I know I shouldn’t have, but it was too much temptation. Maybe it was boredom, or maybe it was my personality that looked for excitement and a laugh. I put the need for a laugh down to my parents known for telling jokes sourced from everyone who came into the shops.
My mother and father were multi-lingual, and their keen intelligence enjoyed the convolutions of humour embedded in the different languages. But, translated jokes into English sometimes don’t work – it’s a matter of the particular semiotics of each language: the play in sentence construction, puns, the contradictions within social structures and, the depth of cultural knowledge that sets the twist up for the explosion of understanding and laughter.
The joke teller, a parent, would laugh hysterically while I’d flounder not getting “it” and with the sensitivity of a petulant teenager taking everything personally, I would retreat with a huff, and a flick of my hair.
Of my parents, it was my mother who had wit, something I only appreciated as I got older. As long as her sarcasm and cutting observations weren’t targeting me, I was fine, and could enjoy her cruel side.
When I had my first child, an element in me took advantage of his innocence. I remember Andrew already walking, more like staggering around the house, and me, calling him. The hallway had a dogleg and excited at what I had planned, I hid in anticipation behind the wall. As Andrew toddled down the hall, I jumped out and screamed. He jumped and screamed in fright and turned to get away, running straight into the wall.
I couldn’t stop. I was hysterical with laughter at the unexpected reaction, while he was hysterical with fear. Oops.
Now he’s older, it’s about opportunity and redress. Now I’m the one who gets to jump at the unexpected as he screams and I scream in response.
Burnside Writers Group 