I Didn't Ask to Be Born

by Bill Cosby

  I still remember, at the dance, girls on one side, boys on the other. The music on the 78 record—and it wasn’t a diamond needle; this was just a plain old needle—blasting away, and these twelve-, thirteen-year-olds just standing there, afraid to make the long walk across the floor to the other side.

  One of the most interesting aspects of human behavior is that they can stand there, I would imagine until they die, if the first person does not make that move. I don’t know what goes on in other cultures, but in ours, each age-group, whatever group you’re plumped with, at some point, before you ever get to dancing or whatever, you have to go through this awkward stage.

  Things may have changed by now, but I just remember the auditorium, or gymnasium, and the girls are on one side and the boys are on the other, and they stand across from each other, like there’s some giant moat. No alligators, no snakes, no electric wires, no quicksand, but to get from one side of the moat to the other was very scary. I think that each generation had to have someone who made the walk first. And that was the freeing moment. Otherwise, there wouldn’t be a next generation. That walk, in itself, was the bravest move.

  There we were, boys on one side and girls on the other, like human chess pieces. Everybody knows that in chess, the first move is very important. And the second move too. Plus, you have to think several moves ahead or you can get checkmated. The problem was, here were a bunch of fifteen-year-olds who couldn’t even think one move ahead. We’re all lined up, on the chessboard, as I said, with the girls on one side—who are talking with each other—and the boys on the other side. Everybody is thinking how to be cool, but even though we know we’re supposed to go over there, we just can’t go.

  Now, this was in my day. Today, I don’t know what you do. You come in dancing or whatever. But back then, you stand there and the girls are there and the boys are supposed to do something. Finally it’s a long enough wait that it becomes kind of silly.

  Actually nobody stands back and says:

  All right, are we men or not? Let’s go get ’em.

  But there is that one person, and I don’t remember who it was, but that fellow, that brave fellow who went across and freed us. And then we all walked across and asked a girl to dance.

  There’s always a girl in one’s life who will disappear but the story remains. That one, for me, was Bernadette Johnson. As I’ve said, Bernadette was fine. Everybody said it, all the fellows I was with, all the guys who were my buddies.

  Bernadette was fine.

  But she also was a wonderful person. Because as fine as she was, she did not “ig” you.

  What is “ig”?

  It’s a word from my time that I will define for you.

  You know how people say somebody “dissed” them? And you know what “dis” is short for: “disrespect.” So “ig” is short for “ignore.” As in, “She igged you.” Which means she ignored you.

  Bernadette would not “ig” you, even though she was fine. Even if you looked like Rondo Hatton, the actor in horror films who was nicknamed “the Creeper.” He never talked, and he had that jaw and that long face and big hands and big feet. Really, he was a horrible-looking guy. They used him as a horror figure in movies like The Pearl of Death and House of Horrors.

  The point is, even if you looked like “the Creeper,” Bernadette, if you spoke to her, would still say hello and make you feel like: Gee whiz, she is fine, but she stopped to talk to me.

  When somebody had a party in the cellar, fifteen-, sixteen-year-olds had a party, with the parents upstairs, you just felt wonderful. There was fresh whitewash on the walls. And you could never really fully stand up if you were six foot one.

  There was always punch on the table, alcohol-free punch. And the 78s were like two minutes long, so that if the song was slow, you could dance close. And I’m talking about dancing cheek to cheek for two minutes, which gave you enough time to put in a couple of smooth moves. But then the record was over and you had to walk the girl back to where she was before, and you went back to where the boys were. As you got older, you stopped talking about what happened. You just came back and that was your secret.

  But even then, at these parties in the basement, Bernadette wouldn’t reject you. She just made you feel wonderful. In those days, the style of the skirt was very tight, tight around the waist, above the hip, and then it came tight around the side, went down, and then flared out down to some very thin, light lace socks and black flat shoes. Girls’ blouses had sort of that Spanish flair, and it was almost off the shoulder, and short-sleeved, slightly puffy, usually white, and it looked like a string or, I don’t know, a strip of elastic held things together. Everything was covered and so you had to look for it, which I still think is a lot of fun. As opposed to today, where some of the girls walking around make you wonder: Well, what’s left?

