugh, now is it. And what could be funnier than the sight
of Jerry Falwell of the Moronic Majority telling Pat Robertson of The
Un-Christian Coalition that “the pagans, and the abortionists, and the
feminists, and the gays and lesbians…I point the finger in their face and
say ‘you helped this happen.’”
I laugh hardest at these
two clowns because they’re not worthy of my shock or dismay. I’d love to
point a finger in Falwell’s doughy face myself, and you all know which
finger.
If we deny ourselves
laughter and joy then our enemies, be they Falwell or some terrorist, have
already won whatever war they’ve waged against us.
I have got to laugh because
the Red Cross not only refuses the blood of any man who has had gay sex in
the past 20 years, but also doesn’t want the blood of any woman who’s
had sex with a gay or bisexual man in the last 20 years. So I get an angry
phone call from a female friend who has to leave the line at her church
blood drive because 17 years ago I slept with her college boyfriend.
I have got to laugh because
able-bodied gay men and lesbians are denied the opportunity to serve in the
military while a friend of mine’s 70-year-old father has just been called
up by the Coast Guard to protect the coast of New Jersey.
If I didn’t laugh, I’d
be crying and I can only cry so much.
I’m reminded of a time
when a friend of mine suffering from AIDS, bedridden and mourning for his
own life, smiled at me through tears and said, “On the plus side, I
won’t have to worry about saving for retirement.” He got better due to a
combination therapy of really good drugs and really bad jokes. The sicker
the humor, the better he felt.
I’m absolutely certain
that humor kept him alive. For where there’s humor, there’s hope.
We’re going to need a lot of both in the months to come.
And that, my friends, is
The Gospel According to Marc.
Marc Acito extends
condolences to all those who lost loved ones in this terrible tragedy. He
can be reached at MarcAcito@home.com.
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