In the trailer for the new animated series “#1 Happy Family USA,” which premieres on Prime Video on April 17, there is a tag line that reads: “From the childhood nightmares of Ramy Youssef.” That might seem like a warning, but the show, which tells the story of the fictional Hussein family as they try to fit into a changing America in the aftermath of the Sept. 11 attacks, is actually very funny. There are big musical numbers and irreverent “South Park”-esque humor (Youssef’s co-creator, Pam Brady, was a “South Park” writer), and the characters’ appearances change depending on whether they are inside their home or out trying to navigate the world.

Youssef was 10, growing up in New Jersey in an Egyptian American family, when Al Qaeda attacked in 2001. He often refers to the dislocation and fear he experienced as a child in his stand-up comedy, and it has come up in “Ramy,” the Hulu show he created and stars in about a young first-generation Muslim American guy figuring things out in New Jersey. (Youssef told me he makes work about his own life because “it’s the only thing I can actually account for with genuine insight.”) This new series, though, is his most ambitious attempt yet to examine past events that are still very much with us. Again, it’s a really funny show.

Though much of Youssef’s work is rooted in his own experiences and worldview, he has lately been taking on roles in other people’s projects too. He had a part in Yorgos Lanthimos’s 2023 film, “Poor Things”; directed a memorable, dreamy episode of “The Bear” (the one set in Copenhagen); and when we spoke, he was in Utah filming “Mountainhead,” the first movie directed by the “Succession” creator Jesse Armstrong, in which he plays a billionaire during a financial crisis. (He couldn’t tell me much about the project, but he did say that “what’s happening and what we’re portraying — it’s been so surreal.”) Our conversation, like much of his work, ranged from the personal to the universal.

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Your new animated project is called “#1 Happy Family USA,” which is a great name. I found it almost hopeful, that something like this can now be made: a comedy about one of the most terrible days in American history from the perspective of a Muslim American family. Why did you want to make this show now? The thing that compelled me is: The family in this show, they already have a lot going on before 9/11 happens. Pretty much the entire pilot, it’s just this family comedy about a family you’ve never really seen in an animated space. To bring in the events of the early 2000s felt important in the sense that it’s something we talk about all the time. It’s part of what we’re currently experiencing. It’s never gone away. And when I think about how long these themes have been directly a part of my life and the lives of people that I know — to get to step into a period of time that I don’t think has escaped us in any way, unfortunately, and to do it in a style that is familiar in terms of trodding on political things that can feel a little difficult, and undercuts them and doesn’t make them feel so volatile — to give this kind of family that treatment is really exciting. And to go at this through a totally unexpected and very silly lens — maybe that’s where that hope feeling comes from, because it’s so unfiltered. It’s one of the most inappropriate things I’ve gotten to be a part of. Yet there’s a lot of love and care for the subjects involved.

I’ll tell you what resonated for me: As someone who also comes from an immigrant family, it speaks to something wider than the Muslim American experience. Because the dad in the show is desperately trying to prove his loyalty to America, and it keeps blowing up in his face — literally, in some cases. It’s the theme I see in a lot of your work, the idea that a big part of the immigrant experience is trying to figure out what it means to be American. I feel like every generation grapples with that differently, and I’m wondering if you saw that in your own family. I’m really lucky that I grew up with strong parents who did have a sense of self. I don’t think that was the defining experience. It’s almost because it wasn’t, I’m able to kind of look at it from the side and go: “Oh, wow. It’s really interesting how pervasive that is in my community.” I see it come up mainly in myself. And I’m usually interested in making self-reflective work, because it’s the only thing I can speak for. Making work about other people or joking about other people has never really been funny to me, because it’s like: “I don’t even know who you are really. I know who you present, and I know who I present. And I know the gaps.” I had this idea that it would be amazing to see an animated family that looked different when they were inside the house and when they were outside of the house, which I think is just universally human. Like you saying, “Oh, it reminds me of my immigrant family.” But then Italians from New Jersey being like: “Man, I really know that feeling. I feel like I have to be a different person the second I step out my front door and show the world something and hide something about who I am.”

