I walked into a deli yesterday with a friend of mine. We'd discussing how everyone is playing Michael Jackson wherever you go. Upon entering, we noticed that the woman behind the counter was playing Dangerous all the way through. Picking up on our conversation, she started talking to us. Talking at us, rather. We had our backs to her as I explained that I am over aloe vera juice (this is true) and it was a minute or so before we made our beverage decisions, turned about, and realized that she had been addressing us. She proceeded to explain that the flowers, a bouquet of red roses placed in easy visibility on a shelf, were for Michael. She then pointed out a home-made sympathy card she’d created in his memory. The sort that features a heavily pixelated MJ and could easily have come out of Print Shop Deluxe. But these we just set pieces for her masterpiece. A true tale of hope and miracle. When her son was still young, he had some sort of terrible respiratory disease. Such that he was hospitalized with a dangerously questionable outlook. As the sun set on his young life, his tearful mother begged what she could do to make him more comfortable, to ease the fear and discomfort that he was undoubtedly feeling. He asked that should he die, can he “go” with Michael Jackson’s name. In the face of death and in the face of years and years unlived, he wanted only to be rechristened Michael Jackson. Tears in her eyes, she explained to her ailing son, Alberto, that he would keep his father’s surname, but that day she, grateful that there was something —anything that she could do for her son, she paid $400 to legally change his first name to Michael. Michael is 40 years old now.
I was strangely moved. Perhaps not so strangely. The entirety of this past weekend, I have been on the brink of tears that never seem to come. Whatever. Not all of it is entirely related to MJ, but growing up, he was a big part of my childhood. My mom and I listened almost exclusively to Michael Jackson and few of his Motown cohorts. I actually thought that The Wiz was the original and The Wizard of Oz a pale copy. And for whatever reason, my early life is a period of that I can only recall in the briefest of spurts and instances. But Michael Jackson’s music was and is something that is always rooted in my best memories of that time. It serves as an anchor for me, as if to keep me from completely detaching from my own childhood. And I will always be grateful for that. In spite of everything that tarnishes his legacy and in spite of my own callousness, his music will continue to improve my disposition, to remind me of my mother’s love, and force me to throw my hands up and dance.
