By Odeisel

Some performers only free on stage, emancipated by the bright lights and the cheers of adoring fans. Ultimately the lights dim and the flashing bulbs and the prying eyes imprison them in the fishbowl. That freedom is always fleeting. If there was ever anyone on God’s green earth whose existence and sanity was defined by this light and destroyed by its absence, it was Michael Jackson.

Generations don’t often share favorites. Sock hops give way to Woodstock. Motown cedes its standing to Disco and so on. But the indelible image of Mike’s glittering glove tossing that hat, spinning on those penny loafers, stopping on a dime to pause on his toes, and breaking out the moonwalk in front of millions is something no one EVER forgets.

Michael Jackson was the most American of us all. Child of religion, born in the heartland of Indiana. Raised in the shadow of factories in the midst of urban sprawl. Nurtured by family. Pushed by his parents to the highest of heights. Brilliant and hard-working. Seduced, by the fame’s heights and stymied by its perverse lows. Abandoned by friends. Crucified for his eccentricity. The absolute embodiment of nothing to something, playing itself out in a spectacular arc before our very eyes. For every American who ever worked two jobs to put themselves through college so they could get out of their box and see the world, Michael Jackson was you.

Michael Jackson was all of us. But most tellingly, Jackson was Black America. Slave to the rhythm. Emancipated from Gordy. Ruled by religion. Reconstructed by surgeons. Profiled by media. Leeched for his labor, and dropped then he was used up. Lauded for his innocence and preyed upon for the same reason. Precursor to Lil’ Kim. For every beautiful Black child whoever felt unpretty, no matter how many of us think you are precious, Michael Jackson was you.

We find solace in our solitude. We celebrate our biggest victories and lick the wounds from our greatest defeats away from prying eyes. Imagine if your solace was a stage and your entire existence was The Truman Show or some pervasive reality TV show? What if your every waking moment was recorded for posterity? For all of you dealing with the evils of fame, thrust in a spotlight unaware of the consequences, Michael Jackson was you.

Jackson dominated our consciousness for decades; liberator of our souls, yet subservient to our whims. He is at once our brightest light and our darkest shame. This was the death of the 80’s, more pronounced than a balding Hulk Hogan, a retired Air Jordan, and a dead Jam Master Jay.

If you are from the 70s, this was the death of your innocence much like Jack Kennedy’s death was for those a generation before you. He was every dream you ever dreamt and every imaginary friend you could have conjured.

If you were from the 90’s, then the person who most symbolized your enormity and your daring, gigantic ambition is no longer here and you are lessened by it. The immense videos, rife with imagery, huge in budget and long on vision, set the table for the Missys and the Bad Boys and the Bustas.

But if you are of the millennium, then everyone you ride with owes their very existence to him. Usher doesn’t get his way, Omarion has no entourage, Chris Brown doesn’t run it, and Ne-Yo doesn’t exist. An entire generation of music and showmanship rests on the shoulders of the gloved one.

He said himself, you never can say good-bye and the longer this gets, the harder it gets because I know the end is coming. That typing that last period is the final word, for me at least, on the greatest performer I ever saw. The final curtain-call for the triumph, the tragedy and the majesty of Michael Jackson, a man doomed from the moment he picked up the microphone, yet who only truly felt safe behind it. Finally he gets his respite from the cameras and the gossip and the shackles of fame. It’s ironic that someone so immortal and invincible in life could only find peace in his own mortality. His legacy is the ultimate victory, and shines as bright as anyone’s: Tyson’s, Jordan’s, J_____.

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