Something I Said

Richard Pryor

Dwight Hobbes

Insight News archives

It’s difficult to fathom how widely Richard Pryor will remembered for his pioneering genius.  One thing for certain, he’s revered by those who follow in his footsteps. In 2003, the film  Richard Pryor: I Ain’t Dead Yet, #*%$#@!!, showed even giants like Chris Rock, Robin Williams and Bernie Mac as well as notables like Mos Def, Margaret Cho and George Lopez regard him as an immortal.  And Pryor had been retired for two years, out of the big time since as far back as 1989, when the documentary was filmed.  Yet, to much of white America he was a nothing but an uppity, foul-mouth, joke telling you-know-what.  And it’s doubtful many of today’s young black youngsters know his work. 

Pryor was an institution. As much a revolutionary national hero to black America since the 70s as George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and the rest of them have always been to white America.  He utilized high-profile entertainment as grassroots activism and his impact did not cease resounding — from the impossible success of his first album with title about being crazy to this very day, when his influence is stamped on such stars as Eddie Murphy, Keenen Ivory Wayans, Chris Tucker and more.  Pryor set the model with street savvy irreverence and sheer artistic power the likes of which may well never be seen again (there are, after all, only so many Gil Scott-Herons, James Baldwins and Paul Robesons to go around).  He made history, daring to call America on its vicious and virulent racism, making himself beloved in the process.  And he wasn’t some affirmative action poster child token mainstream white folk gave their all-empowering blessings.  Black people put Brother Richard on the map (thank God, he always knew and never forgot that).  We  were the ones who bought so many copies of his records (this is back when they had vinyl) that even store owners who hated his spirited stand still stocked him on the shelves and rang up sales at that cash register.  Even if they bitched about it all the way home after closing up shop. 

From jump, he wasn’t just a comic.  He helped the everyday black man and woman of his era, the person on the street, hold his and her head up no less than did Malcolm X. He clearly was one of us.  He talked like us, thought like us and, like those of us with sense, didn’t give a good goddam who didn’t like it.  The 1974 album, by the way, won a Grammy and went gold — one helluvan accomplishment for a comedy album in those days.  There’s a reason I’m not quote the album’s title — it’s to respect that Richard Pryor stopped using the infamous epithet that starts with an N.  When Pryor returned from performing in Africa, he felt such respect for black humanity he struck from his act even the traditionally affectionate use of the work which had peppered his stand-up routine for the longest. 

He had his demons — on which he spoke with the candor that he used in mouthing off about everything else.  There is no detracting from the power he brought to black people and the extent to which he made sure our image in the white media would never be the same picture of asinine servitude even so-called liberals were perfectly comfortable with. 

On his death, Jennifer Pryor, his wife said, “He did not suffer.  He went quickly and at the end there was a smile on his face.”  That’s fitting.  Because he sure put lots of smiles on plenty of faces while he was here.  And created enormous social change while he was at it.