A Gathering in the Jester’s Court

As I was sitting at home today—enjoying a much-needed break from school and football—I watched a few episodes of The Jamie Foxx Show with my dad in the living room. Both episodes were from season three: “Christmas Day–Ja Vu” and “Taps for Royal.” In a quick review, the Christmas episode was great; as in most episodes, it was carried by Jamie Foxx’s performance, though Nick LaTour as Santa Claus had some standout moments—especially when he left the hotel and then knocked on the door to mock Jamie. “Taps for Royal” is an okay episode, but while watching it I discovered that tap dancing used to be a big thing even after the ‘20s—perhaps a topic for a later tangent.

As fun as it was to watch those episodes, it is always enjoyable to spend time watching these older sitcoms in general. For example, the season-five Christmas episode of Martin, titled “Scrooge,” came on shortly after; it followed Martin in a Scrooge-style story of the past, present, and future. Although a persistent cliché for a Christmas episode—Martin giving the shoes to the kid at Nipsey’s still holds a special place for me, as it shows him learning the beauty of giving on Christmas and, more generally, depicts his growth as a person. I think that, even through all of the jokes, what has always stood out to me is his journey—from his relationship with Gina to his transition from a radio station host to hosting his own television show. As much as I laughed, it also showed me that what you love and excel at is worth the risk of continual growth and striving for higher goals and ultimately more fulfilling than chasing the money from other jobs. Moreover, both your career and love life are full of ups and downs, and at the end of the day, as long as you keep getting back up, that’s what really matters. These shows were made during different periods and times, and they vary significantly depending on their era; yet they all hold up today—not only through their jokes and comedic sequences, but more importantly, through the values and messages they convey.

As I watched these episodes and laughed, I began to wonder, “Where did the sitcom go?” We have shows now like Reservation Dogs, Abbott Elementary, and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, but I think these may be outliers rather than the norm. Back in the ‘70s, ‘80s, and ‘90s we had shows like Martin, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, Living Single, Family Matters, The Jeffersons, Sanford and Son, and many other great series. This list doesn’t even include the more predominantly white shows like Seinfeld and Friends—yet even those shows are gone. I believe that is the central question. I find it hard to believe that people are tired of sitcoms, or that standouts like Abbott Elementary wouldn’t carry the cultural significance they do now. People might have changed; perhaps sitcoms just do not capture an audience like they once did. Especially with the rise and prominence of streaming services, people no longer return every week to see a new episode of My Wife and Kids as they once did. Still, I am not sure if that alone explains it.

As popular and important as sitcoms are, not only to pop culture but to society itself, where did they go? In its most basic definition, a sitcom is a situational comedy; this usually means the cast encounters a central problem or multiple smaller problems in an episode and, by the end, comes up with a solution. Throughout the episode, there is banter and plenty of jokes, and a whole lot of fun. Yet the essence of a sitcom is that the characters remain in stasis. There is no real development; they are the same people you see each week, so that when someone watches an episode from season five without having seen the previous ones, they still get a true feel for who the characters are. Unlike shows like Breaking Bad or The Leftovers, there is no long-form story in which the characters evolve from their initial portrayals. In sitcoms, characters allow us, more than those in any other television genre, to take them in and hold them close, almost as if they were our own. They are what many of us look forward to after a long day; they ease our minds and offer a comfort not found in our everyday lives. They do not promise extraordinary transformations—such as the thrill of the rapture or the allure of a life as a drug lord—but instead, they reflect our own stories, our lives, our problems, our mistakes. They are us, reflected back from the black mirror. They are not crafted to entice with a seamlessly woven narrative; rather, they invite us to recognize someone who is almost like ourselves.

Even in antiquity, Aristotle, in The Poetics, considered comedy to involve inferior people. Not to suggest that they are inferior, but rather that they are bound to make mistakes in some form, from which we derive laughter or embarrassment. As much importance as The Iliad and The Wire hold, so do A Different World and the memory of those men who once embarrassed themselves on stage so long ago. Comedies, comedians, and the medium of comedy in general have evolved throughout history—from ancient Greek plays, Shakespearean dramas, and court jesters to musical comedies, silent films, and the comedians of both the past and today. It is a medium that has been pulled and stretched through so much growth and change that it has, at times, reflected the best, the worst, and the indifference of its era. From the ignorance and racism of 19th- and 20th-century blackface and minstrel shows to comedians such as George Carlin—who illuminated the social issues of their time, such as America’s war in Vietnam and its domestic problems—comedy has shed light on it all, both the good and the bad. And often, it is the only medium that can gracefully provoke without harsh consequences. Tragedies may hold greater esteem and societal allure, yet comedies have helped us all reach this point in time. That sense of “inferiority” at first glance may seem untruthful and abrasive, but it ultimately reveals the truths we sometimes desperately avoid. Here, it signifies that people are presented in their true form. It is who we are.

