I Ain't Scared of You

by Bernie Mac

  “You kids, don’t let me come up there! Let me come up there. Let me come on up there. You want me to come up there? I’ll come up there. But you don’t believe it, though. You don’t believe it. You just don’t believe it. Don’t believe it. Hmmph, he don’t believe it.”

  We’d be like, Why does he always have to say the same shit four, five times?

  Like if I was messin’ up in school, he’d tell me, “The teacher wants me to come up to your school. If I got to come up to school, I’m gonna bust your ass wide open. Wide open. W-i-i-i-ide open. You gon’ be wide open. Everybody gon’ be able to see inside you.”

  And he’d slap you in a minute, slap the shit outta ya. He just liked hurtin’ you.

  POW!

  Bernie Mac, age five, with cousins Corky and Pat.

  “Now, didn’t I tell you something? Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you? I told you. You heard me tell him?”

  Then my grandmother would say to him, “Don’t say it again. Don’t say it again. Please don’t say it again.”

  “Naw, I ain’t gon’ say nothing. I ain’t gon’ say nothing. I ain’t gon’ say nothin’. I ain’t saying nothing. Hmmph, see if I say something.”

  My grandfather used to give us baths. That whole scene was crazy. First, he’d spend ’bout 15 minutes trying to get the hot water to work ’cause our pipes would be frozen.

  You’d hear him bangin’ on the pipes for a long time. Every now and then, he’d stop to yell to us.

  Tink, Tink, Tink.

  “Is it on yet?”

  “Naw, grandaddy, it’s still cold.”

  Tink, Tink, Tink.

  “What about now?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, let me try this back end.”

  Tink, Tink, Tink.

  “Yeah, grandaddy, it’s getting warm now . . . Yeah, now it’s boiling hot.”

  He’d get that muh’fucka to where it’d be like the damn swamp, steam just coming up off the water.

  Then he’d just throw yo’ ass in there.

  You like, “Aaagggghhh!” Skin comin’ off yo’ ass from the heat and shit, and my granddaddy talkin’ ’bout, “Hurry up and get you ass in there before it get cold.”

  Then he’d wash us. Man, he would scrub us until we niggas was raw. You’d be bleedin’. I used to have scabs from where that muh’-fucka used to be scrubbin’ on my black ass.

  And then, after you took your bath, you didn’t just let the water drain. Hell naw, not with all them kids. You got out, and somebody else got they ass in.

  You’d be cryin’, talkin’ ’bout, “The water dirty!”

  My grandfather’d be like, “Aw, shut up, boy. A lil’ dirt ain’t never hurt nobody. Ain’t hurt no body. Ain’t nobody ever got hurt from a lil’ dirt.”

  Man, my grandfather came to school with me one time. I was so embarrassed I didn’t know what to do.

  And you know kids. They parents come to school lookin’ all fucked up, people are like, “Who mama is that? Who daddy is that?” And you could always tell whose mama it was because whoever her child was, he’d be the only muh’fucka in the class lookin’ at his paper and writing, tryin’ to pretend like he was doing some work.

  So my grandfather comes up to the school to talk to my teacher. “Uh, I’m Mr. Mac. I’m here for Bernard Mac.”

  Then he’d try to use big words while he was talking to the teacher. “So, uh, what seems to be the calculation?”

  Everybody was looking around like, What? Then the teacher told him, “Well, Bernard’s being a disruption in class. He laughs a lot.”

  “He laughs a lot? I done told him about laughing. Didn’t I tell you about laughing? Didn’t I tell you about laughing? I done told you about laughing. Keep on laughing. Laugh one mo’ time.”

  Kids all teasing me and everything. I’m just sitting there all humiliated, like, “This ign’ant sum’bitch!”

  And it wasn’t just in my school when he did that. My grandfather always tried to use big words, and was always fuckin’ ’em up: “See, boy, you know, when you get the job and it’s inferential, what happen is, it rederdefried itself.”

  What?

  When I got older, I’d challenge him. He’d get tight with me—get really mad—when I asked him about a word. He’d be offended that I questioned him.

  “See,” he’d say, “first of all, you gotta abstract yourself from all the inferentials.”

  So I’d ask, “What you say?”

  He’d get tight. “Don’t play with me, boy.”

  “What you gettin’ tight for? I don’t know what you talking about.”

