by Bernie Mac
I owed her so much. Everything that was happening in my life was happening on account of her, on account of her faith in me. Big things in store for that boy. Beanie gonna surprise everyone. I had never thanked her properly. I had never shown her the love and appreciation she deserved.
A horrible feeling came over me. I felt knocked low. Emptied out.
Suddenly there was a loud sound in the car—a roar. And I realized it was me. I was sobbing. I had to pull over. I was going along on Lake Shore Drive and I turned off toward the empty beach and killed the engine and got out of the car in the pouring rain and stumbled to the water’s edge.
I started hollering for my mother. I was crying so hard I couldn’t breathe.
“Mama! Mama!”
And it wasn’t even my own voice. It was little Beanie’s voice coming out of me. I was calling to her like a little lost boy, with the rain beating against me and my eyes burning with tears.
I didn’t get home till first light. To this day I don’t even know how I found my way back. I pulled up near the corner, at 107th and King Drive, and I saw the curtains in my place, drawn back. It was Rhonda. She’d been waiting up all night. She met me at the door.
“Bernard!” she said, more upset than angry. “Where you been? I was so worried about you!”
But then she saw how I was soaked through, and how my eyes were swollen from the tears. “I miss my mother,” I said. “I miss Mama. Mama, Mama.”
Rhonda didn’t say another word. She led me to the bedroom and took off my clothes and helped me into a hot shower and put me to bed. I lay there, drifting off, remembering how I hadn’t cried at the funeral. Not real tears, anyway. I’d forced up a few because it was expected of me. But these tears were real. I was feeling that terrible loss for the first time in my life. It was beyond painful. It was the worst pain I had ever felt, a burning ache in my heart.
It was as if a part of me had been torn away.
For a few weeks I felt all hollowed out, like I had nothing left inside me. But I didn’t feel like talking about it, and Rhonda didn’t press, and slowly my strength began coming back.
“Rhonda,” I said one day. “I’m gonna put a show together.”
“What kind of show?”
“My own show. With music, dancing. The whole thing.”
“What about the comedy?”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “That’s what’ll bring them in.”
In the days and weeks ahead I went from club to club, checking out the different bands. I couldn’t seem to find any that really spoke to me. But one night, on my way to a club on the North Side, I heard some music that really got my attention. I went to see where it was coming from, and I walked over to the next block. And there was a street band there, with a big crowd watching, and they were doing some genuine funk. We’re talking down-home street music, with a lot of brass.
When they took a break, I went over and introduced myself, and the guy in charge said his name was Bones. I told Bones I liked his style, and would he meet me at the Cotton Club the next day at six o’clock. Bones and his guys showed up, and they played for me, and they were even better than I’d hoped. So I arranged for them to come back the following Monday, because I wanted to see if these guys could funk in front of a live audience.
Well, they tore the place up.
The next thing I did was audition the dancers. I found a choreographer, and we narrowed it down to eight girls. Bernie Mac and the Mac-A-Ronis. We practiced for six weeks straight. Then I called my friend Chuck Gueno, over at the Regal, and told him to get ready for us.
We did two sold-out shows at the Regal, back-to-back, and signed on to do one a week for the next seven months. It was great. I’d come out, introduce the ten-piece band, and they’d plunge in. And then the girls would slink onto the stage and the crowd would get all lathered up. When it was my turn, I’d give them an hour and a half of nonstop comedy, and I gave them fresh stuff every week. I take my obligations to the audience very seriously. We had a lot of repeat business in that place, and I wasn’t about to spit back stuff they’d already heard.
The following year, 1993, I took the show on the road. I called it the “Who Ya Wit Tour,” and we hit more than twenty towns. Every place we went sold out. They had local talent opening for us. We were it. We were the Big Deal. And brother, we worked hard.
One night, recently back from the tour, I was sitting down to dinner with Rhonda and Je’Niece when the phone rang. It rang loud. I thought for sure it was going to be bad news, but I was wrong.
