Chadwick Boseman: A Tribute
It's been a really shitty year.
Surely, that's not a controversial statement. By every stretch of the imagination, 2020 has been an absolutely miserable period in human history, a moment defined by a global pandemic, social injustice, civil unrest, the rise of fascism, and loss. So much loss.
The world has experienced loss this year on a nearly unprecedented scale. We've all felt it. While I have been fortunate not to lose anyone to COVID-19, I did lose my grandmother, my Bubbe Diane, earlier this year.
That loss hurt.
But I know I'm not alone in experiencing such loss.
In January, which seems like ages ago, Kobe Bryant passed away. The loss of Kobe reverberated well beyond the sports world, a testament to the former NBA player's character, legacy, and relevance. That Kobe's daughter Gianna died alongside him in a horrific helicopter crash only made the loss sting that much more. Early on in 2020, Kobe's death felt like a moment that would come to define the entire year. Yet, while Kobe and Gianna have undoubtedly lived on in fans' memories nationwide, 2020 refused to let up, taking so much more away from each and every one of us.
Regis Philbin. Ennio Morricone. Naya Rivera. Joel Schumacher. Fred Willard. Lynn Shelton. Charlie Daniels. Jerry Stiller. Little Richard. Wilford Brimley. Cliff Robinson.
These names only scratch the surface of the iconic figures we have lost in 2020. Consider those we have lost to COVID-19 and police brutality, and 2020 slowly transforms into a nightmare.
The loss of legendary civil rights activist and politician John Lewis was brutal. And now, the loss of Chadwick Boseman at just 43 years old has us all reeling once more.
I am not a black man, and so I cannot speak to the unique pain that is surely associated with black death, something 2020 has delivered far too much of. And yet, I can't help but imagine just how horrifying it must be, in a year so heavily defined by a consciousness-raising towards the mistreatment of black people in the United States, to lose such iconic figures like Kobe Bryant, John Lewis, and now Chadwick Boseman.
Much has been said about Boseman's perseverance. Clearly, it was unrivaled. He starred in some of the most iconic films of our time, all while fighting an incredibly difficult fight with colon cancer.
And truly, "iconic" is the only word to describe Boseman's screen presence. He will, of course, be remembered as T'Challa in 2018's Black Panther, a film that broke barriers for black men and women in terms of blockbuster filmmaking, awards season recognition, and broader onscreen representation. But Boseman played several other black icons on film. He broke out as Jackie Robinson in 2013's 42. From there, his meteoric rise to stardom was facilitated by films like Get on Up and Marshall, biopics about James Brown and Thurgood Marshall, respectively. I'll always have a soft spot for his performance as Vontae Mack in the corny yet undeniably fun Draft Day.
Boseman was the rare performer who could deftly balance cultural impact with bona fide celebrity, delivering box office hits that doubled as explorations of racial identity. And through it all, he remained both private and humble. He projected sincerity both onscreen and off, and the wide-reaching impact of his career cannot be understated.
I wouldn't lie and call him one of my all-time favorite actors, and yet the loss of Chadwick Boseman really, really hurts. He maintained a magnetic screen presence that will certainly not be replicated anytime soon. I felt similar pain when Philip Seymour Hoffman passed, and James Gandolfini.
At times, I have struggled with the notion of celebrity in American culture. It can feel cheap, superficial, and inappropriate. But the loss of a legend like Boseman reminds me just how powerful celebrity can be. He made his fans' lives unequivocally better through art, and that's a powerful thing. He afforded people of color the opportunity to see themselves onscreen, and he took pride in that responsibility.
But for as much sadness as Boseman's death has caused for me personally, I remain slightly conflicted. Aside from the immensely personal experience of losing my Bubbe early this summer, Boseman's death has hit me harder than any of the countless other tragic moments this year. On one hand, that's fine, understandable even. Actors and actresses forge familiarity with their audiences, and my brain was acting upon a perceived familiarity with Boseman. And yet, I couldn't help but feel a certain guilt.
Why didn't I feel this same devastation after the murder of George Floyd? After the murder of Breonna Taylor? After the murder of Elijah McClain or Tony McDade or Rayshard Brooks?
Sure, I felt anger. I felt compelled to do something. I felt rage and disappointment and sympathy. I felt a lot of things, and yet I didn't feel them as strongly as I probably should have.
Again, this response is mostly natural. We are inclined to feel for those we feel a certain intimacy with, like I certainly did with Chadwick Boseman, Philip Seymour Hoffman, James Gandolfini, and the many other celebrities to have died over the years. But Boseman's death has awakened me. It has motivated me to transform my notion of human life, to disregard notions of familiarity, of intimacy, or of celebrity. Our emotional response to death is mostly involuntary, but I am challenging myself and any others who might relate to this conflict of emotion to consider one factor and one factor alone in responding to loss of life: humanity.
Each and every loss in 2020 has been a human loss. Each and every loss has been a tragic loss. And each and every loss should compel us to do something.
To love one another. To protect one another. To support one another.
And so I felt compelled to write this piece. In some ways, my doing so is rather selfish. I am working through my own thoughts and my own feelings on the immeasurable loss that 2020 has wrought worldwide. But writing is just about all I know how to do, and so I hope my writing can contribute in some small way to the love, protection, and support that we all so desperately need right now.
Rest in peace, Chadwick Boseman.
Rest in peace, Bubbe.
Rest in peace to each every person that 2020 has taken from us.
It's been a really shitty year.
Until next time,
Cory Reid