Oh, Mikey! What can I say, but Happy Birthday! Some say I’m obsessed, but I know what I know. And, that is…
that at age ten, I knew I had the perfect plan to meet you, have you fall in love with me, and marry me. I knew that when I hung your Off The Wall album cover right over my bed on my college dorm room wall, I could peer over at your electric white socks and even sparklier smile, and still brown skin, any time I got stuck on typing a report on my portable typewriter, and you’d just about wink at me, and pull me through the agonizing feat of putting my thoughts on paper.
I knew that I wouldn’t really tear my sisters arm off when I tugged on it so tightly, both of us whooping and screaming, as we watched you glide through your, who knew then it would be historic, Billie Jean performance on the Motown 25 Year Anniversary Show. I knew that the way you sang, The Way You Make Me Feel, was the way I felt whenever I saw you–from your days of singing, Never Can Say Goodbye, right through your Thriller and Bad albums.
I knew that I probably kind of stuck you in a museum after that. Kind of froze your looks and your music up to that point in my mind because I wasn’t as in to your 90’s and beyond sound. And, I knew I wanted to shut out all the news of the accusations of child molestation. I knew I didn’t believe them, and it was hard for me to listen to all of those that did, and the media circus that surrounded it. I knew I shut out the bizarre behaviors reported. I knew I was so sad that you seemed so unhappy with who you were, that you lightened your skin and underwent so much plastic surgery that you were no longer my or anyone else’s Michael. Not the one we all knew, anyway.
I knew that you didn’t think you were perfect enough. I knew you were perfect just the way you were.
Happy Birthday, Michael Jackson. I know that I miss you and your talents, and your tremendous gifts that you shared with the world.