The young character, who I think is based on you — there’s this whole scene where he’s code switching and literally changing his clothing to talk to different groups. Changing his clothing, changing his voice. Leaving the house, the daughter’s curly hair becomes straight immediately. Our dad’s beard turns into a mustache immediately because, “Oh, my God, I can’t be viewed as this fully bearded man.” Rumi immediately hides all his curly hair with a hat, which I always did as a kid and continue to do into adulthood out of habit. But that presentation that you’re picking up on, it’s a very human thing. If you ask me what the show is really about, it’s about people trying to figure out how to be themselves in the middle of all of that. It happens to be set in the early 2000s, but it’s about right now. And it’s about people who are dealing with the financial burdens of capitalism. Like, “Man, I gotta stretch who I am in order to make a living, and I gotta stretch who I am in order to move forward.” And to get to do that with music and jokes —

There are some good musical numbers in this! Some big musical numbers.

You said something really interesting: that all of your work is self-reflective. How do you then make that universal? I’ve always felt things open up when you’re willing to be vulnerable with people. The act of making it clear that you’re putting yourself under the microscope is universal in and of itself because I think people are genuinely good and introspective and walk around all day going: “Should I have said that? Should I have done that? Should I have worn this shirt?” And I think that’s what ends up making it a connection point.

There’s this little title card at the top of every episode that warns that the characters should not be taken as representation. Why are you so uncomfortable with representation? When we put out “Ramy” on Hulu, I remember seeing a headline that was like, “Muslims, Here’s the Show for You,” and my heart sinking and going, “No, no, we are two billion people, and a lot of them are not gonna like what I’m doing, and they shouldn’t, because I am a guy from New Jersey who thinks this type of thing is funny.” Putting the representation warning was a cathartic thing of being like: “Listen, this is not speaking en masse at all. I know you guys didn’t elect me.” Almost to just be like, “Hey, I agree with you: This is not a slice of what it’s like for everybody.”

You’re clearly saying, “I do not speak for the Muslim American community, certainly not the global Muslim community,” which I totally get. But is there something particularly Egyptian American about your work that you feel people haven’t quite picked up on? Because the Cuban American experience, which is mine, is very different from the Mexican American experience, etc. I think it is pretty Egyptian. [Laughs.] A hundred percent. I don’t think any of our representation warnings said that it doesn’t represent Egyptians. There’s a certain Egyptian sarcasm and dark humor that is all over my family. Everything’s said through the lens of a joke. It’s like: “Grandpa, I love you so much. I can’t wait to see you next week — if I’m alive.”

I know from some of my Muslim American friends that because their community has suffered so much scrutiny, they are really wary of opening themselves up to the eyes of broader culture. Are you thinking or worrying about perception when you’re writing? I think my way of handling that goes back to the work being self-reflective above all. I’m not satirizing the culture so much as I am looking at the way people behave. The father in our show is a lot of people’s fathers. We open up our pilot with him handing out to his family these small electrical bills that show the output that everyone is spending in the house, how much shower water they’re using, how much GameCube is being played. He’s so worried about getting his family through, under budget. The things that hit on the sensitivities that you’re talking about, I try to take a more tender approach toward.

I like that word, “tenderness.” I started in stand-up, where things can be really caustic. There’s literally an entire genre of stand-up that’s people roasting each other and going for the darkest things. As a fan of comedy, a lot of that stuff has made me laugh and has given me a release. But when it comes to what I participate in and what I do, there’s always a level of implication that I’ll put myself through to say: “Please don’t ever think I’m laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself.”

Does it feel like tender comedy is harder to get made than caustic comedy? That’s the velocity of anything, right? Bad news spreads faster than good news. No one’s like, “Hey, we recycled a lot.” It’s not really a headline. Talk to any Netflix executive. Any Netflix exec secretly will be like: “Hey, can you throw a murder into your show? Can you throw some sexual assault in?” But also people used to get together to watch public hangings. We’re sick.

