My Dad & Michael Jackson

As the second year anniversary of my father’s passing is rapidly approaching, I find myself thinking of him and Michael Jackson simultaneously. You see for me, my dad and Michael were two threads from the same glove. My dad groomed me to love Michael as he had grown to love him. He was born in 1956, Michael 1958, so he literally grew up with him. He followed the Jackson 5 career from the beginning and very much saw a place for himself within the family. The Jackson 5 music was his source of hope. Out of nowhere came a group of African-American boys setting the music world ablaze. He saw himself in them. He certainly understood poverty, heartache, sacrifice and struggle. Yet, here these kids were living a dream and while he was yet to discover his dream, Michael made him feel that anything was possible. As Michael grew older and embarked upon a solo career, my dad apparently thought so could he. He followed Michael’s career to the point where he felt Michael had been mentoring him for the business. By the time I came along in 1980, my dad was fully immersed in the Michael Jackson persona. He had the jheri curls, the red leather jacket, ankle length slacks, glittered socks and of course the white glove. He was always ready to break into the Thriller choreography at any given moment. Everyone called him Michael Jackson. As a very young child, I thought my dad was Michael. With everyone calling him MJ, who was I to say otherwise? His disappearing acts in and out of the tv, mystified me. I thoroughly investigated that tv, but I just couldn’t figure it out. I eventually concluded it was only something my dad could do.

I soon came to learn that my dad and Michael wasn’t one in the same. However, it didn’t change my connection to either. I had come to know Michael through the eyes of my dad, a man who truly loved and respected him. And during that age, my dad’s eyes were perfection. My dad didn’t have a storybook childhood, but seeing and living through Michael’s magic, dance, music, heart, and soul saved his. He always respected and admired Michael’s relentless dedication to his art and fans. I recall him saying once or twice that he always knew Michael’s smile masked a great deal of pain, but he masked that pain to bring others joy.

My dad’s Michael Jackson look-a-like phase ended in ’88 or ’89 with a shaved head, but his love and loyalty never did. When Michael was going through one of the most painful and humiliating times of his life in ’93, my dad was steadfast in his support of him. The case was everywhere and the topic of everyone’s conversation. My dad had taken up residence in another state a few years prior, leaving me to phone him about Michael’s plight. Before saying hello, I asked did he think Michael was guilty. He said, “no one with such a pure love for children would rob them of their innocence, and this was about money and the world would soon have to eat the ugliness they’d dished out towards him”. He then said, “the boy was lying and needed an ass whipping and the father needed an even bigger ass whipping”. Hey, he was from the south and they spanked/whipped kids back then. I told him it wasn’t the child’s fault, his dad made him lie. He replied with a “yeah, but at some point he could have told the investigators the truth and they would have protected him. You don’t help destroy a person’s life out of fear. Thirteen is old enough to know right from wrong.”

I miss the laughs Michael inspired around the house. We’d be watching one of his short films and up goes my dad mimicking his dance moves. My mom would say, “sit down, you’re blocking the man I’m really suppose to be with”. To this day, Bad is her favorite short film and she watches it regularly. She harassed me into buying her the History dvd so she could easily re-watch it. When Michael married Lisa Marie Presley, my dad’s response was, “it’s only fitting that a King would marry a King’s daughter”. I miss my dad all the time. He was one of a kind in every way. My dad had more than his fair share of faults, but he adored me. Despite everything else, I always knew he loved me and I will treasure that gift until my last breath.

The last words my dad ever spoke about Michael was a few weeks prior to his own death. His voice filled with grief, he said “I can’t believe they killed him”. He pierced my heart with the sadness of his voice. My dad was a strong and proud man, but not even he could hide his pain over Michael’s death. I hope Michael somehow knew what a profound impact he had on so many people lives. He gave more than any one man should have to give and it doesn’t seem like the world gave him anything in return. I pray that the love from his family and people like my dad outweighed the cross he had to bear.

Seven days after Michael was laid to rest at Forest Lawn, my dad died an hour after a surgery to remove a tumor from his throat. He was just 52 years old. I was uncomfortably familiar with death, but I never once thought of my dad dying just as I had never once thought of Michael dying. They were intertwined in life and now in death. I can’t think of my dad without thinking of Michael and vice versa. I remember the excitement on my dad’s face when he perfected the “man on skate move” from the Bad short film. He did it in slow motion and all. There were quite a number of hilarious ouchers during the process, but he eventually succeeded. Interestingly, my childhood friends never stopped calling him Michael Jackson. We lost touch as that tends to happen when you move away, however, I was recently able to reconnect with a few of them. Sure enough, they asked how “Michael Jackson” was doing. I couldn’t bring myself to utter the awful truth. I avoided the question and moved on. As we reminisced about the past, I wanted to hold on to the time when he was alive. I later informed them about my dad and explained the omission. They seemed to understand and sighed with me.

How do you say good-bye to a loved one? I’ve never learned and time refuses to teach me. Some days, my dad is very much alive. I continually make mental notes of things to tell him during our next phone conversation. I buy gifts for him or make plans to visit. I hate reliving his death. I feel as if I’m in a constant state of free-falling. Not very long ago, I was wrapped up in a moment of pure bliss and I needed to tell someone who would delight in my joy as much as I did. I dialed his number as natural as it is for me breathe. An unrecognizable voice answered the phone and that’s when I realized he was gone. The phone crashed to the floor as I stood numb against the wall. Only two people ever loved me unconditionally in this world and now they’re both gone. My grandmother and my father. When I lost her, my dad loved me more. Without speaking a word, he knew the impact her loss had on me. Now, in his abscess, no one is left to love me more or even at all. I miss you Dad and Michael and I will always love you.

Comment on how Michael influenced your life.