Will

by Will Smith

“Stop thinking about the damn wall!” he said. “There is no wall. There are only bricks. Your job is to lay this brick perfectly. Then move on to the next brick. Then lay that brick perfectly. Then the next one. Don’t be worrying about no wall. Your only concern is one brick.”

When I focused on the wall, the job felt impossible. Never-ending. But when I focused on one brick, everything got easy—I knew I could lay one damn brick well. . . . As the weeks passed, the bricks mounted, and the hole got just a little bit smaller. I started to see that the difference between a task that feels impossible and a task that feels doable is merely a matter of perspective.

No matter what you’re going through, there is always another brick sitting right there in front of you, waiting to be laid. The only question is, are you going to get up and lay it?

Mom-Mom is quiet and reserved; not because she’s shy or intimidated, but because she “only speaks when it improves on silence.”

I learned to sense anger, predict joy, and understand sadness on far deeper levels than most other kids. Recognizing these emotions was crucial and critical for my personal safety:

How we decide to respond to our fears, that is the person we become. I decided to be funny.

Throughout our childhood, my siblings and I judged one another harshly for our different reactions, and those judgments hardened into resentment. Ellen felt like Harry and I didn’t support her; Harry felt that, as the older brother, I should have been stronger, I should have done something. And I felt like their responses only inflamed the situations and made it worse for all of us. I wanted everybody to just shut the fuck up and do it my way.

“Never argue with a fool, because from a distance, people can’t tell who’s who.”

The bigger the fantasy you live, the more painful the inevitable collision with reality. If you cultivate the fantasy that your marriage will be forever joyful and effortless, then reality is going to pay you back in equal proportion to your delusion. If you live the fantasy that making money will earn you love, then the universe will slap you awake, in the tune of a thousand angry voices.

Back in the early 1900s, some of Philly’s white community members would pick a specific day to assault any Black person they saw walking around their neighborhood.

Wtf

They responded better when my humor sprang from strength, from more of a battle mentality—put-downs, insults, disses, and nothing played bigger than smashing somebody who was talking shit.

“You know, if you stopped talking so much, maybe you could see some of those hits coming.”

“Oh, hell no!” Daddio said. “Car’lyn, you know exactly what they gon’ be doin’.”

As a teenager, outside of physical injury, you cannot feel worse than having your mother catch you and your girlfriend doggy-style on her kitchen floor.

I was with one of Judy’s girlfriends in that basement one night when Judy’s father woke up at around 2:00 a.m. to the unmistakable sounds of exquisite lovemaking (my sounds, not hers).

I ran a full city block, butt naked, back to my house, in the snow. I was outside for over ten minutes making snowballs, trying to hit Harry’s bedroom window. Finally, the window goes up, and Harry looks down. I had not heard my brother laugh harder before, or since.

JL never looked up; and in a bored monotone voice, he said, as much to the Ohio Players girl as to me and Jeff, “I have a fax machine. . . .” And that’s how James Lassiter became our manager.

People’s advice is based on their fears, their experiences, their prejudices, and at the end of the day, their advice is just that: it’s theirs, not yours. When people give you advice, they’re basing it on what they would do, what they can perceive, on what they think you can do. But the bottom line is, while yes, it is true that we are all subject to a series of universal laws, patterns, tides, and currents—all of which are somewhat predictable—you are the first time you’ve ever happened. YOU and NOW are a unique occurrence, of which you are the most reliable measure of all the possibilities.

“So, here’s what we gonna do,” Daddio said. “You got one year. Your mother said she can get all them schools to hold your acceptance till next September. We’re gonna help you and support you to do anything you think you need to do to succeed. But in one year, if it ain’t happenin’, you’re going to go to whichever one of them school’s your mother choose. That work for you?”

My experiences with my father are a mixed bag, to say the least. But that night, in the kitchen at 5943 Woodcrest Avenue, he displayed the most exquisite leadership I had ever seen. That was how a father was supposed to be.

