How to tell your family that you do comedy

...and that they might end up in the jokes, by Britt Migs

‘Is this gonna end up in one of your little skits?’

It’s one of those questions that every comic has got countless times from their family members. We can blaze right past the subtle demoralisation of calling it ‘little’ and ‘skit’ and get right to the heart of the question: your family wants to know if they’re going to end up in your routine. They’re usually equal parts scared and secretly excited at the prospect.

It’s an annoying question, but perhaps not as bad as, ‘so how’s that comedy thing going?’ Our life’s work is chalked up to a ‘thing’—an inanimate object, like a bouncy ball or a desk. I love to respond, ‘Good. How’s that whole lawyer thing going?’ just so they can hear how it sounds. I’m a little stinker like that.

When you’re surrounded by a family of bankers, teachers, and construction workers – you know, real jobs – your career of writing jokes gets reduced to, well, a joke. So, here’s my no-fuss step-by-step for telling your family that you do comedy.

Growing up, my creativity was celebrated. Dinner always came with a show as I would run around doing my impression of Iago from Aladdin (the late, great Gilbert Gottfried). Trying to get laughs is cute when you’re five. I guess it’s less endearing when you’re trying to get laughs to pay rent.

When it came time for university, I wanted to pursue a career in entertainment and was met with a lot of, ‘well that’s not practical’ and ‘isn’t that a long shot?’ It was decided that I would pursue the business/production side of things so I could at least fall back on something. It’s almost like they didn’t believe I could actually do it!

It turns out that rerouting the dream doesn’t snuff it out, it just delays it. I didn’t want to just be funny at family dinners, I wasn’t a hobbyist, I wanted the real thing. When I told my mom I was going to take a comedy class, she asked if I was going to end up on the streets (which is of course the next, logical step). It was improv, after all.

But for my mother, that question wasn’t illogical. Coming from a poor, one-income family of seven, there was no time for such frivolity. It was: get a job or don’t come home. As I’ve gotolder, I’ve understood her more. I took the class anyway and ten years later, I’ve performed around the US, at countless festivals, and here I am at the Fringe.

But there is another layer to a family’s distaste –or lack of respect– for the artform. Family is almost always our first audience, and they usually become our first punchline. They say write what you know!

One of the first jokes I ever wrote was about my silly, long, Italian last name and the fact that my dad named my brothers Anthony Michael and Michael Anthony (real). My dad has never complained. One of my favourite jokes is about how having an attractive mother is annoying. My mom has no problem being called, ‘hot’.

But in my solo show, I go into great detail about how my bisexuality and new queer relationship was confusing to family members. Much like my career, my bisexuality is a concept that is constantly misunderstood and has to be re-explained. If like boy, how also like girl? Such a good question that I’ve got the opportunity to give the answer to in my show. But this is where it gets tricky. People don’t like being called out for being ignorant or short-sighted, even if it’s all in good fun.

I’ve got myself in trouble. How does someone in their 30s ‘get in trouble?’ It turns out I can’t still be grounded but I can receive a strongly worded text message. What’s funny is that I often take great care to remove names and identifiers from my jokes. I turn one person into an amalgam of people. I turn a singular offender into ‘people’ or ‘family’ in general. Someone still manages to get butthurt. When this article comes out, I’m toast.

Mike Birbiglia, a comedian I very much look up to, probably said it better than I ever could: ‘Sometimes people assume that comedians are trying to mock their subjects. That’s not always true. In my case, I’m trying to understand who they are.’

Yes, I’m trying to understand who they are, but I’m also trying to show them who I am. So many times throughout my life I have felt misunderstood or not "seen" by my family, so in poking fun, I can say, ‘hey, this is who I am and how I’ve interpreted our interactions.’

Also, to be a truly great artist, you have to be a truth teller. I know, I can hear the sound of a thousand eyeballs rolling. But comedians, much like a caricature cartoonist, choose the ugliest, or most unique-looking parts of our lives and we heighten them. And what’s scarier than that? Maybe the fact that your daughter/granddaughter/niece/cousin has chosen to do this full time.

Family eventually comes around, or at least many of them have in my case. They’ve come to my shows, shared my work, donated to my Fringe fundraiser.

My mother has made leaps and bounds. She’s now president of my fan club for which there is one member (her) and paid for my flights to Fringe. She tells me that she believes in me every day. I joke that when you have a 33-year-old doing comedy you kind of have to act cool about it because you have no other choice but to own it.

It’s like when your cookies turn out terribly for a party and you’re like, ‘I actually prefer them a little burnt. This was by design, I’m proud of what I made.’ However it took to get here, we got here and that’s all that matters.

So, how do you tell your family you do comedy? Don’t. Just do it. Unfortunately, you have to play the long game and the only way they’ll take you seriously is if yout do. It may take years before they say, ‘Okay, wow, she’s actually doing this’ but you will get there, nonetheless. They may never accept being joked about but…does the butt of ANY joke like it? Give them grace. They went from being our first audiences to our joke fodder (often as unwilling participants). And if they didn’t continue to be crazy, what would we have to write about?

Step-by-Step Instructions for Comedians

Tell your family you’re pursuing comedy
Tell them again
Ignore their joke pitches (they will be bad)
Put them in a joke and ask for forgiveness, not permission (but don’t use real names or identifiers)
Tell them you're pursuing comedy one more time (they will not take you seriously)
Invite them to your shows to prove it but remind them not to heckle
Tell them ‘skits’ are actually called ‘sketches’ or ‘routines’
Tell them you actually do stand-up
Tell them no, you do not know Sebastian Maniscalco personally
Ask them to donate money to your Fringe show
Tell them yes, you’re 'still doing this'
Repeat if necessary