“It felt like this treatment was all just part of being a queer woman, particularly one who proudly paraded her queerness onstage”
BY ROSIE WILBY, IMAGE PROVIDED
Misogyny in comedy is finally being taken seriously. Hallelujah. A parliamentary committee has been hearing evidence from women in the industry. This feels important, like something could be shifting and changing in the professional world that I have simultaneously loved, and sometimes been crushingly hurt by, for the last twenty years.
But I am left wondering two things. Why has it taken so long? And, closer to home, why has it taken me so long to speak up about my own experiences?
The first question is hard to answer. Comedy is largely populated by brilliant, erudite free thinkers, particularly all the amazing women I’ve worked with. How the hell haven’t we collectively mobilised and agitated about misogyny before now?
But surely the answer to the second question should be within my grasp. And I think the answer is, whisper it, shame. Because my identity as a queer woman was always so baked into my act, my own experiences of misogyny in comedy always came hand in hand with homophobia. And that somehow made it feel even more painful, more personal, more invasive, more targeted. At me. For daring to speak my truth.
One night, early in my comedy career, a man from the audience tried to get chatting to me on the bus home. He would not believe that I was a lesbian and seemed confident he would be the man to turn me straight. I’d heard this kind of thing a million times before. So I laughed, tried to carry on joking like I’d been doing just an hour earlier onstage.
But this guy was more determined than all the others and followed me right to my door. I was still laughing, “Errr… thanks for walking me home… I’m definitely still gay… goodnight!”
I tried to close the heavy black door behind me. But he pushed against it. I can still remember the sensation of all that weight heaving against mine for what felt like hours. But trauma stretches time. I was tiny then. No match for him. So I guess it was probably only a few seconds before he began to assault me in the shared hallway of my building.
Then a noise spooked him, and he ran off during the attack. So I minimised it. I’d become so acclimatised to this particular brand of homophobia – a toxic combination of simultaneous fetishisation and erasure – it felt like this treatment was all just part of being a queer woman, particularly one who proudly paraded her queerness onstage. I did what women do. I blamed myself for being so outspoken.
So, yes, I stayed quiet.
And it was only years later when I experienced the thrill of fancying someone again, the pure heat of having a body again, that I realised that this really vulnerable and real part of me had been dead for a long time.
The fling didn’t work out. And I always wished I could’ve communicated more effectively with the woman concerned when she ended things between us after a few dates. I assumed we’d stay friends. Because what had passed between us was monumental for me. I had been brought back to life. And that was a big deal, something to be celebrated. Even if we were going to go our separate ways, it seemed important to somehow stay in touch, stay connected, stay alive. And yet, how the hell do you explain all that to someone who is trying to dump you?
At the time, I just couldn’t find the words.
So I’ve written a novel, entitled Conversations We Should’ve Had, which contains highly fictionalised versions of some of these events. And next month I’m testing out a new live show all about the complex and challenging process of writing fiction inspired by real life. Is it a healing thing to do? Or have I stirred up a lot of difficult emotions? Both, probably. But I’ve been reminded how healing humour can be. Not the kind of laughter I used as a defence mechanism years ago. But the kind of laughter that comes from reflection, self-compassion and a hell of a lot of heart and hope for a better world.
I hope some of both my queer family and my comedy family might be curious to see the show and laugh, reflect and dream of a better world along with me.
Rosie’s work-in-progress show Conversations We Should’ve Had will be at Omnibus Theatre in Clapham on 3 June as part of their Next Page development strand for new writing. Find out more here: omnibus-clapham.org/whatson/conversations
Rosie Wilby is an award-winning comedian and a regular on Radio 4, often described as the “lesbian Louis Theroux” for her quirkily humorous investigative books, shows, and talks on the psychology of love and heartbreak. Her second nonfiction book, The Breakup Monologues, is accompanied by a podcast of the same name, which has been nominated for two British Podcast Awards, and follows her debut, Is Monogamy Dead?, which was longlisted for the Polari First Book Prize.
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