Okay, now that that's out of the way, yes, the one time I met Chris Rock I was sorely tempted to smack the shit out of him just like Will Smith did during the recent Academy Awards Show. Let me explain.
In the summer of 2002, I was running a Ritz Camera near the Inner Harbor in Baltimore. Mr Rock was in town shooting Head of State. I wasn't aware he was even in town until he walked into the store, entourage in tow. I barely had time to look up from what I had been doing before his excessively salty language reached my ears. I think he was on the back end of a "motherfucker."
I was amused, but far from starstruck. If you worked anywhere near Baltimore's Inner Harbor in its heyday, you were bound to meet more than your fair share of celebrities. I'd sold everything from camera film to point & shoots to professional equipment to several Orioles, Ravens, Olympians, comedians, television & film actors... I even closed my store to allow Katt Williams a brief respite from being hounded by fans during the height of his popularity. I don't get starstruck, also to the chagrin of my children who would constantly bemoan my refusal to collect autographs when I would get home from work with news of one of my celebrity interactions.
My amusement at seeing Chris Rock in my store was cut short. I had assumed that once he reached my counter, his performance for his buddies—& that's exactly what it was, an unceasing attempt to keep his retinue in stitches—would end so we could get down to business. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Mr. Rock was in the market for a digital camera, his first. I began qualifying him as I would any other customer, trying to pin down his experience level, his price range, etc.; but it was all an uphill slog as nearly every question, every response, every suggestion was met with his expletive laden, mostly unfunny (except to his friends, & even there, some of the laughter was forced) running commentary.
Now, anyone who has read my work knows I'm not averse to foul language. I believe all words serve a purpose, & the use of such words has its place. But I also believe, as many of my writing instructors have tried to relay, that when it comes to expletives, a little goes a long way, & a lot can ruin what might have been a good thing. Despite feeling annoyed at his vulgar banter, I wasn't going to let that get in the way of a camera sale. However, at a certain point, this was no longer about me. It was about Barb, the lady who processed film & printed photos in my lab.
For those of you old enough to remember Ritz Camera, before digital photography took over the world & the market, all stores had equipment that allowed us to produce perfect pictures in an hour from 35mm film. Processing machines were placed front & center, allowing customers to see the work in progress. It also kept our lab staff close enough to see & hear everything going on in the store. That day, the person running the lab was a middle aged woman who was devoutly religious & very sensitive to that type of language.
Sure enough, after he had dropped enough f-bombs to make even me queasy, I looked back to check on Barb. She was mortified. She was hunched over in her chair, her face beet red, as she tried to focus on printing the roll of film in front of her. I quickly dismissed any thought of asking him to tone it down. That had the possibility of backfiring, regardless of how politely & respectfully I asked. Losing a much needed sale was not an option. As I saw it, my only choice was to rush through the process, to get this foul-mouthed comic who could not for one moment stop the “Chris Rock Show” he was performing just for his friends out of my store—easier said than done.
Everything I did had to be filtered through his pointless flurry of commentary & asides. With each one, I looked back at Barb, part of me hoping he would notice what I was looking at, a flustered woman who was now flush, beads of sweat gathering on her forehead. It was at that point that I admit the thought crossed my mind: if this motherfucker doesn't shut his filthy fucking mouth, I'm going to reach across this counter and slap some sense into him. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I have violent thoughts like just about everyone else. Thoughts are not actions, not until we will them so.
I just wanted a way to snap him back to reality, to find his off switch, to make him realize that there were other considerations besides his own ego. Of course, I thought better of it. It wasn’t worth risking the sale, my job, even a lawsuit or potential imprisonment. In my experience, it rarely is. I suppressed my emotions & carried on.
Fortunately, I was eventually able to rush him out of the store, without the aforementioned pimp slap. I got him set up with enough batteries & memory to start taking pictures immediately & for quite some time thereafter. I didn't want him back. I didn't even bother discussing the repair plan, a Ritz required ask for every equipment purchase. That would only have prolonged his stay, & Barb's discomfort was bleeding over to me as my armpits had begun pouring sweat. Besides, I was perfectly sure he could afford to replace his camera if he broke it. Everything was focused on getting him & his crew out of my store as soon as humanly possible.
