An Unexpected Belly Laugh

Story by Bethany Welborn
Photos by Cari Griffith

Maybe you’ve walked by and spotted us rehearsing through the wide-open windows at Turntable Coffee Counter, seen the light spilling onto the shadowed sidewalks outside, or heard the occasional shout of laughter drifting down the mostly deserted downtown streets. Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, the Hub City Improv Troupe circles up on the concrete floor and shakes off the ghosts of our day, determined to laugh despite a hundred reasons not to. We stretch our legs and wring our hands, tune into the shimmering buzz of adrenaline and focused energy. Some of us have been officially doing this for only a month or two; others have honed the craft of improv and comedic performance for years. Some of us are theater nerds and have basked in the applause of hundreds, while some have only ever just practiced unique accents alone in the bathroom mirror whilst washing our hands. (I mean…okay, that one’s possibly just me).

Amy Poehler says that there’s nothing more subjective than what makes someone laugh. Your sense of humor is surprisingly individualized, an amalgam of your previous experiences, formative memories, even traumas. Despite this fact, Poehler also says that there are few other things people feel more strongly about than what they think is funny and what isn’t. 

The task of the comedian, then, is one that is essentially doomed to failure: they’re an archer in the dark, lobbing arrow after arrow in hopes of snagging an ever-moving target. There’s no one clear measure of success, no objective declaration of having reached the Epic Pinnacle of Hilarity. The same joke that brought the house down on a Tuesday night may be met with a sea of blank stares and silence on a Thursday afternoon. There will always be a crowd of naysayers, those who don’t crack a smile, those who critique your style or just don’t think you’re funny. Amy takes the stage anyway.

Though most people initially peg me as an introvert, I’ve always had an outrageous theatrical side as well. My childhood dreams imagined that I’d one day grow up to be 1.) a mailman, 2.) a creative writer, or 3.) a singing actress. (I’m thirty-four and still waiting for that first dream to be delivered.) One of my dad’s favorite stories is when we took a family trip to Colonial Williamsburg, and we stopped to watch a comedic demonstration performed by a few of the living historians. They asked for a volunteer from the audience, and my nine-year-old hand shot up. 

Butterflies filled my stomach as I climbed the wooden outdoor stage, but I felt a strange thrill when I realized I could actually do what they asked of me (which was to make dramatically disgusted faces to the audience as I listened to my “older sister” read aloud a letter from her besotted beau). I had two older siblings; I’d trained for this my whole life. I grimaced and frowned, gagged and rolled my eyes, then smoothed my features into a polite nod and smile when the sister character looked my way mid-sentence. The entire bit probably lasted about three minutes, but I was floating on air for the rest of our vacation like I’d swallowed some of Wonka’s Fizzy Lifting Drink and bubbles had now replaced my bones. My parents insisted that I had cracked everyone up (“everyone” basically being our family of five, plus three or four fellow tourists looking for an empty bench on which to rest their bums). 

I was a radiant Sally Field: “You like me! You really, really like me!” Before this, I’d not considered my humor or my antics to be a talent, but rather a bug in the system. I was exhilarated by the possibility that my accents and imitations could actually infuse the world with a little more sparkle, and subtract a little less gloomy predictability. At almost ten years old, I was already inexplicably drawn towards that which is pure, unguarded, and genuine; I can’t think of something more authentic than an unexpected belly laugh. I was hungry to both give and receive those moments of simple, uncomplicated happiness. Turns out, I still am. 

When I auditioned for the Hub City Improv Troupe, it was practically a bit in and of itself. While I had participated in a workshop a few months prior and enjoyed it, I didn’t seriously consider auditioning to be an official member; I didn’t consider myself to be cool enough, confident enough, or smart enough. Despite performing in a few small shows in high school and college, I hadn’t found much of a creative outlet since starting our family a decade ago, and I worried that I’d lost my spark for good. I made plans to be out of town the weekend of the auditions, then put it out of my mind.

Fast forward to the morning of auditions, our plans unexpectedly canceled for the day, and my husband asks if I’m going to try out. 

I laugh and say, “No, of course not.” 

He waits a beat, then uncharacteristically insists, “I really think you should.” 

I considered it, surveying my state of mind as it’s been for the past several weeks. I’d been awaiting some worrying medical tests, visiting doctor after doctor, shuffling referrals to specialists, pulling up my sleeve for yet another blood draw. My nights at home had basically consisted of me sitting around, alternately weeping and staring, contemplating what/how many terrible illnesses might be spreading through my body at any given moment. My next appointment was still over a month away. My husband gently suggested that maybe I could use a healthy distraction in the meantime. I texted my friend, told her I’m trying out for improv so that I won’t sit around panicking about brain tumors. She texted back: “That’s comedy gold right there.” Joke’s on me — I got in. 

We gather twice a week and play game after game, bringing back childhood memories of all those episodes of “Whose Line is it Anyway?” I watched it in my friend Kristen’s basement because I wasn’t allowed to watch it at home. We learn to say, “Yes, and…” We discover that improv is more about being an intuitive, responsive partner than it is about taking center stage. At the beginning, I imagine that I’m the only one fighting off my demons one punchline at a time, choosing to laugh and limit myself to the present moment rather than succumb to the existential dread that follows me home at night. I know better now, after weeks of showing up for each other; you can’t get ten humans in a room without confronting a hundred terrible worries, a mountain of what-if fears, a thousand legitimate excuses to stay in bed every morning. We step into scene after scene anyway, unwilling to let any one of us go it alone. 

As Mary Oliver says, “There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind…Still, life has some possibility left. [...] Sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world…whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty.  Joy is not made to be a crumb.” 

We get together to tell jokes and try on different personas, fashioning alternate realities from a prompt and a prayer. We each bring our crumbs and find before us a feast. 

I told my family I’m in an improv group, and my stepmother replied, “Oh my gosh, Bethany, you’re so brave!” It doesn’t feel brave as much as it feels like a holy rebellion, a steady reaching back in time toward the shimmering joy I felt in Williamsburg when I was nine. As an adult, there’s surprising power in reconnecting with the things that lit you up as a kid, especially after you thought the expiration date for such things had already passed. You might assume that a group of amateur improv comedians are just a bunch of screwballs, shallow as a puddle and allergic to the darker side of life. In truth, however, I’ve found partners in hope. 

Wendell Berry advises us, “Be joyful, though you have considered all the facts,” and I’ve happened upon a goofy, lovely little group who do just that. That’s a not-so-tiny miracle, in this economy. Jackson, as it frequently has over the last fifteen years, has surprised me again and welcomed me into this communal project where we all agree to join hands (sometimes literally) and offer our very flawed, deeply delightful selves on the altars of letting go and leaning in. We, the collective, are drawing back the arrow and releasing it into a space we can’t see or touch or taste, but we trust that the launching itself matters more than where it lands.