Yesterday I watched my childhood marched out of a courtroom in handcuffs.
America’s Dad is now a convicted rapist and I’m having all the feelings about it.
There is no way to overestimate the value and influence of Bill Cosby’s legacy on American culture. As a comedian he was one of the first black men to “mainstream” his comedy appeal, successfully crossing racial and economic boundaries. He was the first black actor to perform a starring role in a weekly drama (I, Spy). It’s reasonable to say he made the Jell-o brand a household name (see, you’re even singing the jingle right now…I know you are).
And then there was The Cosby Show.
Cosby’s family-based humor had already established his “fatherly” reputation in comedy, but the 1980’s hit sitcom is what officially made him “America’s Dad”. Younger people these days who didn’t grow up in the era of “must-see tv” won’t really understand what a feat it was for Cosby to earn that label. Cliff Huxtable’s appeal crossed racial lines. It wasn’t just black kids wishing their dad could be more like him…all kids…even white kids…looked up to the Huxtable patriarch.
For white America, Bill Cosby normalized black life. For black America, The Cosby Show-era Bill Cosby presented a picture of what is and what could be for more of us. He was the literal and fictional embodiment of the Black American Dream…a black man with the family, the house, the career and the freedom to move fluidly within the American middle class.
For kids who had grown up with wonderful fathers he reminded them of those fathers. For kids who had been abandoned by their fathers, he filled a gap – if only once a week or during a late night talk show here and there.
He was our dad. For me, he was the dad. I didn’t meet my own father until I was about 10 years old. Bill Cosby…Dr.Huxtable…filled a sort of symbolic role for me. I knew nothing about my father except that he was black. Surely he wasn’t so different from Dr.Huxtable. I imagined him to be smart, silly, caring…just busy. Too busy to come see about me. Too busy to be able to take me into his life. Surely it wasn’t his fault. And surely when we met we’d have silly tea parties just like Cliff and Rudy…or he’d impart some stern wisdom to me over a glass of milk just like Cliff and Theo…or he’d give my flaky boyfriends a hard time just like Cliff and Alvin. For me, like so many other people of every ethnicity and persuasion Bill Cosby was…hope.
In the end, Cosby’s true nature came to light and imparted a devastating lesson to all of us. We should never idolize a human being. They are all disappointing, some more than others. It may not surprise you to learn that my father was indeed not anything like Cliff Huxtable. We’ve never had a tea party together. We’re both lactose intolerant so there were never any conversations over a glass of milk, and the only advice he’s ever given me that remotely pertains to men is that marriage is a fraudulent institution with impossible rules and I should sleep with as many men as possible before making a decision to settle down with one.
And I never thought I’d ever have to say something like this, but at least he wasn’t a Bill Cosby. Because that dad turned out to be worse than disappointing…he turned out to be evil. While we were projecting all of our hopes and wishes onto his tv personality, he was spiking the drinks of hopeful young actresses and taking advantage of their drugged, helpless bodies.
Cosby’s talent was deserving of our approval, but Cosby himself never deserved our adoration. We just didn’t know. We didn’t know because we were willing participants in the lie of perfection that Hollywood sold us and continues to sell us every day. Our brains tell us it is impossible to be beautiful, rich, kind, generous, humble, good and without fault in any way yet our Instagram tells us a different story. Back in the days of Cosby’s reign it was magazines and fawning reports on the celebrity class on entertainment television. Whatever the platform the lie has always been the same: Perfection is possible. You’re just not trying hard enough.
Cosby’s downfall is a harsh reminder that if you place your hopes in the hands of any one man you will always be disappointed. Maybe not to “Cosby levels” but in the respect that the perfection in which we imagine our celebrity idols living does not exist. That perfect dad who abandoned you before your birth but was just too busy being an amazing person to come find you…he doesn’t exist.
That devastatingly handsome football player who is personable, down-to-earth, and would definitely never brutally murder the mother of his children and her boyfriend…he doesn’t exist.
That endearing, self-deprecating, seemingly shy comedian who only wants to help female comedians and who would never be so disgusting as to ask those women if he can masturbate in front of them…he doesn’t exist.
Your perfect partner doesn’t exist.
Your perfect parent doesn’t exist.
Your favorite perfect couple doesn’t exist.
Perfection is a beautiful lie that is responsible for too much tragedy. It’s time to slap on the handcuffs and march that idea right out of the courtroom alongside Dr. Huxtable.
Just kidding....Kira is a writer, actor and suburban housewife and mother. Her mantra is "If I can't do it from the couch, is it really worth it?"
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