Posted July 1, 2009
There are so many things I should be doing other than writing about this, but the unexpected death of Michael Jackson has thrown me into a tailspin. Death does that to us. Just when we think we’re going on our merry way, thinking we need to make sure we put the trash out on Tuesday, or get the bills in the mail before they’re late on the 15th, suddenly we are body-slammed by something much more powerful, something that makes us realize how very precious each day is.
I was expecting Farrah Fawcett’s death, but it was still a tragic loss. What a beautiful lady she was; she had indomitable class and she presumably maintained those qualities right up until the end. I used to love watching her on “Charlie’s Angels” in the ’70s and my brother had her famous poster on the wall in his bedroom. Farrah and her fellow actors back then—Jaclyn Smith and Kate Jackson, showed us that women can be both sexy and strong.
Unfortunately Farrah’s death was overshadowed by that of Michael Jackson’s…
My youngest son came home from work and told me the news. As when I heard about the death of John Lennon, at first I thought it was a joke.
And to a lot of people, apparently it is a joke. While I was in the grocery store the other day, I overheard a man at the check-out telling jokes to the clerk—jokes about Michael Jackson’s and Farrah Fawcett’s deaths. I can take a joke with the best of them, but when I heard what he was saying, something cold and slimy seemed to crawl up my spine. I wanted to say, “Have some respect for their families, will ya?” but I knew if I opened my mouth, I’d be inviting trouble with a man who had already passed judgment on a person he didn’t even know.
The fact remains that none of us will ever know what really happened with Michael and the boys he was accused of sexually molesting. Sure, like O.J. Simpson, he was acquitted. But I have a different opinion of the O.J. case and I won’t go into that. Michael, on the other hand, was a different story. While he was obviously an eccentric person, I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt about the molestation. (I am in no way condoning his behavior however.) Not because he’s dead, but because from what I’d seen on television and the news, Jackson was robbed of his own childhood. Because of this, he seemed to spend his entire life searching for it. I remember seeing an interview with him once. Michael climbed up in a tree and the reporter on the ground below him asked, “You’re 45 years old, Michael, aren’t you a little old to be climbing trees?”
“It’s fun!” Michael chirped, “you should come on up!”
Eccentricities aside, Michael Jackson was and always will be an icon. I saw him carry the huge responsibility of being frontman for The Jackson 5 when they first appeared on TV with their huge afros. How cool that was! He was the same age as me when they became famous. I can only imagine the immense burden this role would be on anybody, much less a child. And he went on to change the world; Michael truly did bridge a gap between races. His music appealed to all; his dancing talent inferior to none.
What makes someone a celebrity in the first place, is the fact that their personification reveals a part of ourselves many of us have a hard time getting in touch with; it doesn’t matter if we like them or not.
And whether one feels disdain toward him or awe, the name of Michael Jackson has affected us all. Let us not dwell on the negativities associated with his name, especially since the worst of his accusations was never proved. Perhaps it is our own insecurities and inequities that produced the sad and lost soul that tormented him in the first place. Let’s heal his wounds right now by not carrying them, in the form of our judgments, any further. Let’s remember the man for the gift of love and immeasurable talent he gave the world.
May you rest in peace, Michael, thank you for brightening my life with your music.
May you rest in peace, Farrah, thank you for showing me that true beauty can also be strong.
I have never been what you would call of fan of Jackson’s. I don’t even own any of his albums, and as my husband and I walked out of the theater the other night, I realized why. It’s because Michael was like my brother. I didn’t need to buy his music, he was just always there; I grew up with him. He and I were about the same age and I distinctly remember seeing him on TV way back in the ‘70s, wowing audiences as he outshined his brothers as lead singer of The Jackson 5—with their loud, striped, bellbottom pants, puffy ‘fros and all. I was rooting for him way back then, like a sister on the sidelines.