I’ve never been offended by a joke. Not once. It’s all fair game for me: whites, blacks, women, Polacks, poor people, kids with developmental disabilities, my family, your family, the First family.
You hate me already, right? I haven’t even told a joke, and I’ve managed to offend you.
I don’t dislike any of these groups. I have black friends and Polish friends and am relatively poor myself. I have a wife, who is a woman, and I love her very much. I make fun of all these people. They make fun of me, too. It’s pretty fantastic.
On Monday morning I read a slew of pieces in reputable places complaining about Seth MacFarlane’s crude tongue at the Oscars. They claimed he was a sexist, a racist, in favor of eating disorders for women, that he trivialized serious actresses by focusing on their anatomy. All these criticisms were predictable in their anger. He told piggish jokes and was, therefore, a pig. And anyone not offended was, likewise, a pig. For me, this argument is eerily reminiscent of those used by community members at a school board meeting who insist on banning Huck Finn because it uses the “N” Word.
The reason I’ve never been offended by a joke is because jokes are fiction. They aren’t criticism and they aren’t memoir. And they have one goal: make you laugh. That’s it. Anytime you insist they showcase moral shortcomings or the underpinnings of society’s prejudices or are castigating one group in favor of another, you are claiming that the joke is doing something it never wanted to do. Jokes aren’t arguments. They aren’t windows into the true nature of the teller. They’re miniature, made-up stories designed to make us laugh, nothing more.
Why do I seem to be the only one who sees the fiction in them? It’s why so many of them are told in the first person and are, you know, not true. They employ the same strategies as great and controversial fictions: expositions, allusions, reversals, manipulated point-of-view strategies. So if you get offended when Seth MacFarlane suggests that 9-year-old Quvenzhané Wallis is almost too old for George Clooney, then you also have to be offended by Lolita. Offended by people who make jokes about cancer? You don’t get to like Lorrie Moore. Offended by suicide? War? No Willa Cather, no Tim O’Brien. Keep this up, and we’ll run out of great literature.
Of course, any intelligent person who reads Lolita knows that Nabokov isn’t encouraging pedophilia or that Tim O’Brien isn’t suggesting we all join the Marines and go kill some foreigners. They accept that Lorrie Moore is allowed to joke about anything she wants to joke about, not simply because of her personal experience, but because she writes good stories. How can so many smart people suspend disbelief for fiction but then choose not to for jokes?
The strangest part for me is that most lewd jokes use an incredibly simple form of irony that I know all the offendees (at, say, The New Yorker) are familiar with. I adore the educated sect of our society. I am one of the educated of our society. But why are so many of my colleagues determined to be so damned offended all the time? Keeping your guard up like that must be horribly exhausting.
If I have any beef with MacFarlane’s go as Oscar host, it’s that most of his crude jokes just weren’t very funny, and his more tame jokes were horribly derivative of his predecessors. He started out as a show-tunes version of Richard Pryor and morphed into a lesser Billy Crystal. But I wasn’t offended by any of his jokes. I don’t think they exhibited his own moral shortcomings or rampant prejudice in modern society. They were little made-up stories, and as a fiction writer, I have an obligation to respect stories and storytellers. I have that responsibility even when their plots are mean.
Of course, you’re allowed to be offended by anything you like. You certainly don’t have to justify it to me. So avoid these fictions. Complain about them. Suggest they lead us toward a social Armageddon. Starve yourself of them if you like, but please don’t take them from me. Don’t judge me when I choose not to be offended.
Photo Source: Indiewire
Beautiful piece! You skillfully articulate something I have always thought but never knew quite how to say.
