The Homegoing

Maya Angelou and (H.R.H.) Q.L. and Pillow each noted, "We had him."--a wise, steady reminder of mortal blessings, the very sort we've all fallen out of touch with lately. The notion that an individual's existence/work/joy in work/(sorrows in life) were a gift to us, to the whole is...thrilling, affirming, happy.

And I was moved by Berry, who could recall a Michael unfamous, undiscovered, small and beautiful and full of promise.

I was moved by Al, with his unmistakable strut and acrobatic, ultra-poetic plainspeech: "It's not about mess. It's about his love message!....Your Daddy weren't strange!"

I was moved by Stevie, Motown's original boy-wonder, a person who knew Michael well, but never saw him, who was able to be a friend to him, a fan of him without ever viewing his self-mutilation, his all-too apparent self-doubt, self-confusion--anguish.

I was moved that Magic Johnson looked so healthy, and that Kobe knew not to speak.

I was moved by the Kings' words about work and purpose.

I was moved by Representative Sheila Jackson Lee's words about all of the Gary, Indiana Jacksons' "American story"-iedness, and by her insistence that "through wars" Michael had been our ambassador of good will, of what is fine about Americans--art.

I was moved by Germaine's delivery of Charlie Chaplin's ultra-American tune from Modern Life (how fitting!).

And of course, I was moved by Michael's daughter Paris, Aunt Janet (who looked exactly the way I want to look at any funeral I go to from now on) at her back, a child sharing this terrifying personal loss with the masses, a child surely aware of so many dark rumors, speculation that her father harmed her and her brothers, claiming aloud that he was good and that he loved them, from the start and unconditionally.

Altogether, it was a beautiful homegoing. In remembering Michael Jackson, we are remembering to live, to work, and to love. And we thank him.