Losing Michael Jackson

June 26, 2009

The first time I ever heard Michael Jackson’s voice, it was on the song “ABC”, which he sang with his brothers as part of the original boy band, the Jackson 5. It was the early 1970s and I know in some weird way that I was still in diapers. I lived with my parents on the second story of a house on 83^rd street in Jackson Heights, New York. My aunt, uncle and six cousins lived on the first floor. Think what you will about Latino families and living arrangements, but I can state three things for sure. We knew it took a village to raise kids way before Hillary Clinton said so, it wasn’t like that and, and we did live independent,

though lovingly close lives. I can tell you that for me as a child, this was a great arrangement. It was before my brother was born, so having built-in playmates in some of the younger kids was great. It was probably my cousin Mirna, who loved music and dance and was of an age to be able to go out and buy it, who first brought the Jackson 5 album into our lives.

When I heard Michael Jackson singing it was as if it seeped into my veins, his music, the voice, the movement in the sound. Maybe I was 2, or 3 years old. I was in love. My cousins were older and they could dance and sing along, air microphones in hand, moving about as if possessed by some unseen song-and-dance man in the room with us.

Though I can’t say for sure when I first saw Michael and his brothers on television, I do remember some things had changed since that first listen. We had moved, to the third story of the house next door, and now I had a brother. I remember my first glimpse of Michael Jackson was in black and white. A small, thin figure moving with such ease and style, taking the music and bringing it to life on the small, fuzzy screen before my eyes. I knew something for sure even then: He was a kid but he was something else.

As I grew, Michael’s music remained in the background of my life. His songs were there as a part of the fabric of my existence, whether or not I was paying attention. Michael Jackson wasn’t played in my kindergarten class, nor was I the kind of child to insist on having my own records to play at the time. Yet, there was Michael Jackson making music, winning accolades, moving small mountains and large ones for his African-American race, even when all he knew was that he loved to dance and sing.

Michael sang with such passion and soul, even when he was just a little boy not yet close to the experiences about which he sang. It was hard to ignore his voice and the manner in which he sang the lyrics that overwhelmed the hearts of millions. His songs and accompanying videos in later years would have more meaning to the artist and songwriter. Hits like "Black and White" and "Man in the Mirror" would speak volumes about his inner turmoil and less known songs like "Leave Me Alone", and the autobiographical "Childhood" would escalate those feelings.

By the time “Off the Wall” came out, I was beginning to form my own opinions about the kind of music I liked, the kinds of sounds I could groove to, the kinds of artists I could get in to. Michael Jackson was one such artist.

Then came three crazy changes, stretched over a two-year period that altered my life forever: I was diagnosed with Lupus, I started junior high school, and Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” came out. One event deeply affected the next. My diagnosis came with a myriad of physical changes, which earned me much ridicule and torment at the school level. I went from casual listener of Michael Jackson and his music to true, devoted fan of it. The harder the knocks I was subjected to, the more I listened to his music. It gave me an escape, somewhere else to place my erratic thoughts and my increasing anger. It gave me an unlikely peace, a place where I could simply forget about my reality.

We didn’t have cable at home, but I knew of MTV. I suspected its impact on my emerging adolescence and my generation. I knew something big was soon to be seen and felt all over the place. Music as movies? It was hard to get my head around it. Yet, I wanted to see what would happen when the words I was signing suddenly came with a little movie story.

Michael Jackson took this new medium to a whole different level. He reveled in his opportunity to make of his songs these small, amazing pieces of film. Little tales, vignettes on celluloid that would bring to life what he already probably knew in his head. If he could combine his voice with his dance moves, the sky was the limit. He could not have been more on target.

With the videos for “Beat It”, “Billie Jean” and, above all, with the masterpiece that is “Thriller”, Michael Jackson tore away any doubt anyone had that the video was here to stay. We were all hooked, defenseless to the magnetic power of music and movies combined. The images we saw soon begat the styles and the fashions of the times. It brought Michael Jackson the recording artist into our lives as Michael Jackson the musical maestro and style icon. His sequined glove, his sequined socks in black penny loafers, his zippered red and black jacket were suddenly all the rage. Soon people were imitating his moves, dressing like him, wanting to be him. And why not? He was the originator of his unique style, the first Moon Walker on this planet, the one to take MTV to heights as yet unseen in the 1980s.

