Michael Jackson and Me

When I was nine, I remember a classmate of mine brought into school a 45 single of a song I'd never heard before by a singer I didn't know. The song was "Billie Jean" by Michael Jackson.

My ignorance was soon rectified. Jackson's Thriller album was not just popular; it was a necessity like food, shelter, clothing. Or rather, a fact of life, like air, water, and earth. It was just there, inescapable, immovable, irresistible.

Though I knew the entire cassette by heart, and I had images of Michael Jackson on buttons and posters all around my room, had seen all of his videos several times and repeatedly practiced the "Beat It" dance moves in my backyard though never learned them, I knew almost nothing about Jackson the man. I had never heard his speaking voice. I had never listened to his previous solo record Off the Wall, and was only remotely aware of his career as a child star because a new group called New Edition was being touted as "the next Jackson Five." In fact, I knew almost nothing about him other than his image from his videos and megahit album. He wore sequined jackets. He sang and danced better than anyone alive. And he was shy.

Being shy myself, I became desperately infatuated with Jackson. I deeply coveted his zipper jacket from the Beat It video, which a lot of the boys in school were wearing. However, because it cost forty bucks, my parents were initially reluctant to buy it for me. Unfortunately, by the time they finally broke down and got me one, it had gone out of style. I wore it exactly twice. The second time, I was in a store and I saw two kids pointing at me and snickering, "Look, he's wearing the Michael Jackson jacket."

I dreamed of meeting Jackson, perhaps by writing him an eloquent fan letter that would so move him, that he would invite me to his ranch at Neverland to become his best friend. We'd watch movies together, go on rides, play with the animals in his zoo, have sleepovers. He'd dedicate a song to me. He would love me. I even wrote an unfinished story about our adventures called "Me and Michael," that I felt sure would get his attention.

Thankfully my fantasy never came true, as it did for other young playmates of a troubled grown man who'd formed a profoundly unhealthy attachment to childhood. Though never found guilty in a court of law of his actions, Jackson horribly betrayed the trust of these boys who looked to their idol for friendship and comfort. For this reason, much as I appreciate his music and career achievements, I cannot cry for the man who died yesterday or feel sad that he's gone. Furthermore, I find it nauseating that so many people, in their rush to participate in the orgy of celebrity glorification that defines our culture, are eager to whitewash this man's loathsome legacy. I wonder if these same people might also shed tears for the deaths of their local child molesters who aren't famous and don't have Grammys and gold albums to distract from their unsavory acts.