Death Blows

Might as well put this out there: My dad died on Thursday. We were not close, and at this point, he'd been out of my life longer than he'd been in it. The last time I talked to him was about a year ago, and it didn't go well. Dad was as troubled as he was brilliant, which is to say very. He was good at talking; the listening, not so much.

Like most people who lose an estranged parent, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel. There is sadness, of course, but also long stretches of utter blankness and confusion. In a way, I was long done mourning his absence from my life, and I am (mostly) finished being mad about the chaos he caused when he was present. Frankly, it's probably easier to forgive miserable parenting once you have children. I'm not making excuses for him, but there are days where I'm acutely aware of how hard it is to show up and be present for another human being, day in, day out. It's exhausting. Life couldn't have been easy for a black man with a master's degree in South Georgia almost 40 years ago, and without going into too much detail, my father had internal struggles that I understand all too well.

But still. By the weekend, I was firing off bitter emails to by brother and sister about things I thought I was done with. My sister, in classic fashion, wrote back, "I see someone is rolling right through the stages of grief. You always were an overachiever." And just like that, I thought about the handful of good things that we did get from him, like a wicked sense of humor. His sarcasm used to get on my mother's nerves, and now she's stuck with three adult children who have raised it to an art form. Sorry, mom.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this except to say it's been a deep-thoughts kind of weekend — but I will not, under any circumstances, write a poem. Gotta draw the line somewhere.

Noise pollution

While we were in Atlanta last weekend, we met a friend of our in-laws who is from Ghana. She met President Obama when he was in Ghana over the summer, and she's a fan. The conversation eventually turned to American politics and the hoopla over health care reform, and she asked me a question I couldn't really answer: "Why are people so angry? I don't understand."

I muttered something about a segment of people being wary of anything that smacks of "socialism," even if they couldn't define it at gunpoint. I also explained that the complexity of our current health care delivery system makes it difficult to have an informed, coherent conversation about reform, and that people are frightened in hard economic times. But the more I talked, the more I realized that none of those arguments explained the vitriol or the naked rage we'd been seeing on the news.

I feel compelled to say that it is absolutely OK to disagree with Obama's health care proposal or any of his proposals. Rock on. Dissent plays a huge role in our nation's history, and it's nice to live in a country where it won't get you thrown in jail, or worse. But the town hall meeting shenanigans and the congressional heckling and the protect-our-kids-from-Obama sentiment and the commentator fear-mongering have nothing to do with policy or ideas.

Back in my hometown, the city school system decided not to let students watch the president's speech because doing so would take 18 minutes out of the school day. Really? When I was in high school, it was routine for pep rallies to last two class periods during football season. But a speech about staying in school and taking responsibility for your education is too distracting. Right.

If my reaction to all this appears delayed, it's because I'm genuinely troubled by what the "health care" debate has revealed. Or maybe it hasn't revealed anything so much as reminded us of that thing's presence, however diminished it might be.

It's All Over But The Shoutin'

One of the many weird things that happens when a celebrity dies: Many people insist that the period following their demise is "not the time" to criticize them or bring up the unsavory parts of their narrative. I guess U.S. Rep. Pete King (NY) disagrees, because in his now-infamous video video blasting the media for 24/7 MJ coverage, he referred to the departed artist as "a lowlife," "child molester," "pedophile" and a "pervert."

"He died. He had some talent; fine," Rep. King said. "There's nothing good about this guy."

King's comments were over the top, and while there is plenty of speculation, Michael Jackson was never found guilty of anything. That doesn't mean he didn't do what he was accused of (Hello, O.J.!), but that's what our legal system decided. Over on Facebook (of course), there was some discussion about whether old boy owes the Jackson family an apology. Actually, it wasn't even a discussion. It was a lot of people saying King was a hater and that the real fault, if any, was with the parents who had their kids all up in Neverland.

Wow.

I've made clear my love of Michael Jackson's early music and persona, but I'm struck, once again, by how easy it is to conflate fame and talent with virtue. King's video was presumptuous, but so are the impassioned arguments that Michael was all about healing the world and its children. The bottom line is that we don't know, and the last 15 years of Jackson's public life were not reassuring. Like, at all. And isn't there a valid discussion to be had about whether an artist — even one as electrifying and game-changing as Jackson — deserves this much coverage, analysis (heh) and reverence? Very few people seem to be concerned about the emotional Pandora's Box that Jackson's death potentially opens for the young men who accused him of molestation. Remember; the first case was settled for a tidy sum somewhere north of $20 million.

While I'm very tempted to say that King's video was way insensitive, it could be said that the posthumous lovefest is insensitive to Jackson's onetime alleged victims.

I doubt very seriously that Jackson achieved megastardom by being child-like, delicate and unassuming. Somewhere underneath was a savvy and extremely ambitious soul who, in death, certainly doesn't need anyone to protect him from his detractors.

