Enter Laughing

Funny people can be unhappy 

People remember Robin Williams as funny. In truth, he played an impressive range of characters, both comedic and serious. A number of his films dealt with suicide, murder and death, and his movies did not always end happily. Yet he is known first and foremost for making people laugh. True, he was a great stand-up comic, and he often horsed around in interviews. Yet if you watch him being “himself” on TV, you will see that he had candid moments, too, in which he shared something about his inner conflicts. But people tended not to acknowledge the serious side of Robin Williams. We tuned out when he talked about his personal struggles, and waited impatiently for his next zinger. He was there to make people laugh, and like all show biz troupers, he gave the audience what it wanted. So he usually made sure to throw in some funny dialects or nutty puns.

Though his career lasted thirty-two years beyond Mork and Mindy, this first TV sitcom essentially defined his public persona. No matter what part he played, for many people he still was Mork from Ork, the zany weirdo from another planet. Though the TV show led to a film career that included an Academy Award, he never quite reinvented himself as a public personality.

I was a slight, brief acquaintance of Robin Williams. The man I met was unassuming, kind, and sincere. He was low-key and did not brag. While he was not dour he also was not particularly goofy. Over the years, I was happy for his well-deserved success, but I never quite believed in the Clown with a Thousand Accents that he became in the public’s mind. I knew that a real, complex person lived inside the madcap persona. When I learned of his death I was saddened for him and for his loved ones. But I never believed that anyone could be as maniacally happy as the public expected him to be.

I have no reason to think Robin Williams remembered casually meeting me. I made no impression on his life whatsoever. Unlike him, I was not adored by millions, and I hardly become an A-list star—or for that matter, any kind of celebrity. Kathy Griffin used to joke about being on the D-List, but I am on the Z-list.

Yet in light of his untimely death, I realized we had at least one thing in common. The goofball Robin Williams that many people assumed was the sum total of Robin Williams was a role I, in own way, knew all too well. I lived my own variation of it since childhood. I think the reason I always was slightly perturbed by his nutty persona was that it reminded me of myself. I may not have been a movie star, but I knew how to make ‘em laugh. I still struggle to feel I have cosmic “permission” to be unhappy, angry, or petulant—or even to disagree with inconsequential remarks. Just last night I had a dream in which someone wanted more money than I could afford for something, yet I was afraid to say no.

If I were to visit a children’s classroom, I could spot myself right away. There will be a boy who never takes anything seriously. While the rest of the class is singing a song or learning long division, he is hiding his face behind a book to conceal his laughter. Probably he has at least one co-conspirator, a fellow hysterical laugher. In and out of school they make mischief. They bypass norms and social boundaries (perhaps even break the law) just because everything seems so gosh-darn stupid and futile. They may have a streak of cruelty, as I did, and make fun of other people. But everything seems just so ridiculous.

Yet as much as I laughed, I seldom laughed at things you were supposed to laugh at, such as jokes or comedy shows. To this day, I watch a stand-up comic with skepticism, daring her or him to make me laugh, as opposed to mildly smile for my tepid amusement.

I got kicked out of glee club in sixth grade for laughing uncontrollably (though I have no idea why) at the word, “snowman.” Antiquated tra-la-la classroom songs were a goldmine of laughs. Pompous school assemblies were also likely to leave me in sidesplitting hysterics. Or for that matter, schoolwork itself, especially when someone gave a dumb answer.

As a teen, I often was assumed to be high when I wasn’t. I just couldn’t stop chortling. In my twenties, I spent a Christmas stuck on a snowed-in train. While other passengers complained, I of course found it hilarious. In a way, that’s what I did for much of my life. I was stuck on a train that didn’t move, and all I could think of to do was laugh. As a college professor, I occasionally see my younger self in a student who feels compelled to finish every statement with a slight ha-ha. I was into my forties before I felt guilty for much of what I laughed at.

My hysterical laughter was just that, hysteria. I seldom thought I was happy.

There is an actual condition called PseudoBulbar Affect or PBA, in which people laugh and/or cry uncontrollably. I do not seem to have this, or at least not now. PBA usually is associated with brain injuries or other conditions I do not have. To some extent, kids simply laugh a lot, and maybe some for whatever reason laugh more than others. And I suppose uncontrollable laughter is preferable to uncontrollable crying. Still, my actual life was not much of a comedy. At a young age I got exposed to divorce, death, poverty and abuse—things I would deal with later in life once I stopped laughing.

Perhaps the most self-defeating thing about my hysterical laughter was it bled seamlessly into an older, supposedly always cheerful countenance. For many years I was known as someone who never seemed troubled by anything. No one had to consider my feelings or help me through my problems because everyone knew I always was “fine.” In dour work environments, I became “famous” for injecting humor into the atmosphere by acting silly or coming up with quick one-liners. I had a way of teasing people without offending them—or at least I told myself this was the case. At office holiday parties, the boss sometimes asked me to make funny remarks to liven things up. There are people who knew me as someone who was never serious. I have been told throughout my life that I should’ve been a comedian.

In more recent years, as I have gotten in touch with how I actually feel, there has been some hell to pay. Relatively late in life, I stopped laughing for the sake of laughing. I got upset, I got angry. Could it be that I’m a human being like everyone else? What a concept. And what a long way I have come since fifth grade, when the teacher told the class I came from Planet X and everyone seemed to believe it. No way—I’m an earthling if there ever was one. There is no Planet X anymore than there is a Planet Ork.