I Can't Make This Up: Life Lessons

by Kevin Hart

The only nice thing I ever got back then was a dog. We lived on Fifteenth Street and Erie Avenue, in the heart of North Philadelphia. It was a tough area where shit happened consistently. One afternoon, my dad came home with a huge Labrador. I couldn’t believe it. I was so happy, I couldn’t stop screaming. I fell in love with that dog instantly. “What’s this, Spoon?” my mom asked when she saw it. There was a note of skepticism in her voice. “You got a dog?” “I bought a dog for the boys,” my dad said with forced nonchalance. “They been talking about a dog.” This dog wasn’t a puppy. It was full-grown, with a tongue as big as my arm and fur that looked like old paper that had been left in the sun too long. It was probably seven. But it didn’t matter to my brother and me. We’d been wanting a pet for so long. We named him Tramp and brought him into our room to play. He was on the bed, licking our faces, when the doorbell rang. I walked over to take a look. There was a man and a woman I hadn’t seen before. “You took our dog,” they said. “Your what?” my dad asked, as if he’d never heard anything so preposterous. “You took our dog,” they repeated. “She got loose and was running down the street, and the neighbors saw you take her and bring her here.” “What’s going on?” My mom jumped in. “I thought you said you bought this dog.” “I did,” my dad protested. I could see his wheels spinning as he quickly thought of a lie. “A friend of mine had it. I gave him money for it.” “Coco,” the w...

The next time I remember being with my dad, my brother and I were walking along a street in our neighborhood with him. I’ll never know where he was taking us, because out of nowhere, a group of guys jumped him. My brother and I stood there, shocked, as they started pummeling Dad. “Go run home,” my dad told us coolly between punches, as if we were leaving him with friends. “I’ll meet you back there. Go ahead! I’ll be all right.” So we went home and sat in the kitchen terrified, hoping he’d come back alive. An hour or so later, he strolled in the door covered in blood and casually asked, “You all right? You want something to eat?” He didn’t even mention the fight. It was as if nothing had happened. The only other time I saw him that bloody was after he got hit by that axe. I asked him about it much later, and he explained that he went to the home of someone named Mr. Jimmy. There was a man underneath the refrigerator who’d been struggling to repair it for two hours. My dad said, “Move out the way,” and fixed it. The next thing he knew, the other repairman chopped him with an axe, presumably for taking the job away. This is how my father concluded the story: “Coincidentally, a couple of weeks later, that sucka was found dead. I don’t know nothing about it.” This is how I responded: “Dad, I don’t want to know nothing about it either.”

Your life today is the sum total of your choices. So if you’re not happy with it, look back at your choices and start making different ones. Even if you are struck by lightning and injured, you made choices that led you to that spot at that particular time—and you get to choose how you feel about it afterward. You can be angry at the bad luck that you got struck or grateful for the good luck that you survived.

On the day he started dealing, he came home as proud as can be. His chest was puffed out, his jaw was set, and his eyes were steely. He then made a gesture I’d never seen him make before: He tilted his head upward and a little to the side, until his chin was pointing at me, like he was a Mafia boss. “Look,” he began in a confident voice. “I know Dad ain’t around. It’s just me, you, and Mom. So I’m letting you know I got us.” “Huh?” He winked at me. A slow wink, a do-you-have-something-stuck-in-your-eye wink, a teenager-who-thinks-he’s-grown-up-and-has-life-figured-out wink. “I got us,” he continued. “So if you need anything, you come to big brother and I’ll take care of it, knowwhatimsayin.” Then he raised his right hand and summoned me with his finger. This motherfucker really thought he was Scarface. “C’mere.” I walked over obediently. He pulled out a small wad of cash and peeled off a one-dollar bill. The wad was probably all one-dollar bills. “Get yourself something,” he said magnanimously. “Treat yourself to some chips.” Up to that point, I had no idea what was going on. But as soon as I saw that dollar, I didn’t care. My brother was giving me money, and that was cool. “Thanks,” I responded. “Love you, man.” He put on a pair of shades and left the house. The next day, my mom found his drug stash. He’d hidden it inside the grill at the bottom of the refrigerator. It was the worst place he could possibly have chosen to hide something, because the kitchen was my mom’s wo...

