My father has always appreciated humour. The first joke I remember him telling me was when I was getting ready for my Year 6 formal. “Don’t use any make-up that’ll turn you 10 years younger, because you’ll go back to being one!” Something sparked in his weary eyes. The 12-hour shifts at our family-owned chicken shop showed on his worn face. My mum often visited the shop to take some chicken breasts home for dinner, and Dad would jest in front of the customers, “She’s taking everything. I won’t have anything left to sell!”
My father’s optimism in the face of struggle inspired me to do the same on the playground. Sophie* was a popular girl at my primary school who I wanted to befriend. I once told her that my Chinese nickname was “Chin Chin”. After that, she occasionally brought it up in front of other people.
My father’s optimism in the face of struggle inspired me to do the same on the playground
“Aileen, what’s your Chinese name again?” Her blue eyes looked at me expectantly.
“It’s basically ‘double chin’,” I replied, with a lump in my throat. I knew it was better to get to the punchline first. Sophie cackled.
Throughout our teens, Sophie and I remained friends. However, she became even more ignorant after moving to a different school. In my newfound free time without Sophie, I scrolled YouTube. That’s how I found greater appreciation for my heritage through personalities such as Natalie Tran () and John Luc ().
In my 20s, I had an existential crisis and deferred my bachelor of design degree. Desperate to reinvent myself, I went on a gap year to the United Kingdom. During this time, I began to pursue my fantasies of being a YouTuber. Remembering my father’s humour, especially in times of crisis, I signed up for a stand-up comedy course.
There were 12 people in the course. We met once a week at a local community centre. One of my classmates was a blonde woman in her 30s, named Alison*. She told me that I reminded her of Ali Wong. Throughout the course, Alison suggested I make jokes about other people of colour. “For example,” she cleared her throat dramatically, “How do Asians name their babies? By throwing a can down some stairs. Ching! Chong! Chung!” My stomach churned. But this was comedy, after all, so I retorted, “What’s long and hard to a blonde? Elementary school.” Alison turned red as our classmates laughed.
Later, Alison confessed that my jokes about white people made her uncomfortable. I told her . Alison’s desire to not only police my jokes but also give herself the right to make racially charged ones reminded me of Sophie. I felt that familiar churn: the instinct to keep white people happy at my own expense.
The author on stage. Source: Supplied
Our course ended with a showcase night at the dingy Hare & Hounds pub in Birmingham. My legs felt as if electricity was charging up and down them as I stood in front of the audience of 40-odd people. “I’m all the way here from Sydney, Australia. I know what you’re thinking, I don’t look very Australian. That’s true, I’m not a British convict.” There was loud laughter from the audience of mostly British patrons. Their encouraging smiles buoyed me as I continued my routine. I realised there are well-meaning white people who can laugh at themselves and with me, even if they’re the punchline.
Maybe we could all laugh precisely because the wound of racism never fully heals. In , American comedian and writer Baratunde Thurston said, “Pain is the glue that connects racial trauma and the healing that needs to happen with the laughter of a joke or a solid story.”
Maybe we could all laugh because the wound of racism never fully heals
All my life I had tried to be brave in the face of ignorant jokes about small eyes and thick accents. It took my father’s courage and a comedy course for me to realise that I didn’t have to remain the butt of anyone’s gags anymore. Just like in primary school, I could get to the punchline first, this time with a focus on healing racial trauma.
But healing is never linear. On the other side of the world, Sophie online. She didn’t comment on the video. When I was back in Sydney, we went to dinner to catch up. I told Sophie I wasn’t sure if I was going to stay in Sydney because of the racism I experienced. Tears slid down her pale cheeks. “We’ve been best friends since primary school,” she said. “Haven’t I been good to you? It’s not so bad here. Everyone’s a little racist everywhere.”
My lips pressed firmly together, I held back my thoughts. Being on the offensive all the time was exhausting, especially with a person who had been calling me “Chin Chin” since primary school.
Casual racism is a wound that people of colour often bear. Despite my enjoyment of the stand-up comedy course in the UK, my personal experiences with racism in Australia stopped me from attempting stand-up in Sydney. I stopped hanging out with Sophie soon after that.
The author visiting Loch Ness in Scotland. Source: Supplied
Recently, I re-watched my stand-up comedy routine with my dad. With crinkled eyes, he patted me on the shoulder.
I beamed. “Next time, I’ll be charging you and Mum when I tell jokes at dinner,” I said.
Dad chuckled. “We’ll tell them together. Maybe then your jokes will make ‘cents’.”
One day, I’ll be ready to get up on that stage again. For now, if my stand-up comedy career in Australia just means telling jokes with my dad in the living room, then that’s fine with me.
*Names have been changed.
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