Sixties Chick

Last night I heard fellow English major Garrison Keillor say that when he was a young man, he had a fear of living an ordinary life. It was not until he reached middle age, upon witnessing the quite common yet wondrous event, the birth of his child, that he discovered that “ordinary was good enough.” I loved the comment, but then I love Garrison Keillor, bushy eyebrows and all.

With the death of Michael Jackson, I have been thinking a lot about what it means to live what can be called a not so ordinary life. To be famous, always in the public eye, under constant scrutiny. What must that be like? Clearly, there can be consequences.

My friend Dona took Michael Jackson’s death hard. She remembers sitting on the stoop of her North Philly row home in the heart of the Black ghetto as a little girl. “Everyday was the same,” she shared with me, “a stultifying sameness, day after day. Nothing ever happened. There was nothing to do and nowhere to go.”

“When Michael Jackson came along,” she tells me with tears in her eyes, “the kids began to put on shows right there in the street. Here was their star; a five year old who looked like them, afro and all, from an ordinary family and an ordinary place. He was all the proof they needed that it was possible to get out. And they didn’t even have to wait until they were grown-up.” Dona remembers how the kids came alive in the desolation of the North Philadelphia “hood,” thanks to little Michael Jackson.

But for all the gifts he had and shared, Michael Jackson’s story feels so tragic at its core. The mania with the ever-lightening skin, the plastic surgery, the paranoia, the drugs, his refusal to grow up – clearly, this was a tortured soul. For all the adoration he got, why was it he never learned to adore himself?

Michael’s not alone. The list’s a mile long – great ones hurling themselves head first down the path to self-destruction – stars, tycoons, socialites, politicians, rulers and religious leaders alike. It is curious; after all, what could be so bad about being loved on a grand scale? To be the world’s darling? Even without the bling, the mansions and the limousines.

Yes, it might be a glorious ride indeed, but fans are fickle. The winds do change. Truth is, if you look to the outside world for proof that you count, you’re up shit creek. And if you aren’t willing to wrestle the demons deep inside, you’ll be without a paddle as well.

There’s no way around it I’m afraid, you’ve got to know who you are. Who you really are. Not the profession. Not the persona. We’ve all got to muster up the courage to dig deep inside and pull out the weeds. To look at them, embrace them and then finally, let them go.

There’s really no other gig worth playing. It’s about learning to love oneself. And for my money, learning to love oneself is what merits a big round of applause and a whole lot of press. For those willing souls, take a bow.

This entry was posted on July 7, 2009 at 1:45 am and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.