So, where does that leave society today without those major sitcoms of yesterday? Perfectly fine, more or less—but that doesn’t mean those shows are not missed or that they don’t hold importance for those who watched them. This is especially true of black sitcoms such as The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and, despite all of its faults, The Cosby Show. The depiction of the black family unit in these and many other shows was important not only for cultural entertainment but also for young boys and girls growing up who needed to see people like themselves on the television screen. Shows like Martin and Living Single explore the many facets of love, friendship, and relationships, while Girlfriends showcased successful, independent Black women, and Family Matters depicted young adolescents coming of age. Today, there are clearly shows that still exhibit these qualities—such as Abbott Elementary and Everybody Hates Chris. Even shows like Atlanta or Rick and Morty can be considered sitcoms in their own right, albeit in a different, loosely defined sense. But the magnitude of their former impact is gone. I think the clear answer is that both society and individuals change over time.

As I watched that episode of The Jamie Foxx Show and then moved on to Martin—probably my favorite sitcom of all time—it felt different compared to watching an episode of Atlanta or Abbott Elementary for reference. It is hard to explain, but those episodes of Martin and The Jamie Foxx Show seem as if they were crafted for black audiences like me. Those sitcoms back then were created specifically with a Black audience in mind. The way the jokes were set up and structured, the themes of the episodes, and the little details that required no context because they assumed everyone watching would understand. Although not always written by Black men and women, the actors who portrayed and carried those stories fought to have them told truthfully and honestly. I’m not saying that people of other races could not watch and enjoy them; it was simply that they resonated specifically with Black audiences. Atlanta, in a way, shares some of the same qualities, but it is vastly different in other respects. Granted, Atlanta is a vastly different show compared to the Black sitcoms of the ‘80s and ‘90s, but there is still a point to be made: Atlanta is no longer made solely with a Black audience in mind. Instead, it—and shows like it—now encompass all audiences, no longer focusing exclusively on Black people and their experiences, as shows like Good Times, Martin, Sanford and Son, Family Matters, and others once did. A great example of this is the season One episode “Juneteenth” where both Earn and Van attend an upscale party with the black elite reluctantly in order for themselves, but more importantly, Lottie to reach that same stability. It is not just an episode about this singular topic but also speaks of the adoption of black culture through the white husband found within the episode, but in that same note as much as black culture is often assimilated and ratified it is similarly sold and pawned. Then you have an episode such as “Nobody Beats the Biebs” that looks at more of the inner workings and politics of the entertainment industry and celebrities while also speaking to gun culture. It’s the black version of Justin Bieber who causes chaos and disarray but is given laughter and love to Paper Boi who is unable to get an interview with the reporter and is told to “play his part.” It shows how celebrities in totality and especially black stars are all given roles and that the press and general public place them boxes and roles that they are told to sustain until further notice. We are told that the course rappers, particularly black ones, are supposed to take is to stay in that image of being from a certain struggle and upbringing that exudes “gang life” in ridiculous terms and that this is where they have to stay. Some are able to move past in a sense but never truly can leave the box they are placed into since this is how they are perceived and displayed, an image perpetuated by the media, by audiences that are uncomfortable and ignorant to the culture that they devour. With all of this said in one episode there is still more left to speak about gun culture though more to the point, still pertinent. Darius, who has issues with neighborhood dogs, goes to the gun range and uses a printed dog poster as a target. The other members of the range are upset and appalled and the owner who feels similarly kicks Darius out. It asks a simple and obvious question: what makes it okay to shoot at images of humans and specifically minorities but you can’t do the same for one of a dog? These episodes and the rest are the general course of Atlanta, entertainment and critique. Some critiques are blatant, some deeper but it is a series that when put up against that of a 90s black sitcom shows the apparent difference in goals and purpose. Though it may again be a case of Black commodification, but in this instance I believe it is more about the consumption of Black entertainment and culture by the broader world—a desire to see and experience the Black experience, in all its forms and fashions. In truth, I am not sure whether this is good or bad, as it represents the broadening of Black voices, experiences, and media to the world—exemplified by a show like Insecure. At the same time, although these shows were made with the same topics, themes, and messages as they were so long ago, they are now simply watched, enjoyed, and discussed—rinse and repeat. It is as if we watch these shows, which are reaching more people than ever before, with a white film over our eyes—blinding our more acute senses.

