That’s How They Get You is not a book you read so much as a world you step into, one essay at a time, a curated carnival of wit, absurdity, observation, and relentless intelligence. Damon Young, as editor and occasional participant, sets the stage with the clarity of someone who knows both the weight of Black life and the levity of Black humor. From the first chapter, you’re introduced to the paradox of laughter and grief, of wit and survival, in Hanif Abdurraqib’s reflection on the dozens. It is a lesson in how humor can carry the dead weight of memory and loss, how a verbal sparring match in the schoolyard can serve as both armor and lifeline. There is tenderness here, yes, but there is also skill—an acknowledgment that humor is not accidental; it is cultivated, strategic, necessary.
As you turn the page, you encounter the kaleidoscope of approaches and voices. Jill Louise Busby’s “The Couple” situates us in the pixelated intimacy of social media, a space that is simultaneously communal and isolating. Through the lens of Instagram, we learn how proximity can be manufactured and closeness negotiated from afar, with humor as the adhesive binding digital observation to lived experience. Mateo Askaripour’s chapters on Karens push us into absurdist dystopia, a world where entitlement meets legislative fantasy. The laughter is sharp-edged, almost theatrical in its exaggeration, yet beneath the satire lies a recognition of power, privilege, and the absurdities that stem from both.
Damon Young’s own essays, particularly “You Gonna Get These Teeth” and “Email From the Future”, are masterclasses in blending the deeply personal with cultural observation. In the former, Young turns something as mundane and intimate as dental anxiety into a meditation on shame, masculinity, and performance. The phrase “YOU GONNA GET THESE TEETH” resonates as both defiance and affirmation, a rallying cry that transforms vulnerability into comedic empowerment. In the latter, the future becomes a canvas for humor to collide with imagination, offering absurdity and critique in equal measure, reminding us that Black humor is capable of spanning time, form, and expectation simultaneously.
Kiese Laymon’s contributions, especially “How to Shit in West Virginia at Night: But for ******?” and “Letters From Home”, embody the anthology’s oscillation between dark humor and profound reflection. Laymon confronts the realities of racial vulnerability in spaces that are ostensibly ordinary, reframing anxiety as absurdity, tension as comedy, survival as narrative. In “Letters From Home”, the collection closes with warmth, nostalgia, and the layered complexities of family and memory. Humor is ever-present, but it is tempered by recognition—an acknowledgment that laughter does not erase risk, history, or pain; it mediates them.
Other contributors extend this terrain further. Mahogany L. Browne’s declaration that “You Ain’t Killing That Shit Until a Black Woman Say So” captures authority, cultural literacy, and social negotiation with blunt comedic force. Nicola Yoon reflects on representation in ways that are playful yet piercing, examining the absurdity of scarcity in childhood imagination while celebrating resourcefulness and identity. Wyatt Cenac situates philosophy around the kitchen table, finding comedy in domestic discourse, while Roy Wood Jr. negotiates fatherhood, societal expectation, and racial perception with a mix of charm and pointed observation.
Alexander Hardy, Clover Hope, and Brian Broome demonstrate that humor is elastic: it stretches across family kitchens, diner booths, musical landscapes, and intimate personal anxieties. Hardy’s darkly comedic engagement with vulnerability in “Unmurdered in Grandma’s Kitchen” juxtaposes tenderness and absurdity. Hope’s musical musings in “Dancing in the Dark” are playful, rhythmic, and culturally reverent, illustrating how Black humor is intertwined with cultural literacy and artistic interpretation. Broome’s “Tenderheaded” reminds us that identity, pride, and cultural inheritance can be navigated through humor, and that something as everyday as hair carries with it both care and social consequence.
The anthology also interrogates the social, political, and systemic with satirical dexterity. Askaripour and Scott exaggerate social hierarchies and collective anxieties, turning moral panic into theater, entitlement into absurdity. Saida Grundy and Damon Young’s modern Green Book for public bathrooms bridges historical legacy with contemporary experience, emphasizing how humor can be a guide for survival, a ledger of observation, and a mechanism for community-building. These pieces, alongside Laymon’s playful but pointed guidance on navigating public spaces, reflect the anthology’s acute awareness of humor’s social function—it is never purely entertainment; it is reflection, instruction, critique, and communion.
Across these 24 essays, a throughline emerges: Black humor is both intensely personal and inherently communal. It is a mechanism for survival, a tool for critique, and a vehicle for connection. The anthology demonstrates that humor can simultaneously entertain, educate, and interrogate. Contributors leverage absurdity, exaggeration, observational acuity, and narrative innovation to explore grief, identity, societal expectation, and cultural authority. The prose is inventive, playful, and often self-aware, capturing the rhythm of speech, the cadence of thought, and the dynamics of culture with fidelity.
That’s How They Get You is not without its unevenness. Some essays land with more immediacy than others; some humor resonates more deeply depending on personal experience and cultural literacy. But even within those moments, there is value—the anthology’s willingness to experiment, to take risks with form, voice, and perspective, demonstrates a courage that mirrors its thematic concerns. Humor, after all, is a negotiation; not every joke lands universally, but every attempt speaks to observation, critique, and identity.
In sum, Damon Young has curated a collection that is vibrant, reflective, and wide-ranging. The anthology honors the breadth of Black American humor—from intimate self-reflection to absurdist dystopia, from social critique to musical observation, from family kitchens to public bathrooms. It is a celebration of wit, insight, and lived experience, an acknowledgment that humor can be instructive, transformative, and revelatory. Every contributor engages with the complexity of Black life in America, wielding humor as both shield and lens, as solace and weapon, as commentary and connective tissue. The anthology leaves readers laughing, reflecting, and recognizing the intelligence, nuance, and resilience embedded in each essay.
Personal Rating: 82/100