30 Minutes Bay Area

Not A Genuine Black Man: Profile Of Brian Copeland

SAN FRANCISCO (CBS 5) ― How do you become an overnight star? Ask local comedian Brian Copeland and he'll tell you that, contrary to popular belief, overnight success takes a long time.

Copeland's stage production, "Not A Genuine Black Man" is the longest-running one-man show in San Francisco history. Now he's headed for Broadway, publishing a book and working with HBO on a national TV series.

Copeland's creative talent seems so explosive, his development so rapid, that it begs the question, "Are you taking steroids?"

OK, we're kidding about the steroids. But true to his comedic instincts, Copeland doesn't miss a beat.

""All right you caught me," Copeland says, laughing. " I've never knowingly taken steroids. I've never KNOWINGLY taken steroids. I was given this cream by my director ..."

Copeland has been a successful comic for years, as well as a radio host, with KGO 810. Despite his ability to make people laugh, sometimes his listeners aren't in a joking mood.

"... You're an Uncle Tom, you and Bill Cosby ..." said one African-American caller.

Copeland's retort?

"All right, all right," he said "I'm an Uncle Tom and I'm a sellout."

The criticism is not new. A few years ago he received an anonymous letter that changed his life.

"It said, 'As an African American, I am disgusted every time I hear your voice because you are not a genuine black man,'" Copeland recalls.

That prompts the question: What is a "genuine" black man? Is there such a thing?

"It's one of the things I explore in the show," Copeland said.

It's one of the things that has fans lining up for a chance to fill his audience, to explore the message behind "Not A Genuine Black Man."

For nearly two years, Copeland has been performing to capacity crowds at San Francisco's Marsh Theater, asking probing questions and looking for answers.

"I'm not a genuine black man! Why do people say that to me? Is it how I dress, is it how I talk? Is it how my machine is TIVO-ing Frazier at home right now?"

But for all his rhetorical flourish, Copeland still must grapple with his identity and questions from his peers. What does he think when he's accused of not being "genuine?"

"Oh, here we go again, oh here we go again," he said. "And then I started to think, 'Now wait a minute, you know, who the hell are you to -- who put YOU in charge of defining what it is to be black in America? How can you know anything about me? How can you say that my experience is any less valid than yours?"

Copeland's experience began in the East Bay community of San Leandro, which calls itself "The Friendly City."

The year was 1972 and Copeland's mother was trying to escape her violently abusive husband. He was 8 when he and his sisters, his mother and grandmother moved to a nice apartment. There was just one problem.

While San Leandro was a middle-income suburb of Oakland, the 1960 census showed it was 99.99 percent white.

According to the 1971 documentary, "Suburban Wall," there was a concerted effort to maintain the town's racial makeup.

Put simply: Blacks were not welcome.

City leaders had created an invisible wall to keep out blacks from neighboring Oakland.

Said Frank King of the San Leandro Chamber of Commerce at the time: "It seems to me the blacks are accustomed to their own social and cultural circles in which they move. And they like it this way."

Copeland has vivid memories of a place where police officers used to harass black motorists.

"Over here is where a police officer used to sit. Right here at the corner," Copeland said. "And if you came in, if you were black and you drive by, they would follow you -- if you were in a car, till they found a reason to stop you."

Copeland describes it this way in his one-man show: "The National Committee Against Discrimination in Housing called San Leandro a racist bastion of white supremacy. It was considered one of the most racist suburbs in America. CBS news did a story. 60 Minutes actually came to town. The U.S. Commission on Civil Rights held hearings. And then -- WE moved to town."

On his first Saturday in his new home, Copeland went to a nearby park with a ball and a baseball bat. A group of teenagers chased him into the arms of a white police officer.

The cop's response?

"He frisks me," Copeland said. "And makes sure I'm not packin' anything -- you know I could be carrying anything -- at 8 years old ... Bomb, bazooka, hand grenades, anything. So he frisks me and throws me in the back of a police car. And doesn't believe me when I say I live around here. And he takes me home and tells my mom that I'm out causing trouble and I've been using my bat as a weapon."

He spent the rest of his childhood trying to fit in -- dodging fists and racial slurs -- using humor to survive.

"I used to get beaten up every day," Copeland said. "And I was never a fighter. But if they were laughing they couldn't throw a punch."

But beneath the jokes he used as a shield, he wondered.

"What is it about my very existence--that so offends people?" he found himself asking.

Along the way, he's found fans in some high-profile places. Among them he can include Hollywood director Rob Reiner, who says, "It's funny, it's touching, it's moving, and it's a unique perspective on the question of race in our country right now."

Reiner, who played the son-in-law on the 1970s sitcome "All In The Family" now produces and directs -- from comedies like "This Is Spinal Tap" to dramas about racial conflict, such as "Ghosts Of Mississippi."

Now, Reiner wants to transform Copeland's show into a TV series for HBO.

"I mean we've seen a lot of advancements, with civil rights. But there's an undercurrent discomfort, I think, still in our society, with the issues of race and how we deal with people who are of different races," Reiner said. "And he basically goes right at it. And in a most honest way, not incendiary, but in a very real, honest, personal, emotional way."

How personal? Copeland talks about the day he tried to kill himself, sitting in the garage with the engine running.

But there's just all this stuff that I never dealt with," he said. "You know, you push it down, you suck it up. But it's like shaking up a can of Coke. Sooner or later you're going to open a can of Coke and stuff's going to go flying out everywhere!"

And ultimately, by writing about his life, he found the answer to the question raised in that angry letter: What is a genuine black man?

"Someone who's resilient," Copeland said. "As long as you're able to keep getting back up, in spite of the setbacks and the obstacles, both real and manufactured that are thrown into your path, then you are -- then that's what it means to be black."

He still lives in San Leandro. He says that "it's a whole different place now," proudly pointing out that it's the most diverse city in California.

Still, he was pretty upset when someone recently used a racial epithet against his daughter, Carolyn.

"I called my sister Tracy and I said, you know, 'Carolyn just got called the N-word.' And she said, 'How old is she?' And I said, 'She's 14.' She says, 'And this is the first time?' I go, 'Yeah.' She says, 'In San Leandro?' I go, 'Yeah.' And she says, 'Wow! Things ARE better!"'

Copeland laughs as he finishes the tale. It seems to come naturally to him.

His one-man show at the Marsh Theater concludes in April. He opens the following month in New York City.

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