As I was driving home on Thursday, I listened to an exiled Egyptian Political Satirist and Comedian. Egypt, with all of its turmoil and upheaval, does not exactly seem like a funny kind of place. The current regime in Egypt is not a bastion of transparency and openness, one wouldn’t think that being a political satirist is exactly a sensible decision. I suppose it’s not exactly a surprise he was exiled.
I found myself annoyed with the journalist (so earnest, so determined to get to the sore parts) and sympathizing with the comedian. His job is to be funny and he was funny. You wouldn’t think you could be funny about corruption and revolution and exile, but he was.
I found myself understanding that he was playing a role. He may grieve, deeply and profoundly, about the loss of home, culture, hopes and dreams, but he’s going to make jokes. That’s what he does. That’s how he responds in public – true to type. It’s his job to make us laugh and think, in that order. His grief and is sorrow? That’s a private affair.
So too it is with me.
I have a cane these days.
I woke up on Thursday and my left leg had stopped working. If you ask me, I will tell you her name is Rosie (because she’s red and because together we can do it). I will tell you that my brain and my leg are experiencing some technical difficulties in communication. I will let you know as soon as you can stop standing by. I will tell you that the number of cane manufacturers who make sword canes is minuscule and I’m, quite frankly, annoyed by this.
I will make it clear that I do not actually want to talk about this. My grief, my fear and my frustration at my relapse, they are a private affair.