At The Juilliard School's 97th commencement ceremonies on May 24, 2002, honorary doctorates were awarded to soprano Shirley Verrett, jazz saxophonist Jimmy Heath, playwright Edward Albee, dancer and choreographer Helgi Tomasson, and comedian and philanthropist Bill Cosby Jr., who delivered this commencement address.

The class of 2002 gathers for a group photo on the steps above Alice Tully Hall. Photo by Lisa Yelon

Some of you will understand and feel the story I'm about to tell; others will just enjoy the story. First of all, I'm very proud to be accepted into this wonderful family along with my uncle, Samuel Russell Cosby Jr. [BS '48, MS '50, voice].

When I decided to become a stand-up comedian, I was very sure of myself. I wrote the monologues and I performed them. I felt that they were different, and people told me that the monologues were, in fact, different—because they said that they weren't funny! I would perform the monologue to show the person where the "funny" was, and the person would say, "It's still not funny," so I decided to do it myself. And having played football for Temple University, I had no fear of losing.

I was working for $60 a week, seven days a week, at a place called the Gaslight Café at 116 MacDougal Street. They served espresso. (I'm from North Philadelphia, a lower income area; we knew nothing about espresso or paying $2 for a cup a coffee, but people are crazy when they're in college.) I went to work from 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. and my job description was to break up the monotony of the folk singers. My time onstage varied from five minutes to two hours. I dropped out of school my junior year, disappointing my mother and father, but I just could not continue to sit in the classroom and drift; it just didn't do anything for me. I had to get out and see.

Two gentlemen came to the Gaslight Café: twin brothers named Marienthal, George and Oscar. They were from Chicago. There was another fellow, Alan Ribback, who owned the Gate of Horn in Chicago. Alan Ribback looked at the Marienthal brothers and said "I want this guy." And something happened to me then that had never happened in my life before: I was going to fly to Chicago. The guy sent me a round-trip ticket and paid me $150 a week. (I was making $60 a week at the Gaslight Café.) I thought, "This is show biz! I'm already ahead of the game. I've made more money than my father made last year!" So I go out to the Gate of Horn (a folk room which seated 135 people) and I open for Oscar Brown Jr. Oscar and I sold the place out. The announcer says, "And now, one of the leading Negro comedians in the world, Mr. Bill Cosby!"

Pictured are the honorary doctorate recipients with President Joseph Polisi and Board Chairman Bruce Kovner: (front row) Bill Cosby, Shirley Verrett, Edward Albee, (back row) President Polisi, Jimmy Heath, Mr. Kovner, and Helgi Tomasson. Photo by Peter Schaaf

I come out, I've got 35 minutes of material planned; I don't get into any of it. I ad-lib and the people fall out of their chairs. They're loving me; I'm loving them. And I do two weeks there. Alan Ribback brings me back in August and I open for a group called the Terriers. I do the same thing; I just have a ball.

Then an offer came from Mister Kelly's, right across the street, and this is the room. Now, every big-name comic played that room: Jackie Leonard, Shelly Berman, Mort Sahl, Lenny Bruce, George Kirby, Dick Gregory, and others. These guys are making $2,500 a week. The guy offered me $750 to play this room in October, plus the ticket to get there. I accept.

I check into the Maryland Hotel and I go to Mister Kelly's. Now, you've got to keep in mind that, in my mind, this is IT. I've heard about this place; it's an icon, it has tremendous aura. The Marienthal brothers greet me, they ask me if I wanted to rehearse, and I say, "There is no need to rehearse." There were two shows, at 8 p.m. and midnight.

I go up to my dressing room and I start to talk to myself about whether I should really be in this room. "Am I funny enough to be here?" And I answered myself: "Yes, I am." Then I said to myself, "You know these guys are tremendous, and this audience knows the greats." And I said, "Yes, I know that." Then I said, "Yeah, but across the street is a different thing; those are college kids, they'll laugh at anything. These are grown people, these are drinking people! Some of them are not happy with their lives. Face it, these people want more than college people—these people have responsibilities. And I don't think you're funny enough for these people. I don't know why you accepted this job; you've got a lot of nerve coming in here."

Upon receiving her diploma, Monica Yunus grabbed the chance for a spontaneous "photo op" with speaker Bill Cosby at the commencement ceremony on May 24 in Alice Tully Hall. Photo by Peter Schaaf

For four hours, I ran myself into a mental situation where I really knew I was not funny. I knew I had no business being in this room. And so the time came, and Mr. Marienthal came up and said, "Good luck." And I said, "Thank you." And then I said to myself, "Forget about it."

The place, which seats about 240 people, was packed and the trio was playing. The announcer said, "Ladies and gentlemen, Mister Kelly's is proud to present one of the leading new faces on the comedy horizon, Mr. Bill Cosby Jr." And I go out and look at this crowd, and my first thought is: "I'm not funny. These people are not going to laugh." I proceeded to do a 35-minute act in 18 minutes. I don't remember if I had "flop sweat." I just remember that when I said, "Thank you and goodnight," they all said, "Yes!"

I walked off and went upstairs and sat in my dressing room. I was not sick in the stomach; I just felt that I made a terrible mistake. This was not what I wanted to do, and I didn't know how I talked myself into this. I want to go back to Temple University and apologize to Professor Sapolsky; I'm going to get my master's and my doctorate and all this foolishness is over. And the Marienthal brothers came in, and George said to Oscar, "Wait outside." I'm sitting there looking at the trash basket, and I said, "Mr. Marienthal, just let me tell you this right now: I am going home. You don't have to pay me; I will use the ticket to get home. I will pay the hotel bill, and I'm just sorry about everything and the way it worked out. That's it, sir." And he looked at me and said, "Good. You go back to the hotel and you pack and you go home. And send Bill Cosby back here. I don't know why he sent you, because you stink. I hired Bill Cosby, and I don't know who you are, but you get out. Go tell Bill Cosby if he's not back here by the 12 o'clock show, I'm suing him and I'm going to have someone beat him up. But you, son—you need to go back to college and get your degree. I imagine you're a nice person, but you're not a comedian. You stink! And I don't know why he gave you his material; you messed it up, you were absolutely horrible." And he walked out.

After hearing that, I didn't feel any better. I can't tell you why I just sat there until the 12 o'clock show. I was just as depressed and I was really trying to fight it. I kept saying, "I can't do it. I'm not good."

Tai Murray was the soloist for Prokofiev’s Violin Concerto No. 2 at the annual Commencement Concert on May 23 in Alice Tully Hall. Michael Christie led the Juilliard Orchestra. Photo by Peter Schaaf

I stood in the dark waiting to go onstage. The announcer said, "And now, ladies and gentlemen, Bill Cosby." And I said, "What happened to 'the leading new comedian'?" And he said, "Did you see the last show?" I started talking—talking back to him, and the audience started laughing, and that was just the beginning. We went back and forth and I did 35 minutes like I was at the Gaslight Café in Greenwich Village.

This might sound like a joke, but it isn't: Had Juilliard taught me, I think I would have given a different performance at Mister Kelly's. Because I would have been sure of myself and that's who you are.

My message to those of you who may doubt yourselves is the following: The day that you go for an audition and you decide not to show up, that's the job you lose. When you go to an audition, you show up and you do it, and it's always going to be a wonderful experience. There's no excuse worse than, "Well, I went, but I was so nervous I blew it." Why go? It is my pleasure to stand here and tell you that, each and every time you go for it, make sure you take yourself—because that's who they asked to see.

Thank you.