The Cost Of Treating Black Men’s Health Like A Joke
Last week, during my usual scroll through social media, I caught myself laughing at a response video from comedian and content creator KevOnStage. Not just because Kev is funny—he is—but because it reminded me how the internet is always ready to jump in, loud and wrong, with its whole chest.
In the video, Kev was responding to reactions to a tweet where he shared that he’d just finished his annual physical and encouraged Black men, especially, to take their health more seriously. It should have been a simple moment of care. A brother check-in. Instead, it spiraled into confusion, mockery, and misplaced bravado—laying bare how discomfort, misinformation, and homophobia still shape the way we talk about Black men’s health.
The replies went left almost immediately. Some people clearly misread annual as anal. Others seemed to believe that a routine physical automatically includes a rectal exam. Either way, the comments turned into ridicule, with Kev catching strays simply for going to the doctor.
The humor leaned heavily on sexualized language, gender panic, and that familiar brand of thinly veiled homophobia that shows up whenever Black masculinity feels even slightly challenged. Kev did what he always does—he met it with humor. That’s his language and his shield. And for a moment, it was funny.
But once the jokes settled, something heavier came into focus. What played out in his mentions wasn’t just confusion; it was a reminder of how quickly Black men’s health gets tangled up in shame and how fast Black manhood gets policed the moment care enters the conversation.
Some men didn’t even stop at the jokes. In the replies, a few went further, insisting that doctors aren’t necessary at all—that if you eat right, hit the gym, and stay disciplined, you’ll be fine. That way of thinking isn’t new. Many Black men were raised to believe that strength means self-reliance. But that belief is incomplete.
Taking care of your health is more than what you eat or how often you work out. An annual physical is how doctors keep track of things like blood pressure, cholesterol, blood sugar, and how your kidneys and liver are functioning over time. Those check-ins matter because Black men are more likely to deal with serious health issues like high blood pressure, heart disease, diabetes, kidney disease, and stroke—and often earlier and with more severe outcomes. These visits also open the door to conversations about mental health, stress, sleep, sexual health, and family history—things that don’t always feel urgent, but quietly shape how long and how well Black men live.
Just to be clear: a routine physical does not automatically include a rectal exam. That assumption alone says a lot about how disconnected many people are from preventive care. But when certain exams are medically recommended, they should be taken seriously. Prostate cancer is the most commonly diagnosed cancer among Black men in the United States, and Black men are more than twice as likely to die from it as white men. Colorectal cancer tells an equally troubling story: Black Americans have the highest incidence and mortality rates of any racial group, and Black men are increasingly being diagnosed at younger ages.
For many of us, this reality became painfully personal with the loss of Chadwick Boseman, who died from colorectal cancer at just 43 years old. His death shattered the idea that this is an “old man’s disease” or something that only happens after decades of neglect. Boseman was young, disciplined, and outwardly healthy—and still, cancer took his life. His passing should have permanently changed how seriously we talk about screening and prevention in Black communities. Instead, it’s treated like a tragic exception rather than the warning it was.
The numbers are clear. Black men are about 40% more likely to die from colorectal cancer than white men. Survival rates for both prostate and colorectal cancers improve dramatically when they’re caught early. So, screening works, and early detection saves lives. That is a public health fact. What’s dangerous is pretending that avoiding the doctor is a form of protection, or that jokes and homophobia can replace real information. Skipping care doesn’t prevent illness; it delays diagnosis and narrows treatment options.
None of these patterns around Black men’s health exists in isolation. Medical racism is real. It’s part of both our history and our present. Many Black men have experienced being dismissed, rushed, or not taken seriously by doctors. Their pain gets minimized, and their symptoms get brushed off. Then there are the structural barriers—like lack of insurance, limited access to culturally competent providers, long wait times, and work schedules that don’t leave room for preventive care. Layered on top of all that is a rigid version of masculinity that treats vulnerability as weakness and queerness as something to mock. In that context, homophobic jokes like the ones aimed at Kev aren’t harmless—they function as social enforcement, policing who gets to seek care without being shamed.
I’m writing this as a Black woman who is tired. Tired of burying family members and losing classmates. Tired of watching Black men we grew up with, admired, and loved—friends, uncles, icons—die far too young from things that could have been caught earlier. This push for Black men to take their health seriously isn’t about judgment. It comes from grief and from love. And from knowing how much our communities lose every time another Black man avoids the doctor and pays for it with his life.
Kev’s tweet gave us a good ki, but it also gave us a mirror. It showed how quickly care becomes comedy, how fear hides behind masculinity, and how homophobia still stands in the way of Black survival. Black men deserve health care that feels safe and affirming. They deserve doctors who listen and systems that protect them. And they deserve communities that don’t laugh them out of living longer.
So let me say it plainly: if you’re a Black man, please go to the doctor. Get the physical. Ask what you should be screened for and when—especially if cancer runs in your family or something in your body feels off. Bring your questions. Bring support if you need it. Advocate for yourself, and walk away from providers who don’t respect you. Your health is not a punchline, and it’s not a test of your manhood. Your survival is worth that appointment. It’s worth the discomfort. It’s worth your life.
SEE ALSO:
The Color Of Health: Why Black Men Shouldn’t Wait To See A Doctor
Doug E. Fresh, Cardiologist Talk Black Men’s Health
The Cost Of Treating Black Men’s Health Like A Joke was originally published on newsone.com