As a parent, you can’t compete with the streets. The streets will win every time. It’s all there—women, money, drink, drugs, and, most powerful of all, other kids who appear to have the one thing your child wants more than anything: the freedom to do whatever the hell they want.

but it was a love so controlling that I felt envious of the neglected kids in school.

We woke up at six in the morning. I left to catch the school bus at seven o’clock and got to school at eight. When school ended at three, I went straight to an extracurricular activity like basketball. Because my mom was working and couldn’t pick me up until evening, she did some research and found out that the Philadelphia Department of Recreation had a swim team that practiced most weekdays until half past eight. So she signed me up to swim after basketball.

It turns out that the things I hated most as a child are the same things that serve me the most as an adult.

was irritated that she’d been much more lenient with my older brother. Anything he wanted to do, she’d say “all right.” Anything I wanted to do, she’d say “no.” When I’d complain that it wasn’t fair, she’d respond: “Well, look what happened to Kenneth. I made a mistake doing that with him. I’m not making that mistake with you.” And that was why I never really rebelled. I saw where the road of not listening to my mom went. But I never saw examples of what happened on the other road. So I made the decision to suck it up, listen to my mom, and make the best of the situation.

People say that when it comes to gift-giving, it’s the thought that counts. Don’t believe them. It’s the gift that counts.

My moment was in seventh grade. My friend’s dad was taking him and some other kids to Clementon Park on a Saturday afternoon. The amusement park wasn’t that far away, but my mom didn’t know the kid or his parents, so she refused to let me go. That’s when I decided, I’m gonna go for it. Whatever happens, happens, but enough is enough. I could feel the lump forming in my throat as I got ready to stand up to her for the first time and make my voice heard. Mom: I don’t know what these people are about. I’m not letting you go off with a bunch of strangers to get left behind accidentally or get caught up in gang activities. Me: He’s my friend. He’s a good person. So is his dad. They would never do that. Mom: I said no and I mean no. End of discussion. Me: I-I-I’m sick of this. I don’t want to be here anymore! I don’t want to live here! I want to live with Dad. He lets me do whatever I want. Mom: Then go. Me: Huh? Mom: Go live with your dad. Me: What? Mom: You heard me. If that’s what you want, you’re free to go. Me: Okay, cool. I couldn’t believe my luck. I was finally free. I’d be able to go to movies and birthday parties and play outside with friends like a normal kid. Plus, maybe my dad could find me another Sonic 6. I stuffed my clothing into a shopping bag and grabbed my basketball. Then she took me to my dad’s house in South Philly and left me there. When I looked up at the building, half the windows either were broken or didn’t have shades. The place looked abandoned. I w...

I had a tough time with girls. The reason is because my mom used to cut my hair. “I’m not paying nobody to do what I can do,” she said. My mom would put a bowl over my head, grab the clippers, and go around my head one time, against the grain, and that was my haircut. Once, I looked in the mirror afterward, and there were these random bald patches. I looked like a Lego figure after you unsnap the hair from it. Meanwhile, she used to go to the hair salon to get shape-ups and trims. To this day, I don’t understand this shit. My brother actually began his entire life of crime because he wanted a haircut and couldn’t figure out any way to get money for it besides stealing. On my right-hand path, I realized that I could set up a barter system with my mom. The secret was to find something that was more important to her than twelve dollars for a haircut. And that something was my grades. One day, in middle school, when I got good grades on my report card (which for me were Bs), my mom gushed: Mom: I’m proud of you. What do you want as a reward? Name anything. Me: All I want is a haircut from a barbershop. Mom: I can just cut it for you. Me: Please, I’m begging you: Let me go to the barbershop. I just want to experience a professional barber one time. Mom: Okay, Kevin—but don’t get used to it. The next day, I went to school, saw the popular girl I liked, and with the confidence that only a hairstyle not cut by your mama can bring, said, “Hey.” To my complete surprise, she replied,...

started to realize that I wasn’t hurting my mom by not trying. I was only hurting myself.

