Dave Chappelle’s new special reveals that “the slap” still stings

Might have Will Smith’s slap ushered in an era of sincere accountability for comedians who punch down?

Dave Chappelle’s newest Netflix comedy special recycles tired and cheap humor at the expense of already marginalized and vulnerable communities — in this latest special, the Dreamer, Chappelle goes out of his way to ridicule the disabled community in addition to trans people. Although it initially seems business as usual with the comedian who has never strayed from making transphobic and discriminatory remarks for cheap laughs, what I found unusual about this special was the tone. Chapelle expends a lot of facial energy after each punch line looking side to side or at the audience longingly — almost pleading for laughs when churning out the same jokes that make fun of people whom our world already does a good job of excluding. At one point I noticed a man in the front row who literally shook his head after Chapelle made a grossly homophobic and violent joke, but then — after a pause from Chapelle — almost obligingly clapped his hands slowly, all the while shaking his head. Chapelle’s insecurities emerge in this newest special and it begs the question — how is the slap operating in comedy?

my initial reaction to ’22 Oscars

When Will Smith slapped Chris Rock, the at-the-time sanctioned man of comedy, for making a misogynoir joke — one which deliberately poked fun at Jada’s lack of hair by pointing comparing her visage to Demi Moore’s character in GI Jane (a film that was in no way relevant to the Oscars selection of nominated films) — he quite literally disrupted the status quo. For this moment was unscripted. And consequently, we as audience members were momentarily shaken from the rainbow ride of awards show routine, which often relegates laughter to one place and seriousness to another (all of which are usually mediated through what can at times be quite clumsily choreographed transitions). In that context, that of the Oscars, Will Smith granted us a temporary respite — a clash. And in that disruption, we got out. We got to levitate for a moment, and witness ourselves within the artifice of the whole affair. We got to think about ourselves and transpose our own meaning to the event, or at least I certainly did. Will Smith’s action literally slapped us awake and consequently into a deeper cognition of that which seems to lie not so conspicuously below the surface of the Academy — the truth of our artificial lines.

the slap blurred the line of normies vs. celebs

The first line blurred, at least for myself, was that of “normies” vs. famous people. With the slap, we got to witness humanity on full display across the faces of our greatest and most prestigious celebrities comfortably seated at cabaret positioned tables. These titans who almost never walk among us, but who, at the pleasure of the fans and on national television, take the time to annually dress up in lavish materials often requiring bodices and jeweled finishings. These walking fantasies seem to eat nothing, emote nothing, and say only what is authorized by their publicists. They are annoyingly perfect. They almost always hit their marks and deliver prompted quips on cue.

Our celebrities are not human — or at least their teams work very hard to make them appear that way. And yet, on this year’s Oscars night, we got to see these great subjects of Olympus crumble and emit heat. We got to see them react impulsively or even stem those impulses publicly. When Will Smith walked up to Chris Rock and waved his hand so fast I thought I’d missed it despite watching attentively nearly the entire time, I found emotional recognition in the face I witnessed shifting slightly as he (Will) sat back down in his chair. Steaming with anger and giving loud bodied words to the insult his hand introduced. I felt that.

I’ve been that angry before. Many times on the outside when I was younger. Many times on the inside now where shame keeps it tampered. It is untoward to be angry in a black woman’s body. It is unbecoming. Even now I recall with a twinge in my abdomen the moments in my past where anger channeled itself through a raised voice or goodness forbid a moment where I sucked my teeth. The look of discomfort on the white faces around me in elementary school, in middle school. The look of a white teacher putting me in a box where I didn’t want to be. Because those kids got detention or worse. I wondered if Will Smith would feel shame for his own display, the way I had in the past after my own explosive moments. Secretly I hoped he wouldn’t. Inwardly, I knew it to be likely that he would since he is only human. And so too were the other stars! Which later — after witnessing the reactions from his industry colleagues and apologizing during his acceptance speech for Best Actor — was evident. I must admit I found myself feeling as if I was in that auditorium reacting too, my own response mirroring the very human reactions varying from the measured and beautiful Lupita N’yongo with her lilting eyelids barely revealing a hint of something voyeuristic (gah I wish I were her!) to the much less composed and almost extortionate gesticulations of other actors (highly recommend Googling them). I discovered sensational relief in the familiar impulse of an older Denzel coming to check in with Will and making sure he was all right with some words of encouragement as well as advice.

