For as long as I can remember, I’ve made my life into a joke. When I had issues with my car, I would joke with my brother that we would have to run like Fred Flinstones if the floor came out. When I was dumped by my boyfriend and left with clinical depression at 19, I made callous (but funny) jokes about him, shadowing the true aches of pain my heart felt.
It was during that depression that I vividly remember turning on Netflix and seeing Katt Williams in an emerald green suede blazer and his signature permed hair, and clicking “play.” For the next hour or so, my life wasn’t the dreadful hum of a post-breakup depression, but instead it was filled with laughter and smiles; it felt like time was moving again, and that I would be alright. (Spoiler alert: I was alright, after some therapy, of course.)
But it’s not just me. For generations, the Black community has turned to laughter in the face of trauma and pain. The laughter quietly shadows the screams of sorrow resulting from the legacy of slavery and systemic racism: poverty, health issues, police brutality, the list goes on.
Experts Featured in This Article
LaKeitha Poole, PhD, LPC-S, CMPC, is a therapist at Small Talk Counseling and Consulting.
Tirrell De Gannes, PsyD, is the regional clinical coordinator at Thriving Center of Psychology.
Tatyana Jackson, MA, LMHC, is a therapist at New York Psychotherapy and Counseling Center.
“When we are afraid or have experienced a trauma, our sense of safety has been threatened, and in order to protect ourselves, we might disassociate from the event,” says therapist LaKeitha Poole, PhD, LPC-S, CMPC. “I don’t think we actually turn everything into a joke, but instead seek to find the lightest and easiest way to process and experience things. Existing as a Black person in America is made difficult simply in our presence alone. It’s heavy.”
For Black comedians specifically, processing trauma through laughter is crucial. Take, for example, Jenae Boston, a comedian who has been bringing grins to people’s faces in various ways. She has a spotlight at Harlem’s iconic Apollo Theatre, and has landed roles on MTV’s rebooted “Singled Out” and Quibi’s “1865Fest.” But she initially got into comedy as she navigated motherhood and a strained relationship with her own father.
Like my ancestors, I too turn my pain to joy via jokes.
“I feel that Black people in this country have always used laughter, songs, prayer, and hymns to triumph through the pain and bring joy to their lives. Like my ancestors, I too turn my pain to joy via jokes,” she says. “As a naturally sensitive person, and as a new mom, my struggle with extreme emotions increased. I felt the pain from my traumatic situations started to burst through the seams that I tried to keep so tightly kept sewn. Discovering comedy was like a breath of fresh air [for me].”
It’s a similar story for Internet sensation Tee Sanders, who has been spreading joy to her over 65,000 followers for years. But when folks watch her reels that garner plays in the millions, many are not privy to the devastating tragedy that triggered her career.
Sanders was five months pregnant when she experienced the death of her son. Sanders says she had gone to the hospital for pain, but was dismissed and sent home. When she went into labor a week later, her son was breeched, and she was forced to push him out feet first. Due to issues with fluid buildup in her appendix, a C-section was not an option.
“It was white doctors not listening to Black women, and because of us not being heard, it was a fatal situation,” she says. “It was no different than the hundreds of thousands of women who have to go through that, but I never thought I’d be one of them.”
While Sanders always had a natural ability to make people laugh, that all came crashing down after the passing of her son. She says she struggled with the paralyzing feelings of grief — shame, embarrassment — but eventually discovered reruns of “Living Single,” which she watched for three months straight. The popular sitcom ignited her comedy bug, and after watching Kevin Hart’s interview with Oprah, she decided to give stand-up a try. When she stepped on stage for the first time, it was almost like the piece of her that she had lost had been restored.
“The experience was exhilarating and transformative, like an endless rollercoaster ride — scary, exciting, liberating, empowering, and unsettling all at once,” she says of performing. “The best thing about comedy is that you get to bring them into your world. Because I had the gift of laughter, I knew I would always be okay.”
According to Tirrell De Gannes, PsyD, the regional clinical coordinator at Thriving Center of Psychology, comedy can be a distinct sign of healing in that sense. “Comedy is the added sugar to the bitter drink we have to sip on,” he says. “Knowing you can hear about topics that relate to your own life and trauma and being able to laugh indicates you have healed enough to see that trauma as something you’ve placed in your past. Those who are still struggling often feel offended and often cannot laugh at things they have not healed from yet.”
For comedians with intersecting identities, comedy can also be an important tool to navigate the intricacies of living in a racist, sexist, and homophobic society. Kiara Blanchette, a comedian bouncing between Brooklyn, NY and Montreal, Canada, started stand-up after going through a breakup and realizing that she identifies as lesbian.
“I realized that I could connect to a lot of people who were also starting to understand their sexuality or had been through the experience of adjusting to this massive life change,” she says. “I made light of being a ‘baby gay’ as I called it, and the trials I went through when I first started dating women. It [was] a way of taking really heavy and traumatic events and making light of them. “
Of course, not all Black comedians use hardship to fuel their sets. Lea’h Sampson has been cracking jokes for eight years, and has appeared in commercials, specials, and talk shows. Sampson says she doesn’t “correlate comedy with trauma,” even though she mines her personal life for material.
One of the things that actually helped me heal was laughter.
“I was working at a bar and I would crack jokes with the regulars there during my shift. Everyday, they would tell me that I should do stand up,” she says. “I did my first open mic not knowing a lick about comedy but from then on, I had the comedy bug and never looked back. I eventually stopped showing up to that job.”
Still, there’s often more emotional depth to laughter for the Black community, and one reason may be because we often lack adequate mental-health care. One 2015 study found that only 31 percent of Black adults with a mental illness received mental health services, compared to 48 percent of white adults. The study attributed numerous factors to the lack of care, including socioeconomic status, as well as the lack of access to and trust with healthcare providers.
“The Black experience is undeniably challenging, as we continually face adversity regardless of our socioeconomic status,” says therapist Tatyana Jackson, MA, LMHC. “Often, the jokes reflect our constant efforts to survive and manage distress.”
Using laughter to combat mental-health issues inspired Courtney Moore to start the comedy show Laughs in the City alongside Reggie Kush Edwards and Kate Robards. The group is based in New York City and hosts most of their shows in the Big Apple, but are hoping to expand to other cities when they secure proper funding.
In 2023, when Moore was dealing with a number of issues — including an unexpected hospital stay, which led to her being physically drained and financially stressed — she found herself in a dark place.
“Laughs in the City was a response to my trauma,” she says. “One of the things that actually helped me heal was laughter. There was a point in time where I wouldn’t laugh or even crack a smile.”
As someone who struggles with anxiety and depression, I was curious to see if Moore’s formula for laughter and healing actually worked, so I attended a show just before the end of Pride month in June. Across the hour, seven comedians graced the stage, cracking jokes about everyday relatable woes — some about marriage and people watching, others about the sometimes unrealistic cost and fees of therapy. I realized that the entire crowd was fully present, and maybe, like me, escaping their stressful lives.
For the next hour, my anxiety faded; I laughed and shouted from the audience, my body vibrating with joy. I always believed laughter is good for the soul, and perhaps Sampson puts it best: “Laughter is universal and it is accepted by those that want to accept happiness.”
Náosha Gregg is a seasoned journalist from Brooklyn. She has an extensive background in editorial and television, with a niche in beauty, lifestyle, and the Black community. In addition to PS, she has written for Byrdie, Glamour, The Zoe Report, and Ebony and has produced for “CBS Mornings” and NY1.