Michael Jackson And The Elephant

In 1994, Vanity Fair published "Nightmare in Neverland," the first of several articles that convinced me that Michael Jackson's relationships with children were messed up. Written by Maureen Orth, these cover stories stood out because they were deeply reported, incredibly detailed and well sourced. Most of all, they were disturbing. I came away thinking that even if nothing illegal took place (and that's a stretch), Jackson, at the very least, displayed appalling judgment and had been sheltered from the consequences of his "eccentricity" for a long time.

Orth still stands by her stories, and as she pointed out recently on Vanity Fair's Web site, the King of Pop's camp never legally challenged them.

As the shock of Jackson's death was wearing off, I re-read "Nightmare in Neverland" to get some perspective. It is just as damning now as it was 15 years ago. I realize he was never convicted, but there was far too much smoke surrounding that situation for me to believe that there was no fire. Nearly all the adults around the then-13-year-old alleged victim seemed to be asleep at the wheel. I mean, what kind of parent lets a kid have multiple sleepovers with a non-related adult, some of them away from their direct supervision? What kind of grown man engineers them?

Of course, there are a lot of people who don't want to be reminded of this. I have heard more than one person say that they hope Michael is remembered for his artistic contributions and not the scandals that consumed his life from the '90s on. But why does a person's legacy have to be either-or? It is entirely possible for a person to be very gifted, very famous and very disturbed. After all, this is a man who said he dangled his baby over a balcony railing "out of innocence." Yet, one of my friends was taking heat on her Facebook page for refusing to join in the public grieving.

If the adulation has been overwhelming, it's because many people (me included) were mourning the young, charming Michael Jackson and the memories that go along with the image. But that person left the building a long, long time ago, if he ever truly existed. Michael Jackson left behind some wonderful, timeless music, and he helped give Gen X one hell of a soundtrack for its adolescence. Along with that is a very large, creepy elephant in the room.

New Favorite Thing: Ill Doctrine

My friend T. alerted me to the presence of Jay Smooth's intelligent, enlightened hip-hop commentary last week, and I'm hooked. Jay's thoughts on the intersection of race and popular culture are particularly insightful, as shown in his his post on the Asher Roth "Nappy Headed Hoes" Twitter controversy. I also enjoyed his video chat with Dan Charnas, another person steeped in hip-hop culture who happens to be white. The topic: hip-hop and racial humility vs. entitlement. People are often defensive or dismissive when talking about race, which is what makes this so refreshing.

Judging Books By Their Covers

I was as touched as anyone by the footage of 47-year-old Susan Boyle slaying the "Britain's Got Talent" crowd with her performance
of "I Dreamed a Dream." It was a great television moment.

But here's what's been bugging me: Why were the judges so flipping astonished that she could sing? Could it be because she's middle-aged and not gorgeous? I understand that people are judged by their looks, especially in the entertainment industry. There's a reason Steve Buscemi didn't have Tom Cruise's career, even though Buscemi is a much (much) better actor. (This can cut both ways: "Oh look; the beautiful woman isn't an empty suit/moron/bimbo!") But it's not like Boyle was auditioning for "Make Me a Supermodel." She didn't even show up dressed like a circus performer, unlike some of the lost souls who audition for "American Idol." If a person can talk, there's a chance s/he might have a decent singing voice.

Unfortunately, human beings have a way of assigning qualities to others based on how they look. Studies have shown that attractive kids receive better treatment, not only from their peers (duh), but also from their teachers. If Boyle had looked like Jessica Alba, you can't tell me that the audience wouldn't have given her the benefit of the doubt instead of openly tittering and assuming she'd suck.

Don't get me wrong; it's nice to see the underdog win. I just wish people would stop reacting to Boyle's performance as if a donkey with two limbs won the Kentucky Derby.

Rambling Thoughts About Belief and Nonbelief

I just finished reading David Sheff's "Beautiful Boy," the horrifying account of his son's meth addiction and its effect on his family. As I parent, I can't imagine how excruciating it must be to watch your child attempt to destroy himself. Thank God Nic Sheff is still alive, though relapse is always a possibility with meth. It is some disgusting, evil stuff.

Notice that I said "Thank God." Since I believe in God, I'd have at least one advantage in a rehab program. As David and Nic Sheff have pointed out, many rehab programs are based on the AA principle that addicts must submit to a higher power. But how can you submit to something you don't believe in? Both father and son are agnostic, and Nic struggled with the God approach to recovery. As I pointed out to my friend V., that would be like telling me to submit to the Easter Bunny.

V. is an atheist, and we've had plenty of long talks about how alienating that is when you live in the Bible Belt. It really meant something to her when President Obama gave a shout-out to nonbelievers, because she's gotten a lot of negative feedback over the years. A lot of negative feedback.

My faith has evolved quite a bit since my early 20s, to the point where my more devout family members would stage an intervention if they could. I still consider myself a Christian, but I can also accept that my faith is based on a crazy-sounding story. It doesn't offend me in the least to consider the fact that I could be wrong/delusional, or to talk to someone who says the Bible is a collection of fairy tales. To be honest, I think a great deal of it is allegorical. Sometimes I think God is as obvious as my shoe, and other times I think the concept makes no sense. I don't have all the answers, and I'm (mostly) OK with that.