  Then he’d really get tight. “Don’t worry ’bout it. Don’t worry ’bout it. Just-just don’t worry ’bout it. You ain’t gotta worry ’bout it. You all worried ’bout it.”

  He’d just get mad at you because he was making up words.

  * * *

  There was plenty of moments like that, too. I’ll never forget one time when he was sittin’ on the porch with his fan. It was scorching outside this day—I mean, really, really hot. A neighbor pulled up. We all sittin’ there. (You couldn’t just run around when my grand-daddy was around; we had to sit on the porch.) The neighbor comes by, says to my grandfather, “Hey, Brother Mac.”

  Granddaddy spoke back, “Hey, man, how’s it goin’?”

  “It’s a steamer today, ain’t it?”

  “Yeah, man . . . It’s about 100 degrees centipede.”

  Ain’t nobody even say nothin’. We all just looked around. Centipede? What the fuck is some centipede?

  My granddaddy was a hard-working man, and wasn’t scared of a lot. But one thing he was scared of, boy: my grandmama. Big Mama ran things back then. She wasn’t scared to fight him. They’d always be fighting about something. All night long, just fighting. The police used to come to our house so much that when they would just roll past the neighborhood, my friends would be lookin’ at me.

  We’d be at school, hear the siren—waaaahhhwaaaaaaahhhhh—then somebody’d say, “Bernie, they gettin’ ready to go to yo’ house, ain’t they?”

  The police stayed at our house, talking all nice, trying to calm my grandparents down. “Mister, Missus Mac, y’all stop.”

  Granddaddy’d go on in a corner: “Hmmph. That’s her. That’s her. That’s her. Her be startin’ all that. Her be doin’ all that.”

  Grandmama would just be sitting there. “Yeah, I’m gon’ show you what her be doin’.”

  “Oh, yeah, we gon’ see what’s g’wains on.” That’s where I got that from—“g’wains on”—from my grandmama. Then she’d be like, “Tell ya what: it’s gon’ be a new day in the week when I get up on ya. ’Cause on the eighth day, I ain’t gon’ get off ya.”

  Then she’d get tight-lipped on ya—and she’d always close her eyes when she was threatening him. That meant she serious. Her eyes would close real slow and tight, and she’d always have to add: “I’mma cut yo’ ass in two.”

  I asked her once why she always closed her eyes when she said stuff like that.

  “Baby, so I can say it with conviction,” she said.

  Scared the shit outta me.

  But most of us came from that. That’s what was real. That was how our families were back then. But that’s also when families were strong and were upright. You got pregnant, they sent you down South. They hid you. It was an embarrassment to the family. You were a bastard.

  And families took care of each other. When somebody got old or had something bad happen, they didn’t go to no doctors. There was always that sick uncle or aunt that you kept in the attic or somewhere.

  We had an uncle like that, my grandmother’s brother, was crazy as hell. He had had a couple of nervous breakdowns. You never saw him. They kept him in the back.

  All you’d hear is him hollerin’ “Hhaaaggggghhhh!”

  You’d be eatin, hear that shit, look around . . .

  Big Mama would be like, “Don’t worry ’bout what’s back there. Eat ya supper.”


  You’d start eatin’ again—and all of a sudden he’d break out again: “Haagggggghhhh!”

  Big Mama: “Didn’t I say eat yo’ supper?”

  I’m thinkin’, How am I supposed to eat with that crazy muh’fucka back there hollerin’ and shit?

  And we couldn’t go in the back either. They had a skeleton key where they kept the door locked. That nigga would be back there going crazy. And they’d go and knock on the door and slide him his food. We never could go back there.

  One day my grandmother was gone. (And you always knew when your grandmother was at home because her wig had the little styrofoam stand. If her wig was on that styrofoam she was in the crib; if that wig was gone, that mean she was gone.) So I got my brothers and them and said, “Come on, y’all, I got the skeleton key. Let’s see who back there.”

  So went back there, banged on the door.

  He went, “Haaaaggghhh!”

  I went, “Haaaaahgggghhh.”

  “Haaaaggghh.”

  “Haaaagghh.”

  Then I said, “Who back there?”

  He ain’t say nothin’.

  I said, “Why don’t you come out?”

  “If I could come out, I’da been gone.”

  I said, “You want me to open the door?”

