When I was very young girl, my parents took me to see the Jackson Five/ABC Concert in Dallas, Texas. My military dad and mom were so proud of this young black child who seemed to be able to do anything on stage. Normally they would never had dreamed of taking such a little one to a concert but, Michael Jackson to my parents and many blacks in America… was more than just a performer.
Jackson at just 11 years old… along with his brothers had a Saturday morning cartoon… opposite of the Osmonds. Back then it was one of the precious few times on TV when one could see black people in a positive light… not arrested on the national evening news in a crime story. The Jackson Five cartoon show spurred many a young black child to dream about a life in TV… including yours truly. They made us glimpse what was possible.
In their own strange way, Michael and his brothers became part of a Civil Rights conversation and movement in America.
I mentioned my dad was in the military– the Army to be exact. As a family we traveled the world… lived for a few years outside America on an Army base in Germany. Seeing black in non-tradition roles (for the 1960’s that meant anything outside the service industry really) was not uncommon when you left the U.S. When we returned to the states, I was just 4 years old or so. Word of the Jackson Five’s success in America had spread all over the world and I begged my parents to take me to see him in concert… along with some of my Dallas cousins, aunts and uncles. We went.
The ABC Tour was history making. Huge crowds… people of all colors, races, cultures… cheering and dancing, shouting “A-B-C… Easy as… 123 Or simple as… Do re mi… ABC, 123, baby, you and me!”
I’ll simply never forget it… or my first sighting of Michael Jackson on stage. We had great seats… close to the stage. But, no one sat in their seats. It was like a house party with a little boy stealing the show with awesome dance moves and a young powerful voice.
What happened to Michael? Why do I dislike him so much now? And, why am I so fascinated by him, even in death, at the same time? He got wierd. And, that strange, toxic mix of child molestation charges, skin/appearance mutalations… along with God-gifted talent leaves me conflicted today.
His burial imminent… the craziness of crowds of fans… thousands strong at the Staples Center in Los Angeles. The talk of the price tag north of $4 million. Why? And, why can’t I celebrate in my heart along with them?
Because I’m conflicted.
My husband asked me if I would wear black today. My answer, No. I’ll just be black… and, remember how Michael seemed not to want to be black or anything recognizable anymore. I’ll let my anger at him be buried… with him. I’ll remember the good times, the music, the joy he brought to the world… my world as a young girl and throughout the years.
But, I will not celebrate… engage in the pomp and circumstance. Because that would make me as confused and addicted to the idea of greatness as he seemed to be.
I’m not confused. Just conflicted.
Goodbye Michael Jackson… of course, I bid you farewell many years ago. Today is just a formality.