There was something about Michael Jackson. I can’t articulate it. I can’t describe it. But there was something that made me stare at him and made it unable for me to look away from him when he was on television. It wasn't just his dancing, or the increasingly rapidly changing color of his skin, or his nose. It was a connection. Regardless of the changes that he made to himself, or that nature made for that matter, I connected to him. I connected to his voice, to his smile-to the way he bit his lip when he danced. I connected to the obvious sexiness that MJ had when he danced that submitted into boyishness when he wasn’t performing. I felt for him when he went through his changes – obviously going through self-esteem issues or something – something that made him not love himself as much as I, as we, did. Although his skin lightened, we knew that blackness is not a particular color - but something within that gave him rhythm and the ability to sympathize for the little poor kids dying of hunger in the "Man in the Mirror" video. Michael was a giver - and no matter how much he gave, the media made sure that some other spectacle took the forefront. We will feel his absence. We will feel the absence of entertainment as we are spoon fed tomfoolery from the music industry. His absence makes me remember when Thriller came out and I was completely terrified, but not of him – but of the zombies that pop-locked next to him. Of the trembling voice of Vincent Price-but not of Michael. I knew he would never hurt a fly-I just knew this. I knew that someone who smiled like that, who shied away, who gave like that, would never hurt anyone, let alone a child. I knew that he was searching for love, probably never having found exactly what he was needing or looking for. He never found that significant other that could verify and solidify that someone loved him for more than who he was, how good he could dance, how much money he had. Someone who could defend and protect him from the wickedness of the malicious media that make money off of the pain and suffering of others. After you reach a certain level of fame, I think it is hard to discern who is there for the novelty of it all and who really loves you. The discernment of that has to be confusing in itself. I agree with Al Sharpton – “There was nothing wrong with your daddy.” Michael had the unfortunate fortune of going through his personal issues in front of the entire world—for all to judge, critique and review. But there is something wrong with the media to destroying someone’s soul-making it impossible to even exist without cameras around for just one day. I, for one miss Michael. I will not debate if he did this or that. I will not get into an argument with people that admonish him to fuel their own personal blogs and television shows. I will declare that I am glad that he can rest now-only having to dance and entertain when he wants to. After working for 45 years – he deserves to rest in the arms of God. He gave us enough to remember – reflect, and relish. From the scarecrow in the Wiz to the amazement of the moonwalk – I will always remember Michael.
