It’s no secret that humour is a way to shield oneself from unwanted feelings whether that is awkwardness or sadness. People use jokes to ease nervousness, sadness or anger.
Black humour has been a way to cope with negative feelings of death and pain for a long time; whether it be Monty Python’s sketches or memes about depression naps. I often use humour to play down tense and difficult emotions.
When I’m having a bad day, it’s much easier for me to joke about it with my friends and say, “anyway I feel like killing myself today lol” rather than saying “I’m having a difficult time and I need to talk about it”.
I also prefer my friends approach my depression and suicidal thoughts with humour rather than with that pitying voice of concern that will inevitably rear its ugly head. That’s why I usually find myself going to my best friend in times of trouble. She is chock-full of inappropriate fatalistic jokes that have never failed to make me laugh, and feel less miserable. I’m always advised to talk things out and “share my feelings” and I’ve found that humour is the only way to do that comfortably.
Aside from individual defence mechanism, comedy can also be used to punch up. That is, to critique those in power. Criticism is almost always more acceptable, both to the subject and audience, when done in a humorous form. If and when the jokes land, they become a way to connect; they create a forum to express displeasure in something without the tension that any other arena would have. It has the bonus of making outsiders more knowledgeable about an issue. I’m sure I wouldn’t know as much about American politics without Jon Stewart’s Indecision and Bullshit Mountain segments. I will always be cheered up by somebody saying “Hey remember that time Dick Cheney shot his friend in the face? And it wasn’t the evillest thing he’s ever done?”
This doesn’t just apply to politicians and their constituents but also to groups that experience other differences in power due to race, gender, sexuality and a host of other things. The walls of the Apollo Theatre have seen many comedians using humour to highlight the difficulties of being black in the US so much so that the theatre itself has become a bastion of African-American culture. My brother and I can quote Chris Rock’s “two types of black people” and “black people get rich white people are wealthy” routines. My friends and I often make jokes about being black in Sweden to vent to each other without the heavier burden of a serious discussion. The same effect is achieved, we just get to laugh instead of getting angry or disappointed.
The same thing of course applies to the queer community, and yes, I have the distinguished honour of being black and a woman and queer all at once. (and it really is an honour despite what current societal norms may tell you). We use humour to identify each other through common references or call out ridiculous behaviour with a simple “oh the heteros are at it again”. We use it turn all the jabs back around and poke fun at the heteronormative society around us, reclaim slurs and bite back. To make each-other laugh through puns like “being a lesbian means we’re les bien” or the countless flannel and nail clippers jokes. To shield ourselves from the world around us but also remind each other that we exist, we’re here, we’re allowed to laugh and smile and be happy and not always be afraid or worried or sad.
When used right, humour can bring light to important issues, to give people a safe space to laugh at their own misfortunes, to recognise themselves in the plights of each-other and, perhaps most importantly, to see that they’re not alone in their struggles. For people like us who are given less space in society and seen as the other instead of the norm, the cultivation of common humour and inside jokes lets us form a bond born not out of otherness but out of togetherness. Where we get to be the exclusive rather than the excluded. So, for old times’ sake, what do lesbians bring to a second date?