  Then I heard my brothers, “Here come Big Mama, here come Big Mama.”

  I ran. Put the key back. My grandmother came in, asked us what we wanted for dinner, then went back there where he was.

  And don’t you know that crazy sum’bitch told on me?

  He wasn’t that damn crazy. He knew my name and everythang.

  “Bernie came back here, tried to let me out.”

  My grandmother ain’t say nothin’ for a coupla hours. We was sittin’ at the table. We all eatin’. Then she started talkin’ to me, real calm and quietly.

  GRANDMAMA: So, ummm, you went back in the back, huh? Tried to get your uncle to escape.

  BERNIE: Who?

  GRANDMAMA: I’mma ask ya one mo’ time. Did you go back there and try to get him to escape?

  BERNIE: Naw, I heard him—I heard him—I—I heard sumthin’ fall and I went back there and I asked him if he was all right. That’s all I asked him. That’s all I asked him. I asked him if . . .

  GRANDMAMA: He say you tried to let him out.

  BERNIE: Naw! I—How I’mma let him out? I don’t even know how!

  GRANDMAMA: Ya lyin’ to me, ain’t ya?

  BERNIE (head down): (sniff) I—I’m lyin’. (sniff)

  I mean, I knew to tell ’cause she had that look on me, right?

  Man, she whooped me with an ironing cord. I hollered. I screamed. I ran all around the house.

  But that sum’bitch used to run track. She was dead on my ass.

  The next day, she was gone. I went back there again, stood outside that door. Maaaan, I cussed his butt out.

  “Oh, you’s a punk sum’bitch, you know that? Wit’ ya—ya—ya trick ass!” I’m all up in the keyhole talkin’ shit. “I hope ya go crazy. I hope it ain’t no lights on in that muthafucka. I hope ya go blind.”

  He on the other side of the door, “You, too! You, too!”

  “That’s why ya locked up in there. . . . Hhhhhaggghhh!”

  Grown folks stayed on us ’bout everything. Always tellin’ don’t do this or that. Let them tell it, everything was gon’ “put yo’ eye out.”

  MAMA: Boy, don’t be runnin’ with them scissors. You gon’ fall down, put yo’ eye out!

  Put yo’ eye out? How come it was always yo’ eye? How come you never heard, “You gon’ cut yo’ ear off?” Or “Boy, you gon’ lose yo’ nose?”

  Nope. It was, “Carry the knife by the handle. And walk wit’ it! Walk, before you mess around and put yo’ eye out!”

  But what happened to those kind of injuries you had when you was a kid? Lil’ kids don’t have those kind of injuries now. They don’t fall down the stairs. We used to get cut up, bruised, scarred. One time, we had a board holding up our window and I knocked it away, and the window smashed my hand. My nail was all black, hurtin’ like a muh’fucka.

  Those were the old injuries. Kids don’t have those no more. Now, they just continuously get shot. They can’t just hurt themself no more.

  BYSTANDER: Man, you heard what happened to that nigga Pierre?

  BYSTANDER 2: Naw, what happened?

  BYSTANDER 1: Got to arguin’ with a nigga, and he got shot.

  Bernie rehearses for Midnight Mac on HBO.

  BYSTANDER 2: Whaaat? Damn, dog, how old was he?

  BYSTANDER 1: Eight months.

  What happened to the kid shit? Worst happened to us was, we’d get burnt. “Get the butter!” Now? “Shot.”

  I always tell people how I had it hard so they’ll understand my hunger, my desire to succeed. That’s why I’m not complacent. I’m not settling for less. I ain’t never been picked first to do a damn thing. Even when I was a young dude and we played ball—and man, I was an athlete. I played baseball, football, basketball. I boxed for four years. I always had to earn it. Always. When we picked teams before we played ball in the street, folks used to look over me all the time.

  CAPTAIN NO. 1: Give me Jacobs.

  Look dead at me . . .

  CAPTAIN NO. 2: Give me Bob.

  CAPTAIN NO. 1: Give me Raymond.

  I’m just standing there . . .

  CAPTAIN NO. 2: C’mon, Pete.

  CAPTAIN NO. 1: Gimme Michael.

  I’m the last one.

  CAPTAIN 2 (rolling his eyes): (sigh) C’mon, nigga.

