Maeve in America Read online

  My imposter syndrome, which had been bubbling away nicely at the manageable level every woman has, was now at boiling point. Naturally, the big question saw its chance and moved in. No family in Iraq has been left unscathed by the past years of war and horror. But, um, cheer up? Comedy is important? My voice comes out stronger when I’m scared, and I heard it begin, very loudly. Mustafa, a satirical blogger from Baghdad, was taking notes before I even began. He looked up from his notebook and smiled, putting his hand to his heart to say hello and welcome. Reassured, I continued.

  I’ve played some tough crowds in my time as a comic, and this was not one of them. Everyone was sitting up, leaning in, ready to engage. There were four men around my age, cool-looking in tight suits and hipster hairdos. They came from Sulaymaniyah, a small nearby city they later told me was the cultural capital of Kurdistan. Two of them owned an advertising agency there and the other two seemed to be there as just part of their crew, a cross between cheerleaders and hype-men, laughing at their bosses’ jokes and taking dozens of photos for social media. As I spoke and they caught the translation, those four ummed and ahhed in what I hoped was resonance. Even if it wasn’t, it felt good to speak to a group of people who didn’t just sit there silently, who were willing to give me a chance.

  My first lecture concerned comedy as memoir and I began by saying I grew up in Ireland, where people are mortified to stand out, but I live in New York, where self-expression is prized and people pontificate on the effects dairy has on their digestive system loudly and at length. Some smiles. The advertising guys seemed to think the digestive system issues were particularly appropriate for one of their party. Things really picked up when I took myself out of the equation and handed it up to the slideshow, with lines from the Northern Irish poet Seamus Heaney’s poem “Digging” comparing his pen to a gun. We looked at Hend Amry’s tweets that demonstrate the line she crisscrosses so deftly between political engagement and comedy, and I left the tweets on the screen as small discussions took place between the translators and the participants.

  It’s a difficult task, making words that are funny in one language match up to achieve the same end in another. MJ, a slightly rakish character with an American accent and an easy jokey manner, took his time and I suspect threw in some of his own interpretations of the material. He was well used to translating for visitors, Erbil being the place many Western oil, construction, and media companies did business from. Ayer, the Kurdish interpreter, was serious and focused, coming back to me a lot for clarifications. “When she says ‘nugget’ I should say maybe ‘small bite’?” We watched a subtitled John Mulaney routine where he makes a wider point about violence against women while being the butt of the joke himself. I thanked them for their kind attention, and asked for questions. There were none. Instead, I got a polite round of applause and one of the cartoonists handed me a caricature he’d sketched as I spoke. It was a little too good. “Like a friendly witch,” said Joe.

  During the break we had these small glasses of hot sweet tea that are always right on time in Iraq. I gravitated toward two of the only other women in the room, who were sitting together and had been smiling and nodding throughout my presentation. The ratio of women to men did not surprise me. Not because of the country we were in, but just because any comedy workshop around the world is bound to attract more men than women. The Hasan sisters were in their early twenties, with four university degrees between them. We talked about our work. I told them I was a writer and also performed stand-up. Upon hearing the latter, they had a common reaction; they said they could never do that, it was too scary. I said it was probably less scary than the trip they’d made to get here to the workshop; they had come two hundred miles from Baghdad. Russel, the younger of the two, told me she was writing a novel. I asked her if it was funny. Maybe, she said, but maybe not. I told her I hoped the workshop would be useful in some way, and she told me why she had come. She said that in Iraq people understand deeply that life can end at any moment and this darkness is a reason to value the light. She said it as simply and elegantly as that. There was no hand wringing, no doubt about it in her mind.

