My Reflection on the Life and Death of Michael Jackson

I’ve been accused of being crazy, horribly verbose, and simply off today. Yes, I write all the time. Most times, I tag people and beg for comments. Not today. Today this is my personal letter to Michael Jackson. Much like my BlogFriend Effie I feel the need to tell him everything he meant to me, and attempt to explain my actions of the last 24 hours.

My Mother raised me on Motown. I grew up on in Detroit, I had no choice but to understand the Beauty of that Era. When most people were listening to Peabo Bryson, I thought The Jackson Five was the only music that existed. Do you know what it is to hear the beginning of ABC, and feel your heart jump? Knowing what is coming ahead, anticipating the bridge, and understanding, even at a young age, that you will never hear anything more perfect.
Or can you remember the First Time you saw the Bad Video, on MTV. The Long Version, with Wesley Snipes. Looking at all those hard core criminals dancing out their frustration, and understanding even then that this person, this man, This Legend was the only person that could inspire that type of Perfection in a person. Remember sitting in your room, putting your Bad Tape in your Fisher Price Tape Player, so that you could sing Dirty Diana one more time before bed.

Remember going to the BAD Concert Tour. Sitting in traffic going toward the Palace of Auburn Hills, bouncing in the car, making sure we were really going to the concert. Being under the age of Ten, and seeing Michael Jackson come onto the stage and realizing this is the greatest concert experience wyou will ever see. Breaking your Brand New Glasses less than 10 into the show because you Jumped Up and Danced. Yelling, Bad? Who’s Bad? Loud enough that you couldn’t speak for he next week.

Jimmy Bean!
I can’t even remember WHERE I saw Moonwalker for the first time. I just remember watching the Smooth Criminal Dance Sequence, then acting it out on the grass outside. Because our mothers knew we were going to fall on our asses trying to do that Lean. I can remember sitting in the hotel room at Rana’s Birthday Party watching the premiere of Scream on MTV. Telling Lauryn and Rana, “No One can Top that. No One.”
I hurt in A Place I didn’t even know I had. A Place where tears start to flow, and pain builds, and I fear know one will ever be able to reach again. Michael Jackson made me want to be able to sing, the first time my mother knew I could sing was because I was singing Man in the Mirror with my church friends in the back of church. The first song I knew by heart was I’ll Be There.

Michael was the Purity of Musical Talent. The Purity of Musical Sound. The Purity of Childlike Innocence. Michael opened up his heart to the world, and gave everything he had. And maybe it will end up that he was just tired. Tired of the persecution, and blame, and lies, and hurt, and pain.

But He will never know that I Loved him. That I cried when I found out, and called my mother. But I did, and I still do. And as I sit here typing and crying, I wonder if anyone understands? If they understand how it feels to love someone you never actually spoke to, to the point that you can’t do anything but sit and mourn.

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