From Sanford to Jackson: Our Fascination with Brokenness

Perhaps it is simplistic to dismiss the mourners of Michael Jackson as being unhinged because of their open grief for an eccentric but brilliant musical talent. Maybe it is short-sighted to diminish his musical contribution to American culture. And probably it seems self-righteous to describe this collective mourning as a needless sacrifice at the tomb of a broken and unworthy man.

Could something deeper be happening? Whether critic or mourner, are we mesmerized by brokenness – even the fragmented life of child prodigy and adult superstar? Do we relate to the child who was teased by his family for having an ugly nose, and are we repelled by the man who mutilated his face to remove that "ugliness"? Are we transfixed by how crushing it can be to bear the burden of a gift that people danced to, laughed to, made love to for more than three generations? Are we disgusted by the last third of Michael's life because it compounds our cynicism about a disappointing world? Are we thinking today about a humanitarian legacy that was greater than we knew?

Humans often are lured by the tragic archetype of the dazzling but self-destructive figure. In varying degrees we reveal our curiosity or revulsion about these figures and the circumstances of their lives – from the deaths of Elvis Presley to Princess Diana to Kurt Cobain to Heath Ledger. And the tragic figure doesn't have to be an entertainer, either. They can be governors who destroy their careers with tall tales from an imaginary Appalachian Trail, or political stars who implode unexpectedly when they suddenly walk away from office.

These flesh-and-blood stories represent classic narratives, where humans are not always honorable, respectable or righteous, but still touch us. We wander through their public victories and transgressions, offering admiration, doling out criticism or squeezing out tears. But once we turn off the voices of journalists, drag our eyes from the tabloids, and sign off an IM chat, we return to the mangled mess we have woven in our own lives.

Unlike these tragic figures whom we either love to hate or die to adore, our victories and transgressions are not played out on an unforgiving public platform. Our trespasses are stuffed in hidden closets. No one would post our mistakes on a blog to ridicule, or tear them apart in an editorial. Although we err in private, through our open delight, unbridled criticism or abortive mourning, perhaps we show how broken we actually are.