Thank God We Survived... by Marito Lopez

My father used to take photos of the Salvadoran Civil War. That was his job. I once stumbled upon the photographs he captured and I saw an image of a baby with its head blown off. A young Latinx King or Queen, glued to the pavement. I was too young to see that. I remember thinking, why did I make it out and they didn’t? Why am I so special?

I love your energy. Your energy is incredible. We need your energy to start the show. Thank God for your energy. Not to brag. Don’t mean to sound boastful, but praise for my energy has become a common theme throughout my career. I used to despise it. It would embarrass me. What about my jokes tho?

Going bullet on a show is the ultimate form of disrespect for an ego-driven comedian like myself. The art of stand-up comedy is a constant competition. How can I be the supreme comedian if I have to go up first; they’ll forget about me; I’m just a worthless pawn for the greedy producer; a victim of being quickly neglected by cold-hearted audiences who never care to learn our names; they just remember the neon logos of the shitty comedy clubs we perform at.

This year, I was asked to warm up audiences for the Crave Specials at the Just For Laughs Festival in Montreal. The week before, I had finished telling my agent that I was done hosting. I bombed all week, hosting for some white dude, at The House of Comedy. I hated every second of it. How are you guys doing tonight? Anybody celebrating anything? Are you guys ready to laugh? What a lovely audience you guys are! Make some noise! I felt phonier than Kim Kardashian’s ass. I hate hosting.

But I could never turn down an opportunity to perform at Just For Laughs. That’s our Super Bowl. That’s our Wrestle Mania. We were locked down for almost two years. I couldn’t believe the festival was even happening. I was honoured they asked me to warm up the Crave specials for the finest comedians in Canada. I told my agent, “yes, of course!” He was confused. He thought I hated hosting. But this was different. This was my dream, since my first year in comedy, back in 2009. The comedians selected for specials were phenomenal: Sophie Buddle, Kyle Brownrigg, Deanne Smith, Paul Rabliauskas, Chris Robinson, Chris Locke and Dave Merheje. Years ago, I remember being drunk, my eyes painted pink, squeezing a cold pint of Alexander Keith’s, drunkenly telling Dave Merheje it was my dream to one day open his special. Assuming he would get a special, of course. I opened for Dave many times. In Calgary. Toronto. Grand Prairie. Medicine Hat. Every shit hole. But this was different. This was destiny. And my energy was needed.

The night of Dave’s recording, we prayed. We were lead by my brother, Hassan Phillis. Together, side by side, we prayed, and we, respectfully, repeated: Allahu Akbar. We prayed Maghrib and Insha, Muslim prayers offered to God. We were enclosed in Dave’s greenroom, surrounded by a beautiful force, bowing and standing, facing towards Mecca. Dave sweated through the outfit he was about to perform in. One prayer was for the day. The other for the night. We thought it was only one. It was almost showtime but we finished the ritual as it was intended. Dave murdered both his recordings. I warmed up the audience before he went on. I was so scared. If any of the recordings went bad, it was on me. Or, at least, that’s what my fear told me.

In the second show, something magic happened. Dave delivered the world a Canadian classic. I’ll let y’all watch it when it comes out to see the proof. He represented his city, Windsor, and for his nation, Lebanon. Davey was killing so hard, mid joke, he pointed to my brother, Dino Archie. He was up top on the balcony. Dino’s laugh could be heard through the sea of roars. It was legendary. Real recognize real. After his set, Dave came back on stage to thunderous applause. He thanked his family, his fans, the producers of Just For Laughs. Then he thanked me for my energy. I did not expect that. My soul left my body. I was transported back to the drunk kid who promised to open his special someday. I started crying. Those prayers really meant something. I’ve battled addiction my whole life. Thank God I was sober for this moment. Allahu Akbar.

From left to right: Hassan Phillis, Dave Merheje, Marito Lopez, Dino Archie

Dave’s night prepped me for the rest of the specials. Fuck ego. Fuck getting laughs for me. This was bigger than me. I had to get the audience ready for my peers and their specials. I took the job seriously. I drank espresso, took cold showers, and did a million push ups before every show. My ancestors were with me. The night of Paul Rabliauskas’ recording, I felt the most connected to the ancestors. I couldn’t explain it. Watching my dude tell stories about growing up on the res, showing love to his aunties and uncles, reppin’ Poplar River, and standing up for the Indigenous Peoples of Canada, I couldn’t help but reflect on my roots. My father grew up in a dirt poor village in El Salvador. He and his siblings picked coffee beans for pennies when they were only seven years old. Our skin is dark like roasted coffee beans. We are short. We are Indigenous. My whole life I thought we were Spaniards. We are descendants of the Mayans and the Pipils. They tried to erase us. Fuck the Spanish Empire. Fuck all colonialism. Fuck the Canadian government that committed genocide against my cousins in the North. The Canadian government stole children and forced them into residential schools. And then destroyed and buried their bodies in the land of their ancestors. Watching Paul do his thing, I cried again. And I whispered to myself, proudly: thank God we survived. Thank God Dave’s family survived. Lebanese kids deserve to see their stories on TV. Indigenous kids in Canada deserve to speak against oppression. Latinx kids deserve to shine like our ancestors who dressed in jaguar heads and the colourful feathers of exotic birds.

Thank God my parents survived. Thank God my whole family survived. I take that for granted. I’ll never hate hosting again. I am privileged to tell these jokes on stages all over Canada. Nobody has energy like me. I finally know who I am. I am an Aztec, Mayan, and Incan warrior. I am every forgotten tribe that makes up Latinx and North America. Our ancestors used to fight, sacrifice each other to the gods. Now it’s time for us to come together because we are gods. I match energies with my Indigenous brothers and sisters on Turtle Island, like Paul or the Cree warrior Chad Anderson. We all look like we could be extras in Blood In, Blood Out. That’s family. The second I found this energy, this truth: my comedy started to change. My mind shifted. I started reading more. It’s hard because colonialism lives in our bones. Colonialism manifests itself through fear. Colonialism manifests its self through doubt. I’m finished self deprecating or shitting on myself. I got so used to that. That’s what they want us to do. Fuck that. My family and I didn’t survive the war, generational trauma, systemic racism, or poverty to behave like we have been erased. This is a new history page. Allahu Akbar.

We are more than “ethnic comedians” or the “POC Category.” We are the children of immigrants, child soldiers, activists, refugees, ex-convicts, addicts, alcoholics, SURVIVORS.

Woah, thank God we survived around where the terrorists hovered
Though traumatized, wouldn’t trade it for nothin’
Through hard times, it was there I discovered
A hustle and makin’ the best out the struggle
J.Cole, “The Interlude,” The Off Season (2021.)

Marito Lopez - @nochampagnepapi