When the history of American comedy is written, few names should shine brighter than Garrett Morris. The first Black cast member of Saturday Night Live, a trailblazer for generations of comedians, Morris’s career spanned over five decades, surviving racism, blacklisting, bullets, and betrayal.
Yet, his story is not one of unbroken triumph, but of systematic sabotage, heartless cruelty, and—finally—one act of loyalty so rare in Hollywood that it still stuns those who hear it.
This is the story of what they did to Garrett Morris—and why it should make you furious.
A Pioneering Start, and the Racism That Followed
Born in New Orleans to a 16-year-old mother and raised by his grandparents in poverty, Garrett Morris clawed his way from the bottom to the very top of show business. In 1975, he became the first Black cast member of Saturday Night Live, breaking barriers in a world that rarely welcomed outsiders.
But inside 30 Rockefeller Plaza, the reality was far from the glamorous image. Morris endured daily humiliation and racism. Writers dismissed his ideas, forced him into degrading roles, and even stole his sketches.
The head writer, Michael O’Donoghue, infamously told Morris that audiences would be “thrown by a Black doctor” when Morris simply asked to play a physician in a sketch—an insult made all the more personal by the fact that Morris grew up surrounded by Black doctors and intellectuals.
The most devastating blow came when writer Tom Schiller took Morris’s satirical “White Guilt Relief Fund” idea—his own commentary on reparations—and handed it to Al Franken, who wrote it as his own sketch. It became one of SNL’s most memorable pieces, but Morris’s name was nowhere on the writing credits.
The pressure and pain drove Morris to self-medicate. For years, he and John Belushi—another SNL legend—shared drugs and dreams in Morris’s dressing room, both men using to escape the toxic environment.
A Decade of Blacklisting: The Secret Campaign
When Morris left SNL in 1980, he expected to follow in the footsteps of his white colleagues—Bill Murray, Dan Aykroyd, Chevy Chase—who became movie stars. Instead, his career stalled. For years, he blamed himself, thinking it was bad luck or his own failings.
The truth was far more sinister.
Behind the scenes, John Belushi’s new manager—whose name Morris still refuses to utter—was conducting a secret campaign to destroy Morris’s career. This manager, described by Morris as “an absolute racist,” systematically called industry executives, telling them not to hire Garrett Morris. He did the same to other Black performers, as confirmed by at least one other victim from The Love Boat.
For nearly a decade, the phone calls worked. Morris was forced to survive on horror B-movies and minor roles, locked out of mainstream Hollywood. The man who had helped launch SNL and paved the way for Black comedians was reduced to scraps.
The timing of the sabotage is undeniable. As soon as the racist manager died, doors that had been slammed shut suddenly reopened. Morris began landing quality roles again—The Jeffersons, Roc, Martin, and eventually The Jamie Foxx Show. His talent had not changed. Only the person blocking his opportunities was gone.
The Shooting That Nearly Ended Everything
By the early 1990s, Morris was experiencing a career resurgence as Stan Winters, the beloved radio station owner on Martin. But in 1994, tragedy struck again.
Walking in South Central LA to buy orange juice, Morris was attacked by two people in what appeared to be a street robbery. A first-degree black belt, he defended himself, side-kicking the taller attacker to the ground. Humiliated in front of witnesses who recognized Morris as “Stan” from Martin, the attacker pulled a gun and shot him. The bullets tore through Morris’s arm and abdomen, ricocheting into his spine. He was left with a colostomy bag for eight months, underwent ten major surgeries, and had to relearn how to walk.
While Morris was fighting for his life in Daniel Freeman Hospital, the industry delivered a betrayal so calculated it defies belief.
Betrayal on the Set of Martin
Christopher Duncan, Morris’s future co-star on The Jamie Foxx Show, called it “heartbreaking.” While Morris was still recovering from his fourth major surgery, wearing a colostomy bag and learning to walk again, someone from Martin’s production sent him a script announcing that Stan Winters was selling the radio station and moving to China. When Morris asked if this meant he was being fired, the answer was a cold, heartless yes.
But the cruelty went even further. They forced Morris to film his final scene from his actual hospital bed. Picture this: a man who had just survived being shot, literally fighting for his life, forced to perform his character’s farewell while still in recovery.
Martin Lawrence, the show’s star and co-executive producer, had the power to keep Morris on the payroll while he healed or simply write his character as temporarily away. Instead, Lawrence chose calculated cruelty—and then went on a public relations tour, lying to the media that he had visited Morris’s bedside and cried with him. There was no visit, no tears, no compassion—just abandonment and public lies.
When the Martin cast reunited for a BET special in 2022, Morris wasn’t invited. Even decades later, the cruelty continued.
The Loyalty of Strangers
What happened to Morris’s shooter reveals something extraordinary about the loyalty he inspired. Years after the shooting, while walking in a park, a former convict approached Morris with news: “We got him. We got Tiny Duke.” The shooter, known as Tiny Duke, had been caught and imprisoned. Inside, inmates who admired Morris made sure the shooter understood there were consequences for hurting someone the community cherished.
These were people who had never met Morris, but who felt he was family because of his work. They risked solitary confinement and violence to defend his honor—a loyalty in stark contrast to the calculated indifference of Hollywood.
A New Chapter: The Jamie Foxx Show
After decades of betrayal, Morris found something he’d never experienced in Hollywood: genuine loyalty. Jamie Foxx, already a Grammy winner and on his way to Oscar glory, called Morris to play Uncle Junior King on The Jamie Foxx Show. Morris, having learned to expect betrayal, was wary.
What he found was a sanctuary.
Foxx shattered the industry’s rules. Instead of retreating to his dressing room between takes, Foxx stayed on set, performing impromptu comedy for the cast and crew. Morris, who had spent decades being treated as invisible, would forget to prepare for his next scene because he was so captivated by Foxx’s performances.
But the real test of Foxx’s character came in the fifth season, when Uncle Junior’s storyline ended. In Hollywood, when your character is written out, your paycheck stops. That’s business. But Foxx did something that had never happened to Morris in four decades: he paid him anyway.
No contract required it. No union demanded it. Foxx honored the five-year commitment, even when Uncle Junior wasn’t in the scripts. He paid Morris, Christopher Duncan, and Garcelle Beauvais for the entire final season, even though they weren’t working.
This decision saved Morris financially and emotionally during one of the darkest periods of his life. After being fired from a hospital bed, after years of blacklisting, someone finally chose loyalty over profit.
What Hollywood Still Doesn’t Understand
Garrett Morris’s story is a microcosm of everything wrong—and everything right—with Hollywood. When he was healthy and contributing, he was valuable. The moment he became inconvenient, he was discarded like trash. The industry calculated his worth in dollars and cents, but complete strangers risked their own safety to defend his honor.
Morris survived it all. At 87, he continues to work, proving that authentic humanity and genuine talent can overcome even Hollywood’s worst cruelty. His story is a lesson in perseverance, forgiveness, and the power of loyalty.
Conclusion: The Legacy of Garrett Morris
From SNL’s racism to Martin’s betrayal to Foxx’s loyalty, Garrett Morris’s life is a testament to resilience. He broke barriers, endured humiliation, and outlasted those who tried to destroy him. He chose hope over despair, forgiveness over bitterness.
The industry may have tried to erase him, but Morris’s legacy lives on—in every Black comedian who followed, in every audience member who laughed at his jokes, and in every act of loyalty that stands in defiance of cruelty.
Garrett Morris is more than a survivor. He is a pioneer, a fighter, and a reminder that how you treat people—when the cameras aren’t rolling—is what truly defines you.
