Never Can Say Goodbye

Sitting in a Mexican cafe and hearing the news that Michael Jackson was dead, my first reaction was disbelief. Just another silly rumor, there was no way that the King of Pop was dead. But stories from AP, Reuters and BBC were produced and I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. As Americans away from home, we stared blankly at each other, unable to digest how an American icon could be gone without warning. I arrived back and slowly absorbed the reality of Michael Jackson's death.

Growing up on the south side of Chicago, Michael Jackson was like a neighborhood friend. His image, voice and moves were everywhere throughout my youth.No boy could be described as attractive unless he had a Michael Jackson 'fro. Nobody could be called a good dancer unless they had perfected the cool, precise, Michael Jackson spin. Anybody with the last name of Jackson automatically claimed a relation to Michael Jackson. Anybody who journeyed to Michael's nearby home state of Indiana always declared a Michael sighting or visit with the family. "ABC", Dancing Machine" and "I'll Be There" were on the soundtrack of every block party, sleepover and birthday celebration. By the time I was in my teens, Michael was as much a constant in my life as my best friends who lived across the street.

But you grow up and things change. People drift apart, they develop interests that you don't share. Michael emerged as a lost, confused soul. I always felt sorry for him, it's like he was pushed into the spotlight so early that he never had a chance. But there's no denying his brilliance. The nuance of his singing, the electricity of his dancing, the sparkle of his presence will live on.