ABSTRACT
I began writing this standing at Michael Jackson’s star on Hollywood Boulevard. I came to this spot a month earlier, the day after he died. On that morning it was too crowded with well-wishers, onlookers and media to get very close. Since then on my bus ride to work I have passed this spot every day. The news trucks are gone. The crowds have swelled and shrunk. But still they come. They come to leave mementos, to snap photos, to cry, to touch a spot where once stood one who touched them. Like me, they come to join others publicly feeling their private emotions. I am not surprised to see people still gathering. I am, surprisingly, surprised by the languages. In less than 60 seconds I hear Spanish, French, Japanese, German, and English. And some that I did not recognize. Were I there longer, I am sure I would have heard more. It’s somewhat embarrassing to say that I forgot what he meant to so many people around the world, so focused was I on what Michael meant to America, to black America, to me.
