by Bernie Mac
Wilmore told me that he’d seen and loved The Original Kings of Comedy, and he was particularly taken with one of my bits. Yeah, you guessed it: the one about inheriting those three kids.
“I think we might be able to build a show around it,” he said.
It came together quickly. We decided we were going to do a series about a successful comedian in his midforties named Bernie Mac who lives in a big house in lily-white Encino, California, with his wife, Wanda, an executive at AT&T. They are childless, a career couple, until the day Bernie inherits three high-maintenance kids from his messed-up sister.
We realized that the heart of the show would be about parenting—both of us had strong opinions on the subject—and that Bernie had to be a real tough-love daddy. And not just regular tough, but thick tough, hard tough. Lay it on strong. I’m gonna bust your head till the white meat shows.
We felt there had to be moments in the show when it actually looked like I was going to lose control. I knew I could look scary—people think I look scary now—and I sure enough had the heft for it. And another thing: I wanted to be as politically incorrect as possible. This politically correct shit was ruining the world. I wanted to get out there and be powerful. Bernie Mac don’t wear no panties.
We also decided we didn’t want a laugh track. We didn’t need to tell the audience that the show was funny. We didn’t want to cue them with fake laughs. Between the two of us, we knew the show was going to be drop-dead funny.
And we settled on doing it as a one-camera show—a single, high-definition, digital camera instead of the usual multicamera approach.
It was Larry’s idea to use little pop-up notes on the screen, to drive home some of the finer points. And it was my idea to break down the fourth wall—to have me address the camera directly. We had things to say, after all. And the character of Bernie Mac was a comedian. And comedians like addressing their audiences directly.
The idea wasn’t new—Tim Reid had done it in Frank’s Place, to give you just one example—but we knew we could make it fresh. Or, as they say in Hollywood, we could take the idea and make it our own.
Finally, I told Larry I wanted the relationship between the TV Bernie and his TV wife to be a good, solid relationship. I was sick and tired of the way marriage was portrayed on TV. I didn’t see a single TV relationship that had any real love in it, and I wanted to put that kind of love on the screen. I wanted to be honest about what my marriage was like.
Sure, Rhonda and me—we had ourselves some humbugs. She’d get mad, come at me swingin’ like Joe Frazier. Not a pretty sight. Sometimes she thought she was a superhero: “I’m gonna Thor your ass!”
The thing is, see, two people meet and fall in love, and they expect to hear music for the rest of their lives. But time passes, and people change, and their needs change. And one day they turn around and that person next to them isn’t the person they married. What they don’t see, however, is that maybe they’re an even better person, better in different ways, excite you in different ways, and that you gotta take the time to know them all over again.
The love I feel for Rhonda now, it wouldn’t be the same if we hadn’t been through what we’d been through. Neither of us is perfect, but we stood by each other when it counted. Rhonda didn’t think less of me because I was a janitor. She respected me.
Even more important, she taught me to respect her. Rhonda understood her own value, as a woman and as a human being, as a wife and mother. She knew that if a person doesn’t respect himself or herself, they ain’t gonna get respect from anybody else.
Rhonda also taught me that if we stood together we could be wicked strong. I wanted that to be part of the show, too. “I want to show marriage the way it’s supposed to be, the way it can be if you work it right,” I told Wilmore. “I’m tired of the way TV turns marriages and relationships into an ugly joke.”
Wilmore was all for it. We pitched it to the Fox network, sold it, and Larry wrote the pilot. They loved it. They put us with the casting people and we hit the ground running.
We found Dee Dee Davis to play five-year-old Bryanna. She was a complete newcomer. We got Jeremy Suarez for Jordan, the pre-asthmatic middle boy in glasses, age eight. (He played Cuba Gooding’s son, Tyson, in Jerry Maguire.) We got Camille Winbush to play the stubborn, smart-mouthed, hard-to-read teenage girl Vanessa. She’d been on 7th Heaven for a stretch. And then we got Kellita Smith for Wanda, my loving but career-obsessed wife. Kellita and I had met on Moesha, and before that she’d done The Steve Harvey Show, In Living Color, and—like me—more supporting roles than she cared to list.
