I’m not really sure what to say about the death of Michael Jackson. As a kid I used to have this red members only jacket that well–I’m sure almost everyone has at least one memory like that. One of the first things that came to mind when I heard was that the man, from childhood to adulthood, lived a life of almost complete exploitation, first from his father, and then from his entourage and the media frenzy that circled him wherever he went. Yeah he was rich, but if we’re being honest we’ll admit that what he lost no amount of money could ever get back–and it’s not like he didn’t try.
I’m generally uncomfortable with displays of grief at the death of famous people. The last time I cried when a famous person died was when August Wilson passed away. Wilson was a guiding light for me as a young biracial teenager trying to figure myself out, but when he died I was already an adult. Although I met Wilson once, I couldn’t say I knew him, knew him enough to mourn the way one mourns a family member. Looking back, when I cried, I cried because I knew I would never read another new August Wilson play again, and that made me terribly sad. There are millions of people around the world feeling that way right now about Michael Jackson, and that should give us pause. Whatever his faults, his erratic behavior, his legal troubles, Jackson brought an incredible amount of joy to the world. That means something. That should be respected.
— A. Serwer
