by Bernie Mac
All my family was there, my in-laws, all of them. I was hurt. They were just looking at me. I just walked the fuck off the stage. I was dying the death of a pilot. My shit was going down, dog.
So now all that clowning and shit I was doing? You know black folks. Every time I told a joke in front of my family after that, it was, “Yeah, you should’ve told that joke that night, muh’fucka.” “Muh’fucka, you wastin’ all yo’ funny jokes here.” “When you was up there, you ain’t say a muh’fuckin’ thang.” I went through that for a while.
I was so afraid of a microphone after that. My confidence just left me. I was so nervous, I refused to touch a mic for months, for almost a whole year.
Eventually, I came back out of hiding. I was at the Crystal Palace on 119th and Michigan in Chicago. This dude told me he wanted to hire me for a big party.
I ain’ gon’ lie to you: I punked out. This is one of the most embarrassing stories I have to tell.
I got to the Crystal Palace, man, and it wasn’t nothing but pimps, players, hustlers, and ho layers. I mean, it was packed. I’m sitting backstage, right? They got this little curtain, and I’m peeking through. Everybody’s just sitting out there, talking. The room was just buzzing.
The producer of the show came back there, said, “Bernie, show time is in ten minutes.”
I started breathing hard, sweating.
He came back a short while later: “Five minutes.”
I walked out into the hallway, stood by some phones.
He came back by a little bit later: “Bernie, get ready to go on, man.”
When he walked by, I grabbed up one of the phones and pretended like I was having a serious conversation. Soon as he said, “Get ready to go on.”
I screamed into the phone, “What? I’ll be right there!”
I turned to him and said, “Man, somebody done jumped on my motherfuckin’ wife, man!” I started walking toward the door real fast.
He said, “Bernie! Bernie!”
I’m all loud, faking like I’m upset and shit: “Man, I gots to go take care of this shit here!”
“We’ll go and help you.”
I said, “Naw, man, I got it!”
And I ran out the motherfuckin’ door, man.
I got in the car. I drove two blocks. I pulled over. I said, “You punk motherfucker.” I felt this small. One, for lying; two, for not facing my fear; three, for running.
But I was frightened. I had to get the fuck outta there.
As an actor, I’ve had to be careful about the roles I’ve taken. Because I know black folks: Whatever you play, whatever you do, they take for real. Like, I played the dude Jing-A-Ling in Life. He was supposed to be having a relationship with another man in prison. They wanted me to play him as a flaming homosexual, but I refused. Partly because that would’ve been too easy.
But also ’cause I know black folks—and I didn’t want no repercussions.
BLACK MOVIEGOER: You up there playing an old fag? Man, man, Bernie Mac, c’mon, man.
So I had to make Jing-A-Ling so you really didn’t know he was gay. I couldn’t play him flaming. Naw, ’cause brothers will beat you up. They take shit for real. They don’t know it’s a movie. Black folks do not understand that this is pretend—like when you little and you play house, postman and all that shit. You playing.
But black people, they be serious. We watch The Fugitive, and we like, “Unh-uhh, he played that too well! Harrison Ford probably did something like that in real life!”
Or like in Players Club where, at the end, my character, Dollar Bill, gets hit over the head and thrown in a trunk.
I get people come up to me even today and say, “Hey, man, where they take you in that trunk?”
Now, these are fans—so I try to be nice. But you know I be wanting to say, “You stupid muthafuckas.”
This one guy asked me—and this ain’t no lie—he said, “Hey, Bernie Mac! They killed you, didn’t they? Man, how they be doing that?”
Bill Belamy, Laura Hayes, Michael Cuyler, and Bernie Mac, with Chris Tucker (crouching).
I just looked at him and said something. Then he said, “But they hit you with a bat! I know that was real!”
These muthafuckas something else; they be believing this shit. They do.
Now, I can see a little kid doing that. I got a friend, her grandson, cutest little chocolate boy you ever want to see. And he smart. He short as hell, ’bout three feet tall. Muh’fucka eight years old. He ain’t growing no more, right? But he’s smart.
Anyway, I went over their house and he went off: “How is Bernie Mac over here and he dead? They put him in the trunk!” He said, “Lord, what’s going on here?”
