Remembering MJ for the right reasons

It was the night of Michael Jackson's memorial service. An event of epic proportions, no doubt, but I still had my own issues to deal with before I settled down in front of the television.

Mother had beaten me to it. She sat on the recliner in the hall, upright and alert. I'd made the mistake of pointing out to her that she and MJ shared the same initials as well as the same birth date, though she was a few years older. Still, that was enough of a bond to make his memorial service matter to her. So there she was on the recliner, refusing to budge for the love of anything.

Granny occupied her usual place of the sofa. She had a question every couple of minutes- Who was that? What did that man say? Where are his parents? Is that his brother? This last question was asked of Usher, a brother in a Afro-American sort of way, but not really family, so I decided on 'no' as my answer. Mother though, answered the other questions with uncharacteristic impatience. She really didn't want to miss a single thing going on.

Which is why I found myself walking to the juice shop down the road at 10 30 in the night, cautious of cars and wary of whistlers, all because she had turned me down, my own mother. I walked pretty fast, goaded on by my unrelenting thirst and anger. I was really quite livid that mother had refused to take me to the juice shop. All I'd asked for was a simple glass of juice! I wasn't asking for the moon, was I? The flesh of her flesh, fruit of her womb, denied in favor of the King of Pop. It felt horribly unfair, and qualified as a definite non-maternal act on her part.

I'd almost made it to the shop when she scared me witless by appearing out of the blue on her scooter. Get on the bike, she hissed at me. I continued to walk, refusing to give in so easy. Left with no choice, she rode slowly, keeping astride with me. I continued to ignore her, though secretly pleased that she'd come out to get me after all. Once at the shop, I stomped inside, gave my order, collected it in a take-away cup, and when I stepped out, there she was, determined that I wouldn't walk back. It seemed easier to give in at this point, rather than face her wrath, so give in I did, for the most part, gracefully, with only the slightest tinge of a grudge.

And we would have been on our way, except her scooter refused to start. We were quite a sight, my middle-aged mother kicking furiously at the start pedal since the battery had conked, and me yelling at her for not bringing the new scooter that I'd bought for her just a month ago. We continued in this manner, she trying to perform a minor miracle while I stood by, helpless and thirsty.

The heavens did choose to smile down upon us eventually, the bike sputtered and stuttered and started, albeit unwillingly, and we got home in a grand total of one and a half minutes.

Back home, granny informed us that the service hadn't started as yet, which made me gloat even more, as the daughter wronged. Mother ignored me with flair and hurried over to reclaim her recliner. I managed to sulkily sip on my juice while finding a vantage position in front of the television. And then magically, as if waiting for us all along, the service began.

To be honest, I was only watching it for the promised performances. Of course I love MJ's music, but then, who doesn't? Still, the whole service gave me the feeling that America was apologizing for not loving him more while he was still around. They seemed mortified that he was gone before they had a chance to tell him they were sorry they'd treated him like a sorry piece of shit as if he were a petty criminal and not the musical genius that he truly was. Smoky Robinson set the record straight, with his whole speech of wanting to let someone know you loved them after you'd lost them. That has got to be the most awful feeling in the world.

And to me, the highlight of the show wasn't any of the performers. No, it was 10 year old MJ himself, preforming 'who'll be lovin' you' in the clipping of the Sullivan show. I almost wished I'd been born in the 70's so I could've better appreciated the musical revolution that was MJ.

The service made me cry, and I'm sure that was the effect they'd been hoping for. But I wish the performers had celebrated MJ's music more, instead of singing the saddest songs they could possibly think of. I'm tired of memorial services that are contrived tear-jerkers. There are happier ways to remember people. MJ's single most definitive quality was his untiring energy and zest for life, and of course, his unquestionable passion for his art. He was undoubtedly the greatest entertainer of our times and it made me sad to think his memorial service was held along the lines of a state funeral for some old fogy of a politician.

I do hope this will teach the media a lesson, to respect an artist's privacy and sensitivity, and more importantly, to give them their due while still alive. In so many ways, this memorial service was akin to what happened when Princess Diana was killed, the only difference being that she was adored worshipped even while still alive.

I wish the world would understand just how much it takes out of a person to create something, and how much it's got to hurt when the world chooses to ignore your efforts in favor of hyping the one wrong thing that you may or may not have done. Having a adrenalin-pumping speech by a congresswoman in an effort to clear MJ's name after he's gone doesn't really make up for it. After all, isn't that the greatest joy, to know that one has not lived in vain?

Anyway, who am I to decide these things? Those organisers knew the best way to go about it, I'm sure. And of course, the free passes were a nice touch. What's a few thousand free passes when they probably sold the television rights for hundreds of millions of dollars. Who am I to question anything? I am but one of the billion plus fans, not obsessive enough to invest in a shiny white glove, but loving MJ's music and missing him all the same.