Driving to work last week, my jaw dropped as I listened to Kevin Hart's interview on “The Breakfast Club,” during which he defended the racist jokes told at his expense on Netflix's recently released “Roast of Kevin Hart.”
At the roast, one comedian, a white man, joked that George Floyd was “looking up” and laughing so hard that “he could not breathe.” Another white comedian quipped that Kevin Hart was so short he would have to be “lynched from a bonsai tree.”
As a Black woman, I didn't find any of this funny. And the more I thought about this “comedy” special, the more I realized that this was yet another instance of Black people being gaslit by others insisting that their racist comments are “just a joke.”
The Normalization of Racist Jokes
While Hart agreed some of the jokes weren't “tasteful,” he said he didn't understand the uproar, saying to those who didn't like it, “OK … we move on.” But laughing at the trauma Black people have suffered ― and continue to experience ― normalizes it, which in turn desensitizes people to that pain. Make people laugh hard enough, they'll look the other way when Americans are locked up in detention centers, or when someone is deported without due process, or when a white police officer kneels on a Black man's neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds. Heck, lawmakers in Minnesota even held a moment of silence for that white police officer who's now serving a lengthy prison sentence for murdering George Floyd.
This pain doesn't come from witnessing one racist incident. It is borne from a legacy of racism in America that still echoes through Black families and communities today, in big and small ways.
Everyday Racism and Its Legacy
That legacy is why, when I stood at a jewelry counter and called for assistance, the store clerk ran over, looked past me, and instead helped the white woman standing behind me. That legacy is why I had to argue for 20 minutes with a bank teller who looked at me sideways because the check I was trying to cash was “too much money.” And that legacy is also why, just last weekend when an officer pulled me over for speeding, I immediately put both hands on my dash. Those incidents are not the same as a fatal police encounter or a lynching. But they hurt nonetheless.
When I worked at a bank years ago, my boss was known for making off-color jokes that many people dismissed as “harmless humor.” When he learned I lived in the Bronx, he made wisecracks about it being a “cesspool.” I recall one watercooler conversation in which he “joked” that if Black people didn't spend money on flashy clothing, they might be able to afford a decent place to live. While most of my colleagues chuckled, one woman leaned in and quietly told me to ignore him, as she had been the target of his racist jokes before. I understood the unspoken rule: Challenging the joke carried a greater risk than enduring it.
I remember watching the news that day in May 2020, seeing Floyd's death from all the different angles. When Floyd called for his “mama,” it brought tears to my eyes. I have a Black husband and a Black son. I live with the daily reality that at any point in time, either of them could meet up with an officer who may decide they don't deserve to live. My family means everything to me, but may mean nothing to the police.
Outrage Is About Memory and Pain
That is why I understood the outrage that followed the Netflix special. It was not about being overly sensitive or unable to take a joke. It was about memory. It was about pain. There was one moment I did like about the special, though. And that's when comedian Sheryl Underwood stepped to the mic and addressed the offending comics, shaming them for making fodder out of the sufferings of Black people. As she spoke, I jumped to my feet and screamed at the TV, “Get them!”
This is what Black women have done throughout history. When the country has trivialized the suffering of Black people, Black women have often been the ones willing to speak truth to power, even when doing so has come with consequences. I think about Ida B. Wells, one of the first investigative journalists in America who risked her life exposing the lies that justified the lynching of Black people. I think about Fannie Lou Hamer, who organized voter registration efforts throughout the South. Though she was arrested, beaten and fined for her activism, she refused to be silenced. And I think about American scholar Kimberle Crenshaw, the pioneering civil rights scholar and law professor, whose new book, “Backtalker: An American Memoir,” reminds us that “backtalk” is often an essential survival tool and the first step in challenging unequal power.
We are living through a moment when millions of people, including Black Americans, are navigating a political climate many view as increasingly hostile to diversity, equity, civil rights and historical truth.
Conclusion: Nothing Funny About Racism
The atrocities committed against us are not relics of the past. They continue to shape the lives of Black Americans today. They are woven into our collective memory, our family histories and our lived experiences, and they take a heavy psychological toll. There is nothing funny about that.
Danielle Caldwell is an organizer, early childhood Education Consultant, and advocate. She is also a Public Voices Fellow of The OpEd Project in partnership with the National Black Child Development Institute.