Once they were finally gone, I checked on Barb. "You okay?" The color had begun coming back to her face, but she was still having a hard time forming words. I told her to finish the roll she was working on & take a break, go for a walk, get some fresh air. When she got back & we finally got the opportunity to discuss it, I found out she didn't even know who Chris Rock was. She had not watched Saturday Night Live, the show where Rock had made his bones, in years, considering it too risque for her tastes.
"Why would anyone talk like that?" she asked me. The only reply I had for her is that despite him usually being a brilliant, generally hilarious comedian, it was obvious he was showing off for his friends. I let her know that he had failed at one of the basic rules of performing: don't get so caught up in your performance that you forget to read your audience. I’ve made that mistake myself plenty of times.
So when I saw what happened between Will Smith & Chris Rock, I got it. I immediately remembered, quite vividly, when I was but one poor judgment away from making the same mistake. …& it was a mistake. Will could have opted to let it go, or save it for a private moment. Hell, he could've waited until an after party to avoid forcing the show's production staff's scramble to censor the f-bombs he dropped during the live broadcast.
It would've become little more than post-show tabloid fodder instead of tarnishing the award he won for Best Actor about forty minutes after the slap heard around the world. He is, after all, only the fifth black male to win that award.
In the summer of 2002, I was running a Ritz Camera near the Inner Harbor in Baltimore. Mr Rock was in town shooting Head of State. I wasn't aware he was even in town until he walked into the store, entourage in tow. I barely had time to look up from what I had been doing before his excessively salty language reached my ears. I think he was on the back end of a "motherfucker."
I was amused, but far from starstruck. If you worked anywhere near Baltimore's Inner Harbor in its heyday, you were bound to meet more than your fair share of celebrities. I'd sold everything from camera film to point & shoots to professional equipment to several Orioles, Ravens, Olympians, comedians, television & film actors... I even closed my store to allow Katt Williams a brief respite from being hounded by fans during the height of his popularity. I don't get starstruck, also to the chagrin of my children who would constantly bemoan my refusal to collect autographs when I would get home from work with news of one of my celebrity interactions.
My amusement at seeing Chris Rock in my store was cut short. I had assumed that once he reached my counter, his performance for his buddies—& that's exactly what it was, an unceasing attempt to keep his retinue in stitches—would end so we could get down to business. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Mr. Rock was in the market for a digital camera, his first. I began qualifying him as I would any other customer, trying to pin down his experience level, his price range, etc.; but it was all an uphill slog as nearly every question, every response, every suggestion was met with his expletive laden, mostly unfunny (except to his friends, & even there, some of the laughter was forced) running commentary.
Now, anyone who has read my work knows I'm not averse to foul language. I believe all words serve a purpose, & the use of such words has its place. But I also believe, as many of my writing instructors have tried to relay, that when it comes to expletives, a little goes a long way, & a lot can ruin what might have been a good thing. Despite feeling annoyed at his vulgar banter, I wasn't going to let that get in the way of a camera sale. However, at a certain point, this was no longer about me. It was about Barb, the lady who processed film & printed photos in my lab.
For those of you old enough to remember Ritz Camera, before digital photography took over the world & the market, all stores had equipment that allowed us to produce perfect pictures in an hour from 35mm film. Processing machines were placed front & center, allowing customers to see the work in progress. It also kept our lab staff close enough to see & hear everything going on in the store. That day, the person running the lab was a middle aged woman who was devoutly religious & very sensitive to that type of language.
Sure enough, after he had dropped enough f-bombs to make even me queasy, I looked back to check on Barb. She was mortified. She was hunched over in her chair, her face beet red, as she tried to focus on printing the roll of film in front of her. I quickly dismissed any thought of asking him to tone it down. That had the possibility of backfiring, regardless of how politely & respectfully I asked. Losing a much needed sale was not an option. As I saw it, my only choice was to rush through the process, to get this foul-mouthed comic who could not for one moment stop the “Chris Rock Show” he was performing just for his friends out of my store—easier said than done.
Everything I did had to be filtered through his pointless flurry of commentary & asides. With each one, I looked back at Barb, part of me hoping he would notice what I was looking at, a flustered woman who was now flush, beads of sweat gathering on her forehead. It was at that point that I admit the thought crossed my mind: if this motherfucker doesn't shut his filthy fucking mouth, I'm going to reach across this counter and slap some sense into him. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I have violent thoughts like just about everyone else. Thoughts are not actions, not until we will them so.