It was Milt Trenier calling. He owned a nightclub in Chicago. He wanted to know if I’d like to host a regular gig at his club. “I’m thinking of calling it The Bernie Mac Comedy and Jazz Showcase,” he said.
“Well,” I said. “I like the name.”
The Bernie Mac Comedy and Jazz Showcase was exactly what it sounded like—a combination of smooth jazz and comedy, with me at the center. For the next four years that’s where you’d find me Tuesday nights, at Milt Trenier’s club. It was a classy place, the kind of place a ball player could take his wife and kids, and I kept the comedy clean. Clean and honest.
The rest of the week, and just about every day of the week, I was at other clubs or on the road. I’d go anywhere that would have me. If someone had called from Anchorage, Alaska, and asked me to fly up and do a show, I would’ve done it; I would’ve made it work.
One day, late, after a show, I got home and crawled into bed with Rhonda.
“Girl,” I said. “It’s time.”
“Time for what?”
“Time to quit, woman. We’re on our way.”
“Say what?”
“You heard me,” I said, and I smiled a big smile.
So she quit the state mental hospital and I got myself incorporated and started MacMan Enterprises, Inc., and we began to enjoy a few of life’s luxuries: good restaurants, nice clothes, the occasional weekend trip. Everything was beginning to fall into place, and that’s the way I wanted it. I’m a guy that likes order, structure. I was getting up at eight sharp every morning, having a little breakfast, then going off to work out.
After that, I’d come home and think about my comedy routines. I’d hang with myself, talk to myself. Sometimes there’d be four of us on the couch there, yammering away; kind of like those conversations I used to have with the walls when I was a little kid.
“That shit ain’t funny.”
“Get it right, Bean!”
“You have no idea how bad a bad woman can be!”
Rhonda would call out from the kitchen, “You talking to yourself again, Bernard?”
Damn right I was. Who else would I be talking to?
After I was done talking, I’d go to the office, see what was what, then have me a little lunch and wander over to the gun range.
I love guns. I’ve been around guns my whole life. You live in the ’hood, you’re going to be around guns, whether or not you want to be. And while I didn’t much care for guns as a kid, never really gave them a second thought, first thing I did after I got married was get me a gun. My very first gun was a Smith & Wesson snub-nose .38. A street gun. No permit. Needed it to protect my wife from that bad element.
Later, though, I went legit. When I started doing better, making money and such, I began investing in guns. Built up a veritable arsenal over the years. Learned how to break down my guns and clean them good and adjust the sights. I’m a regular James Bond, brother.
Before long, I took Rhonda to the gun club. That woman got good fast. Stand back! Don’t be messing with Rhonda. She likes the pearl-handled .40 caliber. I like the .45. I have shotguns, too; over-unders, side-by-sides. I got rifles. I have a Winchester just like the Rifleman used to carry. You should see me at the range. That thing’s hanging there, by my right hand, low, and I go for it—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! That Bernie Mac; he a regular cowboy.
Then I’d go home to my other job: raising my kid.
That Je’Niece Nicole McCullough
! What a beautiful girl she was turnin’ out to be, but brother—hard got-damn work. Let me tell you about Je’Niece. Here it is, 1993 already, and my little girl is suddenly fifteen years old. I loved that girl to death, believe me. But the feeling wasn’t always mutual.
Here’s the thing, see: It takes a lot of courage to be a good parent. I’d learned that from my mama. And I was determined to be the best got-damn parent on the planet. The downside to all that hard work, though, is that it makes you very unpopular: No kid’s going to see anything, ever, from your point of view. But so what? My mama had taught me about that, too. Life isn’t a popularity contest, Bean.
Now I’m going to tell you the secret to being a good parent. It isn’t about making your kid happy all the time. For one thing, that’s impossible. For another, it isn’t good for them; gives them a wrongheaded view of what life is all about. Life’s got pain in it, and they better start learning to deal with it now.
