It’s exhausting to contextualize grief for somebody you by no means imagined dropping.
There’s a selected type of ache that comes with sure deaths. Not the sort born from proximity or familial ties, however the form that grabs you by the collar and forces you to sit down down, breathe a bit slower, and confront the greys in your personal getting older reflection. For a sure cohort of Black people, the demise of Malcolm-Jamal Warner is a type of.
For Black Gen Xers, particularly these of us raised on NBC Thursday nights, this one hits a lot tougher than anticipated. Not as a result of he was some type of superstar, however as a result of he was ours. Malcolm-Jamal Warner wasn’t simply an actor. He was a fixture. Our communal cousin, the cool older or youthful brother, the one who confirmed us you would be sensible and clean, considerate and totally Blackity-Black. He wasn’t a caricature. He wasn’t making an attempt to be a thug or a saint. He wasn’t comedian aid. He was simply actual. And, again then, we would have liked to see that.
We’re not simply mourning him; we’re mourning what he symbolized. That being a Black child within the 80s was multifaceted and layered. That Black excellence might imply reaching inside your personal talents. That being constantly good is a trait we overlook in trying to be momentarily nice.
And maybe most hauntingly, we’re mourning what his demise tells us about the place we are in life.
Malcolm-Jamal Warner didn’t play some roles; we grew up with him. We aged with him. From Theo Huxtable’s high-top fade antics on “The Cosby Present,” to his poetic depth on “Malcolm & Eddie,” and later his measured, matured roles in dramas like “The Resident,” he aged in public as we aged in non-public. Even us “Group” stans couldn’t assist however root for him as Shirley’s philandering husband. And there was one thing so stabilizing about seeing a Black man, born in the identical America we had been, transferring by way of life with a type of grace and presence that at all times felt genuine. Every function felt like an iteration of his pure self.
He didn’t chase clout. He didn’t find yourself on TMZ. He didn’t have the general public meltdowns of so many baby stars turned unbalanced adults. He simply was. And in a media ecosystem that so usually distorts or erases nuanced portrayals of Black males, Malcolm-Jamal Warner was a uncommon constant thread: considerate, humorous, grounded, inventive. Somebody we might determine with, and aspire to be like.
After we noticed Theo making an attempt to determine life out underneath the strict love of Cliff and Claire Huxtable, we noticed ourselves, or not less than one thing we wished we might have. Awkward and uncertain, however held up by Black love and excessive expectations. And, actually, that picture feels extra sophisticated now, given every little thing that’s come to mild within the years since. However for many people, Warner nonetheless embodied one thing purer than all that: the concept Black boys might be considerate and mental, that we might mess up and bounce again, that we might discover our personal rhythm in a world that demanded we march to theirs.
However this sense is lingering in a method that’s exhausting to shake.
This one feels totally different. This isn’t Kobe. It’s not Michael or Prince or DMX. These deaths had been thunderclaps, tragic and sudden, however usually accompanied by the larger-than-life personas they constructed. We grieved them as icons, as monoliths.
Malcolm-Jamal Warner? He was simply…a man. One who directed the “N.E. Heartbreak” video, wrote poetry, acted, liked jazz, and carried himself with a dignity that didn’t scream “fame.” He was a “that’s my man” type of man.
And so this isn’t nearly him. It’s about us. This demise seems like somebody broke a window in the home we grew up in. Now we’re staring on the breeze coming in, questioning when the following pane is gonna crack.
Warner’s demise isn’t only a collective loss; it’s a generational checkpoint. A loud, blaring announcement that our days of youth are within the rearview mirror, and what lies forward isn’t some summary notion of “center age,” however the harsh reality of mortality exhibiting up on our doorsteps. And it’s unrelenting in its calls for.
There was a time when demise felt like an interruption. A shock. Now? It’s a push notification.
Each different week, somebody from our period, whether or not superstar or neighborhood, is leaving us. Highschool buddies. The DJ from the membership we used to frequent. That cousin who used to mild up each household reunion (figuratively and actually). Some from well being points, some from unlucky occasions, some we nonetheless don’t discuss.
And now Malcolm.
He wasn’t previous. He wasn’t reckless. He was one among us. And that’s what makes this demise so suffocating: it removes the phantasm of distance. There’s no cushion of age or fame or self-destruction to cover behind. If he can exit like that, so can we. Any day. With out warning.