That pilot episode started with me lighting a cigar, loving my cigar, then looking dead at the camera and saying, “I’m not here to talk about cigars. I’m here to tell you—I’m going to kill one of them kids.” So we got right to it. Who says they’re going to kill a kid on national television? Bernie Mac, that’s who.
Then I told the audience: “Yeah, my sister’s on drugs. But a lot of families are messed up. I can’t let the state take her three kids…” I was near tears by this time, though of course they were crocodile tears. “I’m just trying to do the right thing,” I said, and my voice broke with feelin’.
This is what they call a premise pilot. You’re laying it all out for the audience in that first episode back in Novembe 2001, giving them the whole story. This is where it begins, people. You meet my TV wife, who thinks I don’t know squat about raising kids—“Bernie’s a comedian”—and who doesn’t know squat about raising kids herself. Of course, she’s got a Big Job with the telephone company, and that’s her priority. So when the time comes to pick the kids up at the airport, well—Bernie Mac is on his own.
Three little monsters! Right off I know my life is about to go to hell. On the drive from the airport to Encino, I tell the kids not to worry: “It’s going to feel just like home!”
“Why?” the oldest girl says. “You live in the projects?”
We get to the house. “For us to live as a family,” I say, “I’ve got to set down a few house rules. First, this is my house. Don’t get me wrong, this is our home, but this is my house. Mi casa es mi casa.”
Then it gets real crazy. The oldest girl is having her period. The pre-asthmatic boy looks like he’s about to die on me. The little one doesn’t understand what rules is.
I slip into my big leather chair, my throne, and I look dead at the camera and say, all sorrowful: “You all keep watching, America. It gets worse.” And sure enough, it does. The indignities I suffer at the hands of those three little monsters!
Before long, Social Services shows up. They want to know if I really told one of the kids that I’d bust his head till the white meat showed. And is it really possible that the kids overheard me tell Wanda to curb her spending because “we’re nigga rich, not old-money rich.”
At this point, the social worker can see I’m pretty upset, and he tries to reassure me: “It’s not like I’m here to take away the kids.”
“No, please!” I say. “Take away the kids! It’s a great solution. I’m a bad man!”
It doesn’t end. Parenting is hard, brother. And good parenting is war. Combat all the way.
“Now, America,” I ask, wailing plaintively, “tell me again why I can’t whip that girl?”
In another episode, hormonal Vanessa complains about all the rules in my house and compares it to a prison. “You think it’s like a prison?” I tell her. “Well, I got news for you. It ain’t. Because in prison there’s hope.”
In still another episode, I threaten to get rid of a stray dog the kids have rescued. I’m carrying the mangy mutt toward the front door, and the sumbitch growls at me. “Shut up,” I tell the dog, “before I drop your ass off in Koreatown.” Then I look at the camera, real sweet, and say, “Now, hold on, America! Don’t go writing no letters. I’m just kidding.”
There’s a Christmas episode where I’m hitting the eggnog so hard I can’t remember what I’m trying to say.
And advice. All the time advice. Good advice, too—if I may say so myself: “It’s all about discipline, baby. And, America, you can do it, too. Yes, sir. They gonna cry, they gonna whine, they gonna beg—try to make you feel guilty. Don’t go for it. You got to be strong.”
Bernie Mac—he tells it like it is.
Through it all—through the great reviews and the not-so-great letters, through all those wonderful guest appearances—Halle Berry, Matt Damon, Billy Crystal, Don Rickles, Don Cheadle, India. Arie, Carl Reiner, and plenty more to come—the network never pressured us to change anything. I ain’t lyin’. And that’s a good thing, too, because I never let anyone handcuff me in my standup, and I wasn’t about to let them do it on TV.
