I walked on stage like a truck backing into a warehouse.
Literally.
Beep...
Beep...
Beep...

I held the mic stand in both hands and slowly reversed into the spotlight ... wide-load style.
The audience laughed, of course.
They were supposed to.
They were at a comedy show.

But then the squint hit. The lights were bright.
And I followed it up with,
"I'm so white for a Saudi, when I put on oud... my DNA screws it up. I end up smelling like vanilla."

Boom.

Laughter.
Relief.
Recognition.

But that moment wasn’t about defense.
It wasn’t about disarming them.
It was about directing them.

I wasn’t hiding behind a joke.
I was offering a map.

People assume self-deprecating humor is a shield.
Sometimes it is.
But that night ... and many nights since ... it’s been more like an invitation.

An invitation to challenge the stereotype before they get too comfortable with it.
An invitation to let go of judgment and lean into curiosity.

I wasn’t saying, “Please accept me.”
I was saying, “Let me reintroduce myself.”

I’ve never needed to be anyone’s punchline.
But I’ve always had the right to choose my own.

After one show, someone told me:
“The way you own your differences ... you made me question mine.”
That stuck with me.
Because I wasn’t trying to make a statement.
I was just claiming the space before someone else filled it in for me.

That’s what people often miss about comedians.
We’re not always laughing because it’s funny.
We’re laughing because it’s true... and truth, in the right rhythm, is bearable.

Sometimes the punchline comes with a soft sting.
Sometimes the laugh is the breath before the ache.
And sometimes... you make fun of yourself because it’s the one thing you still control.

Years ago, on the James Corden show, I joked that my goatee wasn’t a style choice ... it was a necessity.
I had gained weight after moving to America, and the beard helped people know where my face ended and my neck began.

People loved it.
Still bring it up to this day.

But every now and then, someone smiles and says, “You still have the goatee, huh?”
And for a second, I wonder if they’re really saying: you still haven’t lost the weight, huh?

Is that my sensitivity?
Maybe.
Or maybe it’s the cost of turning your pain into a punchline ... it echoes.

But here’s the thing:
Making fun of yourself is not weakness.
It’s strength.

It’s humbling ... and it wears comedy like a disguise.
If that confuses you, that’s not my problem.
And if we can’t laugh at ourselves, maybe we’re just too full of ourselves to admit where it hurts.

So yeah...
I beeped my way into the spotlight.
Because I knew where the story needed to begin ...
with me,
on my terms,
in my voice.

Before anyone else could decide who I was...
I’d already told them.