A really scary thing happened to me last night at a comedy show

Reblogged with permission from Gaby Dunn. Gaby is a WICF  2012 performer.

 

Part of me thinks it’s too soon to be writing about this because I don’t think I’ve completely processed how I feel, but I also think maybe this has happened to other women and I should talk about it in as raw a way as possible. I’m still really embarrassed and ashamed and garbled up inside, but maybe this can start a helpful discussion in terms of women and comedy.

Last night, I was on a stand up show in the East Village. The show started out with a small crowd and the host did an amazing job interacting with them and riling them up. By the time I got on stage, there were about 20 or so more people in the audience and the place had really filled up. The show was still kind of loose because of the back and forth between the host and the audience, so when I got on stage, I riffed a bit about the stuff that had happened before and then talked to one guy on the side of the audience who the host had dubbed “Banana Republic.” All joke-y. All in good fun.

Then, I start my actual set and do my first two jokes, which go pretty okay. I start another joke that is vaguely sexual - not crude, not crass - mainly silly and that goes well too. The next joke I do is about my boyfriend.

At a comedy show, when you’re on stage, usually you can’t see the audience because of the bright lights. So I’m looking into pitch darkness. As I start the joke, someone yells, “Does your boyfriend know?” referring to the sexuality joke I’d just told. I stop, laugh and say that he does because I think it’s just more of the loose environment that’s been going on at this show. I attribute it to an audience member just having fun. I start to tell the joke about my boyfriend again, and at the midway point, the same voice yells something else derogatory about my boyfriend, homophobic and misogynistic towards me. I stop, confused. I can’t see who is talking to me so I make a HUGE mistake and say, “Sir, if you’re gonna talk to me, you need to come to the front because I can’t see you.” I think calling him out like this will shut him up.

NOPE. Instead, he marches to the front and now I see he’s a TERRIFYING looking crazy man I hadn’t noticed in the crowd. He comes way too close to the stage and in my fear, I gesture that he needs to sit in the front, not come on stage with me which seems to be his plan. He sits and continues talking to me, making gross, lewd comments, leering, ruining all my jokes and at one point, he takes out a digital camera and creepily asks if I want to see some photos.

I am horrified. He’s completely derailed the act I’ve worked hard on, ruined a night of me doing my job which I’d spent all day looking forward to (and I’d waited an hour to get on stage), embarrassed me and made me feel worthless in front of my friends at the show and my fellow comics and is really, really scaring me.

(Relevant note: I am the only female comic on this show and before me, nothing had happened. I become aware that this is a clear sexist attack.)

When he first started talking, I had tried to do that thing women are taught to do where you’re distantly polite to a man who is attacking you in the hopes that things don’t escalate. “Just smile and make a joke so he doesn’t hurt you.”

Part of me is so sick of that line of thinking. Even though I’m still scared, I mock him a bit saying he hangs outside the CVS all day and telling him I know he’s just going to show me pictures of his dick on that camera, basically joking that he’s a crazy Internet creeper come to life. The audience laughs and is on my side, but it’s very, very uncomfortable and I am visibly unnerved. The more upset I get, the more he grins a disgusting, slimy grin at me. I wish I were braver.

Finally, I say, “Sir. I’m going to do my last joke and it’s going to be great and you’re going to shut the fuck up, okay?” He nods, but then as I start my joke, he yells more horrible stuff at me. I put the mic back in the stand and say, “Now, because of you, no one’s gonna hear the punchline of that joke.” Then, I get off stage.

By the time I reach the back, the two people in charge of the show have grabbed the guy and kicked him out of the show. The host gets back up and has the audience boo loudly against hecklers and cheer for me. In the back of the room, all the other comics come up and hug me and make sure I’m okay. I am shaking. Outside of the showroom is the actual bar attached to the venue. I peek through the curtain of the room and I already know what I’m going to find.

The creepy guy is waiting for me at the bar.

There is no way for me to get to the door without him seeing me. I am supposed to meet my boyfriend at a cafe four blocks away, but if I walk out alone, he’ll follow me. I am trapped. I text my boyfriend that he needs to walk to this venue and get me. I feel so worthless and stupid that I need to do that, that I can’t take care of myself. I don’t see any way for me to lose the guy if he comes after me though. My boyfriend says he’ll be there in five.

It’s the longest five minutes of my life. The heckler spots me and I don’t know what to do. I pace around the room, hide in the comedians’ area, and try and disappear into a corner. Eventually, I decide to try standing outside because maybe there will be people there and he won’t try and get me. There’s not enough people outside, and I realize this was a bad choice. I consider calling the police but I don’t know what they can do. 

I know he’s waiting to follow me out of the bar as soon as I walk away. He’s going to hurt me.

I stand outside for a bit, clutching my phone. I can see the guy waiting inside the bar. Finally, my boyfriend gets there. I grab his hand and walk away as the door to the bar opens and the creep yells after me, “Byyyyye.” I don’t acknowledge it, but it feels like a bullet.

My boyfriend and I turn the corner. I start to sob.

“I wish I were stronger,” I tell him. “I wish I could have punched the guy or done more, but I was so scared because he was bigger than me and he looked like he was really going to abduct me, rape me and kill me.”

(Later, my friend who was at the show says I did the right thing running away because “that guy looked like he had a knife collection he wanted to show you.”)

Right now, I feel: beaten, destroyed, helpless, weak, ashamed for being so scared, shocked, worthless, less than, and terrified. I feel like maybe I overreacted but then it’s that concept of Schrodinger’s Rapist, where I don’t know what would have happened. I also feel like I never want to do comedy again - which I guess is sort of…letting the terrorists win so to speak, but I don’t know.