There are limits, sure. But that doesn’t mean you can’t push the envelope. And we pushed it. Pushed it hard, too—hard enough to become the highest-rated new series in the Fox lineup.
Wilmore and I, yeah—we have our moments. There are times I feel he’s trying to take over the show, times he forgets the show came from my head and my heart. It’s like if I were to take somebody’s music and add a riff or two and call it mine. It doesn’t work that way, brother.
Other times Larry gets upset because I won’t do a script the way he wrote it. But that’s just the way I am. It’s my show. I’m not going to argue about a bad script. I’m not going to ask anyone to change it. I’m just not got-damn doing it. Simple as that.
At the end of the day, though, despite the head butting—which you got to expect when you’ve got creative people arguing their conflicting points of view—we have ourselves a great show, and I’m proud of it and proud of everyone who’s making it happen. You watch The Bernie Mac Show and you realize that black families ain’t just about broken homes and crackheads and hos. Black families are about love, too. And love is one thing you can’t have enough of.
Love, baby. I got me a big infusion of love last July, when my little girl Je’Niece got herself married. Had a big wedding, home in Chicago. Five hundred people. That girl came down the aisle and took my arm, and she was shaking like a leaf. And I patted her hand, real gentlelike, so she knew she could lean on me. And my little girl leaned on me, held on for support, and brother—it made my heart swell.
To see that gorgeous creature all grown up. About to start a new life. A woman. My only little girl. My pride and joy.
I love you, baby. You are a gift. I thank God for you every day.
“HE WILL FALL, STUMBLE, DESPAIR—BECAUSE THAT’S LIFE; THERE’S NO ESCAPING IT. BUT HE KNOWS INSIDE THAT HE’S BIGGER THAN HIS PROBLEMS. BIGGER THAN ALL OF THEM COMBINED. HE KNOWS HE’S GOING TO MAKE IT. HE KNOWS THERE’S NO PROBLEM SO BIG IT CAN’T BE BEAT.
WHY DOES HE KNOW THIS?
BECAUSE YOU TAUGHT IT TO HIM.”
21
YOU FALL DOWN, YOU GET UP
Some months ago I read a story about a man who has three little phrases that help get him through the rough days.
Life is good. Be happy now. Let it go.
Think on those for a moment; they are deeper than you know.
My life—well, it couldn’t be better. At the moment, I have several hot projects in the can. I was just in Head of State, a political comedy, with Chris Rock. I play Bosley in Charlie’s Angels: Full Throttle, due this summer. I’m in Bad Santa, with Billy Bob Thornton and John Ritter, slated for a Christmas release. And we’re already talking about a sequel to Ocean’s 11.
I also have several projects in development. One of them is Mr. 3000, and—at long last—I’m the lead. I play a retired baseball player whose whole life has been defined by his 3,000 career base hits. Then it turns out he’s actually three hits short, and he has to come out of retirement to make things right.
I’m also working on a remake of Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? where I’m flipping the colors. I play a black man—no kidding—whose daughter comes home engaged to a white guy. It’s a comedy, yes—but a comedy that respects the original. If they want to get silly on me, they’ll have to make the film with someone else. I’ve got nothing but the highest respect for Sidney Poitier, Spencer Tracy, and Katharine Hepburn, and I’m not about to make a mockery of that beautiful movie. I’m going to do the movie I want to do, the way I want to do it, or not at all. I don’t need the flak. I know what Poitier went through after Dinner: He got so much grief from the black community—You want to marry a white woman!—that he had to take a lousy part in Uptown Saturday Night to find his way back into their good graces.
Politics, brother. It’s everywhere. Always has been, always will be. Can’t escape it. Especially in Los Angeles. It’s a nice enough town, sure, but it’s all about the got-damn business. It’s all about who got what deal and who’s hot now and where do I fit into this mix and is my career really over. It’s a star system, and stars fall. Go crazy, too. I don’t need no seventeen ex-football players protecting me.
“This here’s my posse. Where your posse, brother?”
“I don’t got a posse.”