  The writer Matthew McNaught, in an incredible essay in N+1 about Syrians seeking asylum in Europe titled “Fairouz in Exile,” learned an Arabic phrase from a man he interviewed named Ahmad: Alshirr albaliya maa yadhak—“It’s the gravest evil that makes you laugh.” Speaking to the Hasan sisters made me realize that I did not need to worry about the relevance of the workshop. Comedy and creativity were important to Russel as a release and a relief. I feel that way too. If I grew up in Iraq, I’d be the one attending the workshop. Art is not exclusively created by and for the lucky ones. Each life is a deep mine of events and emotions that is ours to dig up and use if we wish to. What we find in that mine might feel too heavy to be excavated, or be broken into such tiny pieces they seem worthless, but that doesn’t matter. The trick is to polish those pieces up, to make them shine with the laughter of recognition, of realizing that we are not alone, that we have this common language.

  Later in the afternoon, Joe showed how various online platforms can create or change a narrative. He talked about the comedian’s duty to punch up, not down, and this idea really resonated, setting off a wide-ranging conversation about the duty of an artist and the very real risks involved when comedy reveals some truth that the powerful have concealed. A Kurdish cartoonist asked what it was safe to joke about, what were the subjects people felt were guaranteed to be inoffensive, and, more importantly, to not land anyone in trouble. We listed them: animals being like people, kids being like adults, foods of our childhood, bossy wives . . . We agreed that jokes about men and women were always funny, and jokes about animals were universal and wouldn’t insult anyone. Others felt that everything should be on the table. Here was a bunch of creative people, debating about the role of comedy in politics, going back and forth about the power they could harness to fight back against forces that had captured their neighbors and in some cases their families—and it was exhilarating.

  The openness of the dialogue in the room amazed me. Not long ago a joke in Iraq was always told looking over one’s shoulder, such was the danger, one that still exists in many places around the world. A joke suspected to be at the expense of Saddam Hussein was enough to have you disappeared. It was like that in Syria still, with the secret service, the Mukhabarat, all around and listening for clues that a person may not be a devoted follower of Bashar al-Assad. There is no distinction made between a throwaway line or a joke that contains an actual kernel of truth, a clue as to where the joker’s loyalty may lie, so it’s safer never to utter either. The subversive power of comedy is taken seriously by these dictators and the systems that exist to uphold them, and that is a legacy that would take years to undo.

  Ali Farzat, a Syrian artist and head of the Arab Cartoonists Association, joined the workshop by Skype. He called from Kuwait where he now lives, having left Syria after being attacked by government forces who smashed his hands and left him for dead. Mark had tried to get him to Erbil but it proved impossible because of visas and paperwork. Still, the call went well, with the Iraqi cartoonists, including some elderly men, huddled around a phone exchanging low, gentle words of encouragement while a young woman, herself a political cartoonist, filmed the scene and wiped tears from her eyes.

  The second day we did a lot of practical work. Joe and I made short videos with two groups while Mo worked with the live performers for a show we were doing that night. My sketch, written by Reshan Hemo, a young Internet sensation who already had 120,000 Instagram followers, involved me asking directions to a restaurant and two different men pointing me in two different directions. I didn’t really get the joke, but went along with it, which is fine to do every once in a while. A Kurdish theater group made up of a husband-and-wife team and two colleagues made a short, really funny video about the differences between American toilets and Iraqi toilets. It was crude and hilarious and clownish,
relying on a lot of grimaces and misunderstandings about what to do with the traditional water pipe used in place of toilet paper. I was a little surprised, because they were the same group who had earlier called me over to express their disappointment that I had not included more theater references in my presentation, and asked me whether I understood how powerful theater could be.

  In the afternoon we had an hour-long showcase where we watched one man’s tribute to Charlie Chaplin, and then looked at a slideshow of some brilliant political cartoons created at the workshop that day while the rest of us were filming. There were cartoons mocking the corruption of various powerful figures, men I did not recognize, and cartoons of ISIS soldiers as bleating sheep who didn’t know their way around the country. One of the youngest participants was an IDP (internally displaced person) and he was really shy, but explained, haltingly, through MJ, that his entire family were trapped in Mosul, but there were some ways they got news of the outside world. One way was by a radio station called Radio Alghad, which means “tomorrow,” set up by people like him, exiled from their own homes, a station that took calls made in secret from people still inside the city. The radio hosts sometimes told jokes, he said, to provide a distraction for the people suffering.

