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My Michael Jackson

My Michael Jackson

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Published by KeMari Howell
This was written two days after Michael Jackson passed away, in 2009. I loved him very much, as so many did. Writing this helped me deal with that love and grief I felt from his loss.
This was written two days after Michael Jackson passed away, in 2009. I loved him very much, as so many did. Writing this helped me deal with that love and grief I felt from his loss.

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Published by: KeMari Howell on Jun 25, 2010
Copyright:Traditional Copyright: All rights reserved


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My Michael Jackson
A girl never forgets her first love. That is a fact and thus, I have never forgotten mine. He just passed away last Thursday, taken from me long before I would have liked. You probably knewhim. His name was Michael Jackson. Some people called him the King of Pop. He was, in aword, undefinable. There is no way for me to truly put down on paper just who or what he was.He transcended tangibility in ways that is almost divine.For me, he was the solidarity and balance that was lacking in my childhood. His music lent asense of security to my life; it was warm, comforting, safe. He was simultaneously the cause andcure for the artistic hunger that grew in me. There was something magical about his lyrics, hisvoice, the fluidity with which his body moved. He made living an art and I was irrevocablydevoted to Michael Jackson for the better half of my juvenescence, and if I¶m honest, well intoadulthood. I drank in everything that he was, everything that he did, everything that was in anyway connected to him; I gobbled it up like a starving child. His songs were and are the placeholders of my memories; they make my childhood tangible.It is impossible to truly put to description the sense of devotion and emotion he inspired in mewithout somehow patronizing the adoration my younger self felt for him. What I felt, what I stillfeel, is the most astounding, unconditional and loyal kind of love for a stranger , nay ± for anyone, that one person can have. What is so incomprehensible, and amazing, about what I felt,is not the depth of my feelings, but that I am not the only one who felt that way, who feels thatway.Michael was a man who had the most radiant power, and with a flick of his wrist, or a blink of his eye, he could command attention and loyalty and empathy from nearly anyone. He changedan entire planet with his music, literally. But you see, it wasn¶t just his music. His power wasinternal and external; it existed both in his music and beside his music. I struggle for a way tocommunicate, to my children and to all future generations, why Michael Jackson was such animpacting force of nature on our world, why he was such a supernova for us.On Thursday, my son and daughter watched as I sat in front of a TV late into the night, cryingover this strange man-child who dressed in glittery, androgynous outfits and grabbed his crotchto emphasize his lyrical abilities. They couldn¶t understand my grief, and I was at a loss toexplain it to them. They are young, and their generation doesn¶t have the kind of celebrities of yesteryear; the kind that MJ was. Today¶s celebrities are not self-made, dynamic beings; they aremostly paper-thin, reality-tv-based gremlins whose fame is dependent on their latest scandalmore so than the quality of their artistic contributions. Michael refused to bend to that kind of social ignominy, and that is reflected in many of the tabloid headlines. If I learned anything fromhim, it is that being different is hard, ridiculously hard, but that being true to yourself is moreimportant than being popular. That is a lesson I hope to reflect upon my own children one day; itis a lesson I hope Michael¶s own children will ultimately learn through their father¶s highly publicized life.He was a rarity; we are hard pressed to find anyone, celebrity or otherwise, of his caliber. Nomatter what morbid speculations surrounded him, the profundity of his influence on the cultureof the world can never be taken from him. The media circus that stalked him and the accusationsagainst him should not hinder our memory of him or our acknowledgment of the gifts he gave

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