The multitudinous problems with this chain of logic stem from two primary places, as far as I can see. First, equating “jokes” about gang rape, sexual abuse, eating disorders, etc. to pieces of classic literature is just nonsensical. “Lolita” does not make fun of or make light of sexual abuse, just as Tim O’Brien doesn’t make fun of or make light of war. These are explorations–sure of controversial topics–but their purpose is not to belittle and oppress their subjects. Seth MacFarlane didn’t explore or critique. He didn’t even use sarcasm or satire or irony–any of the standard go-to’s for effective comedy. Yes, you’re right–his “jokes” were not funny. They were bad. But more importantly, they were offensive and narrow-minded, spouted from a place of extreme privilege. This is the second big issue, as far as I can see it, about this article. Judging by both your profile and the things you’ve stated herein, you are a white, educated, heterosexual, presumably middle class, and apparently physically able-bodied and attractive male. Your position of privilege is staggering. Of course, none of this is _your_ fault, and I am not blaming you for your privilege. I am, however, blaming you for not realizing your privilege–for not acknowledging that you speak from a place that _allows_ you to not get offended because you are not a gender, sexual, or racial minority. You are not part of these already belittled and oppressed sects that Seth MacFarlane found it so hilarious to continue belittling and oppressing. The argument “I love my wife and she’s a woman” is just like saying, “I have a black friend, therefore I’m not racist” or “I know a gay guy, therefore I’m not a homophobe.” I don’t doubt your love for your wife–this is not my point. The point is that what Seth MacFarlane did attacked your wife–as well as any other women you know and love. He continued putting the onus for sexual abuse, assault, and rape on women. It’s still funny for men to rape. It’s funny for them to talk about it and laugh about it and belittle it from their position of extreme privilege. The issues of privilege are deeply embedded within this discourse, and unfortunately, you seem to be willfully denying them.
So in your first three paragraphs, you assert your privilege and play the “I have ___ friends so I can’t possibly be racist/sexist/whatever.” That’s impressive.
But the most telling thing you wrote, to me, was this: “But why are so many of my colleagues so determined to be so damned offended all the time? Keeping your guard up like that all the time must be exhausting,” because it shows just how little you’ve thought about the lives of other people and how little you actually observe the world around you. It also suggests that you’ve never actually asked your colleagues why they’re offended by something, or if you did, you didn’t really listen to their answers.
You might try that. If nothing else, it might keep you from embarrassing yourself this way again.
Hi, anonymous and Brian–
I really appreciate your comments. I obviously disagree with most of them, but the dialogue is more important than the findings. At least I think it is. I would make a couple points if you’d humor me:
I agree that Nabokov and O’Brien aren’t making fun of these serious subjects. I never claimed they were. And I also think that’s irrelevant. They’re telling stories about them. These are ugly, mean stories. Things that we all certainly despise. But we give them the leeway to tell these stories, ugly as they may be. I simply think comedians deserve equal leeway. I think their art is remarkably similar.
I think my biggest concern with your comments is how personal they are. This is an important conversation, and I’m grateful you’ve engaged in it. But it’s a conversation of ideas, of world view. Your comments attack me personally, make assumptions about me personally. I’m a big boy. I can handle that. I certainly set myself up for it. I did that because I think this is an important conversation, and sometimes important conversations need lightning rods. But as soon as we switch from attacking ideas to attacking people, we lose focus. I love debating big ideas, and I’m happy to continue doing so, but I don’t for a moment feel compelled to justify my own sense of morality.
I can speak at least for myself, if not for Brian, in saying that my concern has nothing to do with you as a person. I’m a little unclear about how my concerns have “attacked” you. I haven’t confronted your morality. Pointing out that you speak from a position of privilege is not an attack–it is not an insult or an attack to point out that you are a male. It’s a fact.
The problem here is that Nabokov, O’Brien, Moore, etc. do not set out with the intent to demean people–either on an individual or group level. They are telling stories, as you say. What MacFarlane did was hardly a story or a commentary or a discussion. He made light of rape victims, for one. As that recent Salon article notes–his song was a celebration of gang rape on film. I see that as being deeply different from Nabokov (since we keep coming back to him), inasmuch as Nabokov tells a story; MacFarlane hurls an attack.
If you want to see a straight white male comedian do really good work with the sorts of things you’re talking about, watch Louis CK’s standup.
I’d find it amusing that you were concerned about how “personal” my comments were if you had shown any inkling of that same concern when you wrote this piece in the first place. What you’re calling “ideas” to be discussed are the every day,multiple times a day experiences of a significant number of people in this world. You want to have a discussion about the ideas? Listen to your colleagues, and listen to the people who are responding to you. And I don’t mean listen as in try to find rhetorical weaknesses in their argument so you can reply in some semi-pithy manner. I mean listen as in have some empathy for who these people are and what they experience on a daily basis.