I liked fantasizing about this space — a black celebrity sub-group, much like those in almost every industry or work environment, where we can show our peers of color in those rough moments (especially those that occur in public view of the white gaze) that we got them. And that there is a way out. The quickness with which Denzel and I assume many more swooped in to mediate, hold lovingly accountable, and give empathy as well as words of advice to Will and Chris made this year’s Oscars worth watching in my opinion. Because this moment that occurred both in front of and behind the cameras elevated the power of safe spaces in professional settings. There might have been an inclination to recoil or the twinge of an oncoming spiral of negative thoughts ready to pour familiarly through Will Smith’s mind. If he’s anything like me, his mind might have already begun to form a string of damaging questions like what will happen to my career? What will that display of anger in this body cost? My career? My reputation? The chances of a future career? The career, image or reputation of my family? I find reassurance in the notion that these thoughts, had they formed, were disrupted by the whispered words of Denzel, who could be found on bended knee near Will and Jada in the immediate aftermath of the slap. Or staunched by the imagined talks of affirmation by the black SAG group at the various Oscar after parties. I found consolation in seeing the image of Will Smith’s smiling face at these after events — I read it as an emotional trophy of having safe spaces at work for marginalized communities. And I’ve found myself there too — when my black and brown colleagues have conversed with me after public moments of anger at work in empathy and loving accountability. Keeping me sane with their, “I felt that too..”’’s.

I must admit I even found myself trapped in the psychologically struck and dopey faced Chris Rock — almost glitching as he tried to reboot his comedy. Something that has been aging for a while now and so out of tune with progressive ideals. But what struck me most in that moment was Will and Chris’ exchange at the end. After the “slap.” For it’s after that move that Will truly fights. His words ring out like the Liberty Bell itself, “Get my wife’s name out yo fucking mouth!” Will demands not once, but twice. In this moment, Will emotes in a way I have only ever before seen scripted, within the realm of acting. But I had yet to see this anger from the man himself — outside of the role. And it shook me. No longer shielded by the cloaks of writing, direction, and the structure of production, Will’s anger was his own — raw and exposed. And it made me feel as if I was looking into something I wasn’t meant to see. The irony being this anger was occuring on a world’s stage. I admit I am glad I bore witness to his anger because other than invoking my own empathy, and sadly voyeurism, I found his anger to do something else far more interesting — signal, in no uncertain terms, to Chris Rock, that his very comedic identity, one indicative of many of his era, is doing damage and needs to stop.

Will Smith holds onto his anger and points it at Chris Rock until Chris Rock’s proverbial smirk is wiped off his face and his tone no longer modulates up to the tune of a comedic set up. “Okay, I won’t” issues forth in a low, flat and defeated decrescendo from Chris’ lips. The antithesis of a punchline. Will, exposed, brings Chris into this uncovered space with him. That was how Will Smith’s actions truly made their mark in my opinion. Because when Chris finally stops laughing, or attempting to make others laugh for some reason yet to be understood (a need to make the space “defined” again, to let the “show go on,” to keep the Academy aka white people happy, to save face, to resist the notion that he wasn’t that funny and that jokes made at the expense of someone else just aren’t okay), a truer Chris comes to the screen. This Chris is one I am far more interested in, someone who considers the feelings of others and submits to the notion that he might need to do things differently.

That is a version of humanity I rarely get to see play out on screen — and definitely not within the context of an awards show the sole purpose of which is to recognize humans who play out other characters or other humans and in the process are contrived beings themselves. Chris Rock had to resort not to his script or the teleprompter when confronted with someone else’s humanity, but rather — he had to check in with himself at that moment and sort through all the possible versions of himself until he landed on one that he felt would work. Without a publicist, and without a producer Chris Rock resorted to defending his actions and then ultimately found himself held accountable to being more considerate. In moments of which I am less proud, I’ve found myself there too. Holding fast to something just for the sake of being right, and then ultimately submitting to change. I got to see celebrities engage in real human ways with each other because the fabricated partition that separated them from myself and even each other, was momentarily lifted. And in a way, I am grateful for that connection.

