Remembering Michael Jackson

June 25, 9:11 PMTampa Yoga ExaminerDanielle Hope Hier

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Credit:  Thank you, Wennpeter Morey

I began writing when I was five-years-old, thanks to my older sister, who was the first to teach me my A-B-Cs.  Growing up, I had grand visions of becoming a famous reporter / theatrical performer / supernatural detective.  But while I had dreamed of working with, and eventually writing about, those famous people who had meaning in my life as a teenager, like David Carradine and Michael Jackson, never did I imagine that I'd be writing about them...posthumously.

My first job was as a food server in a home for the elderly in Pennsylvania.  I mostly catered to people with severe Alzheimer's and senility, who very often didn't remember my face, nor what they had ordered just minutes prior.

One day, I took a breakfast plate back to the short order cook, and asked him to re-make the disgusting slop he was trying to pass off as "eggs over easy". 

"Who cares?" He replied.  "They're all old people without any teeth. They don't know the difference."

I just about exploded and almost dumped the eggs over his head, for his utter disrespect, but opted for a more peaceful solution.  "I am not serving this." I growled.  "If you think this if fit for human consumption, then I challenge YOU to take it out to the dining room." 

This may have been how I earned the nickname, "Little Spitfire".  I'm not sure...

Soon afterwards, the retirement community hosted a "Friendship Day", and the waitstaff was asked to perform something for the event.  I donned a black jacket and "smooth criminal" matching 30's-style hat, and did my best Moonwalk meets Thriller to an upbeat dance mix for a wide-eyed crowd.  Even that grumpy short-order cook nodded in approval in an, "Okay, I see your point" kind of way, as he saw how attentive our residents actually were.

You see, video rental stores were brand new, and I watched every dance routine by Michael Jackson I could find, practicing the steps, to add to my own modern jazz routine.

And wouldn't you know it, those residents, the ones who could no longer remember my name, suddenly brightened up when they saw me a year later, when I was no longer even working there, but had come back to visit. 

"I remember you," one gray-haired woman told me. "You're the dancer!"  Others nodded in acknowledgment...

Many years later, I interviewed at a different retirement community.

"Why do you think you'd be a good yoga teacher?"  I was asked.

"Because my first job was waiting on people who were physically and mentally declining, and there was nothing I could do to help.  Now, I feel like I can help them."

And I did.  I had a 93-year-old woman who awoke in pain one day, did a hip stretch I taught her, and it went away.  Then, there was an 87-year-old lady coming to terms with death and spirituality.  Yoga was her way of connecting with the Divine.

Two months ago, Michael Jackson showed up on my Facebook.  I have no idea why, and I never did get to tell him how my little dance routine made so many people happy, and that I had him to thank for it. 

Losing someone famous - who would seem immortal by virtue of their profession - makes us call in to question our own mortality.  I believe yoga is a means for people to both connect with whatever Divine nature in which they believe, and come to terms with the fact that, every one of us, no matter our best efforts, will eventually die.

 Michael Jackson, you have brought joy to a lot of people. For this, we honor you.