The three male comics I talked to about this said they’d been heckled before but nothing on this level. I suspect I can’t be the only female comic who’s felt threatened by an audience member, but I’ve never heard of anything like this before what happened to me last night.

Anyway, maybe I’ll be more eloquent about this at a time when I feel more eloquent. But for now, I just needed to get this all down somewhere. Fuck, man. Fuck.

It's Not a Competition

By Contributor Barbara Holm


A few days ago, I worked the door at a comedy club and I also did a short guest spot on the show. The good thing about working the door at a comedy club is that you get to hang out and talk to other comedians a lot. The bad thing about working the door is that you’re stuck in the box office for an hour so you have to talk to other comedians a lot. As I was setting up the cash register, a more established road headliner comedian walked through the doors. Let’s call her Sally.

I said, “Hi, Sally,” (No I didn’t, because that’s not her real name, but just leave the fourth wall alone and go with me, okay?) politely as she came in.

Sally’s face went white with horror and her eyes grew big and she yelped back cheerfully, “Hi!” She disappeared into the show room and came back five minutes later and said, “Hey, Barbara.” I figured she’d forgotten my name earlier, which was fine. We didn’t know each other that well. With an overcompensating smile on her face, Sally said, “I guess I’m closing out the showcase. I’m doing my [regular] set. I’m sure you alternative hipster comics will hate it but you’ll be too busy talking about your ironic hoodies to worry about it.” She winked.

What I should have said was, “No, you’re great. We love your set.” What I actually said was, “This isn’t an ironic hoodie; it’s a UCB hoodie.”

There are not a finite number of spots for female comedians on a show bill.

I don't respond well to catty girl comments. I can’t digest an insult wrapped in a compliment burrito, especially not from people I don’t know that well. Admittedly, I can be incredibly self deprecating, but I try to draw the line when it makes others feel uncomfortable.

Sally blinked. “What’s UCB?”

My face fell, devastated that I would ever have to answer this question. “The Upright Citizen’s Brigade. You know … Amy Poehler, Matt Besser-”

Sally interrupted me, “Oh yeah, of course I know.”

Another comedian, one of my very funny friends, Jesse, approached the ticket booth and quietly started rifling through his notebook while mumbling something about feeling frustrated. “Don’t worry, Jesse,” Sally said, loud enough for the entire bar area to hear. “Barbara here will be your comedy groupie!”

My eyes went black with rage, and I felt an Eowyn from Lord of the Rings-style vehement anger as I looked at her and quietly said, “I ain’t no fucking comedy groupie.”

A comedy groupie is a woman (notice there is no derogatory word for it if a man does it) who is a fan of comedy and has sex with headlining comedians. This person is usually not a comedian herself and has also been referred to as a “starfucker,” “chucklefucker,” and other horribly offensive names. Cute young girl comics will occasionally have this title incorrectly thrust upon them. I am a comedian; I am not riding on my sexuality to get booked on shows, nor am I in comedy for any reason other than to get funnier.

A group of audience members came up to the box office so I turned my attention to them and Sally went down to the green room. When the audience members left, the show started and the box office became very slow. I picked up my copy of Mindy Kaling’s book “Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me?” (which is wonderfully well written and hilarious) and started reading. Sally came back to the box office.

“I’ve been asking about you downstairs,” she said. I looked up from my book, raising my eyebrows. “They say you’re really funny, but I said you’re too thin to be funny.”

I closed my books and folded my arms. This was another backhanded compliment designed to make me feel insecure about my comedic abilities. Deadpan, I said, “Oh, there’s a weight requirement to writing a good joke?”

I can’t digest an insult wrapped in a compliment burrito, especially not from people I don’t know that well.

Sally didn’t answer this and instead indicated my book. “Oh my gosh, that book is too cute. The cover is sickeningly adorable. Of course you’re reading something that cute.”

Defensively, I said, “What could you possibly have against Mindy Kaling?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

I gasped in horror. I was disturbed by the fact that anyone in comedy, let alone someone with a swagger, could not know who Mindy Kaling was. Luckily, before I could say anything, the manager came to tell me to come down to the showroom and get my butt on stage. I packed up the cashbox and headed down. I did really well on the show. Sally, however, bombed. As she was putting on her coat after the show, I said, “Good seeing you, Sally.”

“Good set, Barbie!” she said, in a nasally sarcastic voice.

“What is your problem with me?” I asked.

“I don’t have a problem with you,” she said, her voice rising to a higher pitch to imitate mine.

I shrugged and turned to leave. I hate that female comedians can be so passive aggressively competitive. We aren’t in competition with other women in our profession; we’re in competition with everyone. Men might try to pit us against each other so that they don’t have to compete with us, but we should never do it to ourselves. Women in comedy should work together, help each other up. It’s easier if we support each other instead of using high school passive aggressive backstabby language. There are not a finite number of spots for female comedians on a show. It’s hard enough for us to learn the complexities of the beautiful world of joke writing without having to compare ourselves to every other woman in the show. Also, the people who make comics feel jealous or competitive are exactly the people you should be friends with because they’re funny and ambitious and will push you and support you to be your best. We don’t need to put each other down to look better. I don’t know what’s going to happen with my or Sally’s careers, but I do know that I will never treat a younger funny female comic as a threat when I could be trying to make a friend.



Barbara Holm is a stand-up comedian from Seattle, Washington. She has performed at Bridgetown Comedy Festival, The Women in Comedy Festival, and Bumbershoot Festival. She has been described as clever, creative and unique.