Now that was funny to me because he’s a little boy. But grown folks be coming to me with this bullshit—talking about, “Where Kid and Play at?
“We saw you in House Party last week, man. What Kid doing?”
I don’t know!
Another time, I was somewhere playing golf. A brother came up to me, he said, “Bernie Mac, what’s up man?”
I said, “What’s up, brother? How you doing?”
Then he gon’ ask me: “Where Steve Harvey and Ced at?”
Like we sleep together or something! We ain’t connected at the hip, muh’fucka. I don’t know.
Brothers hold you so close to everything, it’s amazing. If you sing a song, you can’t have imagination.
BLACK MUSIC FAN: You heard that song about wanting to be banged? You know, listen to the words. “Oh, daddy, no, my booty sore.” You know his father a fag, right?
We take things out of context. Everything is real to us.
But I don’t think people care all that much about who I am. Muh’fuckas don’t remember all that “he was funny” shit. They don’t care about the person behind the act. They just wanna know your business.
Muh’fuckas want dirt on you. They want to hear somethin’ bad.
I’m sure people talk shit about me. “That muh’fucka make me sick.” Because they know I’m gonnna make it rough. They know I ain’t bullshittin’ when I get on that stage.
Niggas are afraid, a lot of them, because they don’t work at it. I don’t even know a lot of their names. Hearing the names of comedians today is like listening to the weather bureau: Earthquake, Tornado, Snowflake, Hurricane. There’s Pierre and T. J. Smooth.
People come up to me and say, “Bernie Mac, Bernic Mac! I love you, man. My nephew’s a comedian. Ever heard of Boxhead?”
Not a whole lot of people have gone out of their way to help me. I mean, Phyllis Hyman was truly a blessing to me. She hooked me up with my first really big gig, out at the Hollywood Bowl in LA years ago. And there have been others, too.
But there haven’t been too many comics who have done a lot for me. I’d go to the amateur room and people would play me to the left. A lot of the other comics had their cliques and shit, and I wasn’t really a part of all that. I mean, I was cool with a few guys, but not too much so. Hollywood was a muh’fucka. I got rejected so many times in Los Angeles.
I can go all the way back to Damon Wayons and Mo’ Money. I had gone out for a part in the movie, but I didn’t get it, right? But later, the people involved with the movie told me that they really liked my work and that Damon was going to give me a part in the movie. And this was when Damon was hot. In Livin’ Color, his HBO comedy special, he had all that goin’ on. Hot as hell.
So not long after I read for that part, I was back in Chicago hosting at the Cotton Club like I did every Monday night, and Damon came to my club. I walked in the back; he was there. We started talkin’, and he told me, “All right, I’m gon’ out you in my movie.”
Man, don’t you know, I was a doorman in the movie Mo’ Money? All I did was open the door.
He’s hookin’ me up, right?
I don’t think I said, “Uh-huh” in that muh’fucka. I ain’t say, “Come in,” “Please,” or nothin’.
I was a doorman! I could’ve at least asked, “Who
is it?”
Everytime them white folks go up there on those award shows and get their trophies, they don’t never give thanks to God. Because they think they are God. They have control. They control your destiny. They sit there and they tell you if you live or die. And the blacks believe that. Hispanics and Asians, they ain’t got nothing coming. And if you do get a role, you a ho. You gon’ be a drug dealer. Or you gon’ be a snitch.
Then you have the blacks go up there to get their awards: “First I’d like to thank God who made it possible . . . What’s up, mutha-fuckas? What’s up, yo! To the people, man. Sho’ you right! Ray-don, Jerky, Samuel, Lil’ Wee-Wee. I’m comin’ home, baby! I want to thank God, though, for real. For real!”
But in Hollywood, blacks know what we’re up against, so ain’t no reason to keep getting angry. How many times have we seen this? So why does it still bother us? I done seen every side of prejudice. I done went on an audition, went into a room, and ain’t nothing but blacks there—for one role: Jamie.
Niggas ask you, “What you here reading for?”
“I’m reading for Jamie, nigga! He reading for Jamie. She reading for Jamie. We all reading for Jamie!”
