Chris Kelly, “Mac Daddy” of Kriss Kross, died on May 1. Kriss Kross was a 1990s rap duo known for songs like “Jump” and “I Missed the Bus.” While talking to a fellow student in the Hub, I mentioned Kelly’s passing. My fellow student referred to Kriss Kross as “those rappers who wore their clothes backwards.” I thought to myself “How dare you!” and then remembered how I’d probably responded the same way to my sister when she told me that Rick James died. It wasn’t personal. It was just generational.
This student was about ten years younger than me. While Kriss Kross was a vague memory to her, they practically soundtracked my junior high school years. I remember dancing with this curly-haired guy named Andrew to “Warm It Up” during a Friday night dance in our school’s gym. I remember walking down the hall to Ms. Stahl’s French class rapping “I’ll make ya rump rump wiggle and shake your rump ’cause I’ll be kicking the flavor that makes you wanna jump.” I’m sure my sister has the same kinds of memories of singing “Super Freak.” The point is that we all have celebrities for whom we pour out a little Kool-Aid.
We may have never met them in person, gone to their concert or watched all of their movies, but there is something about celebrities that connect with us. When they pass away it feels as if our experience just got a little dimmer. It’s as if our lives are a string of Christmas lights and one of the bulbs has stopped working. Not the kind where the whole string goes out, but the kind where you can go without a replacement bulb. Anyway, life’s not as bright without them and it makes us sad.
Sometimes, we don’t even realize how much we’ve been touched by Phil Hartman, Heath Ledger, Fred Rogers, Aliyah, Evil Knievel or Lisa Left Eye Lopes until they have passed away. I didn’t know how much I loved Michael Jackson until I was sitting in front of my computer with tears running and tongue lolling while watching his funeral broadcast. There wasn’t going to be another “Remember the Time” or “PYT” from Jackson and there’s no guarantee that anyone like him will ever again write, sing or dance the way he did. When I think of all those times I sang along with my brother Damon in front of the mirror to Jackson’s songs, I’m reminded to reach out to Damon because no day is promised. I’m reminded how life is such a sweet and temporary thing.
I’m not alone. Billions said goodbye to Jackson with me via television and the internet. Two and a half billion said farewell to Princess Diana via television. I can’t even imagine if Elvis Presley had died in the digital age. As each day goes by, we’ll continue to lose our various luminaries. We’ll comment on their passing over lunch or on Facebook. We’ll take the time to play one of their old CDs or movies. We’ll think back to the first time we experienced their talent, beauty or energy at a friend’s slumber party or during a road trip to Miami. Some of us may even hold annual candlelight vigils with potato chips and spinach dip. Either way, we acknowledge their absence. We have to. We can’t help it. Which is probably why we’d better start praying for Justin Bieber.