Memories of Michael Jackson

Reports of Michael Jackson's death put me inside a 12-passenger van.

I was 20, and surviving on a scholarship that paid me to participate in my college speech team. The activity was designed for kids who thrived under spotlights, survived only under pressure and lacked the capacity to mistake North Korea for South Korea.

I wasn't cut out for it.

Maybe that's why, with a state championship title within my sight, I fainted while giving my signature speech about maggots.

The experience resulted in five stitches, and a life-changing choice: I could give up, or I could stand up again and risk falling down.

Stitches removed, I found myself once again in a 12-passenger van, traveling across the Midwest to another tournament that would inevitably juggle my nerves. I didn't know what to do.

So from the front passenger seat, I reached into my tote bag, put Michael Jackson's "History" on the van's CD player and danced.

It marked the beginning of a ritual that would continue through my remaining years on the team.

Inexplicably, one of the most complicated guys in entertainment ended up being my biggest source of clarity.

RIP, MJ.