  The workshop culminated in Erbil’s first live comedy show, hosted by Mo in Arabic and English. The first venue got cold feet and decided against having a big gathering of people there for an evening. Mark found another place, a hotel function room, decorated as if for a wedding with silver and blue LED lights around the windows, and a makeshift stage with a muffled microphone. There was a decent turnout of people who worked with Yalla, a few expats, and some bemused folks who’d come to the hotel to watch a football match downstairs and heard the laughing from the room and wandered in to see what was happening. Mo warmed up the crowd with some much-appreciated jokes about Arab mothers and their need to feed, then brought on the Kurdish theater group, who did a long piece titled “Theater of the Oppressed.” Things kind of ground to a halt, and the Kurds got annoyed at the audience for talking. I realized I probably hadn’t come up with the world’s greatest running order.

  Ayer, my previously quiet, worried translator, took to the stage and tried his hand at stand-up. Peering out from beneath his black baseball cap, he performed in English, and made a super-smart analogy between his country and a new car that people keep trying to renovate with old parts. He did well; he was funny. A dapper stand-up with the greatest mustache of all time, Mr. Ako, followed with a cheeky routine about an unsatisfied wife that absolutely killed. The punch line was something about always making sure to press the right button. After the show he bowed to me and asked the translator to apologize for his off-color joke. I told him it was great, that I’d use it myself if I thought I could get away with it back home The following year I clicked LIKE on his Instagram feed often, on pictures of his cute little boys in a lush green garden, eating ice cream, and on pictures of him in his Peshmerga uniform, rifle in hand, waving from a dusty road on his way to the battle to take back Mosul.

  A sketch group called “Educated, but . . .” headlined the night with a mime that involved them creeping through the giggling audience. It was a strong closer; the fact that they relied on mime and clowning allowed all of us to appreciate their gags. One of them did not speak throughout, using just his physicality, his height, and his eyes to achieve a Mr. Bean level of brilliance. We were lucky they made it to the show. These sweet clowns were stopped on their way to the venue by an irate policeman who questioned them for having long hair and wispy beards, kind of like you-know-who, those other clowns, the evil ones a half-hour drive away. They had to call Mark to come and vouch for them, to explain that they were on their way to do a spot at a comedy show, and were not about to join ISIS.

  I left Erbil and used my stopover in Dubai to visit my brother and his wife, who live there with my niece Nora, aka, their child. She was just one, and I spent all my time desperately trying to make her laugh, because she has the cutest laugh I’ve ever heard. She’s quite a severe critic, though, and only one of my classic characters worked: that was a nameless elderly servant, an Englishman, stooped in deference, insistently asking her permission to kiss her toes. I repeated the bit in the car going to the airport, leaving Dubai, but Nora soon lost interest and fell asleep. I realized I’d been so focused on getting laughs I’d forgotten to ask my brother about his work as a hydrogeologist. “Oliver! Are you finding water in the rocks or whatever?” He shook his head as he always does when his family reveal how ignorant we are about his work. Then he patiently explained that his current job is not finding water, but finding ways to get rid of groundwater caused by massive amounts of irrigation. I clarified, there’s too much water being poured into the desert and it has no place to go? Yes, he confirmed. I noted cleverly that this way of life is completely unsustainable.

  My brother told me about the Gaia theory that says humans are a pox on the Earth and she is going to fight us off with a great heat. I was quiet then, as I looked at the beautiful pale baby sleeping in her car seat and the “what have we done?” blues started to play in my head. But, comedy!

