Today, Mexican-American comedian Jilberto Soto reflects on finding the “right” audience for his stand-up.
Pack your bags. We are going to Edinburgh.
That’s what I said the moment I got my venue confirmation for the Fringe. I’d been to the fringe once before, and I was thrilled to be heading back. But this time there was a problem: what was I going to write about?
Then my dad didn’t come to my wedding.
And instead of getting mad, I said thank you. Thank you for missing it. Thank you for accidentally handing me a show. Because nothing teaches you what fatherhood means quite like watching someone fail at it on purpose.
“The actual job of stand-up, is not flattening your story so everyone understands it, but telling it specifically enough that anyone can recognize themselves in it.“
So now I had my lens. I’m married to a man older than me, and somehow he fills a void my own father left wide open. My little brother is about to become a dad himself, which means I get to watch fatherhood happen in real time, from the outside, like a guy pressing his face against a bakery window. And me? I’ll probably never become a father at all. So what does fatherhood even mean, to a son who didn’t get one, a husband who married one, and a brother watching one get made? All of it filtered through a Mexican lens, because that’s the only lens I’ve got.
That’s the show. Now came the harder question: who’s going to watch it?
Are there enough Mexicans in Edinburgh to fill a room? Or is this just going to be me, doing deeply specific bits about pageants and absent fathers and “mijo,” in front of a sea of very polite Scottish people nodding along out of kindness? I won’t lie, that thought kept me up. My references are specific. My rhythms are specific. This is a very Mexican hour.
But here’s what I keep coming back to: Edinburgh in August isn’t Scotland. It’s the whole world crammed into one city, all wandering around with open minds and three shows already booked for the day. Nobody comes to the Fringe expecting only what they already know. They come because they don’t know what they’re walking into, and they want to be surprised by it anyway.
“Thank you for missing it. Thank you for accidentally handing me a show.“
That’s the actual job of stand-up, isn’t it, not flattening your story so everyone understands it, but telling it specifically enough that anyone can recognize themselves in it. A Scottish grandmother doesn’t need to know what a quinceañera is to understand what it feels like when your father doesn’t show up. Specificity isn’t the obstacle to a universal audience. It’s the only way there.
So I’m not chasing Mexicans in Edinburgh. I’m chasing anyone who’s ever needed a father to be something he wasn’t, and found someone, or someone else, to fill that gap instead.
If they build it, you will come. And they will come. From everywhere. That’s kind of the whole point.
¡Ay, Papi.
Welcome to The Phoenix Remix 
Leave a comment