I read the news today, oh boy...
I was 7 years old, growing up in North Philadelphia, 43 years ago. We had the Supremes, Aretha Franklin, the Temptations, but my parents listened to them. We danced to them, my girlfriends and I wearing towels on our head, prentending we had long hair, doing their routines on the street. But then came the Jackson 5 and the music became ours.
We screamed and palapitated whenever we saw them on TV, like those girls from the news footage of the Beatles. They were African American like we were and ohhh so fine. I was always a Marlon Jackson kind of girl. Most of my friends like Jermaine, I left him to them. Michael, well he always seemed distant, but I loved him. He had the voice of an angel.
Music, dance...in the past, it was an invocation for the gods, worship. Whether it was country music, soul, or rock, music touched something in us, made us bigger, left an impression, moved us. We stood with mobs of strangers at concerts and became one as the music washed over us. They give, we take. I am not sure sometimes if money is a fair exchange.
I grew up and it was the dawning of MTV. I was living in Manhattan then, the early 80s. I had TVs everywhere in my apartment. My lover was a musician, I an artist. Everything was image, lighting and we watched Thriller. It gave me goose bumps and there was Michael, like me all grown up. I was so proud of him, sticking it to the music business, doing something so wonderful and becoming beloved by millions. This African American man.
He was grace in motion. Sometimes, even now, I would watch him on Youtube. He never staled for me. His videos left me with feeling good and I accepted his gifts, appreciated it greatly.
But the bigger he got, the more force was set against him to the point when his song 'Leave Me Alone,' I wanted him to disappear and have a normal life. Already he had given so much of himself to us, I wanted him to have some peace.
But peace did not seem the route for him, whether by his own making our external. It was painful to watch his self mutilation but my love never wavered but saddness grew. I still bought his records, cd's, I still marveled at his talent, this pale man, like an alien he was, but he was still family to me. I never deserted him.
I saw him in concert only once, his Bad tour and even to this day, it was the best concert I have even been to. He gave so much of himself in that performance. I ate him up, just as everyone did. Even when they didn't want to, poised at the start to hate the concert then dancing and yelling like the rest of us when he took the stage. It was like magic.
His 25th anniversity cd. I bought it. I didn't have to, but I did because I wanted to support him and tell him thank you for all the years of joy he gave me through his music. Friends bought it, almost secretly and it was not until one said they had it, that middle aged friends say they bought it as well. Husbands and wives, each buying a copy. Then we sat over drinks and wondered what happened to Michael Jackson. Did we eat him until there was only bones left?
In my lifetime, there are few that I recognize as true artists...Michael Jackson and David Bowie, John Lennon, James Brown, Luther Vandross, Johnny Cash, come to mind. Of course there are others, but to me, they touched me more than any others.
The problem I guess that made me weep, is again, Michael Jackson, even in death, it is about me. I am not immortal. If he is gone, someone who has been in my life through his art for 43 years, then I will soon follow. I thought he would live forever, maybe I thought I would as well. I will miss him just as if someone in my family died.
I am 50 years old, I loved Michael Jackson through his good times and bad times. I loved him since I was 7. I sure hope he found peace in this life, if not, then in death.
Rest in Peace dear, dear Michael.