slap blurred the line of comedy vs. drama

Another line blurred by the slap was very much that of comedy vs. drama. One I find to be pretty gendered when it shows up in social settings. Women are generally considered “too serious,”unwilling or even unable to “take a joke” when bearing witness to or even being the brunt of verbal misogynistic attacks. Men are often viewed as comedic geniuses when telling these jokes and get to proceed with their lives unscathed. I have heard it said by social analysis experts that joke-telling is often used to signal in-groups and draw lines between who is in and who is out. In many ways that can be a good thing for it can elucidate the groups that hold power vs those that do not and therefore lead to social change that betters all. However, it is sadly more often the case that it does damage because from experience alone I have come to understand that comedy is often used as a tool for the oppression of marginalized peoples. Specifically, I see comedy play out as a way to uplift cis-heteronormative men at the expense of others — particularly black women. In this case, at the 2022 Oscars, the line between comedy and drama manifested as the line between “it was just a joke” and the serious brutality of misogyny and particularly, misogynoir. Thankfully, we have seen a movement towards breaking this fictitious binary through the work of many black woman activists such as Tracee Ellis Ross who describes the continuum of pain inflicted on women as everything ranging from microaggressions at work to brutal rape. Her premise being — they are all connected and therefore must all be seen, and held to account. Roxane Gay oversaw a collection of essays in her Not That Bad which details the variety of sexual violence and assaults on people identifying in a variety of ways regarding gender. The premise there ultimately being that it’s actually all that bad.

When Chris Rock attempts to downplay his derogatory slight of Jada Smith, it was clear that he thought the joke just “wasn’t that bad.” Because even before Chris was slapped, he noticed Jada’s reaction to his joke, one of valid disgust and disdain, and tried to make the same defense he’ll make to Will post-slap, that it’s ‘not that bad’. Right after Chris makes that misogynistic joke, he shrugs and looks around him in a pleading way, as if to elicit sympathy from an obliging audience and therefore affirm his decision to go after Jada. Then, in a self-justifying tone, he says, “…that (joke) was a nice one” and then tries to move on.

And honestly dear reader, if Chris got to proceed, it would have just been another day in the world of misogyny and misogynoir for women — black women in particular. It would have been akin to having to sit in an office and be reprimanded by an authority figure for the way [insert black woman] reacted because it was “loud” and “a bit aggressive” as evidenced by how it drove [insert white woman] to tears. It would have been related to [insert woman] having to sit in a subway car and be sexually propositioned repeatedly or eye fucked by a creepy old man at 7am in the morning. It would have been connected to how Anita Hill had to divulge gross acts of sexual harassment inflicted on her to a grand jury of white men and watch her perpetrator be rewarded with a life long seat on one of the most powerful institutions known to the United States of America while she suffered the consequences of public scrutiny. And it would have been in tune with the girl who is told to “lighten up” when she tells a group of her co-workers who identify as men that Dave Chappelle’s joke about brutalizing a trans man just because he “looks like a man” and offended him just isn’t funny. It would be just another drop in the infinite winning pool that is misogyny and misogynoir.

But Chris didn’t get to go on, and we have Will Smith to thank for that. I’ve found myself in Will’s righteous anger more times than I can count (tis the nature of living in a black woman’s body), but never have I had the chance to witness the hot indignant emotion that arises when one is responding to misogynoir channeled through a man, let alone a black man, let alone Will Smith. I must admit I was into ittttt. And albeit I will never condone violence, a spectrum that includes both the open-handed slap Will decided to combat misogynoir with that day and the misogynoir verbal attack Chris Rock made, I cannot ignore the sense of exhaling relief I felt when I saw what appeared to be a version of true allyship play out on the Oscars stage. A stage that has extolled rapists and misogynists for decades and forced women to stand, applaud and even hand them their accolades. A stage that did not bat an eye (and even laughed charmingly) when a white man took it upon himself to thrust the body of a black woman, the first black woman ever to receive the Oscars award for best actress, into his own in a tight grip and deeply kiss her without her consent. Something which even Halle Berry cannot wrap her mind around, but who emits hot indignant anger when allowing herself to reflect on her immediate response to Adrien Brody’s attack in that moment. A stage that lauded the grotesque, submissive and abused “Mammy character” through its attribution of the Oscar award to Hattie McDaniel, the first black person to earn this award ever (showing the world how the Academy really views the role of a black woman in society). The terrible truth of misogynoir that the Academy thinly veils through comedy and choreographed artificial structures was momentarily brought down by the hand of Will. And I was grateful to have borne witness to what might be a beginning of accomplices and allies. Oprah signaled the dawn of #TimesUp at another awards show not so long ago — where she charged everyone to stand up against the evils of toxic masculinity and gender-based violence and actively work towards a time where we wouldn’t have to say #MeToo ever again. Could Will simply be one of the first to publicly answer the call?