  I got cut from my high-school basketball team four times. We had practice early in the morning, six o’clock. We had two sides in the layup line. I was on one side, did a layup, shot a jumper. The coach looked at me and said, “You can go.” Shit, I went . . .

  . . . on the other side of the layup line. Did the same thing over there, ran a little drill, layed up the ball. The coach tapped me on my shoulder this time: “You can go.”

  I came back the next day.

  Got in line. Blended in. Did my lil’ shit. The coach lookin’ at me—leaning down, squinting. He said, “Didn’t I cut you yesterday?”

  I’m looking all surprised and shit. I said, “Naw, you ain’t cut me.”

  He stared at me some more, thought about it, then he said, “Go on, man. Get in line.”

  I got in line, did a little drill. Then the coach nodded and said, “You cut now.”

  So I went back on the other side. I’m in line and everything. The coach came over to talk to the assistant coach about something. Then he looked at me.

  COACH: Come here!

  I came over.

  COACH: Didn’t I cut you yesterday?

  ME (voice high-pitched and cracking) : Naw. I . . . I thought you had tol’ me to come over . . . come over here . . . That’s why I came on over here.

  COACH (exasperated) : Psshhh . . . maann . . . You gon’ sit here and lie?

  ME: Unh-unh. I ain’t lying. You tol’ me to come over here. That’s what you tol’ me to do.

  COACH (Shaking head): Let me see what you got, man. You taking all this doggone effort. Lyin’ and shit.

  I made the squad.

  I had to work harder than everybody. I didn’t start. I was sitting on the bench, just sitting. Everytime he’d say a name—“Frank”—I’d scoot down. Just trying to get close so he could see me. I started stickin’ my head out real far so he could just get a look at me.

  But I wouldn’t play. I’d go to the locker room, take a shower, guys teasing me: “Ain’t no need in you takin’ no shower, man. You still fresh.” I’m the Minute Man—it’d be a minute left in the game and the coach’d put you in.

  And when you get in, you ain’t gonna pass that ball either. I ain’t passin’ shit. Everybody on your team out there yelling: “Bernie! Bernie! Berniiiieeee!”

  Man, shit, I’m out there shaking and baking on myself. I’m puttin’ moves on and shit. Ain’t nobody even checkin’ me but I’m pump
-fakin’, takin’ the ball through my legs, behind my back.

  Shit, I had to get two points. At least I’d get in the paper.

  ME: When I was about 14, 15, we moved away to a nicer neighborhood. It was almost like the suburbs. I went to CVS High School. I went to high school and started playing ball and liking girls. I started combing my hair. I started getting lines every Saturday. I started creasing my slacks and polishing my shoes. I just went into a hygiene fit. I started getting manicures. Got into smell-goods. I started noticing fashion and shoes. I had to be clever. People were starting to say, “Mac smooth, man.”

  Now, before that, I was a nasty muh’fucka: Type of nigga who’d turn his draws inside out instead of putting on a new pair. Wear the same socks and shit. Rub my ankle, and dirt used to just roll off that muh’fucka, man.

  Butter over there is my brother-in-law. We been knowing each other for years. He knows. We done talked about that shit. Ain’t it the truth, Butter?

  BUTTER: Oh yeah, I know how it used to be. I was a lil’ chubby muh’fucka growing up. Take a bath? Fuck it. I’d just wash my socks or something in the bathtub, make the water dirty, come out and I’d be dry than a muh’-fucka. My mama’d be screaming: “Get your fat ass in that bathtub, you lil’ nasty muh’fucka!”

  ME: You know how you was musty and you ain’t think it was you? Swear up and down it wasn’t you; shit, it’d be you like a muh’fucka.

  That was back when you’d get up in the morning and just put ya slacks on. Don’t brush ya teeth; just get up in the morning and wipe your teeth off. Take your nail and scraped your teeth and wiped that plaque off. I mean, just a nasty muh’fucka.

  I remember the first girl I liked. I had had girls I liked before, but they weren’t real girlfriends. They were those girls you just fire on, hit in the mouth when you were younger, just to be stupid.

  Pow!

  That meant you liked her.

  She talkin’ ’bout, “You play too much!”

  The girl I liked was built. She was built like a woman. She had quads, a small waist, her hair tapered and cut fine. She was cinnamon brown, had some fat, red lips. She was one of them fast-ass heifers, too fast for me, but I liked her.