An Observation

I was just a year older than Michael Jackson. So I remember being aware of him and singing along with his songs for most of my life. I can’t say I was a huge fan; a true fanatic. But I did enjoy his music, was captivated by his videos and his dancing. The bloom began to come off the rose for me as Michael altered his physical appearance. I couldn’t connect with the way he wanted to modify his features from what I perceived as him being a beautiful child and a handsome young man, into something increasingly damaged, disfigured and bizarre.

To my recollection, the spotlight never really left Michael - from his first appearances as part of The Jackson Five, to his casket at the Staples Center yesterday. But as Michael became more unusual; as he slipped further to the edges of the bell curve, the media spotlight intensified. The glare became harsher; the rumors became accusations. What had once been popularity and celebrity, morphed rapidly, seamlessly into notoriety and, at times, infamy. Scandals became headlines. An allegation was settled financially and perceived as a guilty plea. A courtroom drama unfolded as circus; the acquittal on all charges eclipsed by the sideshow carnival of fans, paparazzi and international media with microphones standing in front of satellite uplink trucks and Michael himself in pajama bottoms.

Michael married, divorced, remarried and had children, divorced again and had a third child. In summary form, it reads as falling within the bounds of what we see in Hollywood and in our own communities - not fully approved of by society, but not unheard of. But when Michael Jackson, his ongoing physical metamorphosis and that unblinking media spotlight got thrown into the mix, it was all just too, too weird - unseemly, inappropriate, suspect, even creepy. We learned that he was likely abused as a child. At the very least he was pushed aggressively by a domineering stage father, into a tough industry fraught with peril for child stars. But even that revelation couldn’t mitigate the uneasiness the non-fanatic felt looking at the garish tabloid covers and the headlines on the entertainment pages.

Yesterday, I listened to people from many walks of life speak from the heart about the loss of their friend. For a few hours we heard in unedited form from people who actually knew Michael Jackson, many of them for decades. The more I listened, the more I began to feel I had been sold a bill of goods; that I had been seduced by the media hype and bought it hook, line and sinker. These friends spoke passionately and with humor about an undeniably talented individual, who lived an extraordinary life. Obviously, a memorial service is a time to eulogize, to focus on the positive aspects of the decedent’s life and to comfort the grieving family and friends with one’s words and reminiscences. But if Michael Jackson truly had been the pariah the media made him out to be, why were these folks testifying so publicly to the esteem in which they held him and the magnitude of their loss?

I suppose it could have been just crass publicity seeking; a desire to be part of the international event; the final act under the big tent of the circus which was Michael Jackson’s life. Yet as the memorial service continued, I became more convinced that those closest to Michael knew something I didn’t: that he was, at his heart, kind and well intentioned. Seeing his three children sitting in the front row with their father’s family, I reinterpreted the way Michael had kept his children veiled and masked. What had previously seemed crazy, now seemed sensible and responsible. Now that they have been revealed; thrust prematurely into that same all consuming spotlight, it seems unlikely that they will soon find peace.

Was Michael Jackson troubled? Yes. Was he strange, eccentric, odd and peculiar? Yes to all. Am I left wondering why he was able to persist in his self destructive behaviors despite being surrounded by people of influence who apparently cared deeply for him? Again, yes. But I also began to get an uneasy feeling that I had participated, almost unconsciously, in a sort of 21st century witch hunt.

Am I certain? No. But yesterday’s memorial service gave me sufficient pause, that in all good conscience, I must now consciously reconsider the totality of my opinion of Michael Jackson. Before forming a final opinion, I must look at the whole gestalt of his life and not allow myself to be distracted or disgusted by lurid headlines nor put off by his strangeness nor beguiled by his dazzling talent.