Over the past month, as I reported on your upcoming series of 50 shows in London next month, I told people around me: “Michael will never perform a single date of that engagement.” It was evident to me that you were not well. If you weren’t physically ill, I thought, you were ill inside. You wouldn’t withstand the pressure, the expectations of the madding crowd. I knew it wasn’t to be, but I never imagined your death. I simply thought that the Michael Jackson who speaks in a whisper and wears surgical masks and told the world that the most loving thing you could do was to share a bed with a child – the Michael Jackson who had crooned a tender “Ben” to a rat -- I knew that that Michael Jackson was being consumed in the conflagration of the world’s desire, a desire to both love you and see you utterly destroyed. There would be nothing left of you to display in the stage glare of the O2 Arena. In your heart, you wanted to give yourself to us. But your heart wasn’t strong enough to withstand the pressure from within and without, and so you fell.
You weren’t like other people, Michael, you never have been. You were born a stunning, gentle, sensitive child with a staggering talent, and you held onto your childlike nature for as long as you could despite the tests and trials and tragedies, the world’s determined and often mean-spirited attempts to grow you up. Your path away from us was never going to be mundane or simple. This is why I am in no way surprised. What does surprise me is my slow reaction, from surface sadness to a deeper ache that has to do with time and talent and waste and mortality and the sense that you were in some way mine.
I remember you, Michael, from when you first appeared on the scene in the late ‘60s. We are only a year apart, but I always thought of you as younger. You and your brothers, a picture of familial unity, on the television, on the album covers, you in the middle with your dark cherry cheeks, dimples, and bright eyes. You with your preternaturally angelic and polished voice. One more chance, is all you ask of me? It is yours. If you want me back, I want you too, Mike. You and Jermaine, Jackie and Marlon, even Tito and his blues guitar, all of you in your psychedelic bellbottoms, your supremely sculpted Afros, I am for you, I am on your side. I was formed within myself just from watching you on TV, hearing you on the radio. You gave out hope as well as joy, awe as well as pride. Did you ever truly know how perfect you were, Michael? Not just the little-man-soul vocals and the James Brown dance routines, but your gorgeous, shimmering blackness? You stunned the world. That fact seemed never enough for you as you grew into a man.
I have a memory of seeing you, Michael, you and your four sho-nuff Brotha brothers adding up to Jackson 5, in the way-back-then of exploding fame and gushing teenage adoration. You were young and nimble, on the stage of Madison Square Garden, the opening act for someone then deemed bigger. Was it the Isley Brothers? And I wonder, who’s loving you?, you cried, in an anguish that made me speculate on what the world held in store that could stir up that amount of emotion. And I betcha, you chirped with your brothers. You seemed so sure and wise. You hinted at things to come, Michael.
Oh, I loved those Motown/Corporation Jackson 5 hits. Especially “Sugar Daddy” and “Mama’s Pearl.” They were sheer confection, pop perfection. The idea that you, Michael, or some other boy your age might be interested in buying me treats to win my affection, or that there was a real understanding that I was a gem not just to my parents but to you, dear Michael, were concepts so potent, so lofty, so romantic and gratifying that I began to see myself differently. Maybe a gawky, spectacles-afflicted girl from the Bronx was truly worthy of you.
I must confess, though, Mike, that I wasn’t as swept away as some of the other girls in my class. I didn’t fight in the rest room over the latest issue of Right On! Magazine, or indulge in debates over who was cuter, you or Jermaine. I didn’t have shouting matches in the schoolyard with the other girls, which began, Michael’s my boyfriend! No, he’s mine! I was always sort of reserved, lowkey, conservative. But I knew you were special, Michael, in a class by yourself. I had heard you speak on The Mike Douglas Show, knew you were shy and quiet too. Oh Michael. Did you know? Did you ever truly know that you were a shining black prince?
So much has occurred since those early days, when you were coming into your own. You grew up, a bit awkwardly, but your talent never flagged. Eventually you left your brothers and forged a stunning path that was purely your own, and this is the crux of your fame: Off The Wall and Thriller, the albums that telegraphed your brilliance to the world. So many people acclaiming you, celebrating you. Generations thrilled by “Thriller,” nations rocked by “Rock With You.” I too applauded, but I felt crowded out, Michael. I had connected to you when we were young, felt a kind of proximity and kinship to you back then, but you had outgrown me, like a cousin who had moved to the ‘burbs. I waved to you from my seat high up in Giants Stadium in New Jersey when you reunited with your brothers and gave a dazzling performance on the Victory Tour. You were on a well-deserved rocket to the stratosphere, while my feet stayed on the ground.
Beautiful and strange things were happening to you, things I could only guess at as I too, grew up, began my own career, married, divorced. I was now on the music beat, writing, but you were as far away as the rings of Saturn. By the mid ‘90s I had played tennis with 2Pac in Miami, shaken hands with Prince at Paisley Park, brunched in Minneapolis with your sister Janet, sat in a New York restaurant as your brother Jermaine expressed disappointment in a story I’d written. But you, Michael, had gone into the Ivory Tower of your melanin-depleted skin, you indulged yourself in whims and became inaccessible, at least to me.
When Bad was delivered, then Dangerous and the rest, I listened without much comment or enthusiasm. Your brilliance was intact but it had lost the power to amaze me, I am ashamed to admit. You became shrouded in rumor and accusations and blame, and I wanted to believe that there was still an innocent living inside the grotesque figure you appeared to be, no longer black, not ever white, an incongruous presence. Unlike so many of your fans, who forgot and forgave, I had to divorce myself from you Michael. It was too painful to see you this way, fading and blundering and afflicted with a kind of selective blindness. Like Peter Pan, you could only maintain your eternal youth within the boundaries of Neverland. When that sanctuary, too, was finally gone, I knew your days were numbered.
It is the Saturday after the Thursday of your demise, dear Michael. Strains of “Beat It,” “Thriller,” “Remember The Time,” “Bad,” “The Way You Make Me Feel,” “Billie Jean,” and so much more fill the air, wafting from radios around the world. These are the tunes that most people cite when they speak of you. And rightly so. With each song, each recorded step of your journey, I am reminded anew of the power you brought to bear. It has taken two whole days for the truth of your passing to finally sink me to the sandy bottom of this ocean of memory.
I go back in my mind to the days when we were children together and you were held lightly in the grip of the world. There was one 45 in particular that I remember, when I was in grade school and you were Motown royalty. I was partial to B-sides, and fancied myself a budding poet. You sang a cover of a Supremes tune, and the recording never failed to slay me, as they used to say; it used to make me swoon. I was way too young then to have ever loved and lost in an epic way, but I listened beyond the lyrics to the emotion held aloft in your voice, listened until I was moved to tears. I think of it now as I say goodbye, Michael.
Love is here
And oh my darling, now you’re gone
You made me love you!
And oh my darling now you’re gone