Although, as a rebuttal to my often vexed and pessimistic perspective, perhaps I am being too harsh. Maybe these shows are not being commodified; perhaps they are simply doing what all things do, growing as spaces and mediums evolve. They may, in fact, be transforming. As we become a grander, more open, and interconnected society, shows might no longer need to tell singular stories within singular spaces; instead, they can explore multiple narratives within the frameworks they’ve built. It isn’t entirely fair to claim that the sitcoms of today fail to offer views and perspectives with the same impact as those of the past. For example, in my opinion the best sitcom of our current time is Abbott Elementary. Watching it transports me back to my middle school years—surrounded by young peers and dedicated teachers. More importantly, it captures the little things: the packed lunches, the endless assemblies in the auditorium about topics we didn’t fully understand at that age, the kids who wore jackets over their uniforms when it got cold. It reflects the day-to-day monotony of those years and the efforts to make them fun through random outbursts in the classroom. Abbott Elementary also consistently brings to light important issues in our school systems—from a lack of funding and the need for reduced bureaucracy and chain management to the varying quality and style of teaching, from substitute teachers to full-time educators. It also focuses on the importance of teachers in our lives—providing an outlet for us to express how they help us grow as students and young people. I could go on, but I think that is Abbott Elementary’s greatest asset. It evokes feelings and memories while presenting a myriad of storylines. Children making mistakes, school funding issues, the beauty and failings of the educational system, and the teachers we recall in fleeting moments who believed in us and helped shape who we are today. While a show like Abbott Elementary focuses on the school system, children, and teachers, a show like Black-ish places great emphasis on the Black family unit and the many changes and challenges that a family can experience. These include generational differences in how children are raised, how Black men and women are expected to behave, and how these roles are navigated. Also, one of the most interesting sequences was in season four, toward the later episodes, depicting the struggles of marriage and the act of giving in a remarkably real and authentic manner, perhaps the most genuine portrayal I have seen in a sitcom. Then we have a show like Atlanta as it was discussed earlier that dives into a myriad of topics and ideas such as race, identity, existentialism, modern African American culture, and many Black social and socioeconomic issues. It is most likely the most productive use of sitcom and satire, if that is a fair classification. Moreover, today’s shows still prioritize representation in front of the camera, but crucially, they do so behind the scenes as well. This is evident in Abbott Elementary, of course, but also in shows like Atlanta, Black-ish, and others—not only in production, but most importantly in the writers’ room, where Black people can tell Black stories. These narratives are no longer a constant battle for fairness and honesty; they’re not “race-blind” but intentionally race-specific, telling stories about Black lives and experiences with authenticity and nuance.

Am I being harsh? Perhaps. Am I being unfair? That’s also a possibility. But my critiques come from a place of love, not brazen fury. I know, I have seen, and I deeply understand the power of representation in television. We only know what we know, and when something is placed in front of us, it becomes tangible—something attainable. Positive Black love is a beautiful and real thing. Though there may be trials, it is always something that can be nurtured and worked through. We see this in many episodes of Martin, where Martin and Gina have taken time apart, reconciled, argued, married, and grown successful together. Black men and women can be successful doctors and lawyers; yet even in these roles, they continue to face racial challenges and hatred. In The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, the success of a Black man, even as profound and significant as it may be, does not grant an escape from a world that judges him by his skin color. Yet, they remain exemplary, supporting and nurturing their families. A Black man in a country that has long disrespected, looked down upon, despised, and discredited people who look like him,and continues to do so, can rise above it all and become president, as depicted in a show where Dennis Haysbert portrayed David Palmer, who became president in the second season of 24. Many believe that his portrayal helped Americans become comfortable with the idea of a Black president and even aided Barack Obama during his first campaign. Shows like Martin, The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, and even 24 have played pivotal roles in conveying the simple but powerful message: “You can too.” So yes, I may be harsh and unfair because I see the broader value—the undeniable importance of Black sitcoms, television, film, and storytelling as a whole.

