Michael Jackson's Final Gift to Me

I've spent the last few days living on YouTube, watching Michael Jackson videos and Michael Jackson live performances. Reading and re-reading the Los Angeles Times. Glued to CNN. And to my surprise, grieving.

I was a casual fan, at best.

I didn't know Michael Jackson. I never saw him in concert. I only own one Michael Jackson album. (Dangerous, not Thriller.)

But I always liked him, from the time I pointed to the Jackson 5's Greatest Hits album cover, and announced to my mother that when I grew up, I was going to marry Michael Jackson.

Thriller hit when I was in middle school. Michael was everywhere, and like the rest of the world, I was hooked.

Over the years, I read a few different biographies and caught wind of all the unfavorable tabloid fodder. I faithfully tuned in to the Oprah interview, his 1993 "I am not a criminal" avowal of innocence and the dastardly 2003 Martin Bashir interview that ultimately spelled the end of Michael's brilliant career.

I mostly avoided his child-molestation trial, finding the whole thing distasteful and incredibly sad. I couldn't quite bring myself to believe the charges, and true or false, it was a lose-lose situation. If the charges were true, it meant Michael had abused the world's trust and done irreparable harm to his youngest fans. And if the charges weren't true, it meant the world was truly an evil place, where greedy, rapacious vampires could tear a vulnerable and beloved figure to shreds and get away with it.

As I dove head-first into the barrage of coverage over the last few days, I was struck by one thing: that as brilliant as Michael was in so many areas and in so many ways, he lacked true self-awareness.

In his teens and twenties, he wasn't able to look in the mirror and see the good-looking young black man that everyone else saw, and we all know how that lack of awareness turned out.

More telling, he seemed unable to put his childhood in the past where it belonged, centering most of his adult life on reclaiming, reliving and ultimately being consumed by his "lost" childhood.

I guess Michael's final gift to me isn't his music or his otherworldly dance moves or even all the memories of my life that are tied to my memories of him.

It's the realization that self-awareness is a gift that no amount of money can buy. That there's something inherently marvelous in being able to face your demons, push past your past, get over what your parents did or didn't do, and ultimately live a life that includes joy and peace.

I'll never moonwalk or sell 750 million albums, but I can walk in self-awareness.

I wish Michael had been able to do the same.

In Honor of Oprah's Fat-Again Show

I am fat. I haven't been on the scale this year, but I'm somewhere in the size 18 / 220-pound range.

Like Oprah, I've succeeded in losing weight and getting down to my ideal size. Also like Oprah, I haven't succeeded in keeping it off.

In 2001, I joined Weight Watchers and over the course of 18 months, I lost 85 pounds. I managed to keep at least 50 of it off for five years.

And then, I fell completely off the wagon. Under the wagon, in fact. In between the wheel ruts, with a bag of cookies, a vat of chocolate and a liter of Diet Coke.

So I feel a lot of empathy when Oprah talks about how mad she is that even though she's accomplished so much in her life, this one area continues to kick her big, bootylicious posterior.

But the difference between me and Oprah is, I'm not really mad at myself anymore. I have empathy for myself, because I realize that my weight is not a personal failure, it's a symptom of larger issues that are going on in my life.

I'm not actively trying to lose weight. I'm actively trying to love myself and my life right now, just as it is, even though it sucks in many, many ways.

And I can honestly say that most days, I feel happier and prettier than I ever did when I was skinny. Certainly saner.

What's the it Beyonce keeps singing so much about?

Beyonce is the ultimate It Girl. But what is the "it" she keeps singing about in song after song after song?

Her latest single, "Single Ladies (Put a ring on it)," tells yet another no-good man that if "you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it." A few years ago, she invited us to "look at it as long as you don't grab it."

Why does she keep referring to herself – or is it her booty – as an it? Even the Pussycat Dolls, who go so far as to swing from poles at the American Music Awards, refer to themselves in the first person.

I think it's a black thing – and I don't want to understand it.

For the last fifteen years, greasy rap mo-fos have been bellowing at me to shake it, pop it, back my thing up and show 'em what I'm workin' wit'. R&B singers are now whining about how they want to make love in this club, unless they're classy enough to promise that if I wanna come to the hotel, they'll leave me their room key.

Really? You mean we're not going to do it in the ice-machine alcove?

It's enough to make a self-respecting black woman buy Dixie Chicks albums and set her radio preset to KROQ.