I looked at our door, and it looked back at me. Something seemed off. It was the hinges! They’d been removed. I screamed, “Oh, shit!” I looked around. No one was in sight. I pulled open the door. Actually, I sort of pulled and lifted; it was more of an obstacle now than a door. I stuck my head in and yelled, “Mom!” Now, I knew my mom wasn’t there, but I figured that would scare the thieves and murderers that I was sure had invaded my house. After all, nothing scares a grown-ass man more than someone yelling “Mom!” in a whiny voice. I walked inside, still yelling “Mom!” That was my weapon. I don’t need no gun. I got my mom. That was when it dawned on me that the apartment only had one door, so where were these criminals gonna run if they heard me and panicked? Straight at me. I stopped yelling. This plan wasn’t really well thought out. But you don’t plan for these things. They just happen. So I’m walking inside now, slowly, scanning for anything suspicious or out of place. Scanning, searching, examining. The hallway looked like it always looked. No one had taken the ceiling or made the walls wider. I don’t know what the fuck I was expecting to see in the hallway. I kept walking, scanning, examining. And then I backtracked and saw it: the stove. There was a pot of half-eaten grits on the stove. I knew it wasn’t my mom’s, because no one leaves a dirty dish in her kitchen. It was now pretty clear what had happened: Someone had broken into my house and cooked grits. I had a coo...

But every dog has his day, and mine came when I finally got my award that night. It was the honor I deserved: for best attendance. My mom had been so strict that she never let me miss a day of practice.

think it was called the Participant Award, and it wasn’t even a trophy. It was a certificate. Everyone knew it was the lamest award of the night. When they called out “Kevin Hart” from the stage, there was a sympathetic smattering of applause. I stepped up to the podium and placed one hand on the microphone. Every other kid who’d spoken had written his speech on a piece of paper or an index card. Now I was on stage—for the first time in my life—with no paper, no index card, no preparation, and no clue what to say. “Hello—I’m Nancy’s son,” I began, “though a lot of y’all know me as ‘the cheater.’ ” The room burst into laughter. Everyone there knew, and had probably made fun of, that photo on the pool building’s wall of me adjusting my goggles. “But I would like to say for the record tonight that I never cheated. Otherwise, how would it be possible for me to go to more swim practices than anyone else here, yet not get a single award for my swimming?” I heard people laughing, clapping their hands, slapping their knees. “Best Participant? That’s like getting an award for being the team’s Best Kevin. It’s not an accomplishment or a talent; it’s something that my mom decided. She should be up here getting this award. Mom, come on up! I hope this was worth all those whuppings.” It felt as if something unlocked in me. I’d known that I was the fun guy who helped people lighten up and feel good. But I’d never known it was possible to do the same thing outside of a conversation and l...

Sometimes, other people’s doubt can be the best motivation there is to succeed.

I reinserted a joke I had cut about people getting tattoos with Chinese writing. “You don’t really know what it means. All you know is what they tell you, and they tell you that it means all of this crazy spiritual stuff. But you’re probably walking around with the Chinese words for ‘salt,’ ‘pepper,’ and ‘ketchup’ on your back.” Another peal of laughter and clapping

couldn’t understand it at the time, but later I thought about it. The problem is, many people want you to do things, up to the point where they lose control of you. As long as they’re still your boss or mentor or partner or good friend, it’s fine. But if it starts pulling you away from them or making you more successful than them or keeping you too busy to see them as much, then your dream can become their threat.

“Don’t lie to me, Kevin. Talk to me after you’ve read your Bible.” She must have had a sixth sense. “Mom, whatever, I don’t want to talk about Scripture. Forget it.” I slammed the door shut. I was so angry that she’d bailed on her part of the bargain. But of course, she hadn’t. It was me who’d broken my word. I got home and figured I’d open the Bible and pray for guidance. Maybe Mom knew something I didn’t. I pulled it out of a drawer and opened it for the first time since she’d given it to me. A stack of rent checks, all signed and dated for the first of each month for the whole year, fell out. She’d kept her promise after all. I felt so low and ungrateful. She was a tough woman and always true to her word.

There was another lesson too: When I increased my overhead by hiring all these guys whose expenses I couldn’t afford, everyone said I was being stupid and wasteful. But as an unexpected consequence, this expansion ended up increasing my personal profit. Because now it wasn’t just me working to survive, it was a whole team working to survive. They believed that I could grow—and knew that as I did, they would grow too. A team is going to survive better than an individual,