Gary Coleman died the other day, maybe it was yesterday I’m terrible with the past. As another beloved celebrity is laid to rest, we watch as the world grieves the loss. Coleman was no Michael Jackson, but even so, the reaction to either man’s death is more than any regular person could expect to receive from the world. Why do we react so outrageously when a celebrity reaches their end?
What do you do when you are upset? When you are happy? Over a couple drinks and under the sheets with a lover? Listen to your favorite music. Watch your favorite movies. Your first time was likely set to your favorite song. Your marriage reception played “your song.” Parties play crowd favorites. And you gather with friends and watch collectively enjoyed movies. Practically every high and low point of the modern American life is beset with a movie or song.
Triumph for Big Media? I don’t think so, but it doesn’t matter. What does matter is that because our connection to these people is extreme like the emotional states attached to their performances. You don’t connect with anything or anyone during a “normal” state. You don’t fall in love simply because someone stood beside you for a long time.
Death is the final trigger in our psyches. Even if science or magic gives us immortality, we’ll obsess over dying anyway. We are forever subject to the end, whether by self, others, or God. So when a person dies who is connected to millions of people, maybe billions in Jackson’s case, the wave of grief is intense and recursive.
We may be a world of emerging sociopathy, but when the average person sees a sad person, they gain just a bit of sadness through empathy. And if they themselves were a fan of the deceased celebrity, the sadness becomes a grenade hidden in the heart. Attached to every high/low moment associated with the deceased. Emotions that are also connected to a hundred different people, attached to a thousand different events, each with their own tone. It overwhelms the person as their heart works out just how to feel. And when the grenade explodes, the blast splashes back on those around, adding to the collective sadness.
But like any explosion, the effect is intense yet brief. Few people (should) mourn Michael Jackson’s death these days save his family and loved ones. He wasn’t our friend, wasn’t someone we knew personally. Our connection to him wasn’t two-sided and therefore doesn’t stand the test of time.
When I die there won’t be panic in the streets. A million people won’t attend my funeral. And they certainly won’t have to block off sections of the city during my funeral. But those that attend my funeral, those who mourn my death, will do so because they loved me, personally. Because we shared actuality, a two-sided connection now severed by my departure. And that connection will take longer to cap off–heal, if you prefer.
Therein lies the hope for those plagued with notions of insignificance. In your life, there are those who will miss you more than a hundred celebrities. And mourn for you a thousand times longer.
Dedicated to my step-father, no longer among us.