Written by Felicia Okoye
Dear Michael,
Something tells me, you’re in agreement that we’re all immortal. That we live, even after we’ve been committed to the soil, and that the legacy we leave is testimony to that. You, Michael Joseph Jackson, have left quite the legacy and it’s cellophane clear that you’ll remain in the hearts of many…like a murmur, but nicer, much, much nicer. That’s the thing with iconic status; it transcends the barriers of reality and fantasy. I didn’t really know you, naturally, but I knew you. We all did. There’s something very powerful about that sense of global collectiveness. An international unification that very few music artists have nor will be able to achieve ever again. Many passages of my childhood were adorned by the Michael Jackson movement, and what a movement it was! Spending hours practicing standing on my tippy toes, attempted groin-grabbing, “heal the world” chanting, one glove, white sock lovin’; you were a welcomed mystical sort of creature. And for this generation, knowing you through your music was a beautiful experience.
I can’t pinpoint the first time I heard you, no clear recollection of an MJ initiation. Rather, for me at least, it’s like you’ve always been. ‘Dangerous’, ‘Bad’ and ‘Thriller’ all lay in a haze of kiddish splendour, sequins and leather. I was too busy perfecting your leg-flick/point-to-the–sky move to note the cloud of controversy around you. I’m glad I experienced you when I did. The concept of musical innovation seems pre-historic now, as regurgitation prevails. In an age where we’ve boxed up artistry, and are all programmed to being Keyboard critics, casting judgments and sentencing upon artists’ every move with the touch of a screen, I do look fondly at the time when being 4 or 5, I didn’t have the refinement of judgment. I didn’t care what you’d done to your face and as for your Neverland Rach…pssshhh! Having a theme park/zoo/circus/waterpark in your house was such an admirable spectacle…the epitome of bad, real bad.
You were the true definition of the fantastical, Michael. Look at the way you quite literally revolutionized visual arts through your incredible music videos. No one can touch that. I want you to know that ‘Black or White’ will forever be my shit. From the audaciousness of that ‘Home Alone’ kid bass blasting his dad into outer space, to the majestic serenity of the Fawn Leb Thai women; that video was all kinds of wonderful, and now that I can appreciate more of the political intonations, it’s even more so. You represented possibility, expansion and magic… pure magic. For any budding creative, with a wild imagination, that’s a huge deal.
The Moonwalk, Michael! It could all be summed up with the Mooonwalk. I know I’m idealizing your heyday. That era was some 10-15 years ago. I’m not mentioning…y’know… the other stuff, the bizarre surgical mask and sordid allegations, that Martin Bashir documentary, which I wish you never did because it was really fucking creepy. I won’t dwell on those things because I’ve decided to denounce them all. The benefit of retrospective rose tinted glasses, is that I can formulate your legacy subjectively. It couldn’t have been easy being you, though. Fame is a poisonous game, and very few before you had reached those dizzying heights. I guess you can’t breathe the same air up there and so you crashed. Musically at least, you were always the companionate kind. Case and point: “Annie, are you OK? so, Annie are you OK? Are you OK, Annie?…” Aaah, always thinking of others. And today Michael, on the 1 year anniversary of your passing, we think of you…most fondly.
Look out for more PinBoard Tributes throughout the day.