Is that really a thing that someone said to you? “Can you throw a murder in there?” They’re not explicitly asking, but they would never mind.

You talked to my co-host, David Marchese, in 2020, right around the time of “Ramy” Season 2, and you told him about what you called “‘The Daily Show’ Effect.” That Jon Stewart was so good at blending politics and comedy that it became almost expected for comedians to be political and have something to say about the news. At the time, you really recoiled at that idea. But a lot of your work is inherently political. So I’m wondering how you think about that part of being a comedian? I am always dancing around it. At the end of the day, I’m an entertainer who works with entertainers, and there is an obligation to be emotionally correct. My obligation above all is to try and hit what something feels like right on the head. That’s the nail I’m trying to hit. The nail I don’t want to be asked to hit is to spread facts and information. I don’t want that obligation. In my stand-up special, I talk about Palestine. Am I going through every single thing and debunking? Like: “Hey, this thing you heard in the news is false. Hey, this thing was worded wrong.” No, I’m actually talking about my dating life. It’s always about the emotional thing first and foremost, and then how that fits into the larger thing.

Relatedly, I was wondering about “Mo,” the show you co-created that’s about an undocumented Palestinian refugee living in Texas. You worked on the second season while the war in Gaza was going on. What was that like? Incredibly surreal, because when we started making that show, the average American did not know the difference between Palestine and Pakistan. And now it’s the global conversation. The clear line for us was we’re gonna keep this about the characters and, to the thing we said earlier, I’m not about to get into a news debate about it. It’s just like: “This is what it looks like when you don’t have your papers. We’re gonna show you what these courts look like. And we’re going to show you what it looks like to fight so hard to go back to your homeland and what ends up happening that’s totally out of your control, in a way that’s really tender.” So it just refined our guiding principles. More people are at the table for the conversation. We actually can do less explaining and do more character work because everyone is aware.

In your most recent comedy special, “More Feelings,” you talked about how everyone wanted you to do something for their cause, like Iranian women, Pakistani floods. You called yourself the mayor of Muslim disaster. How do you decide what you do want to talk about, with all those expectations? A lot of times it’s just people that I know, places I’ve been, places I have a personal connection to. I have so many friends in Palestine. I’ve been there so many times. It’s as if something was happening in your hometown: How do you not talk about it? And there is this part of the way that I was raised where I saw my parents, even when they were struggling financially, always gave charity. That was never a question. It was an expense in the way that food was. It’s a really funny thing. My dad has such an open heart. It’s like, “All right, we gotta give to charity,” and he’s stressed about it. [Laughs.] I think part of the joke is that feeling — the pressure of every single thing.

You hosted “Saturday Night Live” last year, and at the end of your monologue, you made a plea to please free the people of Palestine. And you also said, “Please free the hostages.” Were you nervous about that moment? No. It’s more nerve-racking to not say something. It’s more nerve-racking to try to shield yourself from whatever criticism is gonna come. And plenty of it has come. But I get more tense if I’m sitting quietly, trying to stay safe. And what I said is completely inoffensive. People are sensitive about it. Or people might say: “Well, why didn’t you say this? Or why didn’t you do that?” But there’s nothing controversial about any of it.

Well, to say “Free Palestine” on live national television wasn’t common. No, it’s not common.

And talking about the hostages at the same time does anger some on the far left. One of the directors of the Oscar-winning doc “No Other Land” recently got a lot of blowback for something similar. Look, there are false equivalencies in terms of power. That’s what people are talking about. They’re talking about dynamics of power. When you look at Gaza, you’re talking about a place where their water and electricity are controlled. So even the framing of the earlier question of calling it a war, you know, I’m like, “All right, call it whatever you want to call it.” Yes, there are two sides who are fighting, but there’s a massive power imbalance, and that is just unequivocally true.

