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I grew up in the ’80s. I was 14 when Theo walked into my living room. We never missed a show.
Theo—and Malcolm—were my age. He could’ve walked the halls of my school. In a way, we went through puberty together.
His death hits hard. One by one, the voices of our youth fade—the ones we heard through the static of old TV sets, through boom boxes and bedroom walls.
We, the children of the ’70s and ’80s, grew up under disco balls and church pews. Our lives were sound tracked by sitcoms, Top 40 countdowns, and the click of the VCR rewinding a tape we’d already watched three times. We rode bikes until the streetlights blinked on, drank from garden hoses, and recorded love songs off the radio with someone else's voice half-talking in the background.
It was a time when friendships formed over sleepovers and shared snacks, and every show had a “very special episode.” The world felt smaller then—and maybe sweeter.
And Malcolm? He wasn’t just on our screens—he was one of us. A kid with a sideways grin, growing up in real time while we did too. Now he’s gone, and it feels like one of our yearbooks just lost a page.
Prince is gone. Michael’s gone. Robin Williams, Alan Rickman, Betty White... They lit up our childhood like stars we thought would never fade. Now the sky is dimming, and we’re the ones left to remember how bright it once was.
We’re the grandmas and grandpas now—handing out stories instead of mixtapes. The ’80s are behind us, but they never really left. They live in our slang, in the way a certain song can still stop us cold.
And when we grieve Malcolm, we grieve ourselves. The kid we were when he first smiled at the camera. The years we shared without even knowing. The ’80s we lost—piece by beautiful piece.
The memories flicker on, but there's no road that leads us back.