I was ten years old when Princess Diana died. My family had gone to St. Louis to see the arch when we passed a television in the hotel lobby. I had a vague idea of who she was, but my father sat me down and explained to me the importance of the moment. He talked of who she was, what she represented and the reasons why our day was worth stopping to take notice. Eleven months earlier when Tupac Shakur was clinging to life after being shot outside a Mike Tyson fight in Las Vegas, I was given no such lecture. As a result, I have no idea where I was or even if I found out. The rapper was inconsequential to my nine year old life, and I suspect he was the same to many other elementary school kids in middle America.
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