I was driving from Gallatin to memphis when I got the news of Michael’s passing. I was about an hour into my drive, somewhere south and west of Nashville. The news came via text: MJ is dead. Instantly, I knew the text was about Michael Jackson. I mean, that is how big he was. All you had to do was say his initials and I recognized. Anyway, when I got the text, I was in disbelief. I happened to be on the phone with my roommate. “Google it,” I said. She did, and the reports had not been confirmed. So at that moment, he went from dead to rushed to the hospital. Whew. How crazy would it be for Michael Jackson to be dead? I breathed a sigh of relief. Don’t get me wrong, I know that death is a part of life. But like Tupac and the Notorious BIG, I felt like there was more. More Michael to be experience. Truly, he was an experience.
But there was no more. In a matter of minutes, the reports (and truth) of his death started coming in. I felt myself welling up with tears. I became deeply saddened not only because of his death, but because he was a troubled soul, because he gave of himself—his gifts—freely and often, because we abused his person while enjoying his music. We talked about him, instead of loving him though his pain.
Even as I write this, I am saddened. I cannot bear to hear the reports of his troubles. I don't want to speculate about the details of his death. I don't want to write anymore. I just want to go dance. So, before I leave Memphis, I will (we will) get up on somebody's karayoke stage and pay homage to a legend lost. RIP Michael Jackson (1958-2009)