In 1990, I was a 23-yearold mother of two living in a Washington, D.C. suburb. I had a rowdy 3-year-old, a demanding 8-month-old baby, and no money. We were trying hard, however. March of that year was a good month. Conversations about bringing the family back to Texas had begun. There was more to eat than carrots and fried bologna sandwiches, though you can survive a pregnancy on such a menu, FYI. And, the cable bill had actually been paid! MTV still played videos. One spring afternoon, while the baby napped on a pallet and the preschooler was busy with a snack, I turned on the Zenith television in the walnut cabinet surround, and my mind was blown. The video was a woman’s face against a black background, nothing more. She was beautiful. While this sounds very tame in today’s world of anything goes, it was shocking for the times. She didn’t have any hair. Well, she did, but it was buzzed like a little boy leaving a 50s era barbershop. Her voice lifted and lilted and dipped like a haunted meadow. I was hooked. After my first experience with Sinead O’Connor, I went on to buy the CD featuring that very song, Nothing Compares 2 U. It is one of a few CDs I have repeatedly purchased in my lifetime. I know the words to every song on the album. I have followed Sinead’s life over the years. An artist who refused to compromise, even when it cost her money and fame, she lived on the fringe. When I read the news of her death last week, it floored me. That girl, my same age, who sang about racial injustice and poverty while loosely integrating biblical scripture into her music – she wasn’t supposed to go out like this. Sinead took her own life. She lost her son to suicide a year ago and could not go on. I certainly understand that unfathomable sorrow. So, I took to social media as so many others did. I chose the best picture of Sinead. I threw in a line or two from my favorite song of hers, Three Babies. I just said that I hoped she found peace. That’s when I saw red. Moments later, someone dear to me commented on my post. “Too bad she switched to Islam.”
When the artist Prince died in 2016, all the 80s kids hung their heads in mourning, our purple flags flying at half-mast. But, there are always those who cannot let the dead have respect. He was criticized for how he died, his height, his songs with bad words, his 80s ruffled shirts, his cane, and numerous other eccentricities. Similarly, Paul Reubens, from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure fame, died this past week. As someone who still imitates the Tequila dance he popularized in his movie, calls every chair Chairry, and often mentions the absence of a basement in the Alamo, I was waxing poetically about my genre, losing so many celebrities whose talent we cut our teeth on. While many people agreed with me, many did not. Paul lacked the proper morals to deserve peace in his rest. Paul wore the funny, illfitting suit. Paul was weird. It’s like they were glad he left. Most famous people are posthumously roasted, it seems. We can’t seem to honor someone for just kicking it around in this cruel world for a little while. We must dig. We must demean. We must find something that makes them look unworthy of honor or undeserving of respect. In some ways, it’s the same when one of us average Joes bids adieu. There are always people who attend funerals to pray for the soul of the departed and show respect to the family, but there are also a fair number of lookyloos, judging the deceased’s appearance and sharing all the demise details they heard from this person or that other person. I am paraphrasing here. “It’s sad that she died, but did you hear about all her scandals?” Perhaps we must create death fault on the dead so that we can convince ourselves that we won’t die because we haven’t done that bad thing.
I don’t care what Sinead O’Connor’s values were. I don’t know what religion she subscribed to or the number of times her affiliation changed. I don’t know if she abused substances or what the state of her mental health may or may not have been. I haven’t a clue what sort of mother she was to however many children she did or did not have. I don’t know what she weighed at any point in her life. I don’t know if she dieted too much or drank too little water. I don’t know her sins. I don’t care. I just know that she was a modern-day poet who saw the horrors in the world and wished for Irish moss and sunshine on her heart. And, if that is not enough to get you a respectable RIP in today’s world, then we’ve got problems bigger than a large Zenith TV in a walnut cabinet. A celebrity can be appreciated for talent minus the pedestal of supreme adoration. I save that for God. In a world where you can be anything, just be kind.
- Log in or Subscribe to post comments.