Supposing that, instead of blame and censure, or judgment and punishment, we met deviations and aberrations of the norm with sympathy and understanding, with a desire to aid rather than a desire to protect ourselves. (Henry Miller)
For better or worse, Michael Jackson was without a doubt the most fascinating public figure I’ve ever seen in my lifetime, arguably the most captivating and perplexing celebrity in the history of modern media. He suffered the trappings of fame worse than anyone since the Beatles, sans the three compatriots to share in the alienation and loneliness that stems from such widespread adoration. And he endured it from an age when most of us were grappling with multiplication tables. The Fab Four, Elvis, Marilyn, Diana — in terms of fame and its pitfalls — none of them had anything on the kid who never got to be one.
He was the first black man that I can remember everyone wanting to be. Sure, there were others who were accepted as an equal or as immensely talented or envied for their wealth and status, but no one so talented, so cool, so mesmerizing, that white folks would give up their majority status to be him. The kids I knew would’ve killed for Jimi’s guitar skills, Ali’s bravado or Eddie’s sense of humor, but at the end of the day, they wouldn’t trade their skin for it. Michael transcended that, though it was clear from his years of medical disfiguration that he himself wasn’t willing to enter into that pact.
But for all of his transcendence and talent and appeal — which will be detailed and lauded ad nauseum in the coming days – perhaps his most fascinating accomplishment as a human being was his endurance of a constantly observed life virtually no one in history has ever had to undergo. His celebrity was overwhelming, masochistic and unprecedented. He gave us what we never knew we always wanted, and he gave us something no one in their right mind would’ve ever bargained for — a deal he unwittingly entered into before he had pubic hair.
As far as the world was concerned, he existed for no other reason than our own entertainment. This can be said about so many in the fame lexicon, but none so as fervent and lasting as Michael Jackson. He was the celebrity’s celebrity. Whether or not you view the phenomenon of celebrity as a blessing or a detriment, Michael Jackson was the king, pure and simple.
I do not know for certain whether or not he ever molested children. At the end of the day, I believe that he probably did at one time or another. And yet I still feel a great deal of empathy for him. I always have, and always will. Childhood, a learning curve of innocence and wonder that serves as the building block for our foundation as people, was never given to Michael Jackson. And in that process, the world was invited to watch and gawk along the way. We raised him. He was our monster, our creation.
Many will clamor in the coming days to dismiss such rhetoric as limp-wristed psychobabble, denouncing Jackson as a bizarre pedophile, but this is nothing more than wiping our hands clean of our own involvement. What, I ask you, happens when you rip a child from his childhood, whip him with a belt for dance missteps, and send him out at a single-digit age to entertain patrons of minority strip clubs, a pit stop on the way to an unparalleled celebrity status that would never, ever relent, scrutinizing every step of the way? I do not have a proper answer to this, as the only test subject suited for such a question is Michael Jackson.
All I really know is that when I put on ‘I Want You Back’, I lose sight of the eroding nose, the embroiled allegations and the punchlines; I forget myself and the inhumanity of the world around me. I dance, and I sing uninhibited along with the eleven year old who never really had any idea of who he was. For that, I am forever indebted.
Sadly, so was he.
