People Making Fun Of Me

Part 4 of 30

My Fragile Self-Esteem

Most of us -- the exceptions are unconscious slobs and oafs -- don’t like even the thought of being laughed at by others for the “wrong” reasons. Of course it’s great if they laugh if we say something purposely funny, like I used to read from a book of riddles: "How do you drive a hot rod? Go on your honeymoon." But we hate it if they’re laughing at us because of horrible appearance, something stupid we’ve said, if they think our parents look funny, or they’ve tricked us in some way.

Most of this starts in childhood, when everyone’s looking for conformity, lack of conformity, poverty, some physical defect, a defect in your family, or your mother’s army boots. I used to have an adult in my life -- at school -- who would say things like, “Your dad’s short, you’re short!” He thought these things were funny and worth saying over and over, not just to me but most kids.

Certainly if you’re walking past someone, maybe a group of guys, you’re aware that their whole group dynamic has some stereotypical aspects to it. They’re a distinct group, you’re an outsider. Anything about you that's different -- and it doesn’t have to be significant -- will be used for laughs. If that ever happens to you, stop and give them a psychological diagnosis about every in-group’s longing to set themselves apart by looking for even small differences between themselves and others.

You get enough of this completely despicable behavior, and you think, "How can I get back at these bastards? That's when you start hatching at least the outlines of a plan. Destruction of their car. Getting down to brass tacks on their other possessions. Sabotage of their school records, raiding a farmer's market and piling spoiled fruit and vegetables on their lawns, squeezing out their pimple medicine and refilling the tube with hot sauce, etc. I no longer advocate anything like that -- it's illegal and no one should do it -- oh, crap, I just got something in my eye, wink wink.

That said, if it’s merely kids trying to get laughs, you can laugh along with them, although I don’t see kids do much of this anymore. In fact, I don’t even see that many adults -- or the stereotypical hoodlums of old -- doing it. They’re all off with prostitutes, doing drugs, robbing liquor stores, or some, to their credit, are quite good citizens, guiding tours in local museums, serving in schools as adjunct staff, teaching assistants, or are away from the main drag in other specialized helping agencies. Do-gooders are getting the last laugh.

Still, let’s assume it still happens somewhere, like way back in the days of old. If you let it get to you, as most of us have, it poses a threat to your self-esteem. It’s happened to me a time or two, and you start thinking and you look around. What can I do about it?

I Laugh in the Face of Disease

I'm big, I'm bad, where others cry, I laugh in the face of disease. Ha ha! (Like that.) Of course I feel, just like in the Declaration of Independence, that such a claim demands an explanation to justify it in the opinion of mankind, my fellow withering-away organisms.

Disease causes lots of heartbreak, am I right? In fact, it's major Heartbreak City. But these are the things I don't worry about. I look at it this way: Millions of people have gone before me, and they're all pleasantly a'moldering. All suffering is momentary, relief relatively swift. Plus, que sera sera.

Of course, the best thing is to avoid all suffering, if you can, which you can't, so just hit the high spots and avoid anything prolonged. And if you can't do that either, then let it roll over you like the other balms of life, relaxing and luxuriating in the fact that you were apparently chosen, perhaps bearing the sins of the world. If you have to dream, dream big!

We hear it so often that we should not laugh in the face of disease, that we should not sneer in the face of heartbreak. I've heard that all my life; it's been very hush hush. But really, that's not a rule we have to obey, since we're all going to go. What really is suffering, but the breakdown of finite forms? Eventually our finite forms are so broken down that they appear to disperse entirely. Grandma had a disease, to give an example, and it got her. She broke down to the point that she died, and I haven't seen her since. I assume there's still bones or something, but huggable she ain't.

Probably it will actually be harder for me, assuming I ever get a disease that threatens to take me, to laugh in its face. But I shall try. I'm only reluctant to say I will because, frankly, I don't presently laugh in the face of the smaller things that come my way. Like heartburn. I strive to overcome it. I do what I can, as most physical conscious entities would. And I try to stave off the inevitable heartbreak. But I believe that if I get something really bad I will find a way to laugh about it.

