Whenever I get asked to describe my comedy, I always say it is accessible, observational stuff, suitable for the whole family. Then you start reading descriptions of yourself over the years. Mine are always consistent, they’re always, “Blunt, brutal, forthright.” I don’t read reviews, but I saw one by accident recently. It opened with, “Fern Brady scares me.” - Fern Brady
What's more terrifying than a person with nothing to lose?
Over the years, I have had several people tell me “you are powerful but." There is always a but. But you don’t carry it well. But you haven’t accessed it all. But you hide it. But you don’t trust yourself. But you’re also (somehow, essentially) weak.
This feedback always surprises me—almost as much as it surprises me to hear that I am, apparently, more sensitive than I “seem.” (I'm a 68-inch raw nerve wrapped in human-colored foil, like a chocolate bunny at the grocery store on Easter. Either the foil is extraordinarily convincing or you aren’t looking very closely at all.)
I’ve always known I am powerful, just as it’s painfully obvious (to me at least) that I am sensitive. At my core, you will find no question (or shame) about either. Why? Because contradictions don’t scare me. Also, because we’re all going to die.
This “life” you identify so closely with is obviously either a simulation, a drunken rager, a concert on a sinking ship, or a doorway to the eternal.
Whichever it turns out to be, your opinion of me has virtually no bearing on Reality. What’s more, the chances of your opinion being either accurate or beneficial is extremely low. It's more likely to pull me down and waste your mental energy than it is to be useful to either of us. It will, at best, get in the way of what matters most.
At the same time, I am not naive. I am aware that your opinion determines much of my experience in this brief life. It determines the quality and constraints of how I live it. It determines whether I die early or late, live richly or poorly.
These are no small things.
Your opinion is the currency that fuels a social economy made up almost entirely of status games. I don’t know whether these games are a feature or a flaw, something you entered into consciously or unconsciously, something you perpetuate or tolerate—but I know I hate them more than you do. When did you first think it was a good idea to rank human beings on a scale of “worthless” to “valuable”? Valuable to whom, for what, for how long?
Status games amount to a clever distraction from the real work (and fun) of being alive.
But I don’t blame you for playing them. Not because I think you're “doing your best” or any such condescending fluff. I think you're doing what seems, to you, necessary. I think you truly, on some level, believe status is the game of life, that your survival (and the existence of your descendants) depends on whether you win or lose.
And you're not wrong. Jesus died a childless bachelor—even, if the stories can be believed, a virgin. As much as your fellow players have used his name to craft updated versions of your foolish game, the man himself refused to play it. In fact, he spoke against it. And look where that got him: nailed naked to a piece of wood, confusing people left and right for years to come.
Losing the status game is a social death that leads, in pieces or all at once, to physical death. Most are not as dramatic as that of Jesus or his early followers, of course. Most losers don’t die in public.
The promise of status games is a powerful one: not only that you can escape exile or violence, but that you can get all your psychological needs met—and maybe, if you get lucky or stay focused, become something better than you are. You might be one of the lucky few to transcend this life and become something that doesn’t die when your body does, like a legend or a statue.
All you have to do is obey the rules of gamemasters who care more about the game than the players.
My own relationship to your game is a complicated one. I was born into it against my will. I quickly learned that if I wanted anything resembling peace or love, I would have to play along.
So I lost, on purpose, just enough to avoid suspicion. I pretended to be smaller, weaker, dumber, less sensitive than I was. I pretended to be ok. I aced my classes and ate my dinner and washed my hair. I swallowed my questions and observations and concerns. I did the things a “nice, quiet girl” is supposed to do.
But I was secretly a loser. I never let on that I felt like an orphan, an alien, a rebel. I let my grades and my reputation shield me from your careless judgments and dismissive contempt—and shield you from the unpredictable wildness inside me.
I wanted to love you, deeply, fully, but I knew what my love would look like to you. I didn’t know how to find or start another game. But I did know that we would hurt each other, and that you outnumbered me, so I pretended to be someone you weren’t threatened by.
At times, the cognitive dissonance became unbearable. When that happened, it was easier to convince myself that I was the problem. Which helped a little.
As a teenager, I would sometimes soothe myself by imagining my dead body in the basement bathtub. She seemed so peaceful, so relaxed. Then, before I could get too comfortable, I would bring myself back to your ‘reality.’ What kind of selfish, ungrateful brat would do a thing like that to a world that gave her everything? Or, on days I was in the mood for something more clinical: What kind of dysfunctional brain would do something so tragic and illogical?
It wasn’t until the fantasy morphed years later into laying myself down in the woods that I realized these thoughts were simply my body's way of begging me for rest. Rest from playing games I don’t believe in. From pushing against my nature every minute I was not alone. From seeing the world in a way it would never see me.
I am powerful because I know that the game isn’t real, which makes me immune to its politics and outcomes. I’ve already wasted too much time pretending it matters—trying to make you comfortable, trying not to disturb your whole-hearted efforts, wanting to honor your reality even when that reality is crude and cruel, even when doesn't include me.
Let me be pause to name a nuance that’s likely to get lost: I don’t think there's anything wrong with you. I think it’s good you want to feel good, powerful, loved, competent, appreciated, respected, safe. Wanting those things means you are alive. If praise or a pretty title shows up in the pursuit of joy or honor or other goodness, I’m happy for you—really. There’s nothing wrong with receiving status that comes knocking.
But pursuing it is a different story. Believing it is a different story. When I say “playing status games,” I don’t mean engaging status as a game at all. I mean entering the arena of others’ opinions as a matter of life and death.
When you play for survival, you start to see other people as avatars with more or less points. You start to see yourself that way. At first, the perspective is something you put on and take off, then slowly, without fanfare, you lose the ability to see anything else. But I don’t need to tell you this, do I?
Jesus warned his followers not to do the right things for the wrong reason, not to turn good deeds or pretty words into points on a scoreboard. The consequence that would ensue if they did: having “received their reward in full.”
He threatened them with the awful fate of getting exactly what they wanted: a seat of honor, a good name, wealth they can feel deserving of. Nothing more.
Games are fun precisely because they are not real. Russian Roulette is not fun. The Hunger Games are not fun. Equating human beings with their title, bank account, or social rank is not fun. “Games” like that turn some people into gods and everyone else into playthings or tools.
The dirty secret of status games is that, when you play like your life depends on it, something in you dies and everyone around you loses.
It hurts to be a loser, there’s no way around it. Losing the status game hurts not just your ego but your heart, your body, your life. At the very least, it makes living harder and lonelier than it needs to be.
But, then again, so does playing to win.
I decided long ago and now I’ll say it to you straight: I’d rather be a real loser than a fake winner any day.
Enjoy your game.