A Leap Forward

Ever since President-Elect Obama(!) became a serious candidate for the Oval Office, I've been hearing about how his campaign changed the way white people (in general) think about black people (in general). That's an incredibly broad statement, but I do think we're witnessing a cultural shift that won't be entirely clear for some time. Plus, that street runs two ways. I've had a couple of conversations that make me think the election is changing the way black people (in general) think about white people (in general).

While black voters were especially excited about this election, there's no way Obama could have won by such a wide margin without the support of millions of white voters. That level of support for a man of color took some of my friends and family members by surprise.

My friend V., who is black and a physician, inhabits a mostly white professional world. She likes many of her colleagues. Yet, she admitted that she was surprised — stunned, really — that so many white people of all ages cast votes for Obama. She is not given to fits of optimism about social progress, but she said this election has challenged some of her long-held opinions about race.

"I just never thought we'd elect a black president," my mom told me last night. "I can't believe I'm seeing this." My mom grew up in South Georgia in the '40s and '50s. When she and her sisters walked to school, they had to pass a house where a little white girl yelled "niggers!" at them every day — until my aunt K. snapped and punched her, hard, in the chest. Then they ran like hell. When she began her career as a music teacher in the '60s, she said some of the white women she worked with gave her nasty looks in the cafeteria. (Of course, that could be because my mom was a total babe back in the day. I am retroactively jealous.)

My mother doesn't hate anybody, but she is very skeptical and guarded where race is concerned. But Obama's election is a clear indication that her grandchildren — my son and daughter – are coming of age in a very different world. Not a perfect one, but a better one in many ways.

I don't know where this is going, but I like it.

Just Wondering

On the way home from my son's barbershop Sunday, I saw a group of pro-life demonstrators at the corner of Monroe and Tennessee streets. Their messages were boilerplate: "Abortion is Murder." "Abortion Kills Children." And so on.

It's a free country. If you feel strongly enough about something to spend a gorgeous Sunday afternoon sharing your opinions on Monroe Street, well, good for you. Personally, I think abortion is much too complicated and personal an issue to argue via poster board. But as far as I can tell, abortion and the marginalization of gay people are the only things certain people care about. That, and protesting against movies they haven't seen.

Maybe I'm wrong about this, but I've never seen a group of demonstrators this fired up about children who are already born. I know there are many wonderful people who work on behalf of abused and neglected children, but they're not showy types. I wonder if the passionate pro-life demonstrators who stand on street corners — and who descend on the U.S. Capitol regularly — ever think about drawing attention to less flashy child welfare issues. Maybe some of them do.

At least they're more focused than the "Repent Now" folks.

Reunited

My 20-year high school reunion is at the end of this month, and to my surprise, I'm actually interested in going. Like a lot of odd and unpopular kids who went to high school in small towns, I couldn't wait to graduate and get the hell out of Dodge. Half my motivation for excelling academically was to get a full scholarship and, therefore, a guaranteed ticket out. It would not be an understatement to say that I hated everyone.

But time does interesting things. Two decades removed from all that angst and crippling insecurity, I'm genuinely curious to see how some of my classmates are doing. There are only a handful of people from my high school days that I've kept in touch with, so almost everyone in our class of 375 graduates is a mystery to me. A few weeks ago, I created a profile on the Facebook-style site that was created for alums of my high school. Almost immediately, I started hearing from people I hadn't laid eyes on since June 1988.

In sixth grade, I became friends with three adorable geeks who will forever be known to me as "the Kevins": Kevin F., now a college professor, Kevin E., a doctor, and Kevin B., a pastor. Kevin F. moved away a few years before graduation, but he remains one of the funniest people I've ever met. He not only remembered who I was, but that I was "the best cartoonist in the school." If I see him at the reunion, I'm giving him a big hug.

It was also nice to see so many fellow misfits/outcasts/nerds doing well. Blair, an artist who now lives in London, was a true individual who put up with a lot of shit for standing out. This sounds so tame now, but Blair and her Goth posse caused a mini-scandal by showing up at our junior high school dressed like Boy George. Keep in mind that this was south Georgia in 1983. Blair got slapped with the "weirdo" tag, and it stuck. I love it that she is, by far, the most worldly and sophisticated of us all. And she's a Mensa society member to boot.

Also on the "not recommended" list was being gay. There were several classmates I wondered about over the years - whether they were closeted, as I suspected, or just ... different. So far, I'm five for five in my predictions, not that there's anything wrong with that. As lonely as it sometimes was to be a morose, minority nerd, it was probably a cakewalk compared to being a gay guy at a jock-centric high school in the mid-1980s. While I have no idea what the intervening years were like for them, many are now out, partnered and raising kids, just like the rest of us.

So here's to surviving adolescence, growing up and learning to accept yourself while getting over yourself. I think we're going to have a good time.