A Letter To Chris Rock
The Oscar night smack was less about a Black woman’s hair and more about the life-long traumas of two Black men
My grandmother Alice Thompson’s house stood directly across the street from your family’s. You don’t remember me. You were much older, and I just a nappy-headed kid riding training wheels up and down the sidewalk with your brother Kenny. (We’re still in touch; wish y’all were.) Your appearance in Beverly Hills Cop II made you the first celebrity to ever speak directly to me. At that age, I had no idea of how much real estate the famous would take up in my future. Most are unaware of how much teenage Chris Rock physically resembled MC Gusto in CB4. Your Jheri Curl was glowed up way before Darryl Jenks. Anyway, my point is that we’re from Decatur Street and Saratoga Avenue. Who on our Brooklyn block would’ve let anyone smack them without a response? Certainly no one on Saratoga.
At first, like many others, I figured Will Packer convinced the two of you to enact a Real Husbands of Hollywood-type bit. I could’ve sworn I saw you stick your jaw out ever so slightly before the swing. Then Will returned to his seat and I saw no CB4 in his eyes. Shit was real.
I get it: Who expects to be smacked by the Fresh Prince of Bel Air? Who could foresee a jaw tap while presenting at the Oscars? That’s supposed to be the safest stage in America. My issue…