The line of sense and sensation was blurred — something Alok Vaid-Menon, a person far more in tune with themselves and liberation than I, has named so radically before. It didn’t make much sense to many people that Will could go from initially laughing at Chris Rock’s joke to directly challenging Chris on his misogynoir attack on Jada within the span of literal seconds. But it didn’t need to make sense to Will. It shouldn’t have had to make sense. It didn’t need to be explained to Will. It shouldn’t have had to be explained. Will saw the response from Jada and it is likely he felt it too. Because he believed her — a type of belief that comes from recognizing the hurt and humanity in another. Will then internalized that hurt, an act of true empathy, and acted on it. That’s it. I wonder what our world would look like if we had more people with privilege act with empathy, to act accordingly when they truly feel and acknowledge the hurt of others with less privilege in response to an attack by misogyny and misogynoir. Which, let’s be clear, is happening all the time. Just because many people chuckled when Chris Rock made that attack on Jada doesn’t mean the attack was right.

slap blurred the line of human vs. character

Finally, a line that blurred for me when Will Smith slapped Chris Rock was that between human and character and in some ways human and archetype. When Will Smith slapped Chris Rock, Will, Chris, and the slap all took on more meaning than perhaps was intended by either of them. I’m sure Will went in with the attempt to reprimand Chris and defend his wife as well as family from a remark that was apart of a litany of verbal jabs on Jada from Chris (dating back to the 2016 and arguably most interesting Oscars when Jada boycotted the event in the pursuit of racial equality and representation) and did not mean to turn into a political symbol. I’m sure the same holds true for Chris who was probably just trying to get away with another old and tired joke and keep his relationship with the Academy. However, due to the context within which this took place, this action took on greater symbolic value. To me, Will is every ally who identifies as a man in the fight for black women to be respected, believed, and protected. To me, Jada is every black woman who might not have to take it anymore when publicly ridiculed for one’s looks because one’s hair does not subscribe to the Euro-centric and tired standards of white beauty imposed on all women. And to me, Chris Rock is every misogynistic comedian, of which there are many, who is now learning that maybe even the world stage is not safe from accountability. Regarding the former point, it comes as no surprise that Will Smith may have crossed that line between himself and the character of Richard Williams, the father of Venus and Serena Williams. It comes as no surprise because Will is a very good actor and has done an incredible job in the past with becoming the real life person he is meant to play on screen (ie. Muhamed Ali in Ali and Chris Garnder in Pursuit of Happyness). And so it stands to reason that Will Smith may have gotten carried away in his undertaking of assuming the persona of Richard Williams, a man who is known for being erratic and holding a high bar for himself and his kids, but ultimately someone who is now known as a person who went to great lengths to protect his young black girls from the world. A world that is so so unkind to black girls.

