On a hot June afternoon, my friend Amanda texted me, simply, “MJ died.” I shrugged inwardly. Of course I had been a fan. I had danced to Thriller on vinyl in the living room as a kid. Everyone had. But I’d basically forgotten about him since the early nineties, Dangerous and the Oprah interview at Neverland. At the sight of the occasional tabloid headline in the supermarket, I felt sheer pity for Michael Jackson.

Lindsey and I went to the Alamo Drafthouse for his televised memorial. I was interviewed by News 8 Austin in the lobby of the theater, and later featured on local television with a descriptor proclaiming me a “Jackson Fan.” I was taken aback by my flowing tears during the lengthy service. I cried as if I’d known him personally. I cried because that bright, soft ten-year old kid spirit was so tormented in adulthood. I cried in mourning of the biggest star on the planet; his immeasurable fame was both his power and his downfall. I cried at Magic Johnson and Brooke Shields’ and others’ personal eulogies. The King of Pop was, after all, a human being.

On Halloween night, my friend Kat and I went to the VIP movie theater here in Guatemala City to watch This Is It, a documentary featuring footage of rehearsals for what clearly would have been the coolest concert ever.We reclined in our leather armchairs and marveled at MJ — his ever present talent (he didn’t bust a move like in the Thriller days, but he still had it, big time); his soft voice (“It’s all about the love,” seemed to be his personal mantra. “This is why we have rehearsals,” he’d say when someone fucked up); the way everyone (directors, dancers, choreographers) revered him on the set. There was no discussion of his life or death; it was, simply, a tribute to the last show put on by Michael Jackson. A spectacle that we were privileged to witness. I didn’t shed a tear until the credits rolled.

from “We Had Him” by Maya Angelou

He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance.
Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love, and survived and did more than that.
He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style. We had him whether we know who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his.
We had him, beautiful, delighting our eyes.
His hat, aslant over his brow, and took a pose on his toes for all of us.
And we laughed and stomped our feet for him.
We were enchanted with his passion because he held nothing. He gave us all he had been given.

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