  Sometimes, all you can do is put on your elderly Englishman servant voice to amuse a baby, or tell your brother he needs to find somewhere to put that water, poking him with a crooked finger until he starts to laugh. I know now that there are old hearts in Baghdad that beat with the certainty of change, and young minds in Erbil that whir with silly jokes and smart ideas. A few months after the workshop, a deadly bomb exploded in the Hadi shopping mall on the same street the Hasan sisters lived on, in the Karrada suburb of Baghdad. More than three hundred people were killed, including some of their neighbors and friends. Their Instagram feeds filled up with photos of the victims, of burned-out cars, and of mourning parents. Russel is married now, and Elly works as an anesthesiologist, often volunteering her time at clinics in the underserved parts of the city. They are both still writing. Despite everything, these are artists, choosing to create rather than destroy.

  Call Me Maeve

  CALL ME MAEVE. Or Merv, or Maid, or Meev, I don’t mind. In this country of millions of people and this city of a thousand cultures, not many people know my name, or how to say it. I’m practically anonymous, except for those times in Shake Shack when I have to loudly spell it out for fear of someone else, Masen or Maddy or Mei-Yin, getting ahold of my peanut butter milkshake and fries when that all-important buzzer calls out to its righteous owner.

  Maeve is an Irish name meaning “comedy legend with a cute butt.” No, it actually means “intoxicating one.” It is an unusual name in America. When I introduce myself I have to explain the pronunciation. I tell people, “It sounds like Steve, except instead of a ‘st’ sound it’s a ‘m’ sound, and instead of an ‘eve’ it’s an ‘ave.’” That’s a great little conversation-starter for cocktail parties and mother-and-baby Pilates classes. It distracts people from the fact that I’m drinking three cocktails at once and also that I don’t have a baby, I just find that class a lot easier.

  As a child, I didn’t like my name. That’s unfortunate because, it being my name and all, I naturally heard it a lot. “Maeve” made me think of a middle-aged woman with wavy hair like seaweed and floaty sage-colored tunics and clogs, with Celtic jewelry and a keen sense of social justice that she keeps meaning to act on. Perhaps a social science teacher, or some kind of writer. Yuck—no, thanks! Reader, it won’t surprise you to hear that I’m almost there. Give me fifteen more years and a couple of pairs of clogs to break in and I’ll meet you at the protest. I’ll be the one taking photos and not knowing any of the chants.

  In his letters and birthday cards to me, my grandfather called me “Maeve the Brave” and often added “who’s nobody’s slave.” All he wanted for me was to be bold and free, encouraging my jokes and stories and giving me book recommendations like Lorna Doone and The Brothers Karamazov before I was fourteen. I was a big, ungainly child and wanted n
othing more than to fade into the walls, so his encouragement fell on reluctant, but not completely deaf, ears. I remember it still, though. Today, when I mentor younger women and sense that they are not taking in what I’m saying, I hope that some sliver will linger, one they can use down the line. Now, if that isn’t a social science teacher sentiment, I don’t know what is.

  I always wished for a flower name, like my sisters. You only need to bunch together a few of my six sisters to make up a veritable bouquet of flowers: Lilly, Rosie, Daisy, and darling little Lupin. There’s no Lupin, actually; I wish there were. One poisonous little sister would be a boon for the family. Instead, we have these other flowers, and I feel like their names have informed the type of people they are and the lives they lead. Lilly is sensitive and elegant, with a long neck and unblemished pale skin. She is independent and stands out in any room, not needing anyone else. Rosie is beautiful and popular, with a steadiness people respect. She smells wonderful. Daisy is cheerful and sweet, bringing sunshine to any room lucky enough to have her. Then there’s me. Maeve. I don’t sound like a flower, I sound like a boulder. Or maybe a type of tree, a dead tree. “The great forest of Maeves was decimated by an outbreak of sooty mold in the eighteenth century and never quite recovered.”

  Maeve also sounds a little like mauve, the color, and I don’t like mauve. Mauve is the color of a depressed lilac. The only place I would voluntarily wear mauve to would be my son’s wedding to a woman I didn’t much like. I would be that passive-aggressive mauve blob in all the photographs, my unsmiling face peeping out from beneath a large off-lavender hat, letting everybody know just how I feel about this debacle, about how my poor boy deserved better.