My brothers and sister and me grew up making fun of each other

Hear now, O students of laughter and life, the words of Colman Domingo, the actor, playwright, and sage of the stage, who once said: “My brothers and sister and me grew up making fun of each other, the way we’d speak or move. When we get together, everyone’s funny, quick, loud, and speaks on top of each other. It was like a great comedy school; nothing is precious.” In this reflection lies not merely a memory of childhood but a philosophy—a sacred teaching about humility, creativity, and the alchemy of love through laughter. For his words reveal that sometimes the deepest lessons of art and strength are learned not in grand halls, but in the noisy, joyful chaos of family.

When Domingo speaks of his siblings—mocking each other’s movements, voices, and habits—he is describing not cruelty, but communion through humor. In that circle of teasing, there was an unspoken law: nothing was off limits, yet nothing was meant to wound. It was play, pure and unguarded, where laughter became both shield and sword. It taught them to withstand embarrassment, to turn mistakes into stories, and to see in every flaw the seed of comedy. Thus, his childhood home became a “great comedy school,” one without walls or teachers, but filled with rhythm, wit, and love sharpened into laughter.

This spirit of unfiltered humor is not new. The ancients, too, understood that laughter is the training ground of courage. In the marketplaces of Athens, philosophers and fools debated with equal fervor, mocking and jesting as freely as they reasoned. Diogenes, the wandering cynic, used laughter as his weapon of truth, calling out hypocrisy with ridicule and wit. He understood, as Domingo did, that to be laughed at is to be freed from the tyranny of pride. For when “nothing is precious,” the soul becomes fearless. It learns that identity is not fragile but fluid, that the self can survive even the harshest joke.

Within Domingo’s memory, there is also a deeper kind of wisdom—the democracy of humor. No one in his family stood above another; all were fair game. The loudest was mocked for being loud, the quietest for being shy, and even the clever were made the butt of jokes. In such a space, hierarchy dissolves, and what remains is equality through laughter. This, too, is an ancient truth: the court jester, in times of kings, was the only one who could mock the crown and live. Humor is the great leveler, the fire that purifies arrogance and binds the community in shared humility.

But to live this way requires bravery. For when Domingo says, “nothing is precious,” he speaks not of cynicism but of liberation. To hold nothing too sacred for laughter is to live without vanity or fear. It is to know that even our stumbles can become steps in the dance. In his family’s clamor—the overlapping voices, the quick retorts, the endless teasing—there was a hidden training for the stage of life. It taught him to listen amid noise, to think swiftly, to respond with grace, and to hold his ego lightly. From this playful battlefield emerged a performer both resilient and radiant, one who could laugh at himself and thereby invite others to do the same.

Think, too, of Robin Williams, who often spoke of how his early improvisations with friends were born of chaos and insecurity. Like Domingo, he learned that humor is not merely entertainment—it is survival. It transforms pain into play, tension into tenderness. In every great comedian, from the jesters of the medieval courts to the satirists of modern times, there beats the same heart: one that knows laughter is not denial, but a deeper kind of truth. Domingo’s childhood, though ordinary in setting, was extraordinary in its lesson—that laughter is the first language of resilience.

Thus, take this teaching, my children of the present age: learn to laugh at yourself, and you will never be destroyed by the laughter of others. Gather with your loved ones not to boast, but to jest, to find joy in each other’s imperfections. When you can see beauty in the ridiculous and grace in the awkward, you will have discovered the secret of freedom. Let “nothing be precious”—not your image, not your pride, not your mistakes—and you will move through life like a dancer unafraid of falling.

For in laughter, as Colman Domingo teaches, there is wisdom ancient and eternal. It strips away vanity, builds resilience, and reminds us that love can roar as loudly as laughter in a crowded room. So may you, too, build your own “great comedy school,” where humor is your teacher, humility your lesson, and joy your reward. For those who can laugh at themselves will forever be rich in spirit, and untouchable by despair.