“And he die in the beginning of the movie. So I hope y’all die good, whoever get the role—because you gon’ be a dead mutha-fucka.”
Sho’ ’nuff, three minutes into the movie, Jamie dead.
JAMIE: You ain’t gon’ do a muthafu—
Pow!
That be your only line.
And after you done been in a movie like that, you’re so embarrassed. Your friends be like, “I thought you was in the movie.”
Because you know black folks ain’t coming at the beginning. A fourth of the movie is over and we got to scoot past a muthafucka. “Sit down! Sit down!” “I left my coat. Excuse me one more time.” “Damn!”
When we get there, we chewing all loud and shit, talking to the movie.
BLACK MOVIEGOER: What? That’s stupid, muthafucka! Ain’t no way I go up in that room like that! Hell naw! That’s some Hell Naw!
WHITE MOVIEGOER: Shh!
BLACK MOVIEGOER: What? You don’t tell me what to do! I’m grown! We can take it to the bridge!
BLACK MOVIEGOER’S GIRLFRIEND: Don’t say nothing to him, baby.
BLACK MOVIEGOER: White muthafucka gon’ tell me . . . Let me get a sip of that ice, girl. Ow!
GIRLFRIEND: You still got that hole in your tooth?
BLACK MOVIEGOER: Aw, yeah. Hey, I thought you said Jesse was in this movie?
And then when the movie ends and they don’t see you, they talk about you.
MOVIEGOER: That movie wasn’t shit! Wait until I see that muthafucka. That muthafucka wasn’t in no movie. That’s a lying muthafucka.
But he was in it—you just missed him. He dead. When you get the movie on videotape, you see.
MOVIEGOER: Oh! There that muthafucka! Hit stop, Frank! Frank, come here. This is it!
(Gets on the phone) Hey, man, what’s up, man, what you doing? Man, I got the tape. Jesse is in this muh’-fucka, man. I got it for $7. A man was selling it by the grocery store, bootleg. But yeah, you got a few clear spots. You can see his head . . . Oh, shit! They just shot Jesse on here! Shit just started and he dead already.
Damn, I know that hurt. How they be doin’ that?
I ain’t complainin’ about my success; I grew up hard, so to have the money and fame that I have achieved is all gravy. This stuff is just the cherry on top.
But that doesn’t mean that everythang is cool. It’s hard sometimes when you’ve made it and people see that. People use you. They try to get stuff outta ya—especially money. I don’t mind doing it for somebody I care about, but people take it too far.
They play psychological blackmail. Instead of just coming out and telling you something—“Bernie, could you help me with my rent this month?”—they throw innuendos: “Sigh . . . I don’t know what I’m gon’ do, man.”
They want you to say, “What? What’s wrong?”
I don’t say nothing.
They say it a few more times: “Yeah, man . . . sigggghhhhh . . . I don’t know what the fuck I’m gon’ do . . . Sigghhhh . . . Shit’s deep.”
I still don’t say nothing. They waiting on me to say, “Man, what’s up?” But see, I learned—don’t say shit.
Then they’ll say it loud. “Don’t make no got-damned sense, man. Shit! Pretty soon I’m gon’ have to get a trailer! Man, moving gon’ be a bitch! Muthafucka gon’ try to put us out first thing in the morning! I ain’t gon’ worry about it, though.”
I ain’t either. I just stay quiet.
They keep goin’: “Aw, man, you know, landlord trippin’.”
I’ll go onto something else: “So how ya kids?”
I’m so good, I know the bullshit when it come. The phone’ll ring . . .
ME: Hello?
PITIFUL VOICE: Hello?
Bernie Mac and daughter Je’Niece at her graduation.
Soon as I hear that voice, I’m already like, “Here it come.”
ME: Hold on. You wanna speak to Rhonda?
PITIFUL VOICE: Sighhhh. Yeah. She in?
ME: Yeah, she’s in. Hold—
PITIFUL VOICE: How you doin’, Bernard?
ME: I’m doing good, good. How you doin’?
PITIFUL VOICE: Sigghh. I’m blessed . . .