The dean listened patiently. “I think that’s incredible, Mrs. Smith.” “What?” Mom-Mom said. “For a young man his age? He would never get that kind of life experience here. He should absolutely do it.” My mother was floored. “And certainly we’ll hold a spot for him. If his album doesn’t work out, he can attend next year. That’s no problem.”

I always liked to do it at night because that’s when Power 99 played hip-hop.

Life is like school, with one key difference—in school you get the lesson, and then you take the test. But in life, you get the test, and it’s your job to take the lesson.

Needless to say, both public fellatio and hanging Klansmen were frowned upon in Mississippi.

Back then, FCC rules forbade broadcasting profanity,

But the breaking point for me happened when we found out that Dana had not been returning calls from Russell Simmons.

A legal battle ensued. And as soon as the lawyers started digging into our paperwork, they figured out that I had been seventeen when I signed the contract with Dana. Under Pennsylvania law, anyone under the age of eighteen cannot legally sign a contract without a parent or guardian present. I had signed mine in the lobby of a studio before a recording session, therefore, in legal terms, our contract with Dana never existed.

Then, one night, he pulled up outside our house, parked his car on the street, and just sat there. I was terrified, but Daddio never flinched. Not saying a word, he opened the front door, walked up to Dana’s car, and leaned down into the open passenger-side window. Daddio saw a gun on the dashboard. “Can I help you?” Daddio said. “Where’s that muthafucka at?” Dana gruffly responded. “Well, if the muthafucka you’re looking for is Will, he’s in the house. You’re welcome to come in and kill him now. And the whole family’s home, too, coz if you touch Will, you gon’ have to kill us all. . . . But we ain’t acceptin’ no fuckin’ threats from you.”

Now, I don’t want to be the old guy at the end of the bar yapping about how much better music was in his day. How these kids don’t know nothin’ about real rap. There is actually brain science that theorizes that the songs you hear in your teenage years become embronzed in your emotional memory, heightening their nostalgic power beyond any other period in your life.

So, with him having my back, I started doing exactly that: If somebody talked shit, I punched them in the face . . . (and then jumped behind Charlie).

We ultimately ended up boycotting the actual ceremony because NARAS, the Grammy committee, refused to televise the presentation of the rap award. We felt like that was a slap in the face—rap music had outsold the industry that year; we deserved to be there.

Because of my upbringing, it’s almost as if I have a shock collar wrapped around my central nervous system. When I perceive that something is askew, that someone’s external behavior is out of sync with what is going on in their heart and mind, my body experiences what I can best describe as a gradual rising electrical current. I feel a bzzzzzz. And then it’s like I’m shivering, but I’m not cold.

Sugar Bear pauses, looks at the security guard, subtly shakes his head.

I owed the IRS taxes on around $3 million of income. I think somewhere above a million dollars, Uncle Sam shifts from ornery to irritable and everything north of about $2.3 million makes him aggressive and cantankerous.

There’s a strange thing that happens when someone falls: Your demise somehow proves to everyone you’ve ever disagreed with that they were right, and you were wrong. They develop a smugness and seem to get a brutal enjoyment out of the fact that God is finally punishing you.

Melanie’s taxi pulled up around 2:00 a.m. I was waiting for her out front. I had collected everything I’d ever bought for her—clothes, shoes, bags. Anything that would burn. I had drenched everything in lighter fluid. Our eyes met. I struck the match. WHOOSH.

As I write this chapter, I have never seen or spoken to Melanie again. I’ve reached out on multiple occasions over the years with no response. She was the victim of one of the lowest points in my life. Yes, we were young, yes, we hurt each other, but she did not deserve how I treated her; she did not deserve how it ended.

Apparently, there is an arcane law in Pennsylvania—the “master/slave clause”—that states that if one person commits a crime under the control or direct influence of a master, then the “master” is legally liable for the actions of the submissive/slave party.