No, sir. Being a good parent is about raising a good kid, a good citizen. And that’s what I was trying to do with Je’Niece. My responsibility was not to her happiness, but to her character. That’s what it’s about: character, integrity, discipline. And you gotta let them know that that’s what it’s about. So you talk to them. And I talked to Je’Niece all the got-damn time. Hell, if you ask her, she’ll tell you I talked too damn much. But I wanted her to know that I was there. I wanted to keep the channels of communication open.
Of course, sometimes, from where she was standing, the communication was pretty one-sided. She’d want to know why she couldn’t stay at the mall till ten, and I’d tell her, “Because I said so. Because that’s the rule.”
Most parents don’t get it. You shouldn’t lecture your kid; he’s not listening to you anyway. All you got to do is tell it like it is. You’re in charge. Or should be. I know I was. And Je’Niece knew it, too. Bernie Mac is the boss. Bernie Mac is in control. This was my home and I was going to run it any damn way I saw fit, not the way some hormonal kid thought it should be run.
“When you grow up and get a place of your own,” I’d tell her, “you can run it your way, but this is my house, and we play by my rules.”
There were the usual issues: Homework. Tight clothes. Chores. Messy room. The whole nine yards.
And of course there was the One Big Issue: guys. I didn’t want no five or six guys calling for her all the time. I didn’t like that. I didn’t want to think about my daughter so much as holding a guy’s hand. It gave me the shivers. So, yeah—that was a big one.
We got through it, though. And sure, we had our moments—what parents don’t? But if you love your children, you’ll want the best for them, and the best is usually the toughest. A parent that lets his child do any old thing—stay out late, sass back, run off with friends he’s never met—that’s not a parent. It’s easy, sure, but it doesn’t do a damn thing for the child. It makes him think you don’t care, and that’s deadly: A child sees himself through the eyes of his parents. If he feels you don’t care about him, he’s not going to care about himself, either.
As a parent, you’re in it for the long haul. You bring a child into this world, that’s about as big a responsibility as there is. And you best not mess up. We got a generation here that’s dropping the ball with their kids. That ain’t right. Do the hard work when it counts. Show that kid who’s in charge. Teach him some respect. Stop treating him like an equal—he ain’t an equal. He’s just getting started.
At the same time, work the other side—the good stuff. Make that child feel loved. Make him feel important. Make him see that he matters. A child looks to you to see not only who he is, but what he might become. You’ve got to make that kid feel he can do anything he sets his mind to do. And that even if he can’t, he should damn well try.
Like my mama said, you gotta reach for the stars.
At the end of the day, the most important thing a person has is his or her self-respect. And those foundations are laid in childhood. So you need to keep at it. It’s not about perfection; it’s about improvement. A child needs to feel worthy. A child that believes in himself has a good chance of making his way successfully in this hard world. A child that don’t believe, well—you get the picture.
My mother knew that. She didn’t have much to give me in the way of worldly goods, but she taught me to believe in myself—and that turned out to be the greatest gift of all.
I figured, if I could be half the parent my mother was, Je’Niece would turn out pretty good. And she turned out great. My daughter is a lovely woman, and that’s not just me talking; everyone who meets her thinks so.
And no, I’m not saying I was Father of the Year. I wasn’t. I came up short lots of times. I know it and she knows it and Rhonda knows it. But I worked hard. I did the best job I could. And when the best wasn’t good enough, I tried harder.
Thinking on it now, on this business of parenting, there’s one thing about the job that strikes me as the ultimate irony, and it’s this: Being a parent is really about working yourself out of a job. That’s right. You’re taking this little creature, this creature you love more than you can even begin to describe, and you’re preparing her to go out into the world—preparing her to leave you. That’s heartbreaking, friend, but that is your job. So do it, and do it right.
“I DON’T WANT TO BE ANYBODY BUT BERNIE MAC. BERNIE MAC, ENOUGH FOR ME BROTHER.”
18
SPOOKY JUICE, JUST LOOK AT YOU NOW
In 1993 HBO flew me out to Los Angeles for a special, Rosie Perez Presents Society’s Ride. It was a little like Def Jam, but it didn’t catch on. And I felt bad for Rosie. I thought Rosie was it. People were talking about J.Lo, but J.Lo was nothing next to Rosie. That Rosie was a gem.
