We Need Humor Now More Than Ever
Two years ago, I flew across the country to my mom’s deathbed, and when I rushed into the
living room, I was expecting us to cling to each other, for her to whisper last-minute wisdom.
Instead, she was leafing through a clothing catalog with trembling fingers, face gaunt. Mom
always was a sucker for a good Land’s End catalog, and the familiar sight comforted me. I eased
down next to her, pointed to one of the male models, and said, “Checking out the beefcakes,
Mom?”
Then we laughed at the absurdity and sorrow of it all, at Mom spending some of her last cogent
hours peering at salt-and-pepper-haired men in terrible turtlenecks. She died six days later, and I
guard that memory of us laughing together as an ember in my palm, occasionally blowing on it
to keep it from extinguishing. It was humor that got me through the darkest, saddest period of my
life.
Now I find myself reflecting once again on why we need humor in the worst of times, when
humanity has let us down, as we’re confronting so many unknowns, as communities crouch in
fear. This week, in the face of such upsetting news, I had to set aside the somber book I was
reading, instead turning to Detroiters episodes and Julia Louis-Dreyfus’ podcast.
And improbably, I kept working on my manuscript, a holiday rom-com that’s a delight to
inhabit. I wrote a ridiculous scene in which my main character loses a button on her butt-flap
Christmas jammies, baring all.
I craved lightness and laughter. I needed to combat the inertia threatening to take hold. Humor
isn’t escaping; it’s coping. Laughter makes the unbearable bearable: a mom slipping away, a
country, decency, justice.
And more than that, humor can be its own revolutionary act in the face of the unfathomable. It’s
a refusal to go away quietly. It’s self-care for the fight ahead. It helps us make sense of an
upside-down world. Literary luminary Anne Lamott said, “We need laughter in our lives.
Laughter is carbonated holiness. It’s like the cavalry arriving to help us get our sense of humor
back.”
But how, really, was writing that butt-flap scene going to solve any problems? How would it
actually benefit the greater good? I’ll say this: We can wring our hands, but worrying isn’t all
that productive, and despairing means we’re spinning our wheels, going nowhere. The flipside of
pain is purpose, and humor—whether you’re writing it or reading it—will fuel our spirits,
sharpen our minds, and propel us forward.
