What To Say

Yesterday was surreal. That's really the only way to put it. I was home from work all day, not feeling well, and coming off one of those catastrophic mornings where doing even the smallest simplest things turns into a complete fiasco. Checking status updates on Facebook, it seemed like I wasn't the only one, either. Mercury was in retrograde or something for everybody. Just a miserable day to sit on the couch, feeling bad and feeling sorry for yourself.

And then it all went kind of pear-shaped.

The death of Farrah Fawcett wasn't exactly a surprise, but still a sad thing. But that was overshadowed by the death of Michael Jackson. And I'm still processing it all. How it went from odd, unbelievable rumor to repeated possibly funny gossip to creeping truth to the final, almost anti-climatic confirmation. I waited to hear it from Wolf Blitzer. Somehow, CNN saying it made it true. And then he did. And it was weird.

I found myself on the verge of tears. Really, seriously about to cry over this man that I didn't know, never met, would probably never met, whose new music I hadn't listened to in 10 years, who disgusted and fascinated me, who I made terrible, terrible jokes about. Why the hell would I be sitting on my couch, crying over someone we all reasonable believe to be a child molester? Because he could sing and dance? Is that enough?

This tidal wave of grief and reminisces and emotion has gotten some people I know talking about the nature of celebrity and you have to think about what it all means. Why do these deaths matter? In Iran, in Zimbabwe, in Iraq, yesterday, hundreds, maybe more died. Does this one person, or do these two people really matter more? Our government is trying to remake our healthcare system to benefit millions, put us on the path of fixing our environment, not to mention managing an economy that's cratered on greed and selfishness. Yet for five hours everyone stopped talking about any of that to talk about this one person. Why? Just because he could sing and dance?

Yes. And because he meant so much more than that. This morning I read this from Hilzoy, and it reminded me that, these two people, celebrities, yes. Strange and tragic figures, absolutely. Not exactly role models or people whose lives you want anyone you love to emulate, yep. But they were more than pretty faces and pretty voices. Really, they were.

Growing up black in a very white town, Michael Jackson made it...better. He was cool, and oddly sexy (in an unisex way), and white people loved him. He brought the dancing, the spirit of the parties I had with my family out into the world and made it okay for all. He was a bridge between the worlds.

When I think of Farrah Fawcett, I honestly don't think of Charlie's Angels. Well, okay, I think of the poster, fine. But I think of The Burning Bed and Extremities and how that opened up a world for me. She may not be a feminist icon, not at all, but in a way, that was the beginning of feminism for me.

They filled those roles, served that purpose and both of them paid incredible prices for that. Both of them suffered loss we can't really comprehend, even though we watched it, and sacrificed happiness so that we could all feel a little happier. So I feel like we can take a moment and let them know we cared.

When my dad put these lyrics in his status update, that was when I almost lost it.