But of all the great things I could say about Michael Jackson’s talents and contributions to our culture, some truths remain. His childhood, though seemingly full of idealistic good fortune, music and love was far from it. It was a veil over the harsher realities of the Jackson clan – their normal problems magnified by their emerging fame. He claimed throughout his adulthood that he felt viciously robbed of his childhood because he was thrust into the spotlight of work and fame so soon. Though it was obvious to everyone from Ed Sullivan to Quincy Jones that it was Michael with the stand out talent, he never once claimed to be better than any of his brothers. It was probably a role he wouldn’t have chosen because even though he loved what he did and even though he was amazing at it, his shyness was legendary.

Michael Jackson claimed to have been raised in an abusive home where his father ruled never sparing the rod and his mother remained helpless on the sidelines of her children's mental and physical wounds. He also tried, throughout his unwelcome and seemingly uncomfortable adulthood, to recapture what was stolen from him. This at times made him the target of both ridicule and suspicion. An adult man who lived in a make-believe kind of ranch named Neverland, with toys, amusement rides, llamas and chimpanzees. A man who claimed to be Peter Pan come to life - the boy who never grew up. A man tormented by unseen demons of inadequacy and self-hatred. A man as lonely as he was worshiped by millions. A man who doesn’t make friends his own age, but who prefers the company of children with whom to watch cartoons, have slumber parties and play video games all day. How do we as a society come to accept that kind of existence even from one of our most beloved musical geniuses?

The answer is that we don’t.

What we end up doing is watching him. We watch him with the kind of sick curiosity we watch a car wreck on the highway: “Is this why there is traffic?” We watch him swim around trapped in a fish bowl. We watch him go from humanitarian author of the global phenomenon of “We Are the World”, to the supporter of a colorless, united planet because it “doesn’t matter if you’re black or white”, to a black man losing his skin color day by day, to the musician struggling to stay relevant on the charts, to a millionaire turned creditors’ nightmare, to the plastic surgery addict who looks nothing like the little boy we fell in love with in the 1970s, to the eccentric recluse buying more than he needs, filling voids that will never be filled, to the brief, almost unnatural role of son-in-law of Elvis Presley, to the father of three children that do not resemble him in the slightest, to the twice-accused child molester – never proven but never fully vindicated, to the man who ran away from America to live in Bahrain to escape the glare of the American media, to his quiet return to the states, to his promised, unprecedented 2009 comeback tour that will never be, to today. One day post the story heard ‘round the globe: Michael Jackson Dead at 50.

Oh, but what he accomplished in a half century!

Despite all that he did, the “Thriller” album will now forever be known as his greatest work. It is, quite possibly, the most imitated line dance of all time. It has been repeated in movies like “13 Going on 30”, and it’s rocked receptions all over with brides, grooms and their attendants taking to the floor to entertain the guests, even to 1500 men in a prison in the Philippines – a sea of orange suits, dancing to “Thriller”. This is Michael Jackson’s amazing legacy.

Yet, the circus of his legal woes and accusations will forever be known as his greatest downfall. It will forever haunt and tarnish an otherwise stellar lifetime. Although he tried throughout the rest of his life to reach that height of fame and praise of “Thriller”, such a thing could never be repeated. He was fortunate to have had it even once, for so many other musical talents never even get that chance.

Yesterday and today, once news came that he was rushed from his rented home in Los Angles in cardiac arrest, to when he was pronounced dead at UCLA Medical after futile attempts to revive him, to when he was taken from there by helicopter to the LA Coroner’s office for an autopsy, we have all been numbed by the reports, the images, the questions, the sadness and the sounds of his passing. And so much more will come of this in the coming weeks, months and years because you don’t pass through this life as Michael Jackson, contribute so much to music, make so many mistakes, but never fulfill yourself as a human being and not leave behind an infinite number of stories told and retold many stories yet to tell.

I don’t really care if I am on the more popular team, or the less popular. I am on whatever team is greatly saddened by the death of Michael Jackson. I am on the team who knows without a doubt that what he brought to the stage was magic. I am on the team that was fortunate enough to be present to his genius. I am on the team that was disappointed by some of his actions. I am on the team that held out hope for his vindication. I am on the team that hoped against hope that all the negative was untrue. I am on the team that still can’t believe he is gone. I am on the team that never imagined he would die so suddenly. I am on the team that won’t forget his talent. I am on the team that danced to his music, watched his videos, and loved him for all of it. I am on the team that will miss him greatly.

Good-bye and Rest in Peace King of Pop! 1958-2009