The sun was still high when I stepped up to the ramp for an outdoor stage. From where I stood, the crowd stretched out like a sea with waves of signs, flags, hats, and people scattered by the thousands. The kind of crowd you usually see on the news from a helicopter. It was picturesque. The Austin City skyline was visible above the tree line and the river. It was powerful.
Someone behind me said “You’re up!”.
A month earlier, I had moved to Austin with a vague idea… do comedy, write, figure out the next chapter. Now I was about to walk onstage at a rally, in front of thousands, to attempt something that didn’t really exist.
A comedy set, at a No Kings rally. You can watch the set on my YouTube channel here
I had never been to a political rally or protest before. I’ve been in the military for most of my adult life and couldn’t risk being affiliated with anything that could impact my ability to serve. Members of the military are supposed to be apolitical. At least in professional appearance.
Normally, comedy happens in dark rooms where people are drinking. The lights are low, stakes are small. If a joke bombs, the worst thing that happens is an awkward silence.
This felt like the opposite.
Bright daylight, no bar, and no stage lights hiding the crowd. Just nerves, a microphone, and the energy of people fed up with the current administration.
I spent the previous evening writing what I could only describe as a hybrid comedy rally speech… it was an experiment for me.
I stepped out onto the stage and felt the same kind of calm I used to feel before flying a mission. That strange nerve-induced focus that shows up when you are stretching beyond your comfort zone. I call it, challenging my imposter syndrome directly.
Years ago, when I was nineteen, the Army taught me how to sleep in Iraq as rockets landed nearby. Later, the internet taught me what it was like to wake up and discover millions thought you were dead and arguing about why you killed people.
Neither of those experiences prepped me for this. This time I was carving my own path entirely. My attempt to be known for something other than a viral conspiracy or my trans status.
A rally crowd doesn’t behave like a comedy audience. They are not sitting and waiting to be entertained. They are energized, emotional, and ready to tell you how they feel with every pause. It’s like being heckled except with aggressive agreement. One part rock show energy, the other part edging close to mob incitement.
And I was about to try and make them… laugh.
I walked up the ramp and on stage, someone passed me a microphone and and as I looked over the amazing view I took a moment and thanked God. Then I pushed my metaphorical imposter syndrome out of the way and said, “Hello Austin!”.
I improvised an opening joke, noting how strange it was to have comedy at the No Kings rally. It broke the tension and I heard my first wave of laughs. And then I went to work for 10mins.
The jokes mostly worked, only one didn’t quite hit. I was more surprised at how well the serious moments did. I had never given remarks like that and was improvising based on many reruns of The West Wing. People laughed, shouted in agreement, and listened to me.
Standing there in the Texas sun, I realized my crazy plan is working.
A year ago, most people recognized me from terrible headlines tied to the tragedy over the Potomac. Or the trans soldier who was being forced out of the military under the reinstated trans military ban. Two things I never asked to be thrust into the spotlight for. Let alone, be internationally outed as a trans person. I was just trying to survive it.
Now I was standing in Austin, in front of thousands, doing stand-up at a rally. This is what happens when you decide to reclaim the narrative. When you decide not to go quietly into the night. When you decide to live up to your full potential and be authentically yourself.
When I moved here, the plan was simple: show up, get stage time, and see if this crazy idea of becoming a comedian might work.
A few weeks before the rally, I had stepped back onto the stage at Kill Tony for the second time at Joe Rogan’s Comedy Mothership. The first time I did that show, it felt like I stepped into the lion’s den. The second time felt different. You can watch both appearances on my YouTube channel here and here.
Instead of just surviving the moment, I was able to play with it. I had spent the last 8 months since the first appearance working the scene, getting to know comedians, and establishing myself. So when I appeared the second time it felt like being with friends. The crew backstage gave me words of encouragement and fist bumped me. I got a hug from Heidi. Everyone seemed excited to have me back and waiting backstage for my name to be called.
Once on stage I felt like I was home. I even playfully roasted Tony and got the room to break with my quick comebacks to his questions.
One thing that stood out about that second appearance: We didn’t talk about the viral crash; we didn’t talk about being kicked out of the military. For once I wasn’t being defined by things I couldn’t control.
When I think back to both events over the past month, it feels like a new story is finally starting to solidify. A story I’m writing. A hero’s journey… the part where the hero starts to believe they really could make a difference.
Pilots spend years learning how to land in crosswinds. The wind pushes you every direction except where you want to go. You learn how to point into the wind, even off heading, so you can touchdown safely at your destination.
Life works the same way.
You don’t eliminate the crosswind, you learn how use it.
— Jo
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My first month in Austin already behind me. New ID, new license plates, newly a Texan! I can’t wait to see what unfolds next. I will keep showing up, leading with love, and trying to make people laugh. Thank you for following along this journey.
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