In a social climate that increasingly feels more suffocating than stimulating, humor provides a rare reprieve — a means to engage with societal tensions without the weight of an impending sense of doom. Long a staple of cultural critique, political humor offers a lens to address contentious issues while avoiding the pervasive bleakness that dominates much of today’s conversations. Nonetheless, as scrutiny seems to tighten its grip on most judgments, one might wonder: Can humor find its place as a form of resistance, or has it simply become a safety valve for a broken system?
From the sharp satire of The Onion to the renowned acuity of New Yorker cartoons to the more recent proliferation of meme culture embraced and mobilized by Gen Z, political humor cultivates a fertile, if volatile, space to flesh out political moments in ways that resonate more broadly. However, under the weight of algorithmic echo chambers and deepening political divides, its power to resonate broadly has become few and far between.
While my personal consumption of cultural and political commentary may lean heavily in one direction — preferring the substance of NPR and saving the more abrasive fare of Fox for moments when my stomach feels particularly ironclad — a common thread emerges across rhetorical divides: the pervasive undercurrent of dread, leaving a bitter aftertaste.
This shared unease, however, allows humor — particularly in an era shaped by rapid shifts in how we consume information and entertainment, compounded by the rise of digital activism — to thrive, transforming tense political moments into something both incisive and, one could contend, appropriately irreverent.
Of course, there is a time and place for everything. I am not suggesting that we merely trivialize the rollback of reproductive rights across the country, chuckle as the impending presidential appointees resemble a charade more than a qualified cabinet, nor make light of the disparaging commentary weaponized by the far right against the most vulnerable demographics of American citizens. Indeed, we’ve witnessed the repackaging of racism, sexism and other institutional injustices as “humor”, used to absolve their perpetrators of any real consequence.
Rather, I am emphasizing humor as a tool to disarm. When wielded with intention, wit and good conscience, comedic aptitude offers a means to traverse a political landscape notorious for its lack of bipartisanship. This disunity, more often than not, serves only to proliferate narratives that embed individuals in cycles of blame, pointing fingers at those with conflicting viewpoints.
Recently, from the ivory tower of Cornell itself, a relative shared with me David Brooks’ article How The Ivy League Broke America, where he takes aim at elite institutions role as key architects of division, having fostered a meritocratic narrative that conveniently supports the idea that “political and economic elites don’t care about hard-working people.”
Yet, as is all too evident, these institutions continue to turn a blind eye to their complicity in sustaining this hegemonic paradigm. Rather than confront their role, they position themselves as bastions of denial, privileging the interests of an insulated few and prioritizing power over principle.
It is precisely this discrepancy — and the broader dynamics in which it sources fuel — that underscores Brooks’ belief that “We should want to create a meritocracy that selects for energy and initiative as much as for brainpower.” Political humor, in contending with such circumstances, offers a counterbalance to the sharp partition that dominates social and political discourse. It pushes back against the “us versus them” mentality, whether through the elitist rifts entrenched by a swelling meritocracy or the broader partisan divides that circumvent the needs of the working class. This, far from mere conjecture, is a fundamental response to the current moment.
Take, for instance, Jack Schlossberg, grandson of former President John F. Kennedy — his good looks and charm notwithstanding. Throughout the recent election, Schlossberg presented — and continues to establish — a political voice that stands in stark contrast to the dismal tone and discordant narratives that permeate much of today’s dialogue. Instead of contributing to the pervasive vitriol, his sharp wit and endearing social media presence have fostered a more accessible and resonant mode of political engagement, successfully navigating the line between humor’s potential to trivialize an issue and its ability to breathe new life and relevance into political conversation.
Sure, the millennial Kennedy may be seen as an extraordinary example — his lineage and inherent social standing grant him an edge in his political influence. Nonetheless, his comedic prowess and political acumen exemplify humor’s potential to mend the faultline between those nurtured within institutional corridors and those who have, as Brooks contends, grown disillusioned with the very systems they represent. A graduate of both Harvard and Yale himself. Schlossberg is a testament to the enduring social authority these institutions confer.
Even so, it is through the charisma of figures like Schlossberg, the burgeoning political potency of meme culture and the ingenuity of political satire that the capacity of humor — when attuned to the current moment — emerges as a cogent resource to reconcile the in-group/out-group dynamic that stains many a mainstream headline. By cutting through the noise of factional dialogue, we witness how humor offers an alternative lens through which we can examine our collective struggles and contradictions.
Again, you may take my words with a grain of salt. As I sit here, quite literally settled in the denounced epicenter of prestige that is Cornell, wrapping up this piece after a theory-laden class where systemic inequities are unpacked and analyzed in depth; humor in that space would be akin to an ill-timed guest. Nonetheless, as I left the class, I found myself scrolling through Instagram. The Onion had posted a seemingly AI-generated image of a veiny, cyborg-like figure — no beacon of health — staring solemnly into the camera. The accompanying caption read: ‘Sweating RFK Jr. performs self-surgery to extract Big Mac from stomach.’ Despite everything, I laughed.
Eve Iulo is a third-year in the College of Agriculture and Life Sciences. She can be reached at [email protected].