Michael Jackson: Eternally Cool

On June 25th, the impossible happened: the world got smaller and darker when Michael Jackson, the King of Pop, died. Fans across the globe gathered to build shrines, to dance, to celebrate the life of a remarkable, unimaginable talent who soared to unfathomable highs and debilitating lows.

This fateful blogger listened to Michael Jackson’s music in waves since I could remember, but had just deleted “Invincible” off my crowded mp3 player because I ached for new music. From the moment People.com announced his death to John Mayer performing at his public funeral, covered in flowers and prayers, I have asked myself how do you grieve for a stranger who felt like that coolest brother you ever had? How do you mourn for the slick gangster who taught you to “Jam,” begged for you to “Smile” and wanted to “Heal the World”? How do you accept that the life of the man provided you with your first memories of music and haled for your home state is no longer living?

My answer: I can’t. And more importantly, I don’t want to. To do so, it is to really accept the undoubtedly bleak reality that was Michael Jackson’s s life, the man behind the moonwalk and behind the scenes. The exhausting and isolating existence of the ultimate the child star with the ambitious (and abusive) father with a dream; the boy who never had a childhood, and according to ABC’s Martin Bashir, had never done the mundane tasks like go to the grocery store. To grieve for Michael Jackson is to realize that he was as haunted as he was talented, as flawed as he was a perfectionist. To do so, is to understand that Michael Jackson was just human, and not slightly more or a little better.

The child inside of me, who convinced herself she could do the “Smooth Criminal” lean if she just practiced enough who was always wowed by the musical superhero, petulantly refuses to accept it. But the adult I am now, who is finally able to comprehend just how extraordinarily gifted and troubled he was, has to. Until I put one of my many favorite songs—“Remember the Time,” “Thriller,” “The Way You Make Me Feel,” “Man in the Mirror,” “Jam,” “Heaven Can Wait,” “Smile”—and hear Michael, more alive and more free than most of us will ever know.

So headlines may say the King of Pop is dead, but I never will. Instead, I’ll press play and say, Long Live the King.