I THOUGHT I understood “joy is an act of resistance” — a phrase first coined by poet Toi Derricotte — like the back of my hand. As someone who is neurodivergent and queer, my existence is political, and my thriving is defiant. Every joke I make, in particular my bad jokes, I make with a wink at all my haters. (The moral arc of the universe bends away from you and toward my bad jokes.)
That, surely, is joy as resistance — being ridiculous when many would rather I be dead. I feel this in my bones. Surely, I thought as I sat down to write this month’s column, I understand this concept well enough to teach my beloved readers how to achieve it in their own lives.
Friends, it turns out I do not actually feel this in my bones. It would be an understatement to say I struggled to write this column. I had to journal about it, talk it out with friends, and take a good long look at myself in the mirror to get to the heart (or the bones, I guess) of the problem, which was, surprisingly, a lack of feeling. A lack of bones? This metaphor is getting away from me.
Comfort, love, and community support are all crucial in our struggle, but they are not the same as joy. I have been resisting for my entire life, but … I began to second-guess whether joy was ever involved. Am I the caricature of the Humorless Feminist? Dear God. What have I become?
“But Beth,” you may be thinking. “You write humor! How can you have difficulty feeling joy?” I asked my therapist, and she told me to see the great clown Pagliacci. He’s in town tonight!
In my defense, joy is hard to find when the world is Like This and I Am The Way That I Am. I’m a goal-oriented person who thinks too much for my own good. The System™ would rather that I dissociate into my phone, making me believe incorrectly that numbing and joy are the same thing.
As you know, all problems can be solved with a good list, but I have yet to find the list that brings me true and joyful enlightenment. I’ve tried a lot of things: mindful walks (more mindful than joyful), parties and dancing (stressful for someone bad at having fun), church (I’m an Episcopalian so that was silly of me).
There are no easy solutions, which is inconvenient when my entire goal here was to simplify a difficult concept into something both funny and insightful. But perhaps that’s where the answer will be for me and everyone reading this: I feel joy when I am funny, even if it is hard to come by anywhere else. My humor exists because of my inner darkness, not in spite of it. It is a way that I survive. If that isn’t joy as resistance, I’m not sure what is.
Dear readers, do whatever is necessary to survive, and then you can do the work of thriving. Joy may come in the small moments of love of friends and walks in the woods, but it may also come from bad jokes made to an unhappy crowd. Learn from me and do as I do. Thrive at the cost of your haters, and you will be on the side of justice.
Beth Cooper-Chrismon was director of individual giving at Sojourners. She contains multitudes.
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