You might ask, who is Robin Harris?
Robin Harris could have been one of the greatest black stand-up comics of all time.
He could have given Dave Chappelle and Chris Rock a run for their money.
But he died fifteen years ago.
Robin was found dead by his mother in his hotel room on March 18, 1990, at age 34, after another great performance that was to pave just one more stone on his way to stardom. He was already generating a lot of buzz.
Who is Robin Harris? This is Robin Harris. 
Remember the movie, House Party?
He played Kid's father, who had married a white woman, who in turn up and died in childbirth (or up and left, it wasn't that clear) and left him as a single father to raise Kid right. Yeah, that dad--who was hunting Kid up all over town, who was running into racist cops, and who meted out the ultimate whupping on Kid's eraser-head behind. Which gives the lie that not all black dads are reluctant dads.
Ever see the cartoon movie, Bébé's Kids? Robin is Bébé's (pronounced Baybay) hapless boyfriend who takes her kids by different dads to a Disneyland-type amusement park. "We Bébé's kids," they proclaimed, "we don't die...we multiply." It was based on one of Robin's inspired routines, always heralded by the shout, "Small world!"
But Robin had died before the cartoon movie was released. Director Reggie Hudlin had originally planned to make a full-length movie based starring Robin; instead he was voiced in the cartoon by Faizon Love.
Bebe's Kids, however, became the first animated feature film targeted directly to African Americans. Though it was underpromoted by Paramount Pictures, it nonetheless gained a following when it went to home video in 1993. It has since become a cult classic.
Robin Harris was beginning to touch gold. Robin Harris, in fact, made Bernie Mac possible. But Robin, I think, was going to be bigger.
For Robin incorporated both the street and working-class values in his comedy.
Robin Hughes Harris was born in 1953 to a welder and a factory worker in Chicago. The family later moved to Los Angeles in 1961. (I find this interesting because my family also migrated to California in the same year.) He won an athletic scholarship to a little Baptist-run college in Kansas. After graduating, he worked at clock-punching jobs at Hughes Aircraft, Security Pacific Bank, and at LAX airport rental car agencies, all the while honing his skills and expression.
Robin dealt with working class black humor. He was part of a bunch of black guys who were breadwinners like his dad or just starting out as workers, who had no real use for street values, but knew how to handle themselves when the deal went down. Black guys who, I once read, liked to go home at night, have a beer, and watch Rudy Ray Moore in Dolomite for the umpteenth time in peace with a house that only cost them $15,000.
His first gig at the Comedy Store was a bust. But he didn't give up.
In 1985, Robin became the master of ceremonies at the Comedy Act Theatre in South Central Los Angeles and here is where he began his ascent and came into his own with his "old school" routines. He became known as a snide putdown artist in the style of Don Rickles, but funnier and crueller towards guys with funny hair and terrible sartorial sense. He caught the eye of Keenan Ivory Wayans who later put him in his blaxploitation send up, I'm Gonna Get You Sucka, as the bartender. Spike Lee cast him as Sweet Dick Willie, chief among the Brooklyn sidewalk philosphers in Do the Right Thing who stared down the cops cruising by tut-tuting what they thought were idling, lazy blacks.
Despite these great performances, Robin's schedule was stretching him pretty thin. Touring required long hours and a lot of travel. He couldn't get enough rest. He had respiratory problems and also high blood pressure. He was also a round young guy, like Cedric the Entertainer. I remember reading in the Village Voice that Robin may not have been regularly taking his medication. But from what I understand, his demise was not drugs and not alcohol and not crazyness. Not the usual things you would think would take away creative people. He died of a heart attack in his sleep.
Robin Harris' death was shockingly untimely. Many were touting him as the natural successor to Richard Pryor. But a number of his comedic descendants, his family and his manager Topper Carew have gotten together a documentary about this lost comedic genius, called Robin Harris: We Don't Die, We Multiply. Meaning, I think, the continuing resiliency of black folks at the best and the worst of times and ultimately, the resiliency of Robin Harris' legacy.
Robin Harris would have been 52 years old had he lived.
The film had a limited release last year and is coming out on DVD. Look it up. Buy it. Find out about the genius of Robin Harris.