“Yeah. I heard you was gettin’ canceled.”
Motherfucker. What is that shit?
“By the time you die,” my grandmother used to say, “two million people will have passed through your life. And maybe three or four of them will still be by your side.”
What I didn’t understand, back when she told it, is that she meant this as a good thing. It’s easy to have friends. You can have a thousand friends if you want. Or you can have three or four real friends.
I don’t want no thousand friends. Too much got-damn work. Phone ringing all the time and doorbell going off and the cards and letters piling up in your mailbox. I want the few friends I got, because they’re my real friends—starting with my wife, Rhonda, my best friend of all.
That’s why I always go back to Chicago. Because Chicago is my home. In Chicago, I’m just plain old Bernie Mac. And there’s maybe a few people there that like old Bernie.
I actually like old Bernie, too. That doesn’t sound like much, but most people—they don’t like their got-damn selves. I ain’t lyin’. It’s a pity, too. They should have had a mama like I had.
My mama taught me to believe in myself. She taught me to listen to my own voice above all others, to make sure that that was always the clearest voice I heard. She taught me to go down inside my own self, and to sit still, and to listen close.
All the other voices, you can listen to them, too; hear them out. There’s some smart voices out there, some voices worth listening to. Might even find a little nugget of wisdom here and there. But too many voices—all they’re going to do is shut you down.
“That nigger can’t play ball.”
“You ain’t funny, motherfucker. Eddie Murphy—now he funny.”
“Get off the got-damn stage!”
You see what I’m saying? Would I be here if I’d listened to those voices?
My mama taught me to respect myself. To hold my head high. That I had value. That I mattered.
She taught me to respect other people, too. Even the ones who were trying to bring me down. Maybe especially the ones who were trying to bring me down.
“They lost, Bean. Most people are lost. Most people are just struggling to find their way.”
She warned me that people can be hard, and that sometimes the people closest to you can be the hardest of all. She said people were wired that way. It was their natural state; survival instinct and shit. She said people always put their interests first. Always had and always would.
“It’s not about you, Bean. Not at all. They’re just lookin’ out for themselves. Don’t take it personal and you won’t get hurt feelings.”
My mama was a wise woman.
“That’s just the way people is. Don’t mean nothing. You ain’t gonna change them, so don’t try. Only person you can change is your own self. So put your energy into that, Bean. God knows, that’s a big enough job right there.”
My mama taught me not to judge, and not to let myself be judged.
Judge no
t lest ye be judged.
“Good and bad, Beanie. Makes no difference. Two sides of the same coin. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
She was right about that, too. You don’t need to hear the criticism, and you don’t need to hear the praise. It’s mostly just noise, anyway. And all it does is drown out your own true voice.
Listen to yourself. Be honest with yourself. Respect yourself.
And let people be what they’re gonna be.
“People are in your life for a reason, Beanie. You may not know what that reason is for years to come, and you may never know, but pay attention. Funny how learning can creep up on you sometimes—and you not even aware of it.”
It’s true. The bad things shape you, too. Bad people, bad experiences: If they don’t kill you, they make you stronger.
Life is hard. At times, it’s about the struggle. Accept it, brother. Live with it, sister. If there’s no struggle, there’s no development. You don’t develop, you don’t change. You don’t change, you don’t survive.
“Suffering is a good teacher,” my mama used to say. “It keeps you in its grip until you’ve learned your lesson.”
Get angry, feel sorry for yourself, mope—what does that do? Self-pity is self–brought on, and it only stops you dead. Messes you up worse.
Get focused, brother. Figure out what you want from life and go for it.
Be like a horse with blinders: Look straight ahead. Don’t look back. Don’t be turning your head from side to side. Nothing there, blood. And what’s there probably ain’t your business; what’s there ain’t gonna help you get to where you want to be.
Go for it, brother. Eyes on the prize.
People going to tell you you’re crazy. A damn fool. Going nowhere. They’re going to say you’re unrealistic. A astronaut! You too dumb for that, boy!
