They say the middle child makes the best comic. And just my luck, I happen to be that child. So maybe I was predestined to be the funny-maker in the family, or maybe, just maybe, on my birth day, I just came out funny.
Either way, I was born on the same day John F. Kennedy was assassinated, and while that part is not so funny, I did manage to find humor in it by telling people “ask not what I could do for you, but what you could do for me!”
Making ‘funny’ comes easy for middle peeps. We want all the attention (due us), and if it takes the stage to get it, or an elevator, then as my mother always said, “by all means.”
I look back at my growing years and think yah, it’s my turn now.
My older sister, by 10 months and 13 days (but who’s counting), was the pioneer. She forged through familial territory, carving out a place for herself in the home and hearts of others. She owned the bragging rights. She made headlines.
My younger brother (by two years and one day) stole gender rights. He made the sports page, above the fold.
I made the business page in sub-headlines, smaller font, page 10 or 11, depending on which daily; a section no one reads anyway because all their attention was lost on features or sports.
Stuck in the middle, I was sort of like the belly of the fam. I was not the cherished head, nor the spoiled feet, but the uncomfortable middle, the love handles (that no one really “loves”) — the donut roll with the first button unlatched to make room for lunch.
So I had to break out, break free; I’ve gotta be me (enter song made famous in 1968 by Sammy Davis Jr.) and there you have it—the middle-but-mighty. Okay, the poetic rhyme was completely unintentional, but you get my drift. ‘Attention-getter’ – that was my new “middle” name. Not Barbara.
As the funny middle child, my first break in “stand-up” with an audience came in the fifth grade. While the teacher wrote on the chalkboard, his back to us, I jumped out of my front row seat (not sure I’d have had the guts if I were in the back row), and gave my best imitation of “Mr. Lee at the blackboard.” The young crowd loved it, but my teacher decided to be the heckler who killed my set and sent me back to my seat, show over.
Still, the punishment was worth the reprimand. Laughter was my paycheck, even though it came from 10-year-olds. At least no one was drunk (except for Ellen, I had my doubts). For the most part, it was honest-to-goodness positive feedback on my then, raw talent.
I had nowhere to go but up from there. However, it wasn’t until years later, (oh, say about 25), that I would find myself on a real stage with a real audience and a real microphone (instead of chalk). Sound was much better.
At a comedy competition in San Francisco, where I was an audience-member, not a contender, I watched this one kid kill the audience (so awesome), with his mother sitting in the row directly in front of me. She asked me to watch her tan corduroy sports jacket (which I felt was way outdated at that time) while she visited the restroom. I agreed to be top notch security guard of her garment, but asked her what size it was, in case anyone should ask. She probably thought to herself, great … everyone’s a comic! I thought to myself, she had no idea how many of “us” are out there.
When she returned, jacket still draped around the back of her seat (because really, who would want such a thing), I asked her if she had other kids, to which she nodded yes, but added that this was the only one doing stand-up.
I had to ask her one more thing, which I was sure I knew the answer to. She replied, “Yes, he IS the middle child.”
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