While I am by no means the biggest Michael Jackson fan in the world, I’m the biggest Michael Jackson fan I know. As a baby, I associated the word “music” with the name Michael Jackson. Like many people born between oh, 1978 and 1985, he was the first artist I chose to like on my own. In the car my dad would exclusively listen to The Beatles and 1960s girl groups, and my mom would hole up in her sewing room with The Eagles and James Taylor on repeat, all I wanted to hear was all Michael Jackson, all the time. While I had missed MJ’s Jackson 5 years, Off the Wall was already a huge hit when I was born, and by the time I was of an age to start forming real opinions about things (ahem, two years old), Thriller was blowing everyone’s mind. It is no coincidence I was born the same year as MTV, and at a very young age, I would park myself in front of the TV and watch countless hours of shitty music videos. But Michael’s epic short films-set-to-music were a whole other level, completely blowing so-called revolutionary videos, like the one for “Money for Nothing,” out of the water. I’m pretty sure Michael Jackson is 75 percent responsible for me wanting to take dance class when I was three, and if that’s the case, I owe him thanks for my career.
My parents, like most parents, have a few choice stories they like to tell about their daughter, usually in inappropriate, way-too-quiet-and-public situations. One of their favorites involves recalling how next to Michael Jackson, ET was also my favorite thing from about 1982-1986. As a result, when my mom found out there was an LP box set with Michael narrating the story of ET, she snatched it up. For years, I would let Michael read me to sleep on my Fisher Price record player (which, as a result of MJ’s death, I’ve learned that EVERYONE in their late 20s owned as a kid). I told this story to my friend Ahmed, who surprised me for Christmas with a T-shirt printed with a recreation of the infamous poster contained in the box set.
My birthday is June 26, which will for the near future be known to me as “the day after Michael Jackson died.” Not knowing how to reconcile this huge gaping hole in my heart that emerged after learning one my childhood friends had died, I went to Ebay and found that double LP and purchased it for myself. (The one I purchased was NOT $2000.) Then on June 27, as I was celebrating my day of birth with a few friends, I decided to pay tribute by wearing that shirt that Ahmed got me, along with what basically amounts to a tutu. I decided that it doesn’t matter how old you get, there’s really no better time to wear a Michael Jackson shirt and a tutu than on your birthday.
I could go on. Like so many millions of people, I have hundreds of favorite MJ memories, but nothing I write will ever be a proper tribute. He was a troubled man, undoubtedly, and some say his death is for the best because it brings him long-awaited peace. I’ll never know that this is true, but I know he is a man with an endless legacy. I’ve probably never taught a group of students without playing a Michael Jackson song at some point. Earlier this year, when making a phrase with my after school class in the Bronx, I popped in a mix CD I made for class and scanned past “Workin’ Day and Night.” The group of 5th graders, between ages 10 and 12, heard the opening notes and cheered. They were instantly inspired with new movements and a new sense of stage presence and performance. I don’t know if this is because the song is so infectious or if it’s because they instantly channeled Michael. And really it doesn’t matter. I’ve never seen these students as happy as they were dancing to Michael Jackson—kids who were born in the late 90s and into an era that accused the man of being a pedophile. Even they were able to separate the accusations from the music. They know what all of us know: if a Michael Jackson song doesn’t make even the stiffest, rhythm-less person jump up out of their chair, they are probably dead.
PS 49 After School - Urban Arts Partnership from Sarah Dahnke on Vimeo.
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