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.
