How to Translate a Joke by Emi Mahmoud Lyrics
How to Translate a Joke.
A man walks into the market,
looking for a date.
He asks the village playboy for help.
The village playboy says:
"Watch and learn."
He walks up to a girl selling honey and says:
"Do you have any honey, honey?"
She swoons. Gives him honey and a kiss.
He walks up to a woman selling flowers:
"Do you have any flowers, you rose?"
She melts. Gives him flowers and a kiss.
He walks to a third woman.
"Do you have any sugar, sugar?"
She practically dies. Gives him sugar and kisses him twice.
The playboy comes back.
"Your turn, stud."
The man apprehensively walks up to a woman selling dairy
and says: "Do you have any milk, cow?"
Realize that humor transcends all boundaries.
That laughter is a language that knows no borders.
That this joke that I learned in Arabic,
makes perfect sense in English and French
and in any other language.
Realize that we call women cows in every language.
Realize that humor leaves little room for questions,
and even less room for victims,
and even less room for apologies.
Realize that in one version of this joke,
the man is looking to pick up girls.
In another he's looking for a wife.
In a third, he's looking for an answer.
And maybe the cow slaps him.
Or the cow asks him to leave and he tries again.
Or she walks faster, clutches her purse.
Or maybe she threatens him and is jailed for treason.
Or maybe the cow sues him.
And the case is dismissed.
Or they settle... down.
We are willing to say offensive more than we say dangerous.
As if harm isn't transitive.
As if it isn't something you do to another person.
We like to pretend that I am not as uncomfortable alone
on the streets of New York as I am on the streets of Nepal.
That a stroll in Philly or Indiana or Minnesota,
doesn't bring as many stares as in India or Sudan or Egypt.
That violence is a third-world-problem.
That it isn't here. Hiding. In a conversation.
Or in a bouquet. Or a market.
That not being alone makes a difference.
If they don't get the joke, say it again.
Smile more this time. Repeat the punchline.
Pause for dramatic effect. Use jazz-hands if you have to.
Laugh.
In another version,
that man walks into a market looking for a date,
and leaves with an unwilling woman.
A bounty. That in my language I am a sweet.
And if not that, a decoration.
A flower. A gift.
He walks up to the girl selling honey.
She gives him her eyes. Her arms. Her silence.
He walks up to the girl selling sugar.
She practically dies.
He walks up to the girl selling flowers.
Calls her a rose. Strips all her thorns.
Sticks her in a bouquet.
She fights. He breaks her.
Calls her a dead thing.
She melts. Is trampled in the market.
There are four women in the joke.
None of them speak.
Realize that humor transcends all realities.
That laughter is a language that knows no borders.
That this joke I heard in Arabic,
hurts just as much in English and French
and in any other dialect.
In the last version,
the man is foaming at the mouth
with another girls jugular around his teeth.
His adam's apple making excuses for him
from all the way over there.
And the market is cheering.
And the girls hair is a bracelet around his neck.
And the market is still cheering.
Or the audience. Or the school yard. Or the other men.
And he asks her name.
And she says: "You left a box of your things in my stomach.
Are you still trying to find yourself on another girls neck?"
Last week, my seven year old brother said
that I am the reason he wakes up every morning.
I gave him a hug.
He whispered to my mother: "Works every time."
I saw the fear in her eyes.
We laughed.
A man walks into the market,
looking for a date.
He asks the village playboy for help.
The village playboy says:
"Watch and learn."
He walks up to a girl selling honey and says:
"Do you have any honey, honey?"
She swoons. Gives him honey and a kiss.
He walks up to a woman selling flowers:
"Do you have any flowers, you rose?"
She melts. Gives him flowers and a kiss.
He walks to a third woman.
"Do you have any sugar, sugar?"
She practically dies. Gives him sugar and kisses him twice.
The playboy comes back.
"Your turn, stud."
The man apprehensively walks up to a woman selling dairy
and says: "Do you have any milk, cow?"
Realize that humor transcends all boundaries.
That laughter is a language that knows no borders.
That this joke that I learned in Arabic,
makes perfect sense in English and French
and in any other language.
Realize that we call women cows in every language.
Realize that humor leaves little room for questions,
and even less room for victims,
and even less room for apologies.
Realize that in one version of this joke,
the man is looking to pick up girls.
In another he's looking for a wife.
In a third, he's looking for an answer.
And maybe the cow slaps him.
Or the cow asks him to leave and he tries again.
Or she walks faster, clutches her purse.
Or maybe she threatens him and is jailed for treason.
Or maybe the cow sues him.
And the case is dismissed.
Or they settle... down.
We are willing to say offensive more than we say dangerous.
As if harm isn't transitive.
As if it isn't something you do to another person.
We like to pretend that I am not as uncomfortable alone
on the streets of New York as I am on the streets of Nepal.
That a stroll in Philly or Indiana or Minnesota,
doesn't bring as many stares as in India or Sudan or Egypt.
That violence is a third-world-problem.
That it isn't here. Hiding. In a conversation.
Or in a bouquet. Or a market.
That not being alone makes a difference.
If they don't get the joke, say it again.
Smile more this time. Repeat the punchline.
Pause for dramatic effect. Use jazz-hands if you have to.
Laugh.
In another version,
that man walks into a market looking for a date,
and leaves with an unwilling woman.
A bounty. That in my language I am a sweet.
And if not that, a decoration.
A flower. A gift.
He walks up to the girl selling honey.
She gives him her eyes. Her arms. Her silence.
He walks up to the girl selling sugar.
She practically dies.
He walks up to the girl selling flowers.
Calls her a rose. Strips all her thorns.
Sticks her in a bouquet.
She fights. He breaks her.
Calls her a dead thing.
She melts. Is trampled in the market.
There are four women in the joke.
None of them speak.
Realize that humor transcends all realities.
That laughter is a language that knows no borders.
That this joke I heard in Arabic,
hurts just as much in English and French
and in any other dialect.
In the last version,
the man is foaming at the mouth
with another girls jugular around his teeth.
His adam's apple making excuses for him
from all the way over there.
And the market is cheering.
And the girls hair is a bracelet around his neck.
And the market is still cheering.
Or the audience. Or the school yard. Or the other men.
And he asks her name.
And she says: "You left a box of your things in my stomach.
Are you still trying to find yourself on another girls neck?"
Last week, my seven year old brother said
that I am the reason he wakes up every morning.
I gave him a hug.
He whispered to my mother: "Works every time."
I saw the fear in her eyes.
We laughed.