Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson

Now that the rose-adorned, twenty-five thousand dollar casket of Michael Jackson has been dragged out of the spotlight, I hope it can be put to rest. Not the man, the legacy he leaves, or the music—the death itself.

Time and time again, the viewing public has run to their television sets, tears in their eyes and Twitter at the ready, feeling as though something has touched them, personally. Inane pop-culture reporters chatted amongst each other during the prelude to the memorial, while a melee on the bottom presented tweets sent to the station: “can’t stop crying... MJ was a legend.” “We’ll miss you, Michael!” “I am deeply saddened by this great loss...”

At the risk of sounding callous: calm down. It’s not like you knew the guy.

Even from a fan’s perspective, he hadn’t produced an album in eight years, or decent one in twenty. Jackson was an innovator of music, true, and most assuredly an innovator of dance, but also a deeply disturbed man who had an unhealthy relationship with children, animals and his own ethnicity. Take away the multi-platinum record sales and you’re left with nothing more than damaged goods.

But maybe I’m not being fair, here.

An entire life lived in the public eye, paired with a father so wretched and abusive he could pass for a Disney villain, are the arguable causes of his decline into what we all knew was madness. He mangled his face, bleached his skin, shared his bed with children—yet none of that was mentioned today. Funerals are a place where you’re supposed to say nice things about people in their absence, and of course, we all deserve to be forgiven for our ills (whatever they may happen to be), but there was a strange irony in the choice of performers at the service.

The first two hours were filled with exclusively black performers and ministers, up until the rather nonchalant arrival of one John Mayer, and later on Brooke Shields. Short of a few blonde back-up dancers for Jennifer Hudson, and one Jewish kid in the closing number, every single performer was black.

Now, obviously there is nothing unusual about that in itself—there are plenty of award shows, concerts, record companies, businesses and memorial services that go on quite well without a single honky in sight, thank you very much. Looking out on the gospel choirs and passionate sermons, however, one would almost be inclined to forget that Michael Jackson died a white man.

A very white man.

So it was a little troubling when Sheila Jackson Lee, a black congresswoman from Texas and member of the Congressional Black Caucus, declared that the American government would soon go about debating a resolution that would frame Jackson as an “American legend and musical icon.” From what I understand, the vast majority of American legends involve cowboys or throwing tea into the ocean, so perhaps this is commonplace?

Nonetheless, I am puzzled— a man spends the latter half of his life trying to escape his race, and at his death, he is awarded the tentative status of ‘hero’ by those he tried to separate himself from. Much can be forgiven after death, but surely the black community stands in contempt of a man with such loathing for the skin he was born in...? If the ceremony’s performers are at all representative, then this is apparently not the case.

In life, as in death, he Michael Jackson was always a pitiable figure, brilliant without equal, but deeply disturbed. He inspired infinite imitators, and brought music video to the forefront of the media—but he hung his baby out a window, and most likely diddled little boys.

He was fifty years old.