Issue Icons
MARGARET CHO
By Margaret Cho
I have never, not even once, thought of myself as an icon, although I will admit some people have used the I-word to describe me. Still, it seems to be an awfully important thing to be-an ICON. I don’t know if I actually qualify. I am a comedian in a very long tradition of foul-mouthed political upstarts like Lenny Bruce and Richard Pryor. Over my career, I have made four standup comedy films, one narrative feature film that I wrote, produced, and starred in, starred in one television series, toured the world many times over, won lots of awards for my activism, wrote two books, blogged like crazy, belly-danced, obsessed, relaxed, did far too much shopping, and loved a lot of people and places.
I am very grateful to do what I do, so it’s strange to me when people say it is an honor to meet me, as I am an ICON. How is that possible? I mean, in my mind, I am still an awkward, shy, clumsily attired, fat goth girl, desperately trying to fade into the background and yet avoid my inevitable invisibility at the same time. I guess it is natural that I did become a performer, because I have no ability to conduct a normal conversation with one other person. I am way too self-conscious. I would rather just scream into a crowd, where I know that nobody is required to listen, or even respond. I feel less responsible for maintaining the relationship then.
With all of my social handicaps and neuroses, I was probably made for this kind of bizarre work, telling strangers my stories and making them feel like me, and then somehow, through that process, easing their loneliness. I think that is the main function of art, to ease our loneliness. As human beings, we are each so perpetually single, solitary, isolated from each other by the boundaries of our skin and clothes and class and gender and race and intellectual capacity and hobbies and allergies and addictions and diseases and afflictions and tastes and problems and states of mind and ethnicities and loyalties and clubs and teams and choices and colors and textures and abilities and goals and failures and superstitions and top 8s and favorite songs and ticklish areas and expectations and turn-ons and turn-offs and tolerance and lung capacity and books and periodicals and busses we ride or cars we drive and prejudices and pet peeves and countries and underwear preferences and mall allegiances and allies and enemies and memories and nightmares and legends and idols and dreams and depressions and phobias and theories and tendencies, suicidal or not, and marital statuses and living situations and lies we told that we have to remember we told or else the jig is up. With all this keeping us apart, it’s no wonder that we get lonely. My job is to find the commonalities, the thing between all these things, that we can all agree with: the thing that makes all our differences the same.
I don’t think what I do makes me special, really, because it is what all artists do, whether they are aware of it or not. To bring another person into the realm of understanding is the noblest work.
I work hard, but I have such fun doing it. It surprises me still when an audience claps for me, because I always just want to applaud them for listening. It is so kind. There have been lots of awards, many great honors given to me, and I just blush. I am not worthy! I would be proud of them if I weren’t so embarrassed by these riches. What I am unembarrassed by, what makes me truly and freely proud, I think, are the little things.
One time, this really beautiful boy came up to talk to me. He was one of those very gorgeous people who don’t seem to have problems. You know the type: you see them sometimes, like they escaped from a J.Crew catalog and are wandering the streets aimlessly, looking for their page so they can go back to school, or back to the beach, or whatever they were doing before they fell out of their beautiful context. Anyway, he said that he was a fan. I thanked him, and he said, after a momentary and very photogenic pause, that he had brought his father to come see me. He had only recently come out to his family, and it was very uncomfortable for him because his father was having a hard time accepting it. During the show, he was surprised that his father was laughing hysterically. It was wonderful, because even though they had a hard time dealing with gay issues as a family, they were able to laugh about them as a family. After the show, the boy and his father were able to talk about everything far more easily.
There was an understanding there that hadn’t been there before, something that I contributed. Loneliness had been eased. The beautiful boy thanked me for allowing him, through laughter, to become closer to his father, and he gave me a hug, before he and his lantern jaw and his cargo pants went back to that perfect place from whence they came.