This will be posted a day after the anniversary, as well as three days after another similar event. Both the anniversary and event have left a deep wound on my heart and psyche and while I know time heals all wounds, I can't help but remember and honor the memory of those who have touched my life in such a profound way that news of their passing gives me pause, sends me rushing to recollection.
My parents were children when Martin Luther King, Jr. and John F. Kennedy were assassinated. I was in the womb when the explosion of the Challenger space shuttle occurred. I was a freshman in high school when the World Trade Center came crumbling down, pouring rubble onto the magnificent city of New York and sending a lingering cloud into the atmosphere...
But somehow I remember how my world came to a complete and utter standstill when I received news of the death of two creative heavyweights...
On the evening of June 24, 2009 I had finished a night at work, my head bobbing and my lips forming the lyrics for Michael Jackson's song "Remember the Time" as I slid the golden key home in the lock of my two-bedroom apartment. I smiled to myself, thinking that, even though the song had been released in 1991, Michael Jackson was way ahead of his time.
When I was 5 years old, my parents gave me a Christmas gift which included a cassette player and a copy of Michael Jackson's THRILLER on cassette tape. I played the HELL out of that tape and began collecting his music from that point on. His music became the soundtrack to my life. My adoration of the man was damn near worshipful.
My parents have videos of me dressed up as MJ for Halloween, crying because they were patronizing me, trying to make me mimic his iconic moves ("Do it! Do it! BAM! Just like he does it!' *sobbing* "No I don't want to! turn the camera off!!! NOWW!") There is also a video of me turning the stereo up full blast when his song "Jam" came on the radio, dancing in the front yard of our little house at the age of 6.
The man's fashion sense, his unparallelled dancing ability, monster musical successes (he still holds the record for biggest selling record of all time), showmanship, artistic vision, heavenly voice, and publicity of his private life were constantly the focus of media attention. His career marred by the sexual abuse allegations (not helped at all by Michael's practice of sharing his bed) he slid into obscurity and began plotting his comeback.
I went to bed that night, smiling, the song still in my head, memories of the video playing right alongside it. The next day started innocently enough, another day at work, nothing else was expected by me. Until I got home.
Having just moved out of my parent's house into an apartment with a friend of mine, I was broke and unable to afford cable or internet and smartphones were not as affordable as they are now. I was, for the most part, closed off from the world. Our country could have been invaded and I would not have known until the evil men were at my door with guns, speaking in a strange, foreign tongue.
My friend Danny texted me as I walked in the door, "Did you hear?! Michael was found not breathing at his home! He's at UCLA medical center!!"
I waved it off, Michael would pull through...He was Michael Fucking Jackson! He was invincible!
Then the texts from other friends started to roll in. It was common knowledge that I was obsessed with Michael. The texts were giving me conflicting information: "Michael Jackson died!" "Michael's in a coma!" "Michael's being rushed to the hospital!"
A sweat broke out on my forehead and my stomach churned violently. I started wringing my hands, listening to his music, praying that my man would pull through this. I wasn't ready to let him out of my life just yet! I was supposed to go see his THIS IS IT tour in London! This could NOT be happening! He WOULD pull through!
The texts that had, half an hour previously, been rolling in giving me conflicting information about my hero, but also giving me a reason to hold onto hope, were all now starting to say the same thing: "Oh no! Michael passed away! I'm so sorry honey!" "I just heard Michael Jackson died...are you ok?"
The world
...stopped.
I couldn't hear anything...I couldn't hear his music playing through my stereo...I couldn't hear my phone ringing...tears began to spill from my eyes. I could only hear the beating of my own racing heart, so loud. So...painful.
My skinny chest started hitching as sobs tore through me, awful, choking, wails pouring from my throat. I'm tearing up just now, remembering it, sitting Indian-style on my living room floor, my phone ringing and vibrating off the hook. I hated my phone at that moment, it had nothing good to offer me. It was only a negative, evil device that, rather than connect me to the rest of the world, only sought to hurt me.
I don't think I've ever cried so hard in my life. It all might sound very pathetic to some of you, but this man represented, nay, WAS my childhood, my teenage life, my fledgling adult life. His music overlaid the bulk of my life, was part of the fabric, and when it was all ripped out, everything unravelled.
My phone continued to vibrate and ring, I ignored it, I wanted nothing to do with it. My head throbbing, my throat raw, tears streaming down my face blurring my sight. But through that all, I saw three letters on my phone screen that I knew would maybe help make this somehow better: s-i-s.
I picked up the phone and before I could even choke out a "Hello?" my sister was already talking, and I could tell that it was difficult for her also, "Baby brother, I am so sorry!" and we wept together over the phone for nearly 45 minutes. In fashion typical of my sister, our conversation ended with: "You better be the first person I hear from when Prince dies!" which gave me the first laugh, albeit brief, of the day.
At this moment I was not the strong, independent adult that I fancied myself...once again I was the 5 year old boy who sat in wonder and awe, listening to his music on the cassette player...I was the 8 year old boy in a black wig, fedora, open white shirt with a white tee underneath, high-water black slacks, white socks, and black penny loafers, crying because my parents wouldn't take the camera out of my face.
As sad as it sounds, I knew the only thing that could help me feel better at this point was the embrace of my mother, the one person I knew who wouldn't judge me or think I was overreacting. Who would sympathize.
I called her and my father, both unsuccessfully. I drove to their house, which was empty as they had gone out of town, and turned on the TV...every channel bearing Michael's face, his music a soundtrack to the images, the words "Michael Jackson, 50, passes away" emblazoned on the screen. I curled up in my parent's bed, like a small child, holding a pillow to my face so I could smell my mother's perfume, my father's cologne, something to assure me that everything was going to be all right.
I eventually cried myself to sleep, mumbling to myself that this was all a very bad dream, that I would wake up soon and Michael would still be making music and rehearsing for his new tour. I did this for the next few nights, distraught at this never-ending nightmare.
I finally came to terms with the idea that this was reality. My hero WAS dead, his angelic voice silenced forever. His children orphans. His family, more of a shambles than normal.
I called off work when they aired his memorial service on TV.
The sad thing about Michael was that his humanitarian aspects were never covered. All we ever heard about him was the sexual allegations running rampant, the bizarre public escapades, his embattled financial situation. Nobody knew about the millions of dollars that he funnelled into social projects: charities set to save the dwindling rainforests, help pay the medical bills of sick children, the days he opened Neverland ranch to busfuls of sick children so they could have a day of fun in his mini-theme park.
Regardless of what you feel about Michael and his, admittedly, questionable personal life, the man stands as a hero to many around the world: for the racial barriers he broke (the first black artist on MTV), for the music that stands today (countless artists name him as an inspiration), the records he set (Thriller is the best-selling album of all time), the countless lives he touched and changed... Michael Jackson remains, to this day, a hero to me.
D2
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