Today, we have shows like Insecure and Abbott Elementary, helmed by people who look like us and who portray our stories with authenticity. Yet, I sometimes feel that the glaring flare of representation that once captivated me now appears, for others, as a faint light far across the harbor. I am certain there are many who see the potential. But my frustration is the catalyst that gives rise to a daughter of rage, blind to the strides we’ve made toward a better, more equitable society, and a son of confusion, longing for a vision of change that cannot help but feel it simply is not there.

If we have so many people watching these shows compared to before, then why is there no real change, no real shift in dynamics? Perhaps it is simply seen as entertainment, and people think nothing of it. However, this is not entirely true, as people always know that media and entertainment offer more than mere diversion. It is frustrating, though, is it not? Now, even though our voices are louder and heard more than ever before, they still fall to the wayside time and time again. It is almost as if the goals were always futile in nature—never reaching a real conclusion, just some goal or MacGuffin for us to chase around like entertained pets. Perhaps I am expecting too much from a sitcom to bring a country together and enlighten people about the social and racial issues that many in its population face. After all, these shows are not comparable to the Civil Rights Movement and its figures. Yet I wrestle with this thought every time it pops into my head, because these shows, in a way, are that; and if they are not, then I am even more bewildered and disheartened.

There are still activists and many important figures in the movement to improve Black life and social conditions for those of lower socioeconomic status in America, but it is also fair to say that these forms of communication no longer wield the same power and influence as they once did. What better way to connect with the world than through media and television—which may be seen as mere entertainment—while in reality offering a window into problems and solutions? It is akin to Machiavelli’s The Prince, which today is sadly regarded as just another book about power and influence rather than being appreciated for its nuanced teachings on authoritarian natures and ethics, though some argue it offers lessons in both good and evil. It could be seen as a book of amoral teachings, a book of moral lessons that place the state’s goals above all else, or a treatise on how amoral rule operates—warning citizens about potential subjugation under monarchical rule. In simple terms, it seems as though he has done both. He has taught tyrants how to bend people to their will and take what they want, but he has also taught citizens how to scratch and claw their way free from oppression. I can only hope that these shows have a similar effect in some way—entertainment and teaching, laughter and revolt.

I may be becoming too pessimistic again, I remain positive that real, true change is happening through these shows; they have impacted people, if not in a large way, then at least enough to prompt a question or spark a brief moment of reflection. What I may be asking for—this large, fundamental, and foundational change—may simply be impossible, or perhaps the right show has not yet come along. As I try to find a solution or answer, it eludes me like a scream in a storm, begging for recognition.

What I do know is that sitcoms have had a profound effect on the people around me and on my culture. Through countless hours of laughter, the amazing characters and stories—those characters who remained in stasis each week for us to return to, and those who now grow and change as their shows progress—have meant something and will continue to do so. Sitcoms, in their unpretentious nature, present a mirror of our culture and society; they used to hold that mirror up and, through its reflection, reveal the hardships and dilemmas we faced. Today, that mirror, its reflection broken and reassembled, presents us with a cacophony of critiques, opinions, and views, though it offers no assault on truth. Both have been effective in changing the minds of the masses, but I can only ask, as I always do, can they do more?

In times like these, I am reminded of the many random thoughts that come to mind—one such being the jester’s privilege. In medieval times, during the era of kings, court jesters emerged who possessed many talents, tricks, and jokes solely for the entertainment of the king. The jester had one true privilege that no one else had during that time: the ability to insult the king. He was able to exercise this privilege without persecution because he was, ultimately, just a jester—a figure deemed insignificant, meant only to amuse guests. And yet, a good jester’s words were rarely insignificant; the best among them revealed wisdom beyond their apparent foolishness. They could critique the king and society without fear; while some might dismiss it as just another joke, those who truly listened understood the truth the fool spoke. This technique has been used in many instances beyond the jester, such as in Shakespeare’s plays like King Lear, but more importantly, it is employed today in the many comedies we have already discussed. So, I am left with the questions: are all of our present jesters of today simply given free reign from a court of kings who allows them to act as though he is being held to a standard from their critique? Or how long will we sneer and snicker at the jester until we realize that all his dances, acrobatics, and jokes are not the ravings of a fool merely there to amuse, but the insights of a free man granted nearly absolute freedom of speech to tell us what we all fail to see? But, as always, these are difficult discussions for another day.