Before I flew home, I took advantage of being out there and tried out for other roles. I had a manager back in Chicago, and she kept sending me out on these things, and I gave it my all. And at the end of every audition I always heard the same thing: “You were great, man. They loved you.” But people in Hollywood always tell you they love you. They tell you you’re wonderful; that you ought to have your own show; that big things are in store for Mr. Bernie Mac. There was so much got-damn love in those rooms it was a wonder we didn’t tear each other’s clothes off and fuck.
One night, between auditions, I went back to the Comedy Act Theater to catch a little standup, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Half the acts were doing me. I ain’t lyin’. Seemed like Def Jam had spawned a whole mess of Bernie Mac imitators, and every last one of them was bad. No, they were beyond bad; they were terrible. There was no heart in any of the acts. Plus it’d been done. Only these guys didn’t understand that. They’d go out there and try for an easy laugh, and they might get one, too. But it was hollow. There was no honesty there. And honesty takes work.
Most people don’t want to do the hard work, though. They’re looking for the free ride. They want something for nothing. What do they think? That Michael Jordan was out boozing at night? Hell no! He was on that got-damn court all day, every day, trying to make himself a better player. And when he was the best there was, he went out and practiced harder.
That’s the thing, see. If you want to be the best, you have to fight for it. And you have to fight for it straight; you have to be who you are. Why you trying to be somebody else? You looking inside yourself and not liking what you see?
Man, that was one thing I’ve always hated hearing: “Bernard, you remind me of Redd Foxx.” Or, “You’re the next Richard Pryor.” Or worse, “Clean up the act a little and you could be as big as Cosby.”
I don’t want to be anybody but Bernie Mac. Bernie Mac enough for me, brother. And every day Bernie’s expanding his horizons.
And I’m not just talking about work, either. When you’re struggling, all you ever seem to do is work. But a little success sure enough brings its rewards.
I’m a golfer now. I love a sport where you can walk around with a cigar in your mouth. I like horses, too. Bernie Mac, eques
trian. And I got me a boat. You should see me out there, in my rubber-soled Top-Siders, that little cap perched on my head at a jaunty angle: Skipper Bern. Rhonda thought I was crazy when I bought me that boat, but now she looks forward to those evenin’ cruises. Life, brother. I’m standing behind the wheel of my forty-footer, the wind in my hair, my lovely woman at my side, and I’m thinking, Spooky juice, just look at you now!
I still had my regular Tuesday gig at Milt Trenier’s, of course, and the rest of the week I was on the road. Work work work. Thursday to Monday, I was on eight planes a week, and I was doing this forty-three weeks a year. I went from small clubs to thousand-seat auditoriums, and it was a rare night that I didn’t sell out.
No, I ain’t bragging. I’m telling it like it is. I was in the trenches, and I was building an audience. Hollywood didn’t give me my career. I gave me my career. I was out there every night, night after night, trying to knock it out of the park. I wanted to turn every last person in the audience into a Bernie Mac fan, even if that was impossible.
And of course it is impossible. Not everyone’s gonna be a fan. But you’re not going to change human nature. You start hearing it again. This you-ain’t-funny business; this you-think-you-hot? business.
Everyone’s a critic. Everyone has an opinion.
Bernie too raw.
Bernie not raw enough.
Bernie gone white on us.
Bernie soft—where Bernie’s politics?
Politics? I didn’t know I was running for Congress, motherfucker. You want to talk foreign policy, go ahead—get up there and talk. Me, I’m an entertainer. I was put on God’s green earth to make people laugh. Sometimes, on account of this here journey I’ve been on, you’ll find some lessons in the laughter. And that’s fine with me, brother. I embrace it. But don’t tell me what to say or how to say it.
And worse, everybody’s hitting you up now. Friends you didn’t know you had, long-lost relatives. Neighbors, local businesses, charitable organizations. “Don’t you want to help the community, Mr. Mac? Don’t you care about your black brothers and sisters?”
