I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown.

I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown. In my family, when tragedy strikes, like many families, we cook.

If someone dies, the pots come out and the pilot lights are lit.

Water is boiled.

Music is played.

We try to re-ignite the censoreum which shuts down

in the face of grief.

We arrived with aluminum-covered kishas and glass bakeware with

bubbling casseroles. Cheese boards, with cured meats, olives, and jellies are

laid out and served.

We turn a dining room into a cafeteria.

We feast.

I recall when Grandma Rose passed away for a quick disorienting moment I thought we were gathered for Thanksgiving.

Then remembered the matriarch wasn't there presiding, and it wasn't even November.

When natural disaster occurs, when catastrophe falls upon us, we humans lean into life.

We need the counterbalancing forces of creation and renewal to tilt the world back toward meaning and light.

We pursue activities that resist a chaos of the mind and spirit,

some endeavor that gives us a foothold on the unthinkable, an anchor, a

reminder of the eternal nature of existence. How do I cope with loss? I dance. Well, I used to. On June 25,

2009, my girlfriend and I flagged down a taxi on 8th Avenue.

Upon entering, the driver apologized. He was quietly yet visibly crying. He told us his

daughter just phoned from India. Michael Jackson died. That night we went to the club Le Pazun Rouge. The dance floor became

...