Because to be clear, we live in a nation where “…some 40–60 percent of Black American girls are sexually abused before the age of eighteen” as noted by the amazing Mikki Kendall in her Hood Feminism where she references the incredible research of Black Women’s Blueprint and the Black Women’s Health Imperative. A nation where R. Kelly was allowed to “marry” a 15 year old black girl and then urinate on another black girl on footage, the charges of which were not enough to end his career, but definitely enough to damage the reputation of these black girls (Kendall, 48–49). A nation where in 1989, all but one of “four dozen women arrested for prenatal crimes in Charleston were Black” as noted by the incredible Dorothy E. Roberts in her Killing the Black Body. A country that has adultified the bodies of black girls to the point where we penalize them and sexualize them when they aren’t even in 6th grade. As an educator myself, I recall a time in 2016 when it was difficult to overhear my white male colleague raise his voice at our dark-skinned black student who simply looked away in response to his correction because he perceived it as disrespect. I sighed because I knew that what he did was wrong and yet our school had policies detailing that type of student behavior as “inappropriate.” “Sucking teeth” and “exaggerated huffing or head movement” were also deemed as inappropriate student behaviors worthy of a consequence — which at the time was detention. And so our detention rooms were filled with black girls — a sad phenomenon in schools around the nation that Monique W Morris’ speaks to in her Push Out. Our school eventually changed its rules, but only because many black and allied educators stayed and taught adults.

We live in a nation that has teachers call the police when they feel “threatened” by black girl behavior. And our nation houses officers that feel comfortable inflicting physical violence on these black girls. We live in a nation that had to create #SayHerName to remember how Breonna Taylor was killed in her actual sleep by officers sanctioned in blue by the fucking state. And Sandra Bland was killed while held in custody. We live in a world that considers blackness ugly, textured hair dirty, and fatness disgusting. The very idea that fatness is undesirable actually derives from a fear of looking like a black “savage” or a black woman — an assertion expounded on in Sabrina Strings enlightening Fearing the Black Body. And so, in a world that truly despises, trashes, hates, spits on, kills, rapes, sexually abuses, and inflicts terror (both physical and psychological) on black girls/women, I guess it would be incredibly jarring and almost unrecognizable to witness an action such as Will Smith’s as the new age chivalry it is. But I didn’t need to understand it. I could just feel it. I wish others could too — particularly men — particularly black men.

And so — is it possible that in the moment when Chris Rock came for his black wife, Will assumed an impulse endowed onto him by the character of Richard Williams, to protect her? And if so, what does that tell us about the power of Richard Williams? Someone who was widely criticized and considered mentally unstable? Was it that he was insane or was he acting rationally in a world that treats black persons, and black girls/women specifically, so insanely? Was this the true power of King Richard? To enact change and disrupt the status quo?

slap still stings: male comedic insecurities in ‘24

Dave Chappelle seems to be clinging to an increasingly irrelevant form of comedy — one that preys on an archaic discomfort with change or fear of including new and vibrant perspectives by continuing to poke fun at those communities which house the real art. Comedians like Michelle Buteau, Phoebe Robinson, Hannah Gadsby, Sam Jay, Margaret Cho, Tina Friml, and so many more are paving the way forward with fresh and exciting comedy that does not lambast whole groups of people, but rather garners genuine laughter through thoughtful social commentary or deconstruction and reconstruction of joke-telling.

In Chapelle’s latest special he devotes a significant amount of time to consider the “slap.” He immediately makes a gross comparison of Will Smith’s action to a “9/11” which seems to expose his deep seated discomfort with comedians like him being held accountable for jokes that are actually unacceptable, cruel, violent, and deeply unfunny. He talks about his own “attack” and only lightly mentions the part he played in “triggering” Isaiah Lee, by verbally attacking the LGBTQIA+ and houseless community through what Chappelle deems as jokes. And albeit there was a real moment after the show where Chappelle did confront Isaiah and ask him why he did what he did — Isaiah’s sincere response, that his mother and grandmother who fought for the rights of people like Chappelle to speak freely would be disappointed, were not included in Chappelle’s special. Instead, Chappelle chooses to bury that human moment — rife with opportunity for change and reflection — and instead bring to the stage more flat and demeaning jokes about Isaiah which paint him as a mentally unstable, violent, and unhygienic “homeless” person. When given the opportunity to lift someone up or shed light on a significant event or even social ill, Chappelle and all his money and power instead chose to flatten and punch down.

However, Chappelle still talks about the slap, he even tries to identify with both Will and Chris by stating that he encompasses both of those abilities — the potential to get heated and the potential to recalibrate and be “composed.” And I wonder if that wasn’t just a sad attempt to pull what Will did into his fold — a diminishing company of older and no longer funny male comedians. For what Will did is far more in tune with the reaction of Isaiah — which is to say enough is enough and times up on comedy rooted in fear and hate.