What the fuck you beggin’ for if you so damn blessed then?
PITIFUL VOICE: I might be blind in one eye. This arthritis might be killing me, but I’m blessed. I take heart pills and medicine, and my high blood pressure is sky high. But I’m blessed. My diabetes is actin’ up, and my big toe done got an infection in it, and boy, this hypertension keep going up and down.
But Lord let me see another day. I’m blessed.
If you blessed, why you cranking and moaning and bitching?
Man, more people come to me for money. Bullshit money. And they don’t never pay you back. Bullshit money is if they need a thousand, I give ’em five thousand. If they need five, they come for ten. And they can’t just come at you with one problem. They gotta have a whole list of bullshit.
BEGGING BROTHER-IN-LAW: They laid me off from my job, man. Your niece, man, got to have an operation. I ain’t told your sister, but I need about $8,000. I know you ain’t gon’ let your niece go through all of this, man. Man, we family. The only thing we got is one another. I’m gon’ pay you back. I swear to God I’m gon’ pay you back—if I have to sell my arm or something! But I can’t let my daughter die, man!
You lie on your daughter? Lie on they own kids! Now, I don’t mind helping you, but when you get to that, you bull-shittin’.
I used to be into giving people money for Christmas. I’d get my family over here and just give out checks. You know, I just wanted to keep the family thing going.
One Christmas, everybody was over. We had just got our house. People in the basement talkin’, opening presents. I came downstairs, and I heard my family member talkin’ about, “How much he give you?”
Muh’fuckas was comparing! “We got more last year, didn’t we?” “Hmph . . . Muh’fucka cuttin’ back.”
Betcha I won’t do that no mo’. I cut that out—and that was three years ago.
When I ask for the money back, it’s not really that I want the money back. I just be trying to get control over the situation. Because if you don’t stop them, it gets out of hand.
ME: Hey, man, I thought you was gon’ get that back to me? You ain’t gotta do it right now, but I just want to put something on your mind.
BEGGING BROTHER-IN-LAW: Oh, man, hold up now. Look here, man.
He just came crying three or four months or a year ago.
Now? He won’t even call you. Won’t even mention it to you. Just stop coming around. Now when you see him, he got a fucking attitude.
ME: Hey, man what’s going on?
BROTHER-IN-LAW: Ain’t nothin’ going on. Hmmph.
What the fuck is he short about? He owe me money—
but now he don’t want to speak.
Then when you ask him for it, he throws your success at you.
ME: Hey, man, can I talk to you for a second? I thought you said you was gon’ pay me back.
BROTHER-IN-LAW: Aw, that little bit of money ain’t gon’ hurt you, man? You sweating me on some bullshit, man.
ME: What?
BROTHER-IN-LAW: I’m just saying, man . . . You ain’t hurting.
ME: What you saying? This is my money you talking about, man!
BROTHER-IN-LAW: I’m just saying . . . You got your own TV show and you gon’ sweat me for $5,000? Man, I’m gon’ give you your got-damned money. You ain’t got to . . .
Hold on! See, that’s the front. Talk all loud, try to make me feel bad.
MY SISTER: What’s going on in here?
BROTHER-IN-LAW: Ask your brother! Ask your rich-ass brother!
They play the mind games . . .
SISTER: Bernie, what you done did?
ME: Look, all I did was ask him for my money.
SISTER: You know he got high blood pressure! And I’m your sister! Look here. We all slept in the same bed together. We gon’ give you your money, Bernie. You ain’t got to come over here like you our landlord.
ME: I ain’t come to you like that. It’s been two years.
SISTER: Fuck that! I gave you a lot of money when you ain’t have nothing. When you ain’t have a damn dime. Before you became “Bernie Mac”!
Now, here come the tears. Muh’fuckas tryin’ to make you feel bad for doing good . . .
SISTER: We gon’ give you your money. Don’t worry about it.
BROTHER-IN-LAW: Naw, baby, naw! Fuck him!
SISTER: Naw, I can’t fuck him. I’m just gon’ pray for him! The Bible say that money is the root of all evil.
Ain’t that some shit? They gon’ quote the Bible! I said to myself, Look at these muthafuckas.