How would you describe it? I just said it: It’s literal power. They could turn off the electricity, they could turn off the water, they can turn off what aid is getting in. It’s like being in a wrestling match with someone where you’re controlling the other guy’s calories and how much water he gets. He sneaks a few PowerBars that you didn’t know about. But where I stand is: I know so many people with kids. I hope to have kids. So for me to say all of that in one sentence — nobody wants there to be people getting bombed indiscriminately, and nobody wants there to be hostages. There is nothing controversial in saying it. When you’re not saying everything that everyone wants to hear, they get upset. Jokes are one thing, but anything I’ve said sincerely, I could tattoo it to myself because there’s no problem. That’s why I’m not afraid. Because it’s like: “What did I say? ‘Stop killing kids.’” “Oh, my God, this guy’s crazy.” What? It’s not a thing.

Are there parts of your life that you still feel like you’re trying to understand through your art? Yeah, a lot. My wife and I are just being like, “Oh, should we have kids?” I’m in my 30s. The idea of not being a kid — when I started making my show, I was 26, and I’m 34 now. So that’s a lot of time. I think I still view myself as a kid, but I am an adult. When does self-discovery transition into: “Hey, this is what I do. This is who I am.” That is something I’ve been exploring a lot onstage.

Are we going to have Ramy Youssef dad jokes? Is that where this is all heading? A hundred percent, yes. It will happen. Brace yourself.

We’ve talked a lot about the self-reflective nature of your work, and you’ve spent a lot of this first part of your career making your own stuff, telling your own stories. But now you’re also in other people’s projects much more prominently. Is there something freeing about that? It’s amazing. I tried many years just being an auditioning actor, and no one ever knew what to do with me. “Well, you’re not this Indian character we wrote. We don’t know if you’re the friend or the leading guy.” It was always that stuff, and so I wanted to create a specific frequency. And I’ve been very lucky to get to do that. But then to get to now be at a place where people understand what it is that I do and are excited to do it, it’s very freeing.

I’m glad you mentioned the music in “#1 Happy Family USA” earlier, because you wrote a lot of these songs, these big animated musical numbers. Have you written music before? Tell me how this came about. I was doing these voices. I’ve not done a lot of character work. I tend to play things, even in my stand-up, more grounded and conversational. And then I got in the booth, and I really found these voices. We were doing the voice-over work in a variety of studios as I was traveling, but one particular studio in Brooklyn had a bunch of guitars and a piano in house. I played music in high school. I grew up in the New Jersey emo scene. So we all picked up a guitar and wore tight pants. [Laughs.] So I knew some guitar. I had just found the voice of the dad, Hussein Hussein, and I was like, “What would it sound like if Hussein made music?” And then I wrote this song about him at his halal cart — how he used to be a doctor, but now he can’t be a doctor in America, and he just has to sell meat. And I wrote this track, “Money for the Meat.” And it became this element of the show that is really, truly one of my favorites.

I loved “Spies in the Mosque.” A Backstreet Boys bop about surveillance. And then we kind of made an album. You know, I had this really fun day where I got to do a bucket-list goal of playing basketball with Adam Sandler —

Is he good? He’s amazing. He fouls a lot, and he’s very aggressive. But he’s great. And I was talking to him about how when I was a kid, hearing his Hanukkah song was so wild, because it was out of the pattern of just hearing Christmas songs. In our second season, we actually have a Ramadan Eid song. This idea of hearing these animated jingles from a totally different perspective and different voice — I remember seeing that Sandler Hanukkah stuff, and just going, “Whoa, this is very different.” And it was very exciting to tap into something like that here. And totally by accident. Not a goal going in.

Who won the game? It was a two-on-two game, and I wasn’t on his team. I think we split games. But ultimately, I must have lost, because I can’t remember. If I had won, I’d confidently say I won.

This interview has been edited and condensed from two conversations. Listen to and follow “The Interview” on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, YouTube, iHeartRadio, Amazon Music or the New York Times Audio app.