If there's anything I would say to Michael Jackson given the chance before his tragic exit from this earth, it's this: I am sorry. I am so sorry that your life was never really your own, manipulated by a father that saw dollar signs and a way to escape the hardships of Gary, Indiana on the backs of you and your siblings. I'm still shaking my head over how he shamelessly plugged his record label two days after you took your last breath on the red carpet of an awards show. But you knew how low the man could be; why else would he not be named in your will? I am sorry that even in death, there is an obsession with picking you apart like a holiday turkey.
It's as if with every 15 minutes, someone pops up with a new story about your past or an 'anonymous' source has decided to share a tidbit of gossip because as we all know with American media, rumors are worth more than the lives of soldiers in Mosul or Tora Bora from time to time. Which brings me to the question: who made the command decision to search for Bubbles the chimp? And will Martin Bashir now come under heavy scrutiny? We can only wonder Michael, if he finds himself swimming in remorse in those solitary moments. He, not unlike your father and others, rose to prominence while shoving you into a morass of misery.
Michael, I feel very sorry that you felt that your blackness was a burden to the point where you mutilated yourself.
I don't claim to be a psychiatrist, but I remember having a talk with a friend of mine about another topic, which was aggressive lesbians and their outward persona of machismo. And what she told me was essentially that they took on that persona because it represented strength and power, power they never really had. Maybe you felt the same way. Maybe that's what drove you to those surgeries that destroyed your skin, eradicated your nose.
Michael, I feel very sorry that you felt that your blackness was a burden to the point where you mutilated yourself.You lived a struggle that some of us still deal with internally. And I'm sorry that you were so wrought with confusion as your life went on. Most people have a childhood. You had a career at the age of nine. And you wanted that childhood, even while possibly making the most horrible of decisions an adult can make while in the presence of children. Most of all, I'm sorry that it took your death for me, all of us to sit back and reflect just how much you gave to the world through your musical genius. And how much it cost you mentally and physically.
At last word of your death, you were balding in spots, riddled with needle marks and weighed in at 112 pounds. I will feel a great deal of pain as I see 21st century minstrels with idiotic jewelry who hide their lack of talent behind technological advances and send shout outs to slave traders. And hope that someone will stop the fiends at Westboro Church who warped one of your greatest songs for their own sick agenda. But, that pain will be temporary.
Because I will remember you always as the child who sang with such soul in the 60's. I'll remember saying goodbye to one of my first loves as 'Maybe Tomorrow played in the background. To me, no late night out in the carefree jungle of New York City will be complete without 'Off The Wall' being part of the soundtrack. And I will observe how your life is a lesson..that those who seem to have it all have nothing but hurt and emptiness. Yet they too, can make a great impact on the world. And all of the apologies will be a bridge to the peace that you never had here.
Rest in peace Michael Jackson.