Shrill: Notes from a Loud Woman(40)

I was done. I wrote an essay in defense of Knefel and Doyle. It was plainer than “How to Make a Rape Joke,” less affectionately fraternal, less pliant. “Comedy clubs are an overtly hostile space for women,” I said. “Even just presuming we can talk about comedy gets women ripped to shreds by territorial dudes desperate to defend their authority over what’s funny. ‘Jokes’ about rape and gendered violence are treated like an inevitability instead of a choice; like they’re beyond questioning; like they’re somehow equally sacred alongside women’s actual humanity and physical sanctity. When women complain, however civilly, they’re met with condescension, dismissal, and the tacit (or, often, explicit) message that this is not yours, you are not welcome here.”

To my surprise, Oswalt tweeted a link to my post, saying that THIS was feminist discourse he could respect—not like Molly’s hit piece. It was a savvy move, to use me for some feminist cred while discrediting the piece that called him out most damningly by name. I replied that if he agreed with me, he agreed with Knefel; our views were not at odds. As we volleyed back and forth, I thought about a night at M Bar in 2003 or 2004, when I’d shyly approached him after a show and told him he was my favorite comic. He was kind and generous with his time. We talked about Seattle; neither of us could remember the name of the movie theater on the Ave that wasn’t the Neptune. Later, when I remembered, I e-mailed him: the Varsity. He thanked me, warm and sincere.

Fighting about rape on the Internet was not how I envisioned our next encounter.

I was in a cab to JFK, heading home from a New York business trip, when my friend W. Kamau Bell called my cell. Kamau, at the time, had a weekly show on FX, produced by Chris Rock, called Totally Biased—a sort of news-of-the-day talk show structured vaguely like The Daily Show, but with a social justice bent. Hari wrote for the show; so did Guy Branum. It was a rare writers’ room—straight white men were a minority. It was a rare show.

“I want to talk to you about a crazy idea,” Kamau said. “We want to do a debate about rape jokes, on the show. You versus a comic—it looks like it’ll be Jim Norton.”

“Oh, god,” I laughed. “Do I have to?” Norton is a darling of dark comedy, a prince of the Opie & Anthony set—a scene that makes Howard Stern look like Terry Gross.

“Jim’s not like a lot of those guys, I promise,” Kamau assured me. “He’s not just like, ‘Ugh, feminists.’ You can actually have a conversation with him. We tried to get Colin Quinn, but honestly I think you’ll be better off with Jim.”

“Is this a trap?” I said.

“I promise it’s not a trap.”

I made arrangements to fly back to New York the following week. Now, the thing about Totally Biased was that it was a national television show, and the thing about me was that I was just some fucking lady. Aside from one bizarre time when the Canadian prime-time news had me on to make fun of James Cameron, I think because the anchor had a vendetta, I had never in my life been on television. I didn’t have, like, a reel. I wasn’t trying to be an actor or a pundit. Me being asked to be on TV was exactly the same as, say, you being asked to be on TV. Or your math teacher, or your dog, or your mommy. It was bizarre and terrifying, but I agreed, because, hey, maybe I could make a difference. Maybe I could win and comedy would open up just a crack more to female comics and audiences.

My segment was going to be framed as either comedian vs. feminist, or feminism vs. free speech—neither of which, Kamau told me, was his preference, but you had to package things a certain way on television. Fine by me, I said, tamping down my anxiety about debating whether or not it’s a good idea to glorify the victimization of women onstage within a framework that explicitly excludes women from even being capable of comedy. What does just some fucking lady know of television?

Totally Biased taped in a haunted hotel in Midtown—the set a penny-bright, Technicolor diorama, while behind the scenes was this sort of moldering, dripping, Soviet gray dungeon tower. I gave it fifty-fifty odds that I’d be kidnapped by a masked, erotic ghost on my way to the bathroom. I had a quick sit-down with Kamau and Guy to go over my general talking points. “The time is going to go faster than you think,” Guy warned me. “Don’t save all your best shit for the end—you won’t get to say it.”

Producer Chuck Sklar took me aside and told me that Chris Rock was coming to my taping. “He doesn’t usually come,” he said, “but he kind of hates this whole rape joke thing. Thinks it’s whiny. So he’s curious to see how you’re going to do.” First of all, solid pep talk, boss. Thanks. Second of all, what the fuck?

One flawed but instructive plank in the debate over rape jokes is the concept of “punching up” versus “punching down.” The idea is that people in positions of power should avoid making jokes at the expense of the powerless. That’s why, at a company party, the CEO doesn’t roast the janitor (“Isn’t it funny how Steve can barely feed his family? This guy knows what I’m talking about!” [points to other janitor]). Because that would be disgusting, and both janitors would have to work late to clean up everyone’s barf. The issue isn’t that it’s tasteless and cruel (though it is), but that it mocks the janitors for getting the short end of an oppressive system that the CEO actively works to keep in place—a system that enables him to be a rich dick.