Illegal Foreign Object

Exaltation of an artist like Shuhada’ Sadaqat, better known to the world as Sinéad O’Connor is no great chore. She was a singular talent — a singer-songwriter with something actually important to say (her takes on philosophy, religion, abuse, and sexuality were ahead of her time). What said glorification isn’t, however, is needed (not unless the full story, including our failures as a society, is told as part of the tale).

A eulogy makes those of us still here to read it feel better about a bad situation, doesn’t it? It puts a positive spin on a dark moment. Unfortunately, Sinéad, suffered plenty of dark moments, not just her demise. Eulogies are also often painfully simple. Everyone is loved by someone, right? Just flower up some words and call it good! Everyone can feel like they honored the person and carry on pretending death isn’t stalking us all. In Sinéad O’Connor‘s case, she had millions of people who, at the very least, loved her voice. And what a voice it was — a haunting, multi-octave gift from the gods that reduced even the hardest heart to a blood-soaked sponge. Hers was a tortured wail of a tone that could ring out like all the most terrifying parts of Revelations — of Wormwood, split skies, sword-spitting angels, and seven-headed dragons. Hers was also a sound that was feather-like, airy. How could something be so heavy, yet, so very light? It could bring down the fire or soothe the savage beast within every listener. It was a voice of an angel being dragged through Hell. There was a depth and a truth to it that is possessed by very few.

Many have and will continue to talk about her successes (as long as there’s meat on the news cycle bone, of course) — her gold and platinum album sales, her hit songs, Q Score, and her multiple Billboard, MTV, and Grammy Awards. Rag writers, clickbait chasers, and pornographers of all things soulful will undoubtedly pick this low-hanging fruit as a step through the back door to expound on her greatness while pretending they didn’t previously cast aspersions on O’Connor’s character, criticize her beliefs, and mock her multitude of mental health battles (if they even thought of her at all).

What most won’t talk about, however, is how we all failed her. They won’t talk about how most of us didn’t look any deeper than her shaved head, oft-shy mannerisms, and “that one song that Prince wrote for her” (which if you’re aware of the physical and emotional abuse he inflicted upon her, you know is bullshit). For most of us, boob tube slaves one and all, Sinéad O’Connor was a very bright flash in the pan, and when she became “difficult”, she became expendable to our serotonin-seeking brains. Can’t have this loudmouth, rabble-rouser interrupting our endless smorgasbord of Guns N’ Roses, Michael Jackson, and Paula Abdul videos! Don’t you dare upset our radio wave-riding apple cart with all your thinking and “issues”!

Sinéad O’Connor left this world with a whimper — a sad end for a warrior so willing to suffer in wide-open spaces.

For whatever reason, we don’t handle “weakness” very well. We don’t know what to do with those rare sparks for whom splaying their veins and announcing their frailties loudly is so necessary for their survival. Their honesty tests us — it terrifies us. It’s easier to crane our necks at another flash of light rather than face the ugliness within us all. There is an undiscussed interpersonal abuse that swims around within the collective gut of our wilting consciousness. Its exposure to light is long overdue. Sinéad O’Connor gave her best to us. We offered her decades of our worst.

So, don’t bother acknowledging her strength for speaking about her mental health challenges, or for taking a stand against the Catholic Church long before it became common knowledge that it’s little more than a well-funded haven for pedophiles and sadists. Don’t acknowledge her stiff upper lip in the face of mockery, torment, and her son’s death. Don’t acknowledge her middle finger activism in an industry historically fraught with sexism, racism, and homophobia — an industry that wanted her to “know her place” so it could continue to profit off her brilliance. Don’t acknowledge her 56 years of triumphs, of stances against long-cons like the pro-life movement and organized religion, of overcoming crippling abuse. Certainly, don’t acknowledge her fighting through the endless shitstorm that came for her when she showed herself unwilling to “play the game”, because she’s not here for your praise (and absolutely NO ONE is “looking down” on us). The idea that a person would move on to their “great reward”, only to spend it voyeuristically peering back at the bullshit they left behind…

No, good reader, the time for words of praise and adulation has passed us by, unless you’re going to also acknowledge that we didn’t do our part — we didn’t hold up our end. She snipped the barbed wire encasing from around her heart and bared it to us all. Rather than dig as deeply as she was willing to go, we snatched it from her chest, chewed it up, and spit it back in her face. We consumed her, just like the consumers we’ve all been trained to be.

We need to be better people. Sinéad O’Connor cried out for help. She begged for just a modicum of fucking understanding, but we rolled right over her on our way to the next artist that pop culture tied to the stake for us to baptize in our unquenchable fires.