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Michael Jackson, 1958-2009: The Man In the Mirror

This one is going to be long. I wanted to post yesterday, but my Internet was down after my neighborhood was hit the day before by some kind of tornado, hailstorm, monsoon that flooded my house and had me convinced I was going to wake up in the land of Oz.

Let us begin…

Growing up I had a list of people I wanted to meet. Like many childhood daydreams, my list became one of the many bricks that was to be the foundation for my desire to be great, or at least not go by unnoticed.

Michael Jackson was in the top 5 on my list.

Now I’ll never meet him, except maybe in the afterlife. And that all depends on where I’m headed when I close my eyes for the last time.

Two weeks ago yesterday Michael Jackson was called Home rather abruptly. Abrupt only because humanity wasn’t prepared, as if we’re ever prepared for anyone’s death. God knew all along what the day, time and circumstances would be.

Initially, I had no reaction. I was at my son’s 8th grade graduation dinner and couldn’t be bothered with some unsubstantiated news about a man who wasn’t paying my rent.

But before dinner was over, the rumor was fact.

A brief note about the manner of his death: If the coroner’s report does in fact determine that MJ suffered from an accidental overdose, then much like Heath Ledger I won’t pity him (he was an adult after all) but only wish he hadn’t turned to the very things he once declared no one should ever touch. But I won’t judge, none of us know his personal demons, most of us barely know our own.

Everyone around me and this globe called Earth collapsed into a state of mourning I don’t believe any of us ever thought was possible. But still I remained distant, unable to acknowledge it, unable to used past tense verbs for a man who has been a part of my life all my life --- for the last thirty-two years considering my earliest memory, after the one where I woke up behind a wall of wooden bars, was nursery school --- naptime, tap dance classes, being scared to death by a puppet for my class photo, jelly sandwiches and French fries, Bert and Ernie, Chico and the Man, Mary Tyler Moore, Tom & Jerry, Mighty Mouse, Mickey Mouse, Puff the Magic Dragon and Michael Jackson.

As a young’n I didn’t understand why Michael was singing about a rat named Ben. My mother explained that it was from a movie. I spent a good amount of time singing along with ABC after that. I distinctly remember the FM transistor radio sitting (a ridiculous contraption by today’s standards) in the front of my 2nd grade class blasting This Place Is (Heartbreak Hotel). Billie Jean and MTV. There were so many songs, they just kept coming out. Say, Say, Say with Paul McCartney. I was at an aunt’s house in Midlothian (somewhere in the Midwest) when Thriller debuted as primetime feature on CBS. I didn’t get it. Why did dude make a mini-horror movie for a dance tune? At the time I wasn’t aware that creativity meant doing different things, doing new things, being a pioneer. I never got into the red zippered jacket, but I wanted that white suit he was wearing on the cover and I also wanted a baby tiger. My parents said no to both. I had to sing We Are the World (sigh) with my class at my 8th grade graduation. Man in the Mirror drove me absolutely insane. I hated that song with all my heart, probably because my church and every other Methodist church in Illinois embraced it as an anthem an bludgeoned me over the head with it for a year in church plays, on church retreats, everywhere I turned. But like all things, my interest began to fade for pop music as my interest in hip hop grew. But I always listened when a Michael Jackson song came on the radio or debuted. I marveled at the strength of his singing voice considering the timidity of his speaking one. Oh yes, and probably to the horror of many of you I didn’t and still don’t like Smooth Criminal. I was a junior in college when Remember The Time blasted its way into the mainstream. I was a new fraternity man, I was dating a Puerto Rican girl/devil spawn siren (didn’t know it at the time) at another school and I remember going with her to a party at a club that DJ Spinna was hosting with my frat. As he put Remember The Time on the wheels of steel the video came on simultaneous on a wall of televisions off from the bar. I remember dancing like there was no tomorrow that night. It just didn’t get any better than that and I remember thinking, Micheal is the f$%#'n man! Michael Jackson was there, just like he had been everywhere else at memorable points in my life. My interest truly waned as he explored different styles and formats and I turned into a complete hip hop junkie for the rest of the nineties. The easiest way to clear a dance floor back then was to put on Thriller after Biggie. When I met my wife, MJ resurfaced again in the Jackson 5 Christmas album she plays every year. A Bing Crosby-Nat King Cole type, I hated it, but eventually it grew on me especially after watching the boy who would become my son sing along gleefully with the words.

My heart progressively grew heavier in the days that led up to Michael Jackson’s memorial service this past Tuesday while become more agog over the reality that everyone on the planet Earth knew the man --- whether they loved or hated him. I began to think to myself, How is this worldwide outpouring of grief even possible? He was just a man. He wasn't Jesus.

I got my answer four days ago when I overheard an old interview with MJ where he stated his contempt with having to put his name on his music despite the fact that he did EVERYTHING to create it, arrangement, vocals, melody, etc. He went on to explain that he was merely a medium and he didn’t want to take credit for God’s work.

This drove me to the music, the source of his gifting. Past the undeniable grooves, slick moves, the grunts and unintelligible shrieks and occasional to frequent crotch grabbing, the majority of the man’s music preached love for one another, love between man and woman, working together as one, healing the world through music, giving love and care to the children of the world and above all hope for a better day.

I always knew this of course, but I don’t think I ever realized it until a few days ago. His international appeal began to crystallize for me. Where hope and opportunity is not as easily grasped as it is here in the U.S. I can only imagine what the words of his songs have done to revolutionize the hearts and minds of the downtrodden, overlooked and unloved.