  But there were a few girls who did reject. They didn’t do it in a bad way. When you asked them to dance they would say:

  No, not right now.

  Obviously the girl was waiting for somebody else, and now you’re standing there with nowhere to go. I do remember once I asked two, three girls in a row, but got rejected and just went back to where the fellows were.

  But I don’t remember Bernadette turning anybody down. That’s how nice she was. She danced every dance. She spoke to everyone. In other words, she was sort of, if you wanted to define her, a teenage angel. Nobody ever said anything bad about her. Even the girls all knew that she was fine.

  Bernadette didn’t have an ugly girlfriend. She had sisters. Four sisters, all of them fine. Bernadette Johnson. She was nice. She was hip.

  She was fine.

  Buzzy Reed told Ron Brown that Cleofus Smith said Bernadette dug (loved) Miles Davis records. I said, “What?”

  So I went up to her—the thing about Miles Davis records armed me and made me brave. Ordinarily, I’d be scared to death to talk to Bernadette too much. But that day I went up to her.

  I said, “Bernadette, I understand that you’re digging Miles Davis.”

  She said, “I love Miles Davis, William.”

  I said, “Well, I happen to have every one of the newest Miles Davis LPs ever made.”

  She said, “Oh my goodness.”

  I said, “Would you like to listen to the ones I have?”

  She said, “I would love to, William.”

  I didn’t hear anything else after that. I just started to walk away. I was so happy, I was just going.

  She said, “William?”

  I said, “Yes?”

  She said, “When?”

  I said, “What?”

  She said, “When are you going to play your records for me?”

  I said, “When?”

  She said, “That’s what I’m asking you.”

  I started to feel stupid. You know, that’s one thing that’ll climb all over you, when you know you’re stupid. And you’re in love.

  I said, “Friday.”

  She said, “Where?”

  I said, “I’ll come to your house.”

  She said, “Do you know where I live?”

  I said, “No.”

  She said, “Well, then, let me give you my address.”

  After I got her address, I walked away. I was so in love; I was so happy. Bernadette Johnson. She gave me her address. But there was one problem.

  I did not have one Miles Davis record.

  But Joe Barnett did. So I went to my man, Joe. My friend, Joe Barnett. You see, that’s the meaning of a friend. Your child can’t be your friend. Your child’s got nothin’ you can borrow. Joe Barnett loaned me four of the latest Miles Davis LPs. Only thing I had to do was spill ink. He had a stamp that said, “Property of Joe Barnett.” So I spilled ink on it.

  Friday finally came. I bathed three times. We didn’t have a shower, just a bathtub. Bathed three times because…

  Gonna see Bernadette Johnson!

  And after the third bath, I remembered that my father, who was in the navy and had been al
l around the world, brought home a bottle of Canoe cologne. So I filled the tub with about a foot of water, climbed in, and poured the whole bottle of Canoe—it was unopened, never been used—in the water. Emptied that bottle out. As I sat in the tub being marinated (burned, actually, or sautéed) the Canoe cleared up my athlete’s feet and I discovered parts of my body that I hadn’t thought about. A normal person would have gotten out of the tub, but I could think only of how wonderful I would smell for the lovely Bernadette.

  Gonna see Bernadette Johnson!

  Then I filled the empty Canoe bottle with water and put it back on the shelf in case some grown-up noticed and asked, “What happened to the Canoe?”

  “Well, it’s so old, it just lost its fragrance.”

  As I started to get dressed, I noticed that I was coughing.

  What’s wrong? Why am I coughing?

  And then I realized the Canoe was cutting off my breathing. Eyes running, coughing, the more clothes I put on, the more air would come up into my face and I couldn’t get away from the smell. I was upstairs in my bedroom. My mother was in the kitchen.

