cathykidman.com

Prologue

Clutching the mike is what new comics do.  It gives the illusion of control.  Not a bad thing to want, standing on a stage and performing stand-up comedy for the first time.  After the opening joke explained away my bald head – “Never piss off your hair stylist” – the audience was in.  I relaxed my grip.  A little.

The club was packed, most of the people there for me. The Mistress of Ceremonies acknowledged this, opening her arms wide in greeting to encompass everyone.  “And now, the person you have all been waiting for!  A closeted social worker who can show you how to use a condom, but prefers not to: Cathy Kidman!”

Hearing my name, I took a long breath and exhaled a quick prayer to the universe. Help me.  I thought about the family, friends, and healthcare professionals who had filled this comedy club to support me.  We had traveled an imperfect path to get here tonight.  I willed myself to hear their loud applause and whistling.  Willed myself to walk confidently, as if I did this everyday, from the back of the dark bar through the tight arrangement of tables and chairs, up onto the stage and into the light.

I saw black, the audience hidden.  Well, at least they could see me.  Seven months ago, that was a question mark. To buy time while my eyes adapted to the glare, I adjusted the microphone and lowered it to my 5’2” height.  Faces in the front began to emerge.  My partner Ramona, my mom and cousins were in the back. From there, they’d be able to give me a full report on the audience response.  I wanted to learn from my hits and misses.

I spotted an aunt and uncle seated with their good friends at the table to my left and felt a moment of warmth.  Then alarm.  What if they didn’t think I was funny?  What if no one did?  The crowd to the right of the stage were strangers in their twenties. Beer bottles covered their tables and the smell drifted up.  They had laughed loudly at the previous comic’s penis jokes.  Too late to second guess my material now.

I leaned into the microphone and said, unplanned, “I am feeling the love.” Laughter greeted me. “We love you too, Cathy!” someone yelled from the back.  I grinned in response and allowed their energy to seep into my bones, anchor my feet.  The audience was still in darkness, but I acted as if I could see each person.  In my head I heard, Take your time. This is your audience now.

“I don’t know how I feel about same-sex marriage,” I announced.  The audience went silent, unsure. “When I was a young lesbian,” I began, and then stopped because their laughter interrupted my flow.  I continued,  “When I was a young lesbian, my lesbian elders taught me that marriage was a form of patriarchal enslavement. Now those same lesbian elders are reading Lesbian Bride Magazine and hiring wedding planners.  It used to be a lesbian had a truck and a dog.  Today it’s a minivan and an adopted daughter from China.”

By the time I was done, I had poked fun at gays in the military, racial profiling, and the belief in Maine that a meal at the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet constitutes a multicultural experience. My five minute set ran for twelve and it felt like two while the audience laughed throughout. Everyone, including me, was a little dazed when I finished.  Then the crowd was on its feet, clapping and whooping.

This was glorious.  This was better than anything I could have imagined.  This was worth every failed practice session, every failed joke, every tear.  This was almost worth ovarian cancer.

© 2011 Cathy Kidman