Mary and Bob’s Journal

Mom sent me a link the other day from Oprah.com.  It’s about writing memoir.  At the end, there are 10 writing prompts.

1. Write two pages of something you can’t deny.
2. Write two pages of what got left behind.
3. Write two pages of something you wrote or did that you no longer understand.
4. Write two pages of apologizing for something you didn’t do.
5. Write two pages about a physical characteristic you are proud to have inherited or passed on.
6. Write two pages of what you had to have.
7. Write two pages of humiliating exposure.
8. Write two pages about a time when you felt compassion unexpectedly.
9. Write two pages of what you have too much of.
10. Write two pages of when you knew you were in trouble.

Just reading the prompts brings up all sorts of images and feelings of wanting to cling to privacy. I guess that’s fine; I mean, no one is suggesting that the two pages automatically end up on-line. They’re building blocks, puzzle pieces, tools, ingredients. 

I guess I better get busy.

Oh, and yeah, my mom’s pretty awesome for encouraging to write.

Dear Michael,

I can’t remember a time before you.  Your voice has always been in my head.

Back when it was a hit (was it really a hit?), I learned the words to “Ben” from hearing my big brother sing it over & over. The whole time I knew Ben was a rat and that just made the song seem all the more special.  I wanted you to be the star in the movie, not that bad-acting little white boy. And of course the Jackson 5ive cartoon show was my choice, unless Scooby was on.

The year Thriller came out, I had a sweet baby sitting gig with an adorable 5 year old.  He LOVED you. And even though I thought I was too cool for pop, I couldn’t deny the way you moved was magic.

I’m sorry for all of your suffering. You didn’t deserve it. Maybe we should have done more, sooner, to help you. I’d like to think people tried. I’d like to think you had friends. I hope you did.

I agree with the critics who say that Westerners have the attention span of gnats, that the death of 3 entertainers in one week is enough to push the Iranian protests out of our consciousness. How long have the people of Darfur been in peril, anyway? We Americans can’t even pay attention to our own two wars.

But this is exactly why your work was important, Michael. Great art like yours–expressions of our biggest joys and love–give voice to what is best about living, to why the struggles matter.

Last night, hearing your music again, with all of its uniquely Michaelness about it, I couldn’t help but smile and dance and celebrate. I’m not even a fan. Your sound is just in my life, and it’s such a very good sound. A real gift. Thank you.

Everlasting peace to you, Mr. Jackson.

Respectfully and fondly,

Ruth