As a fiction writer, I think what disturbs me most in this blog post is the breezy conflaction of fiction with “whatever we want to say.” Certainly, that’s a right, but as a teacher of fiction writing, it’s not something I accept from my students. I teach my students to think about, say, audience, as in, “Who is this fiction for?” I teach them to understand character, as in “Fiction is empathy.” I teach them to move beyond a juvenile definition of “fiction” based on what they want to write, to what I hope is a more mature sense of “fiction” based on readers, insight, empathy, and, ideally, something we haven’t seen before. Fiction can and should unsettle us, but good fiction should be thoughtfully constructed and work harder to turn a reader’s mind. The same goes for the best jokes about race, class, boobs, what have you; I also teach a class on “Ethnic Literary Humor” that begins with jokes from Sarah Silverman. Nothing McFarlane did, and nothing in this post about it, takes us in those more complex directions. This blog post may be “what you want to say,” sure– but in that way, it’s also one of the best examples of how “expression” is not equivalent to “humor,” or even “fiction,” or even “an insightful blog post about a complex issue.”
The comments address your background because it’s relevant, even if you don’t like feeling bound by it.
If you’re not a woman, would it make any sense for you to talk about what it’s like to have a vagina, have periods, be pregnant, give birth, or anything else you have not or will not ever experience?
If you can agree that it wouldn’t (which I really hope you do), then why does that suddenly change when it comes to experiencing misogyny/sexism/”the male gaze” as a woman? What makes it different than everything before it, that would suddenly allow you greater insight into what it’s like?
I mean I think there’s a place for a discussion about the sometimes hyperbolic nature of responses to “offensive humor,” and I don’t think that a discussion about sexist jokes should be absolutely forbidden to you simply because you’re a man. But I don’t think it’s valid for you as a man to flat-out tell women why we shouldn’t be offended by sexist jokes.
This author comes from a position of extreme luxury. For him, rape jokes are fiction:
“They were little made-up stories, and as a fiction writer, I have an obligation to respect stories and storytellers.”
I had to do a double-take. Did Mr. Felver actually just refer to rape as a “little made-up story?” That’s impressive in both its arrogance and its cruelty.
Perhaps the author is completely unfamiliar with rape statistics. What a luxury that must be! And what a privilege! As a man who has not experienced the degradation and terror of sexual assault, he is free to laugh in our faces.
The fact that he does not understand that rape is not a fiction for millions of women demonstrates an astonishing lack of empathy. His right to laugh at rape seems to be his highest priority. To say that this is belittling is an understatement.
And for him to say that he is being “attacked” for his right to laugh about rape would be hilarious if weren’t so depressing.
I would like to share a “little story” about what “attack” means to me. Attack is being 14-years-old, dragged into a bathroom, slammed into the wall, choked, told “if you scream I will kill you”, grabbed my the hair and having your head slammed against the wall repeatedly, having your clothes torn off, raped until you have blood dripping down your legs, then thrown onto the floor, having a penis shoved into your mouth with such force that your voice is hoarse the next day from the bruises inside your throat, then picked up by the hair and thrown against a bathtub. Everyone in the house ignores your screams for help. The first question the police ask you when you report it is what you were wearing and then, how short your shorts were.
So, that’s my “little story.” And since I’m admittedly new to rape jokes, perhaps Mr. Felver could tell me where to insert the punch line.
Also: “But why are so many of my colleagues determined to be so damned offended all the time? Keeping your guard up like that must be horribly exhausting.”
These statements are so hurtful, it’s hard to even know where to begin.
And yes, Mr. Felver, it IS exhausting. If I had to choose one word to describe it, I would choose exhausting.
It is exhausting to have panic attacks when someone touches your neck because it reminds you of the time you were choked and you thought you were going to die. It was exhausting to scream in my sleep for two years, and it was exhausting for my family who had to learn how to sleep through it. It is exhausting to shake and throw up every time your have to go to the gynecologist. It’s exhausting to explain to your dentist why you hit his assistant when she startled you. It’s exhausting to be afraid to get in elevators because there are men in there and they might rape you. It’s exhausting to enter any room and know instantly where the exits and potential weapons are. It’s exhausting to explain to your boyfriend that you sometimes get triggered by rape jokes and that’s why you are shaking and crying and curled up in a little ball on your bed. And it would be exhausting to go back in this paragraph and change all the “yous” to “I” because it is easier to talk about in the second-person.
