Laughing, From a Respectable Distance, at My Misfortune

In a recent post on the discussion board in my MFA program, I correlated literary citizenship with chirping in hockey. It was a bit of a stretch, but I made it work. This was followed closely by a meme posted to Notes by Andrew | Dad Explains that jokingly looked at roasting as a language of love.

This got me thinking about how my family and Trena’s—my wife if you’re new here—family deal with tragedy and the dynamic it creates.

To illustrate, let me start with a story. I swear, almost every word of it is true. If you’re interested, ask in the comments, and I’ll share a link to the news story about Trena’s brother.  

On a chilly fall evening, I found myself standing on the edge of a church parking lot, holding on to a toddler. The lot was crowded with people in thick winter jackets, milling about with balloons or tealight candles impaled from below with popsicle sticks. I’m all but sure that a big part of the crowd thought I was a cop, although the kid probably had them a little confused.

Note: I have been mistaken for both a limo driver and a cop at Trena’s family gatherings. I guess white folks all look alike.

We had gathered in the parking lot to release balloons in memory of my brother-in-law, who had been murdered a few weeks earlier. The kid, my nephew, had been palmed off on me by his mother, and despite everyone’s best efforts, he was thankfully too young to appreciate what was going on and was just fascinated by the heart-shaped red balloon attached to his arm with a silver ribbon.

Trena just reminded me the balloon was blue. She said it’s imperative I get that right. I meant no disrespect.

Anyway, the kid— I was pretty sure he was going to get me shot. You see, toddlers at events like these are bullet magnets. No one wants to have a baby in their arms when the shooting starts.

Why, you might ask, was I worried about being shot? Well, according to the news, the guy who killed my brother-in-law had been paid $20K, and the murder kicked up the neighborhood like an ant hill. Odds were high that something was going to break loose.

I stood there chuckling at how unfair it was to saddle me with the little bullet magnet when, in all likelihood, I would have been target number one when the rounds started flying. And I wanted so bad to just say it out loud to someone because I thought it was funny as fuck. Luckily, I had the good sense to keep my mouth shut. 

If it had been my family, at least a few people would have crossed themselves and stepped back from me slowly. And everyone would have been laughing, from a respectable distance, at my misfortune.

We find humor in pretty much anything. There are a few topics that are off-limits, though. For example, my cousin Mike’s micro-penis, we never joke about that. Seriously, Mike, I want my 40 dollars.

When I was in high school, my cousin, not Mike, decided she was going to swallow a handful of pills and take a nap in the bathtub. She was a few years older than me and was hurting because some guy had just broken up with her. I guess the pills seemed like the best way to deal with the pain.

I found her having a full-on seizure. Splashing water all over the place. I pulled her out of the tub, and I’ll tell you what, you never get over the trauma of holding on to your naked ass cousin while she thrashes around in a tiny bathroom. I mean, where the hell do you put your hands?   

The EMS came, and she was gone for quite a while. When I saw her next, she seemed to be really uncomfortable. Like she thought we were all looking at her, kind of funny.

Now, before I tell you what I said to her, I think it might be necessary for me to tell you I loved my cousin. And I say loved because she passed on a while back. But I did love her, and what I told her came from there.

I hugged her, which felt a little soon after the whole naked-in-the-bathroom thing, and whispered something like, I’m glad you’re okay, but if you plan on doing that again, give me a heads up so I can throw my laundry in with you.

And what do you know, the hug got a lot less awkward.

I don’t know which, gallows humor or strict stoicism, is better for dealing with hard times. They both have their merits. In the nearly twenty years of our marriage, Trena and I have ironed out a place we consider a happy medium. We laugh when life throws shit at us, but usually, after a bit of time has passed.

After my brother-in-law’s murder, I had someone ask me if his death had been sudden. What fell out of my mouth was something like, “Well, the cops said he never heard the gun go off.” The poor guy tried to run in two directions at the same time.

When I told her, Trena’s response was an incredulous, “You didn’t really say that?” Her question was soon followed by a snort, which devolved into a wave of uncontrollable laughter. Then she fell into my arms, weeping like a child. It was her first real solid cry after his death. I thought I’d broken her.

So, there are times when it’s better just to suck it up and keep on moving. But I would argue that sometimes, when life is standing square in the middle of your chest, it’s best to laugh even if you laugh until you cry. How do you tell the difference? I’ve got no fuckin idea.