It has taken me a while to get to this blog. There are several reasons; the state of affairs in my career these days finds me extremely focused on my new opportunities, my family keeps me on my toes and this is a blog entry that I NEVER thought I would have cause to write. Yet, I sit contemplating so many emotions and unanswered questions. I sit here with part of my identity emptied out and no means of replenishment.
On Thursday, June 25th, I sat in front of my television having completed a wonderful That's My Word show with Rob Murat. I was actually euphoric! I closed the browser windows that were devoted to the show's chat room and switchboard and opened Tweet Deck. It was buzzing with activity. I was struck by the name in a lot of the tweets. Michael Jackson. Michael Jackson? Then I kept seeing the words dead and unconfirmed. I immediately turned the TV to MSNBC and restored the volume. Sure enough, they were talking about my childhood hero. They were saying he had collapsed and efforts were being made to revive him. I hoped for the best but my gut felt the worse. My mind immediately had the thought, "I don't know how to live in a world without Michael."
Now, before you call me a nut ball let me elaborate. I cannot recall a time when I did not love music and breathe it. I started singing at an early age and took wonderful joy in singing for others. My mother and aunt were devout Motowners. My grandparents loved their Nat King Cole and such. I first fell in love with the voice of Deniece Williams at about 7 and knew music was everything for me. Then I heard a man named Michael Jackson burst on to the scene singing Billie Jean and Beat it. I was nine. He was the first man I was ever in love with.
Beyond the flash and good looks, I could see he was intelligent and talented. To be close to him, I had to beg my parents to buy me the Thriller album. Everyday I would come home from school and do enough homework to have done most of my homework. Then I'd grab my Thriller album, unfold the flaps to reveal the picture of Michael in the white suit with the tigers. I'd prop Michael against the chair and dance and sing around him until dinner time. I'd only take a break to study the words or his artwork. I played both sides of that album as long as I could. I don't know how my family put up with it.
I wanted to be a part of Michael's world. The best I could do was get a jheri curl. A jheri curl that I got on July 6, 1983, the night before my grandfather died. I sat in a beautician's chair for some 4 hours trying to get a small piece of MJ. Of course, later I got the Beat It watch and the MJ doll. I never got the glove but I learned to improvise.
As the years pasted, Michael Jackson was never far from my mind or heart. I was not as excited whenever he dropped an album but I had an unfailing belief in him. I think that his ever-changing appearance caused distance between us. He looked less and less like the Micheal Jackson that I had come to love. However, I never stopped feeling and caring for him. He was like the old friend that you no longer spoke to but thought about everyday.I never believed that he sexually abuse anyone, either. In my mind, he loved children too much to hurt any. He always appeared to me to be very naive of such matters. So, I prayed hard for his acquittal and often cried for him on the inside. I hated that the media made such a spectacle of him and, worse, he gave them so much ammunition. In those times, I wish I had known him personally to reach out and lend my support.
However, I did not know him. I knew a feeling that his music gave me. I knew that I never expected to have to see him die. Yet, I never imagined him getting old. I could never envision a white haired MJ, wheeling his tired body to and fro. I could never see Michael Jackson the grandfather, wrinkled and frail. I somehow figured he would just always exist as who he had come to be.
I don't know what I will be or how I will feel once the headlines fade away. That is when it will finally be done and Michael will only exist in music that sits in my cd cabinet and plays on my radio, videos that I'll likely have to surf for on YouTube. I wonder if I will be able to shed the overwhelming sadness I have whenever I think of how his death did not need to be. At least, now I have ceased thinking about him in the early hours of every morning when I am unable to sleep. Maybe that bodes well for my sanity. Whatever the case, I miss him. I somehow feel empty knowing that he no longer physically moonwalks this earth. I pray, though, that he is finally rested and the words of compassion I was unable to give him in life can now transcend.
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