Was it Something I Said?

"Was it Something I Said?" Don't take that as a question, but rather as a reference. You see, after surreptitiously sneaking my "KISS - ALIVE II" album into the house as my first album purchase, Richard Pryor's "Was it Something I Said?" was the second album, and included a multitude of subterfuges and counter-intelligence to get it in the door. You see, I have been a fan of comedy ever since I can remember. I was too young for Lenny Bruce, but caught the wave of George Carlin, Cheech & Chong, and Monty Python. Comedy, for me, was about fart jokes and belching "Hail to the Chief." My older brother, Dave, and I, weaned ourselves on our parents' collection of albums from the 1960s - of which was Bill Cosby's classic, "I Started Out as a Child..." Funny was funny, whether it was from Redd Foxx, Freddie Prinz or Carol Burnett.

All of which brings me to Richard Pryor. Richard was the first person to really use language that awed us, offended us, and truly pissed us off. Like Carlin, he dared to take our thoughts and put them in front of our faces for us to confront. You weren't "black," - you were a "nigger." You weren't "white," - you were a "honky." Because that's how we saw each other, and, in fact,that is how many of us saw ourselves when we were looking upon ourselves honestly. Richard Pryor didn't just walk through the last door of comedy. He detonated it, and the shards are still flying around today, from Chris Rock to Joe Rogan to Ralphie May.

The cover of "Was it Something I Said?" showed Pryor being burned at the stake by a group of hooded Klansmen. Richard was never one to tiptoe through the tulips when he could stomp through them with cleats. It was shocking, the skits were racially charged, it was an affront to every decent sense you could muster up.

It was also damned funny.

But, Richard Pryor did more for me than just make me laugh. His divisiveness (and yes, he could be divisive), showed me that blacks and whites were indeed not cut from the same cloth, that there were differences beyond skin color. Back then, a black kid was no different to me than a red-head or a fat kid or a tall kid. He was just a kid. I never knew people divided themselves against each other in this fashion before. I had a friend,named Steve Jennings, who was about 6'8" when he was 12, and was (and probably still is) black. His family, along with Tony, Laurie, and Ann, were some of my best friends. Steve was probably my first friend. Anyway, we were watching our friend, Ray, being chased by a black kid named Omari. Ray was/is white. Steve and I were laughing and shouting insults to them both. Then I said something I'll never forget, to Omari:

"Hey, Ovaltine! That's enough!"

The chasing eventually ended, everyone laughed, but Steve turned slowly to me and said "I heard what you said. You called him Ovaltine." I didn't know what to say. To me, it was as innocent as saying, "Hey stinky!" or "Hey jerkface!" - or more to the point, "Hey fatty!" or "Hey shrimp!" But, it didn't matter. The words were out there and I couldn't take them back. Worse yet, Steve, who had to grow up with the sort of stigma I couldn't even imagine, seeing as they were the only black family in the neighborhood when they moved in the same time we did, probably now saw me as less of an innocent friend and more of a typical white person. I meant no harm by it,but it stuck with me just the same. Then,I started thinking of all the terrible things I had said all in the name of friendship without knowing how much damage I was doing:

"You're not really black. You act more like a white person."

"There are niggers and there are blacks. You're not a nigger, just black."

"Why don't you listen to any music by white bands?"

Do I forgive myself? Well, yes and no. Yes, because I had not been poisoned by honestly knowing how much those words can hurt someone else. On the other hand, I do not forgive myself, because no matter where those words came from, they still hurt a friend - a good friend. A friend I really miss a lot sometimes.

Richard Pryor passed away this weekend, and his death brought with it a terrible loss for me personally. Without Richard Pryor to show us, front and center, without euphemisms and without white-gloving it, to force us to face the ugly truth of racism - even if he used comedy to deliver it to our doorsteps, this planet has lost a true genius. Was he a good man? Not all the time? Did he make mistakes? Often. Was he guilty of racism himself? That's for others to decide. Right now, I hope he is at God's side, strolling that funky stroll of his, asking God:

Richard: "Was it something I did that got me here?"

God: "No, my son"

Richard: "Was it what I believed that got me here?"

God: "I am afraid not."

Richard: "Was it Something I Said?"

God: "You're damn right it was."