I knew it would happen but I figured it all wrong. I had half-assumed a suicide and I knew it wouldn’t bother me. But when I read the news and the circumstances something inside me hurt.
It did bother me.
Michael Jackson is America. He is the best and worst of what America can be, he is the best and worst of what America means to the rest of the world, he is perhaps America’s greatest export. If I had a flagpole it would be lowered to half-mast for no recent politician, president, religious leader or celebrity comes nearly as close to Michael Jackson in symbolic power and world-wide appeal. He may have been past his prime, but he could sell out a 50,000-seat stadium at the drop of a hat, still make thousands upon thousands of people scream as he walked onto the stage. You can’t buy that kind of fame. No, fame’s not even the right word. Legend. Michael Jackson was America. Maybe America’s different now. Maybe it changed and he could no longer be a part of it. Maybe I’ll go listen to Off the Wall again.
And again.
And again.
After June 25, 2009, there were a lot of people in the world listening to Michael Jackson records again. Some people cried. Others scorned such a messed up individual making such catchy, exciting music. They liked the music, they hated who made it. There were still others who would not go close, would not listen anymore, knowing what they now knew about Neverland Ranch…or what they had decided they knew. In the end the ostentatious showman had been had. Some would never forget and would always remind those who held judgments. Such is the way, I suppose. For what does it mean to be famous if it is not the God-given right of every human who has ever read a news article about you to know exactly who you are, exactly what you do, exactly what you’re capable of. And what right do I have to say otherwise?
