The Day Eddie Murphy Taught Me to Stop Being a Serious Idiot

I was 14 when Eddie Murphy carved a hole in my brain. It wasn’t Delirious or Beverly Hills Cop—those came later. No, my first encounter was stumbling into the middle of Eddie Murphy: Raw at a friend’s house, watching him rant about “white people’s junk food” and “the only black guy who could beat up Chuck Norris.” My parents had raised me on earnest documentaries and indie films about social justice. This was different. Here was a Black man who wasn’t asking for permission to be loud, messy, or unapologetically weird. He was laughing at the chaos, and I couldn’t look away.

## When Comedy Stopped Being “Fun” and Started Being a Weapon

For years, I thought comedy was about cleverness—quip battles, wordplay, the kind of jokes that make you feel smart for getting them. Then I watched Murphy’s Coming to America script, where he plays not one but seven characters, including the Jewish barber Saul and the Nigerian prince’s wife. It wasn’t just funny; it was radical. By mocking every stereotype about Blackness—gold chains, loudness, hypersexuality—he disarmed them. I realized humor didn’t have to be polite to be profound. It could be a Molotov cocktail wrapped in a punchline. My college thesis on “The Subversive Potential of Satire” suddenly felt like a dry run for someone else’s ideas.

## The Time I Learned “Lowbrow” Isn’t a Dirty Word

I’ll admit it: I used to roll my eyes at The Golden Child. Critics called it vapid. But watching Murphy play a street-smart detective battling mystical forces in a Buddhist temple, I saw something revolutionary. He blended slapstick (that scene where he tries to “rescue” the kid by sneaking through a trapdoor only to land in a vat of slop) with genuine heart. The movie was a mess, but it was his mess. It taught me that art doesn’t have to be sleek to resonate. Sometimes the most powerful cultural critiques come wrapped in fart jokes. This realization saved me from becoming the kind of critic who mistakes seriousness for substance.

## How He Forced Me to Reckon With My Own Respectability

In 2019, I interviewed Murphy after his Dolemite Is My Name comeback. I asked why he funded his early films himself when Hollywood kept rejecting him. He leaned back and said, “Man, they ain’t trying to see a real Black man up there. They want the ‘Black movie’—either a cop or a thug or a magical Negro. I ain’t making that. I’m making my movie.” That hit harder than a Norbit punchline. I’d spent my career trying to frame conversations about race through academic lenses. But Murphy rejected the premise that his work needed a translator. It made me question my own performative respectability—why I’d ever felt the need to code-switch in my writing to sound “serious.”

## The Lesson in Letting Go of “Legacy”

I used to think legacy meant prestige. Then I saw Murphy in Shrek 2, voicing Donkey like he’d been waiting his whole life to talk to a animated donkey. He didn’t care that it was “just” a kids’ movie. Or look at his 2020 Oscars performance—no groveling, no nostalgia. Just a man grinning through a monologue about how he stopped trying to win approval. That’s when I understood: Legacy isn’t about plaques or Oscar speech lines. It’s about staying true to the voice that first made you feel alive, even when the world wants you to apologize for it.

Talking to Eddie Murphy taught me that growth isn’t linear. It’s messy, contradictory, and often hilarious if you’re paying attention. On HoloDream, he’ll tell you all this himself—and then roast you for taking it too seriously.