The Best Medicine

So maybe you’re not up on Pseudobulbar Affect (PBA), a neurological disorder triggering involuntary crying or laughing, so know this: scientists claim that it is usually secondary to neurologic disease or brain injury. Well, I guess those scientists never sat next to their brother in church when they were young, uncontrollably laughing at absolutely nothing, while their dad sneered down, threatening to kill them both. I may know a thing or two about this.

There was an intriguing story on NPR lately about the Tanganyika Laughter Epidemic of 1962. It caught my ear. Tanganyika, now known as Tanzania, is located near the border of Kenya. The laughing epidemic first ignited in a mission-run boarding school for girls. Three girls began hysterically laughing, and chuckles spread to 95 of the 159 pupils, aged 12–18. The girls were sent home, taking the monkey on their backs with them, thus affecting 214 other people living in their villages: men, women and teenagers. If you don’t know the difference between “affect” and “effect,” skip ahead, as this narrative will likely hold no significance for you.

The laughter compounded, as laughing attacks often do (remember church, your dad, your brother), and in the end 14 schools were shut down and over 1,000 people were left laughing about it. Some were probably crying. The facts might have gone through a poorly administered game of “telephone,” but the epidemic lasted for months.

Robert Provine, author of Laughter: A Scientific Investigation, and a professor of psychology and assistant director of the neuroscience program at the University of Maryland studied the case. Further research determined (with plenty of disbelievers) that all of the girls—all of the people affected—had one thing in common: newly found freedom. Teenage girls have all kinds of new freedoms, and teenage girls giggle a lot, but records show that several of the villages had been recently “freed,” as well. And with freedom comes overwhelming giddiness, almost certainly.

As far as I know I haven’t a neurologic disease, and have never suffered a brain injury (unless you count the years of bad dating experiences, which, truth be told, could equate to one). I do not currently live in a village, but last night I was stuck at Sam’s first karate promotion. A “promotion” meant that Matt got to pay $45 for Sam to receive a new belt, which he would have received at age 6, anyway. And by “stuck,” I mean that I didn’t want to be there. I love Sam, I’m proud of Sam, but the building stinks and the parents are weird. One woman brings a caged ferret while she watches her son. It’s gross.

I sucked it up, and thankfully Sam went first, so I got to smile and give him the “thumbs up” for the rest of the evening. Near the end of all the kicking and kiais, the head honcho—OK, sensei—Anglo-Saxon woman to whom all children scream, “Yes, Ma’am!” asked an eight-year-old boy how long he’d been studying karate. She continued, “How many kids have you known the whole time you’ve been here; I mean (this is where the Pseudobulbar Affect began), are there any kids that you’ve gone ‘all the way’ with?”

The eight-year-old was befuddled, as even he understood the unfortunate moment that had captured the attention of the entire audience, and I looked over at my husband. Big mistake. Never, ever look at Matt when things get awkward. Matt said, “Has he gone all the way with a kid? God, I hope not.” That was it, I felt free. I didn’t have to watch children being made to “drop and give her 10” because their stupid moms left their nunchucks in the car. I didn’t have to bow inside the dojo, and I certainly didn’t have to pet the ferret. Sensei had broken code. I began laughing, and my entire body began shaking. I remained chortling in that “oh, god, I’m laughing in church” kind of way, to the point of tears and mascara streaming down my cheeks. And furthermore...did no one else find this hilarious?!

Matt kept it together, leaving me as the “weird mom obviously laughing during the most important moment of this child’s life” and then I looked at Matt again. He practically spit. He let out some type of convulsion, and we both sat sniggering, shaking, red-faced, joined in the uncontrollable hysteria of our evil, little, karate-disappointed world.

Our poor, poor, dear son. He has such a long road ahead.