I just wanted a way to snap him back to reality, to find his off switch, to make him realize that there were other considerations besides his own ego. Of course, I thought better of it. It wasn’t worth risking the sale, my job, even a lawsuit or potential imprisonment. In my experience, it rarely is. I suppressed my emotions & carried on.
Fortunately, I was eventually able to rush him out of the store, without the aforementioned pimp slap. I got him set up with enough batteries & memory to start taking pictures immediately & for quite some time thereafter. I didn't want him back. I didn't even bother discussing the repair plan, a Ritz required ask for every equipment purchase. That would only have prolonged his stay, & Barb's discomfort was bleeding over to me as my armpits had begun pouring sweat. Besides, I was perfectly sure he could afford to replace his camera if he broke it. Everything was focused on getting him & his crew out of my store as soon as humanly possible.
Once they were finally gone, I checked on Barb. "You okay?" The color had begun coming back to her face, but she was still having a hard time forming words. I told her to finish the roll she was working on & take a break, go for a walk, get some fresh air. When she got back & we finally got the opportunity to discuss it, I found out she didn't even know who Chris Rock was. She had not watched Saturday Night Live, the show where Rock had made his bones, in years, considering it too risque for her tastes.
"Why would anyone talk like that?" she asked me. The only reply I had for her is that despite him usually being a brilliant, generally hilarious comedian, it was obvious he was showing off for his friends. I let her know that he had failed at one of the basic rules of performing: don't get so caught up in your performance that you forget to read your audience. I’ve made that mistake myself plenty of times.
So when I saw what happened between Will Smith & Chris Rock, I got it. I immediately remembered, quite vividly, when I was but one poor judgment away from making the same mistake. …& it was a mistake. Will could have opted to let it go, or save it for a private moment. Hell, he could've waited until an after party to avoid forcing the show's production staff's scramble to censor the f-bombs he dropped during the live broadcast.
It would've become little more than post-show tabloid fodder instead of tarnishing the award he won for Best Actor about forty minutes after the slap heard around the world. He is, after all, only the fifth black male to win that award.
It's a shame, really. As hard as it is to be a positive figure as a person of color in this country, both men, amazing & experienced performers in their own rights, seemed to have simultaneously forgotten that aforementioned cardinal rule: never get so caught up in what you're thinking, feeling, or doing that you neglect to read your audience.
Now, I’m not here to take sides. There’s a lot of Team Chris versus Team Will talk going around. Some feel the Academy should go as far as taking Smith’s Oscar away & banning him for life. Some folx feel that it was Rock who went a step too far by making a joke at Jada Pinkett Smith's expense either unaware or not caring about her battle with alopecia. Whatever the fallout is, it’s not up to me. At the time of this writing, Smith has resigned from the Academy of Motion Pictures & Sciences. His resignation does not seem to have abated any disciplinary action being considered by the Academy.
Rock seems to be coming out the hero in this instance, having handled the smack like a champ, not allowing it to impact his performance on stage, once he got past the initial shock of being bitch slapped in front of the whole world. Rock also refused to file charges, which I find not only classy in a sense, but spared everyone the indignation of having to watch another black man being taken down & arrested, this time live, in front of a global audience.
There’s plenty of blame (& praise) to go around, but none of that changes the real fallout of this incident: for those who already give in to the trope of the “angry black man"—that being black & male is enough to rationalize the level of fear that justifies violence, even murder—those irrational fears have only been reinforced. Outside of those who are lining up behind Team Chris or Team Will, those who abhor violence in any form, & those who define a man by how he stands up & defends those he loves, we cannot lose site of those for whom this was just another example of why people of color are inferior, unworthy of universal respect.
…& therein lies the saddest part of this entire fiasco—while some of us are busy trying to figure out who the winners & losers are coming out of this incident, they perhaps are not thinking that actually, there were no winners. Despite the fact that the joke that went too far & the unwarranted violence that followed were about as human as human can get, there are far too many folx out there who will use it as more reason to continue considering people of color as less than human. Looked at through that lens, haven’t we all lost?