I'll give an example of something I don't suffer from. Bulimia. I don't have that, so it's easy to laugh it off. I have a little song* for it:

Only a bull named Imic,
only a little steer,
He knew they wouldn't eat him,
and he would always be here.
But for me that's not a problem,
so eat him, yes, I must,
Only a bull named Imic,
he'll someday lose his trust.

That's right, boys and girls, Imic will someday lose his trust. He's thinking today I'm a mighty bull, and indeed a mighty bull is he. But there will come a day... it could be he will wait it out and fall apart and turn to dust. But let it be written: He shall lose his trust! Going beyond that fate, it will more likely be that someone will eat him. Someone who still has his trust, namely, me.

Or Cancer. Cancer is something I very well might get. If I had to bet, I'd say I will. My parents both died from cancer. Obviously cancer's something to laugh in the face of. My earliest memories of cancer is in the old joke:

TEACHER - Tommy, use the word cancer in a sentence.
TOMMY - I'm sorry, I can't, sir.

So far, cancer's not a problem I've had. I've been spared. Remember, I gave $50 to the anti-cancer society, so I'm hoping that gives me a certain immunity. I've had a lot of relatives die of cancer, those I've known and doubtless those I never knew. If anything major gets me, it'll likely be this disease. Yet I laugh in the face of cancer! I'm struttin' like a rooster, can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man!

Join me in laughing in the face of disease. How can I do that? you ask. Start with a small smile, a tentative smile. Work your way up to a frightened chuckle, etc., then pretty soon you're bold faced, sneering, struttin', talkin' trash, philosophically dunking your way (basketball language) to rich and vibrant glory in the face of disease and suffering, your own and the disease others.

*Tune of Only a Boy Named David

A Laughing Hiatus

If laughter is the best medicine, I hope my medicine cabinet is always well stocked. I need to check some of my prescriptions, and maybe tell the doctor I need some funnier pills because I'm not laughing near enough. Plus make sure they're all up to date. I can't be taking old pills, ones whose expiration dates expired when Red Buttons was big.

Laughter is very good medicine and I think I need a fix. There's a house in one of the neighborhoods of my town, somewhere out there. And they say people are coming and going all the time, all hours of the day and night. But they can't shut it down. Some very funny guy must live there, giving the people their laughs. They walk through the door, through a bunch of curtains, past some guys with caps on backwards and their pants slumped low, through a smoky, hazy room, then finally to the room where the guy holds court.

I started off this day laughing at something. And I found it very good medicine indeed. Good medicine is ... you know it's good when ... there's a quality that medicine has ... the doctor knows.

You see a twisted up situation, a human drama or comedy, or a comedian says something that tickles your funny bone, or you see yourself in the mirror and feel like crying, but it hurts too much to cry, so you look again ... I just came from the bathroom ... I was looking at my craggy old face in the mirror, with a few stray hairs coming out of my nose, and the hair on my head looking like I'd spent the last five years in bed ... and I noticed a few blemishes, small ones on my nose ... I see the wrinkles around my eyes getting worse ... There I stand. I could cry but I try to laugh. It's hard to do when it's not that funny. But it's absurd, to look at yourself and worry about it. And I'd rather crack a smile than the mirror. Wouldn't you?

Finally I burst out in laughter, and could picture myself like in an old black and white absurdist movie, with the mirror indeed cracked and the view of myself coming from a dozen assorted, very disturbing angles. Then when I close the medicine cabinet, who's standing there but ... the Devil! Or let me walk that back a bit, the mirror isn't cracked at all and I'm looking at myself dead on in the starkest frame. Finally I pick up a hairbrush, destroy the mirror, there's a piercing scream, and the next thing you know there's a siren.

Did any of that make you laugh? It did me, just a little. Especially the surprise appearance of the Devil. I get sick of thinking in cliches but, you know, any old port. I'd rather think in cliches than not think at all. Although if you didn't think at all, there'd be some benefit in that. One, it'd be like sleeping. You'd wake up 40 years later and say that was a perfect night's sleep, but I seriously need to pee.

My concept today, which I'm not going to get to, thanks to this laughing jag, was the fact that I'm far up in my hiatus citadel, laughing at the world below, all my supposed "friends" and "followers" who have deserted me for taking and prolonging this hiatus. That would have been funny.