Maybe You Never Cry Again (21 page)

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 some
body'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.

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 not 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!

But don't you listen. They just naysayers, and they talkin' about their own fool selves. You stay away from negativity, hear?
You go for it, and go for it with passion. Want it with all your heart. Fight with the heart of a lion.

Nobody's going to do it for you, Beanie.

Be your own man. Stand on your own two feet.

Meet all the challenges, big and small.

Failure is life's way of preparing you for success.

You know why people succeed? People succeed because they outlast you. It's that simple. I ain't lyin'. They're just like you, with one big difference: They don't quit; they don't give up.

Try again, son.

All those Mac-isms:

Don't nobody owe you nothin'. You got no one to blame but yourself. No one's tying you down except your own self. Ain't nobody gonna change your life but you. Rely on others and they will soon enough let you down.

It's on account of those Mac-isms that I'm here today.

My mama taught me that life is what you make it.

She taught me to be thankful for the things I had, and to work for those I didn't. Hard work. Honest work.

She taught me that every day is about becoming a better person. About bettering myself. That I had to take responsibility for my own life and that I had to work on becoming the person I wanted to be.

Like my grandma said:
Beautiful morning, isn't it, son? Got another crack at it this morning. Another chance to improve myself.

 

For those of you who have kids, remember one thing above all others: You've got to prepare that kid for the world. He's looking to you for answers.

So love that kid up good, hear? And be strong when you have to be. Rules and regulations and love. Remember to tell that kid how much he matters. Let him know that life can be anything he
damn well wants it to be. Easy, ain't it? You teach a kid to believe in himself, well—that's half the battle. A kid that believes in himself doesn't self-limit. That kid knows in his heart of hearts that he can do
anything.

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.

You taught him the Secret of Life. Yes, you did. And the Secret of Life is this:

You fall down, you get up.

That's it. Honest. That's all there is to it.

You fall down, you get up. You keep movin'.

Thank you, Mama. I love you with all my heart.