WHEN LAUGHTER HURTS

Recently, I rewatched Federico Fellini's Amarcord, which I hadn’t seen since a night in the movie theater in Yugoslavia, nearly fifty years ago. The film is filled with autobiographical snippets from Fellini’s youth in a small Italian town in the 1930s, blending humor with nostalgia and weaving moments of mischief against the backdrop of rising fascism. There’s a particular sequence of pranks that feel almost universal: boys setting off fireworks in the town square, surprising a few unlucky passersby and sparking laughter among the rest of the townsfolk; a spike placed in the road to puncture a cyclists’ tires, sending them to tumble; a street vendor who becomes the target of relentless teasing all for the sake of amusement. The scenes made me laugh, even as I felt a strange discomfort beneath the humor, a reminder of the thin line between innocence of adolescence and harshness of self-expression.

While watching these pranks unfolding onscreen, suddenly the memory of J.J., my high school classmate, resurfaced in my mind. Even though my recollection had nothing to do with Amarcord itself, something about the film’s treatment of humor and humiliation made me reflect on my own past and the nature of laughter at another person’s expense.

This strange, foggy memory from my medical school years involves J.J. It’s one of those memories that feels more like a fragment of my imagination than a real event. Somehow, J.J. appears on our campus, though I know he was never enrolled in medical school. I can picture the exact hallway in the anatomy building where this event supposedly took place. He enters a restroom without locking the door, or maybe there was no lock at all. A female medical student I knew well opens the door by accident, catching him mid-urination. He spins around, still holding penis with both of his hands looking like a deer caught in the headlights. She retreats, her cheeks flushed, and when she returns to our group, she tells us what happened. Laughter ripples through us, a spontaneous bond of amusement formed at his expense.

Pranks can feel harmless in the moment, even exhilarating, but they often carry hidden aggression, a sting of poison that lingers in the mind of the person who was humiliated, long after the laughter fades.

As I thought about portrayals of making fun of others in Amarcord, I began to remember similar instances from my own youth in which I was the protagonist, the instigator, putting myself in charge of prankish gags. Some of them quickly come to mind. In elementary school, we sat in pairs, boy and girl, and stood together whenever the teacher entered the classroom, a ritual of respect, or perhaps obedience. One day, feeling mischievous, I decided to pull my classmate’s chair back just as she was about to sit down. She landed with a thud, her face flushed with shock, and the whole class erupted in laughter. I remember the thrill of being the center of attention at that moment, the boy who’d made everyone laugh. And yet, even then, part of me sensed I’d crossed a line. There was another time when I hid a pin on her chair. When she sat down, she let out a surprised yelp, and once again, laughter filled the room.

Not all of my pranks were physical. I remember one when a classmate was called to answer the question. I leaned over and whispered a wrong answer, a silly, ridiculous response that I knew would make everyone laugh if he repeated it. I held my breath as he parroted my words aloud, watching the confusion when laughter ensued. His cheeks were coloring red as he caught on. At the time, I saw it as a clever joke, a quick way to win the approval of my peers.

Watching Amarcord brought all this back to me. In the movie, the boys' pranks serve as a playful rebellion against authority and the constraints of their small-town lives. But they also reveal a longing for excitement that can easily slide into cruelty. Fellini captures the dual nature of humor, showing how laughter at others' expense can create a fleeting sense of power and connection, yet at the same time isolates and targets the vulnerable.

As I get older, I recognize that same duality in my own life. My playful streak has never quite faded, and sometimes it emerges unexpectedly. I remember a time swimming in the ocean with my then-girlfriend when, thinking it would be funny, I pushed her head underwater. She surfaced, startled, her laughter gone. Later, she told me how upsetting, even traumatic, the experience had been, asking me never to do it again. My wife has seen this side of me, too. She used to react with frustration to these jokester flare-ups in me, but now she gives me a knowing look and asks, “Have you been mischievous again?” Her question is a gentle reminder that my sense of humor can tread close to an edge, the thin line between playful and painful, where a joke can quickly shift from endearing to hurtful.

I don’t want to be someone who takes pleasure in others’ discomfort, even unintentionally. Humor that costs someone else their peace carries an undertone of aggression, a need to assert control or superiority by making someone else the butt of the joke. In a world where humor so often serves as a weapon, on social media, in politics, and in the casual ferocity of daily interactions, it can silence, belittle, or exclude. I’m wary of aligning myself with that kind of callous disregard. This awareness is a step toward understanding my own impulses and committing to a gentler way of sharing humor, one that brings people in rather than pushes them out.

In the late 1980s, when I first moved to America, I noticed a distinct cultural difference in how people related to one another. In America, I felt a respect for individuality that was new to me, a sense that people valued each other’s differences and respected personal boundaries, rather than looking for ways to single out those who stood apart. Back in my home country, I’d often felt the opposite. Growing up in a culture where mocking those who were different was common, I experienced firsthand the pain of such ridicule. When I moved from Bosnia to Serbia, my Bosnian accent became a point of derision among my classmates. In addition, they called me “lanky” because of my long-legged, slender frame, a label used to embarrass me.  Another painful memory was a peer pointing out a slight deformity in my toes, suggesting it as a reason why girls wouldn’t find me appealing. The remark cut deeply at the time, making me feel self-conscious about my appearance. I realize now that these experiences taught me, long before I became fully aware of it, just how “harmless” jokes could deeply wound, reinforcing my commitment to a compassionate way of connecting with others.

I’m not sure we still live in the same America I encountered when I arrived 36 years ago. Back then, I saw a country that valued compassion and diversity, a place where kindness, support, and acceptance felt like a natural part of everyday life. I hope I’m wrong about the disunity I sense today. I still believe that the compassionate side of humanity can bounce back bringing healing to the areas that need it most, connection to places that feel divided, and humor that lifts us up rather than tears us down.

I say this because I realize how easy it is for humor to turn into a way to diminish and ridicule. It’s easy to laugh when you’re outside of someone else’s discomfort. But truly understanding what it feels like to be the target of that laughter requires stepping out of oneself, and that’s where real compassion begins. If humor has the power to hurt, then it also has the power to heal and to create moments of joy.

As I think back about J.J., I wonder what it must have felt like to be caught in that vulnerable moment, exposed and unguarded, with laughter rippling through the group at his expense. I don’t know if I fully understand why this memory clings to me, but I assume that it is there to teach me because I’m still learning about myself. Perhaps it marks a threshold, a moment when I begin to truly appreciate the importance of empathy, a lesson in how seemingly innocuous moments can linger and shape someone’s life.

Maybe this perspective can lead me to an even deeper understanding, a true transformation. It could reveal a new way of seeing the power of kindness, connection, and humor, which have the potential to heal rather than wound. I want to carry this vision forward, both for myself and for humanity, a vision that stems from the heart, where causeless love exists, guiding me toward the right action and the experience of oneness. In this state, there is no judgment, no division, and no fear, only gratitude, compassion, and a universal consciousness that embraces everyone.