Can any of this be funny?

Exorcisms, they/thems, and Dave Chappelle

Last week Stonewall, the LGBXYZ charity in the UK put out a ‘study’ in which they claimed that 10% of gays and lesbians in England had been subjected to an exorcism. If you do not follow the gays from the UK you should check out some of the gay exorcism memes and tweets they posted in response. 

I enjoy the privilege of chatting with many of these amazing folks, and as we bantered about the "2-for-1 married lesbian drive-thru exorcism coupon," I was struck by a truth that I have observed now that I am on ‘this side’ of the gender culture war divide.

Y’all have an actual sense of humor.

That took me a very long time to accept that it was ok to laugh about any of this, the funny had been flogged out of me in the gender center. 

They/Them 

I worked on a multidisciplinary team, led by an endocrinologist and an adolescent medicine doc. In medicine, you’re initiated into "the pod"—a chaotic, chairless, windowless hub in the middle of exam rooms where specialty providers rotate. Think musical chairs, but with broken computers and too many laptops. The Nurse and I, low on the totem pole, let the lead MDs snag workspaces first. We’d perch on counters or the floor, still outranking the med students who’d stumble in for their rotation. 

They’d get a five-minute crash course in ‘gender medicine’—basically, "we’re here to sex-change kids, good luck"—then get tossed into a patient room. They’d return to the pod with their S.O.A.P. notes (usually just the S.O.) and present to the teaching MD and our language-police squad. 

Oh, we were deputized. 

Picture this: a terrified med student, fresh off their five-minute briefing, told that patients use fake names and pronouns that defy basic biology. 

They present: “Patient is a 16-year-old girl—” 

“NOT A GIRL!” we’d bark. 

“Uh, 16-year-old a transgender—” 

“NEVER SAY ‘A TRANSGENDER’!” 

“16-year-old with subclinical depression—” 

Then the fatal blow: “—and she—” 

“THEY/THEM!” 

“They/them?” they’d stammer, confused. 

“THEY/THEM!” we’d chorus, now in stereo. 

By now, they hated life, their parents, and high school chemistry. 

“They and them?” 

“NO, THE PATIENT IS THEY/THEM!” we’d roar. 

“What’s a they/them?” 

Cue chaos: “HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW THIS?” “DID YOU SKIP THE READINGS?” 

In reality, I’d storm off, yelling, “Oh shit, I’ve got to see this patient—DID YOU MISGENDER THEM IN A GENDER CLINIC?!” 

Somehow, they wouldn’t cry. But we’d make them present again, shouting “they/them” until they either caved or realized the medical case didn’t matter—just chant “they/them” like a cult mantra. I picture a TV skit: patients bleeding out, us yelling “they/them”; cardiac arrest, no CPR ‘til “they/them” is perfect; gunshot wounds, just “THEY/THEM!” 

So many apologies owed. 

Dear they/them med student, I’m sorry.

Heterodox and the Podcast 

Cori Cohn owns humor like a boss. His wit’s drier than a stale baguette, but he’ll whack you with a one-liner that’s comedy gold. First time I tried “Heterodorx,” I bailed after the intro song—shame overload from my gender center days. I’d found Gender: A Wider Lens and Transparency, but Heterodorx?

They said “TERF.”

Worse, “tranny.” I yanked out my earbuds and nearly threw my phone.

I’d spent years in clinics preaching that “tranny” was evil—you’d be judged, fired, canceled for even thinking it. Once, I said “tranny fluid” about a car and got roasted like a marshmallow. But I kept trying with Cori and Nina. Thank God I did—Cori’s now one of my favorite people.

Cori and Nina have taught me something so valuable, humor can be a tool that we all need from time to time, it’s the hammer that can fix nearly anything stuck, even our lives.

The Car Video- what is that comedian's name??? 

It took me ages to tiptoe toward the humor in all of this. 

I wouldn’t have even acknowledged the likes of Dave Chappelle. I knew of him only in the vaguest sense as that-bigoted-transphobe-comedian-that-had-been-platformed-on-Netflix-and-should-be-canceled

That is all that had gotten through that side of the wall. I never sought him out. But one day he found me—on Twitter of all places. 

My Twitter profile is as midwestern as it gets: gender, parenting, and gardening. It's actually not controversial at all, (if you accept medical truths as uncontroversial). I am not even that wildly gay: maybe the occassional uhaul or iced coffee joke. But someone replied to a tweet of mine with that Chappelle clip.

You gays know it: The alphabet people.

I watched, put my phone down, walked away. Watched again. Sent it to a friend who smirked, “Yes, I know. That was two specials ago.” 

So I rewatched it, finally letting myself laugh out loud when the T gets told to SHUT THE FUCK UP! Then I binged two specials. Laughed. Cried—ugly, Homeward Bound cat-dies-saving-puppy cries. That cry that comes maybe once in a year.

Because through all his jokes about trans, about us, all of us, he did what humor is meant to do. Trans broke so much. It nearly broke me. But I’m better now.

I let humor back in, I hope you can too, and let it help us all heal.

In the comments, share if you've ever had something finally break for you in a way that brought back your sense of humor.