When I first saw the now-infamous photos of Kellyanne Conway—sitting back on her heels on a couch, staring at her phone—while at a White House meeting with leaders of historically black universities, I was furious. I wondered: Would she have behaved this way if the leaders had been white?

WIRED OPINION About Ludmila Leiva (@ludileiva) is a Latina writer, editor, and illustrator based in Brooklyn. She writes about diasporic identity as it intersects with gender, race, sexuality, and technology.

Conway's flippant posture is more than just sloppy decorum; it is a striking metaphor for the indifference many whites have exhibited throughout American history in regard to racial inequality. But now, after devouring dozens of memes that poke fun at Donald Trump's counselor—while drawing poignant parallels to white historical indifference during times of black and brown oppression—when I see photos of her I can't help but laugh.

I used to hate memes. To me, they seemed like a waste of time and internet real estate. But after recently joining a handful of online communities created by and for people of color (POC), I came to discover how much joy these montages of overlaid images and text could bring me. Today, amidst the daily onslaught of dystopian headlines, memes bring me more joy than anything else on the internet.

Initially, I became involved in online POC communities as an act of self-preservation. Though Trump's win did not shock me as much as some—like many people of color, I was well aware of how predictable America could be—I still felt the need to commiserate with others. But as I did, I recognized that this election was the first time many of my white friends had ever felt truly betrayed by our political system. Knowing this, I began to feel tinges of resentment whenever I interacted with certain white people.

As time passed, the ideological divide between white people and myself became more pronounced. In January, the coverage of the Women’s March filled me with conflicting emotions, ones I know I shared with many other women of color across the country. Though part of me was thrilled to see such a striking display of feminist resistance, the white-centric protest signs and celebrity speeches were reminders of this country's struggle with racial competence. As in the past, it became clear that many white people, especially white women, still have a hard time understanding their privilege. This was made quite obvious last November, when 53 percent of white women cast their votes for Trump.

Without thoughtfully engaging with the privilege whiteness affords, it is nearly impossible for white women to participate in activism without further entrenching racial oppression. In their haste to fight threats to reproductive freedom, white women in pink hats continue forgetting that their struggles, though valid, are still only a fraction of those experienced by women of color.

The Day Without a Woman strike, a follow-up to January's Women's March, will take place across the world on March 8. And while the intention is admirable, once again participation won't be accessible and safe for everyone. Many marginalized women—those who would, arguably, profit the most from the systemic changes the event advocates for—will not able to attend because of financial restrictions. After all, taking a day off of work is a privilege, one that many women of color simply do not have. Additionally, as with any large-scale act of public dissent, the stakes of attending rallies and protests are much higher for black and brown participants, whose attendance could mean facing police brutality or immigration-related consequences.

White supremacy robs millions of people of their agency, self-worth, and safety every single day in this country. For many, being a person of color means being constantly and systematically wronged while simultaneously being made to feel overly sensitive for talking about it. In light of this reality, poking fun at oppressive systems can help to make marginalized existence a bit more bearable.

I have always known about the healing power of humor, but only in the last few months have I started consciously incorporating humor into my daily routine, mostly by consuming anti-oppressive memes. To be a person of color—especially one with multiple marginalized identities—is to live a deeply political life. Institutionalized racism and oppression are inescapable and weigh heavily on many people, so humor and other forms of self-care have historically become tools for survival. But, even though they have become a linchpin of marginalized resistance, many memes and other forms of virtual content created by, and arguably for, POCs are routinely whitewashed and appropriated, especially after going viral.

The memes shared in these groups are about everything and anything, from quotes on "reverse racism", to Hidden Figures-Fences mashups, to photos of Trump boarding Air Force One with a Victoria's Secret PINK logo photoshopped onto his rear end. By now, I have an ever-growing desktop folder filled with such content.

Most mornings, I awaken to memes from friends waiting in my various social media inboxes. Every day I exchange memes with friends and archive my favorites. I have learned that no matter how bad things get, memes will be there for me whenever I need a pick-me-up.

Increasingly, identity-based virtual communities are becoming invaluable tools for fostering solidarity and healing, and for providing humor in the face of socio-political adversity. For once, instead of constantly feeling hopeless or cynical, I find myself laughing at our society's imbalanced systems almost daily. Finding amusement in dire circumstances has been both empowering and cathartic, and though I still participate in other types of activism, memes have become my favorite form of resistance.

I belong to five POC-focused groups, varying in size from 900 to over 3,000 members. Over the last few months, I have watched many of these groups mushroom into giant bastions of radical dissent. Each group has different rules, membership requirements, and vetting processes, but there is a common thread among them: They are all helping minorities and marginalized people find strength and community through humor.

In all likelihood, the next four years will be an immense challenge, especially for communities of color. But, as in previous generations, laughter remains an effective vehicle for enduring, and dismantling, white supremacy and cultivating resilience. Now a vital facet of my activism, memes provide me with an opportunity to forget—if only for a moment—the terrifying reality of this country.