“It really doesn’t look good,” Reggie said. “You need to get away from them. Right now. The FBI is comin’ with the thunder and sending a big rap star to prison would just be a cherry on top.” Mom-Mom’s face was stone, but the volcano inside was churning and boiling. This was exactly why I needed to take my dumb ass to college. “You didn’t get involved in any of the stuff they did, right? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me the truth—you clean, right?” Reggie said. “Yeah, yeah, totally. We just played pool and partied,” I said. “Alright, but you need to lay low for a minute. Maybe get out of Philly. It’s about to get ugly.” •

“I’m just like you. We the same.” He got quiet for a moment, then said, “I could do all that shit you do. I just fucked up. We just born in different spots.” “Yeah, that’s real,” I said. Bucky let the money go. “Just do right, man,” he said. “No doubt, Buck. I’m-a get this back to you quick.” He chuckled again, as if somehow, he knew he would never need it. “When I get my feet, you should roll out to LA.” Bucky chuckled the same knowing chuckle. “Sure, man, I’ll do that.” He gave me a pound. I made my flight. Three days later, Bucky was dead.

There were 7,700 dollars left in Bucky’s brown paper bag. He had been shot in the head in front of his house. It was a setup. Reggie explained this was the classic playbook—when the Feds close in, everybody turns on each other.

“Yeah, definitely, for sure, I can definitely act, yes, sir,” I said, employing too many words. “Yes.” “I figured you could,” Benny said. “I can see it in your music videos. I might have something to talk to you about. Let’s keep in touch.” I didn’t think anything of it. In Philly, we always clown dudes like this. “Being Hollywood” is like the worst thing you can be—it’s the definition of insincerity.

Benny Medina is the real Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Benny was an orphan who grew up with extended family in the projects of East Los Angeles. Then, as a teenager, he was taken in by a friend’s wealthy Jewish family who lived in Beverly Hills. Benny was Afro Latino and found himself at Beverly Hills High School. He was a good kid, yet the chasm between the two worlds created a constant culture clash that was a combustible source of tension . . . and humor. By the time I met him at The Arsenio Hall Show, Benny Medina was plotting a move into television.

out the living room!” I was looking around, thinking, Oh, wow—an audition at a party, that’s dope! Quincy is the man! I wonder who’s auditioning? “Get Will a copy of that Morris Day script, the one we were workin’ on,” Quincy said. At first slowly, and then painfully, I remember that my name was Will.

(Just as a piece of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air trivia: In the opening credits of the show, when I get in “one little fight and my mom got scared,” the person I get into “one little fight” with, the guy who is spinning me around and precipitating my departure for California? That’s Charlie Mack.)

Change can be scary, but it’s utterly unavoidable. In fact, impermanence is the only thing you can truly rely on. If you are unwilling or unable to pivot and adapt to the incessant, fluctuating tides of life, you will not enjoy being here. Sometimes, people try to play the cards that they wish they had, instead of playing the hand they’ve been dealt. The capacity to adjust and improvise is arguably the single most critical human ability.

A man is standing on the banks of a treacherous, raging river. It’s rainy season—if he can’t get to the other side, he’s done. He quickly builds a raft and uses it to safely cross the river. In joyous relief, he high-fives himself, lifts the raft, and heads toward the forest. But as he attempts to make his way through the dense tree cover, the raft is banging and knocking into trees and becoming entangled in vines, preventing him from moving forward. He only has one chance for survival: He must leave the raft behind—the vessel that saved his life yesterday is the same one that will kill him today if he does not let it go.

Things can be perfectly useful and absolutely necessary during certain periods of our lives. But a time will come when we must put them aside or die.

(FP trivia moment: Jeff went on to become one of the most beloved characters on the show, and he loved it. His signature comedic bit was Uncle Phil throwing him out of the house. During the shooting of the pilot episode, no one knew that this bit would catch on, so we only had one shot of Jeff flying out of the house. The interior of the Bel-Air mansion and the exterior are two different locations, and we only had a one-day shoot at the exterior location. So, we had to use the same shot of Jeff being thrown out over and over. Therefore, any time you see Jeff enter with the brown-and-white Aztec-patterned shirt, you know that he’ll be thrown out in that scene.)

I was barely twenty-two years old, and Quincy Jones had just empowered me to say whatever I wanted to say on a network television show. He took my side over producers, writers, executives, advertisers, everybody. He bet on me. “Yes, sir,” I said.