Jokes are indeed a form of fiction, but this piece, like so much of what’s been published since the Oscars, fails to take into account how humor works. Like other fiction, it asks us to place ourselves in an imagined hypothetical and view the world from that position. Humor, though–especially satire–requires us to understand the wide divide between that imagined world and the world which we know to be true. It’s the cognitive dissonance that makes us laugh.
Why don’t some people find MacFarlane’s Oscar jokes funny? Because for some of us, there’s no dissonance between the world he posits–one in which, for instance, women are reduced to objects–and the world as we know it. The leap he’s asking us to make is no leap at all.
So why not write it all off as unfunny jokes and take no offense? Because what’s truly offensive is that so many people *did* laugh–which means that many people find the world of his jokes (in which women are objects, rape is pervasive, and children are the targets of sexual exploitation) to be a far cry from reality. If only that were so, I might find his jokes funny, too.
Jennifer, you are articulate and brilliant.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/mobileweb/jennifer-harvey/its-not-about-the-onion-i_b_2786840.html
This is a good way to think about the responses to McFarlane as Oscar host. His intent might’ve been “haha, tits.” But the impact was alienation.
Brian points you to Louis CK. The main reason his comedy works is because the perspective you are placed in is one of, “man, racists are so dumb for being racist” and not “haha, black people.” Obviously this is a simplification, but I think at the end of the day, good comedy/humor works against stereotypes by challenging them.
I don’t think McFarlane is funny; I can’t believe the Oscars went from Tina Fey and Amy Poehler to him. He manages to offend and be unfunny in one go! Congrats to him.
Musician Brother Ali recently said in an interview, “The best definition of privilege I’ve heard is anything you don’t have to wrestle with, that you don’t have to think about.” This column is overflowing with so much privilege that I can’t even get angry about it.
In one of the comments, you point out how quickly some of the commenters “get personal.” Yet, by writing off the experience of those people for whom MacFarlane’s jokes, and other jokes that make light of disadvantaged groups, are offensive, you are saying something very personal yourself–that, since jokes are “fiction” and thus, by your questionable logic, there cannot be any legitimate reason to be offended by them, anyone who is offended by them has feelings that are not legitimate.
Pretending at objectivity and dispassionate, impersonal language does not disguise the lack of empathy present, nor the smug dismissal of people who do not share your view of jokes and what constitutes being offensive.
I’m not sure how the “We Saw Your Boobs” song was a fiction. All those instances of nudity were real, even if the stories they came from were mostly fictional (although the reference to ScarJo dealt with a real, gross invasion of privacy). Whether that song was offensive is a matter of opinion, but what it was referencing (and society’s attitudes surrounding women’s bodies) is real.
But I think you may have failed to overlook an important point when you acknowledged that his crude jokes weren’t funny. Isn’t it possible that poor quality of his jokes is related to the backlash he’s received? After all, people like George Carlin (R.I.P.) or Louis C.K. thrive on crude, offensive humor, all without provoking the outrage of any but the most conservative members of society. And that’s because they tell good jokes! Even when bigotry is part of the joke rather than the butt of the joke, there’s a lot of thought behind what they say.
On the other hand, there was not much thought behind a lot of MacFarlane’s jokes. Even if you thought that little musical number was well-composed or catchy, it certainly wasn’t clever. It was just a collection of allusions to nudity scenes.
I’m not normally one to post responses, but I was really surprized by the venom here. Some people have suggested the author thinks having diverse friends precludes him from prejudice or that someting like rape is fiction. That’s harsh and nowhere to be found if you read the essay closely.
I think the most telling line of this column is this one: “as a fiction writer, I have an obligation to respect stories and storytellers. I have that responsibility even when their plots are mean.”
I like this idea. It’s encouraging respect for the art of a comedian, even art that seems mean spirited. I think the author is suggeting that he isn’t crazy about these jokes either, (he did say they weren’t funny, after all) but that he defends Macfarlane’s right to say them. That seems pretty reasonable to me.