  She said, “What is that up there? What are you doing up there?”

  I said, “Nothing, Mother.”

  She said, “What’s wrong with your voice?”

  So I came down the steps, dressed, and I picked up the LPs. Even though my mother was way back in the kitchen…

  She said, “What have you got on?”

  I said, “Uh, I don’t know. It’s a new soap.”

  As I left the house, I could hear my mother opening the windows.

  When you’re fifteen years old, you’ve got two things going for you: stupidity and hope. Bernadette’s house was a block and a half from our house, and I’m hoping this smell will be gone by the time I get to her house. Because it was strong. Really strong. Like ewwww strong.

  I got to her house, went up these wooden steps to the porch, and pulled open the aluminum screen door. Just doing that, the air came back at me, and oh, the smell!

  I rang the doorbell. When she opened the door it sucked the Canoe fumes off of me. Tears formed in her eyes and she said, “Oh, come on in right away.”

  As I went past her, she looked outside, wrinkled her nose, then turned to her mother. I heard her mother say, “No, it’s him.”

  Meaning it was me who smelled.

  Bernadette looked fine. But that smell was in the way of everything. When I went to say hello to Bernadette’s mother, she stood back and said, “Just stay where you are, son. It’s very nice to meet you.”

  Bernadette’s father said, “Take care of yourself.”

  And he left. He just left.

  Then the mother said something to Bernadette about how she knows what time to say good night and then went upstairs.

  Bernadette was so nice. She smiled. And she just looked so fine. But it was hot in the house and oh God, the heat, the Canoe, the heat, the perfume. Oh God! The smell just kept coming and coming. Bernadette was sitting there. She excused herself and when she came back she had a fan. It was one of those fans from a funeral parlor, So-and-So’s Funeral Parlor. You know, the ones you get in church. I don’t know why funeral parlors do that—make a fan telling you, you gonna die. You’re fanning the thing and it’s telling you you’re going to die.

  So we’re sitting there on the couch and she’s just fanning herself.

  So I said, “I have the LPs.”

  She said, “Oh, let me help you.”

  I said, “No, I’ll do it.”

  She said, “Good.”

  I think she said that because of the fact that I was about to move away from her. So I went over to the console, which I knew how to work because Joe Barnett had one. I turned it on, pulled the Miles Davis LPs out, put four of them up on the spindle, brought the holder back over to keep the four records in place, turned the speed to 33 1/3, and pushed the controls to “play.” The arm with the diamond needle (and a quarter Scotch-taped to the top) came up and did a searching move to set itself for the size of the 33 1/3 record, then dropped down, and the music started. I said, “Yeah.”

  When I turned around, Bernadette was sitting on the sofa. Now, she could have sat in the armchair, but she sat on the sofa. I’m not thinking about “getting some.” I’m in love with Bernadette Johnson. I want to marry her. I will get a job, I will buy her a house, and we will have two cars. And I’m saving myself for her.

  I sat down. She had her left hand on the cushion, so accidentally, my hand went down, and my little finger went on top of her little finger. And then she took her little finger and put it on top of three of my other fingers. I don’t know how it happened, but all of a sudden, I heard myself say, “Oh yeah.” I was so happy. I don’t know where it came from, just “Oh yeah.” Then I took her hand, asking permission first, and turned, and she was looking at me and she was smiling and Miles Davis was playing away.

  Then I noticed her father leaning on the opening leading to the dining room. He’s got a revolver, with the cylinder open. And he’s got a stick with cotton, which he is using to clean the chambers. He looked at me and he said, “You live about a block and a half away, left-hand side of the street?”

  I said, “Yes, sir.”

  He said, “You got twin brick posts and an iron gate leading to your steps and the porch?”

  I said, “Yes, sir.”

  He looked at me and nodded a “yes” and said, “I just want to know where to come.”