That is the brand new actuality for Black Gen Xers: demise is just not uncommon. It’s turning into routine. And we’re not prepared.
We’re not ready for the day when “He handed” turns into as widespread in a textual content message as “You heard that new Raekwon?” However it’s coming. Hell, it’s right here.
Our dad and mom’ and grandparents’ seemingly limitless conversations about individuals who died? That’s our scene now.
And the demise of Malcolm-Jamal Warner is the reminder none of us requested for.
So now, it begs the query. What are we alleged to do now? What are we alleged to do with all of this?
There’s a selected cruelty in the way in which Black people are taught to hold grief. We’re conditioned to robust it out, to “be robust,” to maintain it transferring. But when we’re being actual, numerous us are scared proper now. Not simply of dying, however of leaving issues unfinished. Of getting lived this life, poured ourselves into others, and never leaving a legacy or having achieved one thing. A few of us have but to completely notice our affairs, not to mention have them so as pending our nice gettin’ up morning.
Warner’s demise isn’t only a loss; it’s a cracked mirror, forcing us to see time catching up with us. Our knees damage. Our playlists are stuffed with songs that we keep in mind from Video Soul or Yo! MTV Raps. A few of our children are youngsters or grown. Our dad and mom are, uncomfortably, slowing down. A few of us are two-way caretakers now whereas nonetheless making an attempt to recollect to take our personal tablets. A few of us are burying moms, aunties, brothers.
It’s heavy.
And perhaps that’s the purpose. Perhaps now could be the time to really feel that heaviness. To permit it area to be. To cease pretending that Black maturity is barely about hustling and surviving and constructing generational wealth. Perhaps a part of the work now could be grieving, deliberately. Publicly. Purposefully.
Perhaps grief isn’t nearly letting go of the presence of an individual; it’s about permitting that loss to remodel us into one thing else. About honoring the individuals we’ve misplaced by taking items of them and infusing their spirit into our every day lives. Our future actions a testomony to their immortality.
As we eulogize Malcolm-Jamal Warner, we aren’t simply speaking a couple of man. We’re speaking about an period. A sense. A time after we believed the world would possibly really make room for us to be full, layered human beings. After we had shag haircuts and hid our hats and gloves within the mailbox whereas we performed soccer on the street.
We’re speaking about each Black boy who sat too near the TV on Thursday nights making an attempt to imitate Theo’s fashion and speech cadence, or take notes on methods to survive a math class taught by the Dragon Girl. We’re speaking about that uncommon second in TV historical past after we noticed ourselves mirrored with dignity and humor. In contrast to JJ Evans or Arnold Jackson or Webster, Theo wasn’t a prop or a tool; he was an individual.
We’re mourning a person, sure. But in addition a model of ourselves. The model that also believed we had time.
As a result of that’s essentially the most terrifying a part of all this: realizing that point is just not promised, and that our tales can finish in an surprising instantaneous. That even those who did it “proper,” the great brothers, the strong dudes, those who stayed out of the foolishness and stored their head down, don’t at all times get to develop previous.
Malcolm-Jamal Warner’s passing is a reminder that the clock is ticking. That love must be spoken. That well being must be prioritized. That relaxation isn’t elective. That grief wants tending. That legacy isn’t constructed on likes.
It’s constructed on how individuals really feel after they say your title.
Ultimately, we’re left with this: Malcolm-Jamal Warner was man. A relentless presence. A quiet icon. He made us giggle, made us suppose, and made us proud. He gave us permission to be ourselves; awkward, nerdy, curious, cool.
And now, in his demise, he offers us one thing else: perspective. Urgency. A cause to decelerate, go searching, and say the issues we’ve been that means to say.
To name our individuals. To go to the physician. To relaxation. To cry if we have to. And to cease pretending that loss doesn’t change us.
Relaxation simple, Brother Malcolm. Thanks for the time you gave us.
We’ll carry it from right here.
Corey Richardson is initially from Newport Information, Va., and at present lives in Chicago, Unwell. Advert man by commerce, Dad man in life, and grilled meat fanatic, Corey spends his time crafting phrases, cheering on beleaguered Washington DC sports activities franchises, and yelling obscenities at himself on golf programs. Because the founding father of The Instigation Division, you possibly can observe him on Substack to maintain up along with his work.
SEE ALSO:
Malcolm Jamal Warner Passes Away At 54
Theo Huxtable & Past: Remembering Malcolm-Jamal Warner’s Contributions To The Tradition