Happy Sad Clowns: Redefining Success in Comedy Through a Disability Justice Lens
CONTENT NOTE: mentions of suicide, eating disorder, and substance abuse. Reclamation of ableist phrase.
Before I was formally diagnosed with AuDHD, a psychiatrist told me there was no way I could be autistic because I was a regularly-booked comedian. According to this medical professional, autistic people “couldn’t be funny.”
This sentiment confused me for two reasons: 1) did this psychiatrist realize just how not-funny they were? And 2) has this psychiatrist ever met comedians? You’re telling me that monologuing about your observations and interests to a captive audience of people you don’t have to make eye contact with is a neurotypical activity?!
I found stand-up at 18 as I was simultaneously coming into my queerness, transness, neurodivergence, disability, and newfound independence as an adult. Open mics at bars and local clubs became my second home where I met folks of all ages, cultural backgrounds, and life experiences. I not only felt validated but celebrated for my personal brand of “crazy.”
I met other awkward and painfully self-aware outsiders who never quite fit in with our communities. It was the first time I met queer, neurodivergent, disabled adults living the kind of beautifully messy creative life I dreamed about.
I started comedy as a sheltered and deeply suicidal college student in need of community and an outlet. Within a few months I found myself a regularly-booked act and even became an open mic host, interacting with dozens of comedians a day. In my final year of college, I wrote and filmed a one-hour stand-up show, toured that show around the country, and produced several events in my city. I even got the incredible opportunity to open for some big names. And I loved every moment of it.
There’s the adage that “laughter is the best medicine.” But, there’s also the reality that many comedians rely on self-medication to survive in such a grueling industry, whether it’s drugs, alcohol, self-loathing, or denial of burnout. I didn’t know I was dealing with the effects of Long COVID and other chronic illnesses at the time, but I did know that the more I tried to embody the romanticized comedian hustle—hitting up multiple open mics a week, exhausting my social battery in the name of schmoozing, skipping meals and sleep for the sake of “the game,” etc.—the sicker I got.
Unfortunately, I got to a point where I was sick all the time, chronically lost my voice for a year, went through a major eating disorder relapse, and, somewhat thankfully, expedited my diagnoses of fibromyalgia, hypermobility spectrum disorder, and PMOS.
I hate how readily we associate the trope of a comedian with hyper-independence, profound loneliness, and grinding to the point of exhaustion, which starkly contrast principles of disability justice. If comedy is meant to be an act of creating collective joy (out of literally nothing but sounds and vibes), why do we expect comedians to be so miserable, and often glorify it?
Disability representation in comedy is not just about booking more disabled comedians (although that’s very important!), but about dismantling the ableism ingrained in our idea of what it must take to be a comedian. Comedy is an art form that especially attracts us neurospicy, anxious, marginalized folks who finally have a chance to be heard, which makes it all the more disheartening how quickly we accept comedy as a business that decimates our emotional, financial, and physical well-being. It not only makes the creative practice harder to access, but continues to keep the industry centered on cis-het white male perspectives that I’m frankly bored of.
A lot of people think stand-up is an art form about laughter; I personally think stand-up is an art form about truth. In stand-up, we bend reality through meticulous, intentional narratives to elicit responses of joy and amusement from an audience. How might we experiment with truth-telling to evoke the disabled joy we so deeply need, and so deeply deserve? And how might we dream up our own narratives on how to adequately support, sustain, and compensate comedy-making to truly center joy in our liberatory practices?
Nik Narain (he/they) is a queer disabled South Asian American comedian, science communicator, musician, writer, and visual artist based in Durham, NC. You can find his work at niknarain.weebly.com or on Instagram @n1k_creat3s.
About Rooted In Rights
Rooted in Rights exists to amplify the perspectives of the disability community. Blog posts and storyteller videos that we publish and content we re-share on social media do not necessarily reflect the opinions or values of Rooted in Rights nor indicate an endorsement of a program or service by Rooted in Rights. We respect and aim to reflect the diversity of opinions and experiences of the disability community. Rooted in Rights seeks to highlight discussions, not direct them. Learn more about Rooted In Rights.
