The Quiet Room

Letting laughter take a breather.

Trish and I were staying at a colleague’s riad in Marrakesh with our Chicago friends, Paul and Diane, when the door knocked.

“Vipin and his wife are here,” Trish called up. Vipin and Trish are on the same international board, and he and his wife’s trip to Morocco overlapped with ours. Trish invited them over for drinks, followed by dinner in the city.

Trish and Vipin hugged and I introduced myself. Vipin’s wife stuck out her hand. “Hi Mark, I’m Remi.”

“Great to meet you,” I said, and went to the kitchen to fetch the drinks, realizing I hadn’t caught her name. This happens a lot when I meet someone. I think about what I should do or say next instead of being in the moment. It’s a bad habit.

The riad where we were staying was stunning. Riads are inwardly focused homes, with no outside windows. From the street, you have no idea what’s inside, but when the doors open, you’re in a calming oasis, far from the chaos outside.

Over drinks on our rooftop, we chatted about how bonkers the city is, with its crowded and windy streets. It’s a cacophony of motorbikes and donkey carts, calls to prayer and vendor shouts. And the smells—spices, perfumes, and roasted meats are everywhere. Vipin’s wife, whose name I still didn’t know, told us about some brightly colored peppers she’d seen. I should have asked for her name right then. Instead, I said, “I have a pepper story.”

“Hannah was nine or ten and we were making guacamole. We finished chopping the jalapeños and she sat down on the couch while I went to the bathroom. Suddenly I heard her shriek, and I dashed out, zipping up my fly. Hannah cried, ‘my nose is burning!’ She must have gotten some jalapeño in her nostrils, and she Googled what to do. Just then, my penis started to sting like it was on fire. ‘Milk!’ she cried. ‘It says put my nose in a glass of milk.’ I rushed to the kitchen, poured two glasses of milk and handed one to her, which she plopped her nose into while I ran to the bathroom to solve my own problems.”

Everyone was laughing now.

“And to think,” I said, “Paul drank a Manhattan from that glass last week. Adds a new meaning to the word ‘cocktail.’”

The crew laughed even harder and Trish smiled and shook her head. “With that, why don’t we head out to dinner.”

Over tagines and Moroccan wine, the group chatted about the news, politics, and work. Vipin’s wife described her therapy practice.

“Cognitive behavioral therapy helps patients identify negative thought patterns that can interfere with grieving,” she explained. “But we often need to sit together in silence.”

“For how long?” I asked, chewing on a Moroccan pita.

“Last week I sat with a patient for fifty minutes without either of us saying a word.”

“Does that cost extra?” I asked, hoping for a laugh.

Paul mentioned his podcast interview with the philosopher Jonathan Lear, who said that psychotherapy during mourning lets us consider the meaning of existence. I nodded along but wasn’t paying full attention. The American women at the next table were making fun of one of their ex-boyfriends, who they called “Sir Texts-a-Lot.” I thought that was a funny name I should steal at some point.

As we finished dessert Vipin said, “What a wonderful and intellectual evening,” and everyone agreed. Then he added, “And to think, it all began with Mark’s penis.” Everyone laughed. I did too, but something in me sank. I’m glad people find me funny, but that’s not the only thing I want to be. It’s not like I said, “Hi, I’m Mark, let’s discuss my genitals.” It was just an icebreaker.

As Paul, Diane, Trish and I headed back to the riad, I asked, “Was my jalapeño story out of line?”

“Not at all,” Paul said. “You’re funny.”

Like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas, I wondered. “Like I’m a clown? Like I’m here to amuse you?” But I let it pass. The truth is this happens a lot. I feel the urge coming, the lull in conversation, the chance to fill it with a clever joke or a story. My brain goes, Quick, say something funny so people will like you.

It’s not because I love attention (well, maybe a little). It’s something deeper. I don’t know why I can’t just sit in silence, why my mouth makes a joke before my mind shuts it up. As much as I use humor to connect to others, it keeps them out too. Humor deflects vulnerability. It masks insecurity. It’s a wall. Or better yet, a riad. Jokes keep others from knowing who we are inside. Humor keeps the chaos out.

I’m glad I’m funny. People enjoy it and I like making them laugh. But when I’m performing, I’m not always present. Whether I’m pouring a drink or cracking a joke, I miss people’s names—and more—because I’m being “On Mark” instead of “Present Mark,” the guy who actually wants to get it right.

Later, while we were getting ready for bed, I asked Trish, “Do I make too many jokes?”
She kissed my forehead. “People need to love you for who you are.”

I looked out the bedroom window, wondering who that was exactly. From up here, I could see the riad’s hidden courtyard, the cool quiet behind the thick walls. From the street you’d never guess what’s inside. Most of us are like that I think, carrying private rooms we rarely show to anyone.

Humor is my public room. It’s well-decorated with great lighting and impeccable timing. The door is always open.

But there’s another room I keep walking past. The quiet one. There’s no audience. No spotlight. Just me, listening.

I’m going to try to open that door more often. I can’t promise a calming oasis, but it will be a good escape from the chaos. And if the silence gets awkward, at least I’ll remember people’s names.