Ode to Gary Coleman

Gary Coleman is really gone. What 'chu talkin' 'bout? I'd gotten used to hearing about how messed up his post-child stardom life was and from now on whenever his name is mentioned, no more stories about going broke, getting hired as a mall cop and punching an autograph hunter, no bad marriages or sick kidneys...just plain dead. I was surprised at my reaction to the news of his mysterious fatal brain hemorrhage in his remote Utah home.

I've dwelled on Gary for the last few days and it's made me reminiscent of my late 70's early 80s life as a boy, born in the same year as Gary, watching Diff'rent Strokes with my family while eating tuna sandwiches or tearing into a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Gary, or rather, Arnold Jackson, made us laugh after a long day of work and confusion. His character role, the young, clever black kid with perfect comedic timing epitomized hope. Always, the dark question looming for Arnold and his older brother Willis in that show was what might have happened to them if rich, white, Phillip Drummond hadn't taken them into his Park Avenue home. Hell, they might have become rappers or drug dealers or something without their great white father. Also, what might have happened to Mr. Drummond if he hadn't found these boys? Who knows, as a widower with no life purpose besides filling his bank, maybe he'd have become a regular martini sipper in the local hotel bar?

In any case, the show was important as it reflected an attempt by mainstream America to bring racial and economic integration to another level besides just public schooling and commerce. The concept put forth was that Americans, whatever their color or background, are actually capable of treating one another as a family--struggling, offering support and nourishment and, of course, laughing together. A criticism of the show could be that the best America has to offer is provided, still, by the white aristocracy.

I have been, somewhat tearfully, watching Diff'rent Strokes episodes on Hulu for the last couple of days and the thing that strikes me most about little Gary Coleman, is the sparkle in his perfect, brown eyes. Watch some episodes and you'll see what I mean. In posting the news of Gary's death, many media outlets have been juxtaposing Gary's bright and youthful face against his older, dejected, gone-through-rehab-face. The story indicated in that simple photo comparison says more than any words could. It's another Elvis Presley, Marilyn Monroe tale about the irony of what happens when someone actually reaches the pinnacle of fame. What happens when you reach it before you are ready? Can anyone ever be ready for such a life? It's about the voracity of America, the raw ability of our pop culture to chew up and spit out its most beloved and that's not the worst of it: there are more "stars" to come: Who's next? Gary, thank you for making us laugh off the 70s. I will always be a fan and may you rest, finally, in peace.