I think one of my first jokes - in the black community, there's

Hear the words of Hannibal Buress, who recalled the beginnings of his craft: “I think one of my first jokes – in the black community, there’s people who have jokes about skin tone. People like, ‘You so black, you purple.’ ‘You so black, you gotta smile so we can see you at night.’” What at first sounds like a jest, light and playful, is in truth a reflection of something much older and heavier: the ways in which communities turn pain into humor, how they take what the world has used to wound them and transform it into laughter. Here lies not merely a joke, but the heritage of resilience through wit.

The origin of this truth stretches deep into the struggles of the African diaspora, where color, tone, and features became weapons of division under the shadow of slavery and racism. What could have remained only scars of shame was instead reshaped into humor, into the ritual of the dozens, into the tradition of playful insult that sharpened tongues and strengthened spirits. In such banter, Buress found his first steps into comedy—not by inventing something new, but by entering a stream that had flowed for generations: the practice of surviving by smiling in the face of sorrow.

History tells us of many peoples who turned ridicule into art. Among the enslaved in America, songs were sung with hidden meanings, laughter filled cabins even after days of crushing toil, and jokes about hardship created a bond stronger than chains. One might recall the example of Richard Pryor, who later carried the humor of Black experience to the stage, turning stories of pain and racism into performances that cut like a blade yet healed like a balm. Buress’s words echo that same current: the tradition of taking what society mocked and reclaiming it as power.

The meaning of the joke about skin tone is layered. On the surface, it is absurd, playful, teasing—one friend telling another that their smile is the only thing visible in the dark. Beneath the surface, however, is the recognition of how Blackness itself was historically marked, judged, and diminished. By laughing at what was once used to demean, the community transforms it. The joke becomes not cruelty but camaraderie, not mockery but survival. In this way, what could divide becomes a source of unity, a way of saying: we know the world’s judgment, but here, among ourselves, we turn it into laughter.

Yet we must not mistake this for weakness. To laugh at pain is not to deny it but to master it. Buress shows us that the first steps into his craft came through this inherited strength: to turn the weapon back upon itself, to wield humor as both shield and sword. This is a lesson as old as any people who have suffered—whether the oppressed Jews of Eastern Europe telling jokes under persecution, or the Irish using wit to mock the weight of empire. In each case, laughter was a defiance, a declaration that the spirit could not be broken.

The lesson for us is clear: humor is not only entertainment but a form of resilience. When you face what seems unbearable, learn to laugh—not to dismiss the pain, but to disarm it. And when others joke about themselves, understand it as a way of reclaiming power. What Buress inherited from his community was not merely a joke about smiles in the night, but a tradition of transforming stigma into strength, of creating joy where there might otherwise be despair.

Practical action must follow. When you encounter hardship, search for the seed of humor within it; in laughing, you may find strength to continue. When you hear others making jokes about themselves, do not mistake it for weakness—it is often a declaration of resilience. And above all, learn to wield humor with compassion, as Buress did, to bind rather than divide, to uplift rather than to wound.

Thus the teaching is sealed: the smile that shines in the darkness is more than a joke—it is a symbol of survival. Hannibal Buress’s recollection reminds us that laughter, even when born from pain, is an act of power. Let us then cherish humor not as escape, but as a torch in the night, guiding us through hardship, and proving that even in the darkest places, the human spirit can still shine.