A biblical figure, David, was a man who had God’s favor. He slew a giant as a boy, and he grew up to be a king despite repeated attempts against his life along the way. As a warrior he slew tens of thousands of enemies…he was essentially The Man. In the midst of all of David’s successes however he was a certifiable mess. He had a thing for the women, namely Bathsheba, and a whole other host of issues, but he loved God and every time he did wrong he went running through the streets of Israel screaming, dancing and ripping up his clothes in repentance. When called a fool by his wife he basically told her he’d be a fool for God any day of the week. Until his end she and every force that rose up against David met an awful end. God had His hand on him just like he did Michael Jackson. Like David, God was in his works, not his flesh.

Who among us doesn’t have demons that we wrestle with? Michael clearly had his. His overlooked and untreated sensitivity as a child evolved into a psychosis that doesn’t make any sense to most of us and makes it easier than not for the average schmuck to label him, “freak.” Through the fruits of his labor, Michael had the means and opportunity to feed his demons, most notably his body dysmorphic disorder. The only opinion I will levy is that it’s too bad that people around him enabled this because despite his manager-father chiding him about his looks, he was hands-down the best looking of the Jackson brothers and in my opinion his original looks matched his gifting in music (I truly hope he’s singing and dancing in heaven as his original self). But in 1979 he broke his nose and got corrective/cosmetic surgery and got on the sauce. In 1995 I scorched my right hand all the way down to the muscle during a cooking disaster (grease fire) and practically had to have it rebuilt. In 2001, I had a bout with eczema that turned my nose beige (I’m not beige). For weeks I walked around in dark shades with a baseball cap pulled down past my eyebrows and kept my head down or covered with a sheet of paper at work. I ignored the doctor’s measured prescription for a powerful cortisone cream and was almost drinking it. In 2005, I went under the knife again after discovering I had benign polyps in my sinuses and a nose-bone that was so crooked it was preventing me from breathing properly. It was otherwise masked by an outwardly appearing straight nose. Best believe, being a beneficiary of medical science causes you to contemplate all the other stuff you can or should “have done.” No different than one might rehab a classic car or a house.

I thought Michael was bugging out when he started his vitiligo talk, especially since my best man from my wedding has it from head to toe to the point that even his hair is white. But then I saw MJ's hands and recognized the pigmentation and splotches as being similar to that of my friend’s. Then the glove made sense and so did the bleaching to blend, but then it continued and continued and continued until masking what is a horrific skin condition for a person of color became something damn near frightening to behold.

A note on the state of Michael Jackson's blackness (whatever that means): Do I think he had a problem with being black or black people? His songs and his charitable giving suggests otherwise. Do I believe in his mind he had a problem with his personal appearance as a black man? Most definitely.

Over the years I never judged Michael, although I did laugh at the SNL skit of his hair catching on fire. And I hollered when Dave Chappelle, on his show, pretended to be a witness in the Michael Jackson trial. When the media was having a field day with him, I didn’t understand why he was reacting to it --- why he granted that Bashir interview, why he stood up on top of the limo before going into court, why he showed up to court in pajamas, why he briefly felt the need to prove to the world that he wasn't gay. To me it was obvious he wasn’t. What was equally obvious was that he didn’t want to grow up. Messing around with women, getting married and having kids is a sure sign of maturity and getting old before it’s some proof of manhood. Why have kids when you haven’t had a childhood of your own? Seems pretty straightforward to me. I occasionally ask the same of myself and did so as recently as this past July 4th. Despite the joys, marriage and family grounds and ages you, if not physically, definitely mentally and spiritually. If someone isn’t ready for that (man or woman) they shouldn’t be faulted for it. What the finger pointers should do is worry about themselves.

It’s easy to ignore MJ’s acquittal (especially since “not-guilty” doesn't exist in the court of public opinion), it’s easy to name call, it’s easy to hate. To do so means you don’t have to focus on your own flaw-filled life. Michael Jackson was a gentle, naïve soul that loved everyone and sometimes didn’t seem to understand why that love wasn’t returned in kind. His naivety and sensitivity didn’t seem to allow him to ignore jealousy and those who pass judgment from their crystal castles simply for the sake of it. Like my mother, he hurt when he saw other people hurt. As one who preached love, he lashed out, most powerfully in song and dance and most tragically in the media where his every insecurity and eccentricity was turned into fodder.

A brief note about the molestation charges: God forbid my son or daughter was ever molested by a grown man. They would find that man's body minus his head (or at least unrecognizable) and his male parts. No amount of money would suffice. I’d clear out my savings and move to Costa Rica. Not being graphic, just being honest. Oh, and I wouldn't have let my child spend the night in the first place.

As a father who drinks from the cup of joy my kids fill for me everyday I won’t join the legion of bloggers and reporter who labeled MJ unhappy. I know his kids gave him joy he so desperately called out for before their arrival in this life, just like I know without knowing the joy all fathers (who are real fathers) receive from helming the position of Dad.

The frenzy continues in his death. Power plays are being made for the estate. There are actually talking-head laden panel discussions on the 24/7 news outlets discussing the paternity of his children (like it would even matter if he had really been white and his kids were black), AEG and the state of California are fighting in the press. And Joe Jackson is launching a record label (I wish him well in his illustrious, upcoming two and a half-year career). Despite all this foolishness Michael's daughter, Paris, shut it all down for me when she laid more claim to him more than anyone of us fans ever can or will by simply calling him, “Daddy.”

Just as in my childhood, I still do wish I could’ve met him. I think I would’ve been better for the experience even if it was only a brief 5-minute chat. But I didn’t so I’ll just take solace in the fact that the world became a better place because of him just like it has because of anyone who pours their heart and soul into whatever it is that they do --- from collecting trash as a garbage man to filling an entire world with song, after song, after song and a whole lot of dancing as the most influential music man there ever was and arguably will ever be.

R.I.P., Micheal Jackson, and Thank You. I’ll always Remember The Time.

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