June 25, 2009
I wrote at 7:43pm
Michael Jackson has died.
They say we will always remember where we were the day Elvis Presley died. Or when the first and second planes crashed into the World Trade Centers on 9/11. I sure can. On September 11, 2001, I was in Mr. Mitchell’s honors math class sitting a row over from my long-time friend Kristin Yerkie, whom I fondly called ‘Janet.’ She knew me as ‘Mikey’ in return. When the news of terror finally made it’s way upstate and into my small classroom, I was not even paying attention. In fact I didn’t notice something was wrong until Mr. Mitchell walked out to compose himself. Instead I was daydreaming, wiggling in my seat and using my no. 2 pencil to jot down sequined details that I wanted in my upcoming Jackson family full stage tribute show.
Name a point in my life and I will tell you a story of how Michael Jackson was there. When I first discovered him my younger cousin Kayla had made me fast forward through all of our Free Willy VHS to get to the MJ video that rolled after the credits. I will never forget how she imitated his melodic screeches and howls, or how annoyed she was when I wouldn’t watch her. But my eyes were stuck on him; this man with his arms out and face to the sky, in a torn white shirt with a heart that seemed to radiate beyond his tiny frame. I remember deciding I wanted to be epic like that.
Michael Jackson was there when I made my mother drive me to Party City so that I could buy a cardboard fedora just like the one Michael wore in Smooth Criminal. I used to say that hat was my most prized possession. It was a song that changed my entire dance career. For a year I carried around a backpack that cased black jazz shoes, white ankle socks, a white v-neck, black pants that I’d learned to hem up myself, and a red button down shirt that I’d stolen out of my father’s closet. And of course, one white glove. The hat I carried outside of the bag, naturally, so it’s acutely curved brim would stay exactly like Michael’s. I performed my version of Smooth Criminal everywhere and anywhere that year; basements, school dances, family barbeques. I still believe seeing me perform that routine was what convinced my parents that I was really going to move to the city to find my spotlight.
Some people are part of a movement, Michael Jackson WAS a movement. The way he saw the world, translated it into his art, the way he inspired millions of people to make a change just by taking a look in the mirror. Everything about this man was special, from the toes of his mesmerizing patent leather shoes, to the tips of his single sequined white glove. People say they will always remember where they were when Michael Jackson blew up his Motown Anniversary TV spot with the never before seen Moonwalk. I can tell you what my chest felt like when I finally got the footage of it on tape. I don’t remember how many times rewinding it took me to learn it. They say he was inhuman, mental, sick, instable, dangerous, and broke. But Michael Jackson represented everybody, in all places of the world. How can you expect him to be just another stereotype? Sha’mon people, sha’mon.
When the King of Pop died, I was sitting on the front stoop of my post-grad Long Island home. It had been a rough day. Sometimes I get these feelings, inklings that something bad is about to happen. These days, they are hard to distinguish. I was not answering my phone that day, but something caused me to set to opening the 8 new text messages it was holding. The first one was from my brother:
MJ is dead.
I remember the way the phone sounded as it hit against the slate porch and how I scraped my foot running into the living room. The first thing I thought was; he is faking his own death. Genius. It seemed to take an eternity for the remote to find CNN. At this point Michael was reportedly in a coma and I remember not knowing whether to hold my breath or drop to my knees. There were images of helicopters over Neverland and the entrance of the UCLA medical center where he had been taken. And when the news brief came that “singer Michael Jackson is dead,” I remember a brief moment of weightless silence; a soft inhale before everything came crashing down in which magic and childhood was still real, in which it was possible to hold the hand of an angel and to dance with peace and harmony. I sat there on the couch sobbing, begging “no don’t leave me here” in between gasps of air. I called my mother, she hadn’t heard. I could barely speak to her and I apologize for any meanness that I portrayed in that phone call. There were a handful of missed calls and bunches of text messages from people who’d thought of me as soon as it happened. I thank and love those people, and again, apologize for not answering. The day that Michael Jackson died, I wouldn’t speak to anyone for another 2 days.
June 28, 2009
Three days later, I was at a high school graduation party for my cousin who is, ironically enough, named Michael. I hadn’t seen a spark in my eyes or a pop in my step for a long time. Reality does that to me. But something happened that night. Bringing the party inside as midnight rolled in, Michael’s older brother took to being the DJ for a room full of kids. It would be a brother of a Michael to initiate this. It began with “Jam” and Dangerous, an album that I had only had a burned copy of as a kid, and had spent hours writing down lyrics to from the speakers of this very house. I don’t remember how it got to be what it did but suddenly I found myself bleeding sweat and pouring every last morsel of passion into a full-fledged dance party featuring every kid at that party. My brother was among the ones in the spotlight. “Show ‘em what I taught you boy!” He’s good, lemme tell you, not too shabby at all. The footwork in this jam was fantastic, true to MJ-style, and the kid with the neck brace takes home first prize for the category. There was a boy who kept pushing me to dance harder, breathe deeper, who was nose to nose with me battling out the rap section to “Black or White” while the others stood around and gang-dropped their “ohhhhh!” I think we did every hit song at least twice, with “Black or White” being our main staple and getting 3 plays by popular demand. I have never seen such raw joy, such honest energies combined. It was the best therapy I could never ask for. My aunt cried at the sight of us. It would be a mother of boys who teared out of gratitude for our innocence and joy.
They say we will always remember where we were the day the King of Pop died. I think the question is; what will we say about it. How will we keep him alive. The day he passed there was Blood on the Dance Floor. There were Thrills of Remembering the Time, but it was Bad to think that the Dancing Machine could no longer Scream and tell us that it’s Human Nature. The Way he Made Me Feel will go down in HIStory, but no matter where I go, somewhere, inside a cannon of faith and magic, I will always be the PYT he believed I was. The Smooth Criminal he fired up and one more Man in the Mirror looking to “make that change.” We love you, Michael. Thank you.
“In our darkest hour, in my deepest despair,
Will you still care? Will you be there?
In my trials, and my tribulations,
through our doubts, and frustrations.
In my violence, in my turbulence,
through my fear and my confessions.
In my anguish and my pain
Through my joy and my sorrow
And the promise of another tomorrow,
I’ll never let you part
For you’re always in my heart.”
Erica
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