It’s hard not to think of this passage from Paint It Black by Janet Fitch, during all of the Michael Jackson hoopla:
Josie thought of Meredith’s life, the combination of great wealth and talent, with a black thread of tragedy running through. Was it worth having the one if you had to suffer the other? And yet, she reminded herself, poor people had tragedy too, and they didn’t get to play Carnegie Hall, travel the world with their picturesque agony, they didn’t have a beautiful gift. They acted out their tragedies in trailers and dingbat apartments, shacks and slums, everyday. Why were the tragedies of little people less profound than those of Meredith and Michael? What was it about having enormous advantage that made tragedy so much more tragic?
I have to weigh in with one thing that disturbed me. I don’t think I followed any tributes or man on the street quotes about MJ’s death, with the exception of any coverage played on NPR during my commute. But this morning, I was appalled by a woman’s comment that she cried more at his funeral than at any of her friends or family’s. Now, I get it that some people are just not close to their flesh and blood. And I understand feeling something, something strong, for someone who moves you with his work, his passion, his life. But friends too? Were they really? I can’t take this. This is just too crazy.
