Michael Jackson died today.
I want to be sad, maybe even shed tear or two. To stimulate my grief, I listen to Thriller. Nothing. I stare at the original Thriller cover for awhile, which I had as a wall-size poster back in 1982 when I was nine. I look at it a long time. So that is what he looked like before all the surgeries and the loss of pigmentation, I guess I have forgotten. Still feeling nothing.
I remember staying up late to see the premier of Beat it on Friday Night Videos on NBC because I was only a part of the MTV generation in theory. I suddenly get the urge to email my friend Tracey who stayed over that night to watch it with me. But still nothing.
Although I should I have stopped, I guess I couldn’t get enough. So, I forced myself to try to remember if Thriller or 1999 was my first cassette. Prince’s breakthrough album came out only one month before Thriller. I can’t remember which I got first. Feeling the urge to turn off Thriller and switch to 1999. I still feel nothing for MJ.
I can’t make myself feel sad. Indifference keeps surfacing.
I mourned the loss of Jackson in 2005 when he faced accusations of child molestation for the second time. I stopped listening to him entirely. When his songs came on the radio, I turned the dial immediately, no matter how catchy the chorus or funky the beat.
He was acquitted of all charges against him, but that just means reasonable doubt existed. Innocent and not guilty are not the same. Michael Jackson had three things going for him during that trial: he had some of the best lawyers on the planet; his star power; and, the mother of the allegedly abused child was a money-seeking, star-obsessed, fame-hungry compulsive liar who was enough to cast an enormous shadow of reasonable doubt despite other witness testimony. So, Jackson walked out of the court room and withdrew from society.
Great performers don’t have to be flawless. But at the same time, having exceedingly amazing ability and talent doesn’t excuse inappropriate and harmful behavior. Jackson admitted to allowing young boys to sleep in his bed, and more than one child claimed to be abused.
Something was wrong at Neverland Ranch. Something was wrong within Michael Jackson. This is why I can’t grieve, perhaps.
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