  He slapped the gun so that the cylinder went back in and made a noise. Click! And then he turned and went into the dining room.

  I said, “Bernadette, I have an awful lot of homework to do.”

  She said, “So soon? It’s Friday.”

  I said, “And a good time to leave.”

  I left so fast I forgot to take the albums. I called Joe Barnett and told him where to go and pick them up, and the next day Joe went over to get his LPs.

  Four years later, he and Bernadette were married. I was one of the groomsmen at their wedding. Bernadette’s father came up to me and said, “I just want you to know something. I didn’t think anything was wrong with you except you just didn’t smell right. I just kept saying to myself, ‘I gotta live with a son-in-law smelling like this for the rest of my life? I don’t think so.’ ” Then he gave me a great handshake and said, “However, you do smell a lot better. Thank God.”

  MESSAGE TO THE GROOM

  Think about having your mother (not her father) escort your bride down the aisle. When you turn around and watch them approach, you will be able to see your whole life coming at you. Your mother, that dear, lovely woman who saved everything while you were growing up—trophies, school papers, drawings, everything you ever did—walking with the woman who, as time goes by, will throw all these things out.

  THE MORPHAMIZATION OF PEANUT ARMHOUSE

  I was in my forties at the time, performing at Harrah’s in Atlantic City. After the show, my agent came in the dressing room and asked me, “Do you know anybody named M.C.?”

  “No.”

  “Well, he says he knows you from your old neighborhood in the projects.”

  “M.C.? Are those his initials?”

  “I don’t know.”

  To me, “M.C.” could mean the master of ceremonies at a show. Was this someone who emceed one of my shows?

  “Go back out and ask him what M.C. stands for.”

  A few minutes later, my agent returned: “He said it doesn’t stand for anything. M.C. That’s his whole name.”

  And then the light went on. Emcee! I remember Emcee! And I said, “Bring him back.”

  In walks a guy in his forties whom I hadn’t seen for more than thirty years—the last time I saw him he was eight. Tonight he’s wearing a sports coat and a tie, with a hat like Humphrey Bogart wore, a fedora or whatever it’s called. He has a mustache now, and a goatee. But somewhere in there I could see Emcee. And he’s got his wife with him, whom he introduced as “my wife.” Nothing more. She’s a very
handsome woman, all dressed up, hair done, makeup, everything perfect. She was just smiling, happy to be there.

  Emcee, I find out, works at the post office in Philadelphia, and his wife has a job at Grant’s Awnings on Chelten Avenue. They tell me they have three children.

  We then began reminiscing. His wife sat there with a wife smile, probably not caring about these stories. But I could see that she was thinking: Yes, my husband really does know Bill Cosby.

  “Remember that day when I was at bat,” Emcee said at one point, “and I hit the ball and it bounced off Pedro’s hand?”

  I do remember because I was the pitcher when Pedro made the error that put Emcee on first base. The ball went off Pedro’s glove, ran up his arm and across his shoulder, and then hit him in the left side of his head, causing a sharp ringing. After that, he didn’t care where the ball was—he just kept opening and closing his mouth—because he couldn’t hear for a while.

  “Oh yes,” I said. “And then Peanut Armhouse picked up the bat and…”

  My voice trailed off because just thinking about that day gave me chills. I have seen a lot of things in my life. A lot of things. But I have never, to this day, seen anything like the morphamization of Peanut Armhouse. And no one who was there will ever forget it.

  I grew up on Parrish Place in the Richard Allen projects in Philadelphia. The people who were allowed in these housing projects were husbands and wives. Mothers living with fathers, fathers who were doing something, mothers who were doing something, sometimes as a domestic, so they could get cash as quietly as possible and keep it under the table—if there even was a table. And people were in the projects on a promissory note that they would work to build themselves up and move out, which I must say, all the guys I knew, their parents actually did that. Many of the guys went on to a better life. Like Ron Davenport, who graduated from college and became the dean of the University of Pittsburgh law school.