Off The Wall

My generation’s Elvis is dead.

I’ll never forget – even though the memory is dim – my mother standing in the living room of our rented farm house staring at the TV with tears running down her cheeks. When I asked her what was wrong, she said, “The King died,” and she began to tell me about Elvis who was a beautiful young man with an amazing talent who died much too soon.

Michael Jackson died yesterday at the age of 50. He’s my generation’s Elvis. No matter what you think of him, it is impossible to deny that he was a groundbreaking, electrifying talent. I wasn’t a “fan”, but I am still surprised at my level of sadness in learning of his death.

I had my mother’s “Elvis moment” yesterday when I left work around 4 PM. The radio was playing “Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'.” Naturally, I cranked it – “mama say, mama sah, mama coo sah”. The radio kept playing Michael Jackson songs back-to-back without interruption. When the DJ came on with the news I was surprised to feel my eyes well up. No actual tears were shed, but man, I was so sorry.

The first album I bought was “Off the Wall”. I was in 4th grade, and I still think this was his best record ever. My sister bought Thriller, like 30 million other people (imagine) and we tried to learn the dance moves (impossible!).

Still, despite so many of us loving him, the jokes were flying this morning at the water cooler. We are so cruel. I know that Michael Jackson’s life turned into a pitiful display of losing all sense of reality, but do we really have to pick him apart? Still? Now?

Instead of jokes about an obviously ill man, I would like to hear more about what he accomplished as an artist – like being the first black artist to be played on MTV (really?!), or co-writing a song that helped feed millions during a famine in Africa.

And the music! If you haven’t tapped your toe to at least one of the three decades of Jackson’s music, you may need your hearing checked. One of my favorite memories of my wedding is dancing like mad with Ellen to the Jackson 5’s “I Want You Back.” There are literally millions of people who also have a “favorite Michael Jackson memory”. We are the World, indeed.

His videos still make me stop in my tracks and watch with a big 12-year-old goofy smile on my face. The man could move. He could float. Thrill-ING.

Sooooo much talent. Such a sad waste. Despite the mean jokes, I’d like to think a lot of us were pulling for him. Wouldn't it have been nice to see him make it through the poison of fame? Wouldn’t it have been nice to have him grow old and teach his kids his dance moves? But, it didn’t seem like he was ever a grown up, so I guess it’s sadly fitting that he never got to grow old.

Neverland.

Rest in peace.

Lost in the House of God

At church on Sunday they asked for all the children to come to the front for a lesson. Addie didn’t give it a second thought and walked right up to the front of our BIG church. I was so proud of her! There was NO WAY I’d have done that when I was 4 - or 14 for that matter.

When the lesson was over and the children started back to their seats I watched for Addie, but she never came. I started walking around the back of the church looking down each isle for her. I found her in a matter of seconds, but to us both it seemed like an eternity. When she saw me she ran to me and burst into tears. It was the saddest cry – scared, embarrassed and relieved all at once. It broke my heart, and mommy's eyes welled up a bit too.

I realize that this is just the beginning of watching my beautiful girl be brave about something and then have it all go wrong. It’s all part of growing up.

I just read “Howe in the World’s” most recent and beautifully written blog post, (see link to the right) and it sounds like her four-year-old son knows exactly what Addie felt on Sunday. It’s hard to be four.

I remember being four. I remember gathering courage to go up to a girl at a pool party where I didn’t know anyone. I asked if I could play with her and she pointed at me and said, “Your boob is showing!” Sure enough - my swimsuit had shifted and was displaying a good portion of my undeveloped chest. It was mortifying enough to remember it 30 years later!

At four you don’t have sarcasm or the ability to laugh at yourself. All you have is open excitement, and raw rejection and crushing disappointment. Ouchy.

But that’s where parents can step in and change the story. On a separate occasion I remember how my mom helped me when a kid made fun of me at pre-school. After telling me the usual “mom” stuff, she asked me to sing his name out loud to the “Name Game” song. His name was Bart. Try it. You’ll see why that would make a little kid laugh and feel a lot better.

I just hope that I can be a comfort to my daughter whenever she feels hurt, scared, angry and disappointed. There’s nothing better than hearing her laugh.

Bart-Bart-Bo-Bart. Banana-fana-fo-fart - Yep. Still cracks me up.