Sooooo, last summer
a participant asked me if our workshop was a "safe space,"
and I told her it wasn't. That was probably a lie.
What
does it mean, safe space? This
is a big messy subject, and chances are I'm going to get stuff wrong
and miss stuff, because there's so many nerve endings that this issue
touches, and I know I'm not going to touch them all right. Anyway,
we'll go in together.
If we
choose to define safe space
in the most broad terms, as in, A space in which you will
not be bullied, harassed or assaulted,
then of course, our workshop is a safe space. And in these times, I'm
going to venture a guess that most comedy workshops are.
But
that's not what my workshop participant was asking. She wanted to
know if our workshop was A wink-nudge SAFE SPACE
wink-nudge, which probably means
something different, something more along the lines of, A
place where intolerance is not tolerated.
That
is where things get very sticky, because then how do we define
intolerance, how do we define
not tolerated, and for
that matter, how do we define IS... you
see where I'm going here.
The truth is, I
haven't had to think very much about this question, due to a very
excellent screening process that happens almost independently of
anything I'm doing. First of all, I'm a female-coded person (as the
kids are saying)—so whoever has signed up for my classes already
thinks that a female-coded person might be able to teach them
something about comedy. That disqualifies a whole buncha douchebags
right there.
Second
of all, I'm teaching a class called Naked Comedy.
People signing up for such a class are both (A) not freaked out by
the idea of nakedness; and (2) already very open to being vulnerable.
That seems to be a
potent cocktail in terms of getting ideal people to my class. Who
knew? It doesn't appear to be a particularly elaborate screening
process, and yet, my classes are full of really awesome people, like,
almost without exception— awesome after awesome after awesome.
That's just who signs up. Just because of my gender and my class's
name.
So
what I'm saying is, you can ask me if my class is a safe space, and I
can squirm at that idea and get all rabble-rousin' and Del-Closey and
bray out, Naw, man, this shit ain't SAFE! We're all punk
rock and Not-Safe-Spacey round THESE parts!
But I'm full of it.
I'm
playing with a majorly stacked deck (and you should see the stack on
this deck! jk).
But, see, there are
plenty of other comedy classes. Those classes are called
"Generic-Sounding Comedy Training" with teachers' names
like CHET and CHAD and CHEVERETT. Those classes might not have the
same self-selection in their signups. Are those classes safe spaces?
Should they be?
I'm
going to venture a guess that, in times like these, most comedy
classes are going to strive to have some safety in them. Comedy
schools are no doubt doing everything they can to define safe
space as Not Inviting
Lawsuits.
A
variety of people sign up for "Generic-Sounding Comedy
Training." Some on the woke-r side, some maybe less so. But the
comedy world is generally, as we all know, full of liberals (ed.
note: I'm using the Amurkin
definition of liberal here,
which is synonymous with leftie.
But it is fun for us to remember, Amurkins, that liberal
elsewhere in the
English-speaking world actually means conservative.
Whooda thunk?) So while there might be a few non-liberals in our
comedy classes, no doubt they will smell the leftie-leaning odors in
the room and keep their dumber instincts to themselves. Mostly.
Maybe.
Everyone is coming
into their comedy class carrying varying amounts of privilege and
garbage, both. And how do we create an environment that checks our
privilege and garbage, that doesn't perpetuate the same-old same-ol?
How do we create the space in which it feels like the master's tools
are available to everyone?
I wonder sometimes
about the safe spaces that are safe in some ways and unintentionally
problematic in others. Comedy is still largely a rich man's
game—it's changing, but there it is. Most of the "comedy
authorities" out there are, at this point, still privileged men.
Do these men know how to cultivate the funny of those different from
they? Some do, right? But some...? You've been in those classes,
right? Where it felt like the alpha white dudes were the only ones
the teacher really "got," because he himself was an alpha
white dude, and so, while he really wanted to support, he just didn't
have enough of the master's tools to loan out.... And so we all paid
our money and did our time, and nodded our thanks, and left the class
saying, "Yeah, it was ohhh-kay..." But we felt like we were
watching somebody else get to use the fancy hacksaw. And that feels
unfortunately familiar.
It's not that the
space wasn't safe. It was safe. Nobody got harassed, nobody got
abused. But still. It wasn't enough.
Should your comedy
class be a safe space? Obviously.
Should
your comedy class be a wink-nudge
safe space? Yes and no.
Yes, your comedy
class's infrastructure and facilitation should be making every effort
to privilege the voices of the less-privileged in a way that doesn't
single anyone out or make anyone feel weird. That is a mighty
difficult balance to strike, but it's a priority. Affirmative action
is necessary for our comedic evolution. We need different voices,
desperately, right now. If your class can only cultivate the comedy
of the privileged, then it might be a Don't-Sue-Me safe space, but
it's not a Ultra-Mega-Major-Fluffy-Kitten safe space. And maybe,
we're all at a point where Ultra Mega Major Fluffy Kittens are
mandatory.
But no, your comedy
class should probably not keep you safe from the potential ignorance
or unconscious violence of other participants in the class, provided
nobody's doing anything on purpose to be an asshole. Our comedy
classes are an ideal battleground to meet those monsters. If you feel
challenged by somebody else's comedy in a comedy class—whether
they're being misogynist, racist, phobic or just dumb—it's an
opportunity. And your class environment should provide for and
welcome those opportunities. That's why the right facilitator is so
important: making sure that the space is held in a way that allows us
to all try out and test and fail and explore and confront and see.
Our comedy deserves
a cozy environment in which to breed and grow. It is our armor, our
great weapon against all the little psychological blows in life, and
it can get bigger and tougher the more we use it. It's time to use
it. We have the scimitars of resistance, the martial arts of
mischief. It is the time to kick comedy ass and wipe the floor with
somebody else's ignorance or unconscious violence. That's the only
way any of us will truly be safe.
We are here for the
soft battle, and we are ready.