Remembering
After Michael Jackson’s death in 2009, 10 million copies of his “This is it!” album were sold worldwide. People, as a whole, tend to think of him as a bright light in the music industry and the king of pop. During his life there was constant news and accusations of child molestation and his addiction to children’s porn, but that isn’t talked about anymore.
Paul Walker died this past year and Fast and Furious movies were few and far between at malls and movie stores, while everyone tried to find a copy. His philanthropic work with the organization he founded—Reach Out Worldwide—did not come to be known to most fans until after his death.
My sister died in 2006 and people who don’t really know her or who didn’t know her well call her an angel or talk of her like she was a saint.
My sister wasn’t a saint. She was a typical older sister. When we played Cinderella, she was the princess and I was the prince, the stepmother, the stepsisters, and the footman.
When we played Barbie’s, she got to move to Spain and become queen and I moved to Nebraska to live on a farm.
Just to emphasize our relationship—I had slipped outside of the hospital one time with my dad on our way to visit her. We were bringing Logan’s for dinner and I fell on my butt, to which I had just recently received a strep throat shot.
There were three nurses crowding around me trying to look at it to make sure I was ok, I was protesting and yelling that I was fine, my parents were trying to listen to the nurses and there sat my sister—sitting up in her hospital bed, cutting into her Logan’s steak.
So why does society tend to propel people into sainthood the moment they die? My sister was my best friend, but she was my best friend because of who she was as a person, not as the saint people describe her as.
She was the same sister who sat on the ground and played Barbie’s with me even when her back hurt from the tumors. She let me sneak into her room after bedtime to read with her by the nightlight or acted as liaison between me and the boy I had a crush on.
She told me, even when she was the one going through chemo, to let her know if I ever needed a hug.
That is a small snapshot of the whole picture of my sister. But, people who don’t know her or didn’t know her all too well talk about her like she was just a notch below Jesus.
Maybe this doesn’t bother some people who have lost a loved one, but sharing my sister with people is a personal thing.
I don’t want them to remember her only as the brave 14-year-old who fought cancer, or as the angel that died too young.
I want people to remember her as a complete person, not a saint that she wasn’t. I want them to remember her as the girl who wanted to teach astronomy or as the girl who could quote every single line to all three of the Lord of the Rings movies. I want them to know her as the girl who hit me in the knee caps with toy cars when she got mad or lied about brushing her teeth for the majority of her young childhood.
I want them to remember her as my sister, because that’s who she was. And who she was is so much better than any perfect picture anyone could come up with.
This idea of promoting dead people to sainthood or gods is ridiculous. The reason we loved them when they were alive is because we experienced their good and bad and loved them for it all.
Remembering Michael Jackson as simply the King of Pop…Remembering Paul Walker as the philanthropist with potential…Remembering my sister as the little angel…that’s truly not remembering them at all.