Photo by Chris Whitaker

Our dog died. Not funny, I know. I was about 12 years old, one of five siblings. Woofy (rhymes with goofy) was a Doberman mix with floppy ears and a tongue that hung to one side. He wasn’t the smartest canine, but he liked to run, and so did I. Tasked with his daily morning walk before school, I enjoyed my elongated stride as Woofy pulled me along. It was like running on a moving walkway at the airport—greeting the day at warp speed.

We were devastated when Woofy leapt over the backyard fence for a solo adventure one evening. He always liked chasing cars and, unfortunately, catching one was not the victory he envisioned. We were in the living room when our mom delivered the sad news. My siblings sat in silence. Then the crying began. I had been lying on the carpet, watching a television show. My mom came over and—inexplicably—put her bare foot on my stomach. She lost balance and gravity shifted, causing a sudden downward push that resulted in the longest and loudest fart I have ever produced. It was the slow wail of a bagpipe. A banshee’s defeated moan. A whoopee cushion that went on and on.

By the time the gassy lament ended, everybody was laughing—and crying. Whether they started crying over Woofy or because a good belly laugh can leak tears, nobody could speak for several minutes. A funny thing happened then. Someone brought up how Woofy picked the most expensive shoes to chew. We laughed. Another recounted one of Woofy’s goofball moments. More laughter. “Remember this?” “Remember that time when…?” Our stomachs hurt from all the laughing. Just when things started to calm down, my brother said, “Remember Susie’s Woofy fart?”

Woofy was dead, but my legendary fart was born.

That’s what laughter through tears is all about. It’s gallows humor. It’s the ludicrous and hilarious thing when your heart is breaking.

Here’s what it truly is: a survival tactic.

We’ve been through worse. And, still, we persevere. Someday our grandchildren will listen to our laughter. They will know they didn’t inherit only our trauma, our blood memories of colonization and oppression. They also inherited our ability to laugh at ourselves and at those who seek to keep us down, so that in our darkest moment we can find a light. Laughter is the torchbearer. Our deadpan jokes. Our cutting, yet hilarious, and spot-on nicknames. The lone comment that breaks up the tension.

When Firekeeper’s Daughter (Holt, 2021) was still in production, I listened to the final cut of the audiobook narrated by the incredible Isabella Star LaBlanc. We had worked with two different Anishinaabemowin consultants to ensure the Ojibwe words were spelled consistently and pronounced accurately. Isabella was perfect. Then, she pronounced “pasty” (a meat pie: PAST-ee) as “pastie” (stripper tassels: PAY-stee). I called my agent and said, “We’ve gotta fix this!” The CDs were already being produced, but my publisher was willing to reship the recording equipment to Isabella in Minneapolis (COVID-era). She said, musing, “Is it worth the effort and expense for five uses of the word?”

Me: “You don’t understand. My cousins are ruthless. If this doesn’t get corrected, I will be nicknamed Pastie until the endof my days.” (At this point I would’ve paid out-of-pocket for the changes.)

Native humor is legendary. One minute, an elder is telling the most pitiful story and, in the next breath, will deadpan a hysterical punch line. There is always one cousin who can be counted on to say the outrageous thing at a funeral that makes you pee your pants. Then, there will be the retelling about “the time Susie peed her pants when so-and-so died.”

Native humor can be subtle. I loved watching Reservation Dogs for hidden gems. The kids visit the hermit, Uncle Brownie. He has owls (in some cultures a messenger of impending death) decorating his front porch to discourage visitors. The production crew went the extra step to pixilate the owls’ eyes (because you’re not supposed to look at them). Any Native aware of similar teachings knew in that instant that there were Native people on staff: screenwriters, directors, production, editing…everything. It was an inside joke that non-Native fans may have missed. It felt like a hug to me.

My favorite book in the universe is The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline (Dancing Cat Bks., 2017). Fourteen-year-old Frenchie is on the run from “school recruiters.” It’s a near-apocalyptic future in which most humans are losing the ability to dream—and slowly going insane because of it. Only Indigenous peoples can still dream. The recruiters are rounding up Indigenous people for the schools (a callback to assimilation-driven residential boarding schools in North America that sought to “kill the Indian in him and save the man”) to harvest their bone marrow—thought to contain the secrets to dreaming. Frenchie meets up with other runaways. Communities are formed. Storytelling is a bonding exercise. When a new teenager approaches to join their group, Frenchie’s primary thought is: “please don’t let her be my cousin. Please?” Amid a catastrophic extinction-level event, the humor behind this thought tells readers that Frenchie is still a teen with hormones.

I use humor to keep readers from slipping into the quicksand of the serious issues and difficult truths shared in my books Firekeeper’s Daughter (2021), Warrior Girl Unearthed (2023), and Sisters in the Wind (2025, all Holt). For example, Granny June in Firekeeper’s names her rez dog Tribal Council so she can yell at him. Any Native person who has ever been employed by their Native nation can relate. “Bad Tribal Council,” she shouts. I wrote it for the ones who will nod along. I feel ya!

One time, while enjoying lunch at the Tribal Elder Center, I sat at a table where an argument was in full swing. There was some sort of opportunity that was available to Elders, but only if they were enrolled citizens. A non-Native spouse named Annie barked her displeasure at the rules. “Some of us don’t got any Indian in us.” Her husband’s cousin remarked, “Oh Annie, I bet you’ve had a little Indian in ya from time to time.” To this day I think it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. Of course I included it in Firekeeper’s. That kind of humor is pure gold.

Writing for the young adult audience is to remember the silly things you did as a kid. The funny stuff that, as a teen, went over your parents’ and teachers’ heads. It is to know that you can tackle any topic, no matter how serious, and keep teens engaged with a dash of slapstick, the banal wordplay, the deadpan wit, the outrageous parody, the crass scatological anecdote, the tried-and-true sarcasm, the darkest (often inappropriate outside of the perfect setting), and my favorite—the dirty double entendre.

Those who write YA do so with the utmost care and concern for the youngest readers—who may be reading about such dark topics for the first time—and humor is one of the best ways to provide levity and demonstrate resilience to persevere in harsh circumstances. Humor can provide a pause, breathing room, to digest the Terrible Awful that just happened.

When is it too much? Well, another anecdote: we had a cousin whose lower lip would quiver whenever the insults hit too hard. Whomever was dishing it out would know to rein it in. Devolution into tears wasn’t the goal. Laughter and the “yeah, you got me good” acknowledgement was what was intended. The endgame—survival, the ability to endure the current crap at hand—is the real function of humor.

We can get through this.

My “Woofy fart” has been recounted at family gatherings for the past 40+ years. I accept that it will be shared at my funeral by any surviving siblings or other family members who have embraced the legend as if they were there. Man, that dog was all sorts of frustrating, endearing, and—let’s face it, goofy. His passing wasn’t as sad when we were laughing through tears. Sure, we miss him. But remember when Mom stepped on Susie’s stomach and she farted an endless lament for our dearly departed dog? Tragedy, when viewed through bellyaches and tears, is a little easier to bear.

RIP Woofy.

Angeline Boulley is an enrolled member of the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians. Her Firekeeper’s Daughter was a #1 New York Times bestseller and recipient of ALA’s Printz Award.