I’ve always been bemused by Michael Jackson — the one they call the King of Pop. Perhaps it is because I didn’t see him the way he was meant to be seen. I was in pre-school when Bad came out. By then it was too late. He’d already whitened himself and narrowed out all of his African facial features. I wouldn’t see Thriller or the one where he’s dancing in the glitter onesie until way later. It had to be explained to me that he was the same little boy from the Jackson 5. That he was the same tortured scarecrow from The Wiz pulling Nietzche quotes from out of his stuffing. I laughed my mother out the kitchen. I refused to believe her. “What?!” “No mommy, how?” “How is that the same person?” I’ll never forget it. I’d never seen anything like it. I came of age in the era of Michael where he was grabbing his crotch and ripping his shirt off his pale white cavernous chest. The legacy is great, yes, but the legacy is weird.
I remember when Black or White was set to debut. The video was advertised to death. Michael Jackson was the biggest artist in the world. His videos debuted on Fox 5 prime-time television. He interrupted The Simpsons and the news. We were all talking about it in school that day. How we couldn’t wait. We already knew he’d spent a record-breaking amount of money on the production. You were wack if you missed it. I’ll never forget the backlash that ensued when, after the song ended, Michael went into a whole rampage and molly-wopped all those cars in the street with a bat. The entire world was frozen in front of TV sets trying to make sense of what we’d been compelled to witness. “WTF?!” And then the censorship came. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the full video again since. They snipped all that tantrum right out the video for all time. And I guess one could surmise his beatdown to be some Black man power move, but to me? With that pale skin and that chiseled chin and that mean wave? I just…I can’t see it.
Now when I did get around to seeing Thriller, I thought about it for a long time after watching it. It resonated and not for the greatness of the choreography, the depth of the story, the history of it being a landmark production for Blacks on television. It was the fear. It was the fact that the entire premise of the video is him terrorizing this beautiful black woman. My sister. And just when she thinks it’s safe, she melts into him and breathes a sigh of relief only for us to discover that this nigga is still a whole monster. Like nah. Are we watching the same thing? No, I’m good.
I like Michael Jackson’s music, I do. I love all that he’s done for the culture. He’s sown seeds in the creative energies of everyone that has come after him in popular music. Him hating his blackness though? It makes me feel a way. Don’t tell me he didn’t. I think about him sitting up in that tree in the You Are Not Alone video with his shirt off, sporting sickeningly pink nipples and a mushroom swoop akin to Demi Moore’s in Ghost. He’s up there in that tree caressing on that white lady and it’s enough to make me never want a cup of milk again. Yes, he gave us the first all-Black cast in a music video, and even staged it in Egypt. He still looked more like Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra than the Black woman we know she really was. And that kiss with Iman, arguably one of the most beautiful African queens to walk the face of the Earth, was hella awkward. Like nah. He will never be my king. I’m not even going to delve into the allegations about the boys. I watched that documentary on HBO. I listened to Dave Chappelle’s commentary on same. I also listened to Katt Williams’ purview on the topic. The line “smelling like baby boys’ bootyholes” reverberates. I’m conflicted. It’s complex. What I do know is that the self-deprecation of his face and body was already off-putting enough for me not to be the fan that’s going to pass out in his arena. My tears are reserved for Beyoncé.
A dear friend of mine posited a theory around Michael’s obsession with Prince. How Michael’s transformation got paler after Purple Rain. He showed me the Purple Rain and Bad album covers side by side and how eerily similar they are in appearance. He played me the Quincy Jones interview where master Jones divulges Michael writing Bad as a duet — and how Prince declined the offer.
Then, he showed me the infamous James Brown birthday performance where Brown calls MJ to the stage. He does his MJ thing and then whispers into James’ ear to call Prince up.
Nobody:
MJ: Prince is here. Call Prince to the stage.
JB: Huh? Say what?
MJ: Prince! Get Prince up here!
JB: Mmk, where’s Prince?
Clearly, Prince was in the back minding his own business, probably bagging some hottie in the crowd with all that Prince sauce he got, and then he’s interrupted by this random invitation to come to the stage. Ever the Purple stallion, he rises to the occasion in a way no one would have fathomed — mounting his bodyguard and riding him through the crowd. No one cared about Michael after that. I mean, at least, I didn’t.
I’ve seen fights break out over the topic of Michael Jackson in conversation among Blackfolk. I remain silent in these discussions because I don’t have enough sage on hand to quell the vitriol that would surely ensue once making my true feelings known. Who has time for that? Certainly, not me. The smoke is too corny for me to entertain and I’ve avoided it. I think about the Invincible album cover in all its whiteness. I think about my mom telling me how the initial response to Bad was one of disbelief and ridicule. “Why mom?” She then went on to explain that the entire notion of Michael Jackson being bad (able to defend himself against a Wesley Snipes-level G in a subway station) was a whole miss. She’d seen him grow up on television. Her entire generation saw him. She knew his entire life as a child star, unscathed by any street or hood danger. He was on the Ed Sullivan show as a toddler. He wasn’t Bad. It was a joke.
As a broad-nosed Black woman, recalling Michael Jackson chisel away at his nose to the point where he was getting media attention for it caving in, makes me nauseous. Like deadass, you’d rather not breathe my nigga?! Those Culkin-colored lips and that chin just exacerbated how ridiculous it all was — and yet Blackfolk just love and idolize this man. This man that hates himself. How could he love me? He denied Billy Jean. I’d never be his Pretty Young Thing. Such admiration was reserved for the likes of Madonna, Brooke Shields and Lisa Marie Presley.
He could never see himself in me — this Black woman proud to be one.
Further, I’m never asking Alexa to play Michael Jackson. His sister though? Yeah, Janet all day, from Pleasure Principle on down. Give me Feedback. Rhythm Nation. Janet’s why I know about Phenomenal Woman and the reason I got box braids. She bodied him in the Scream dance sequence idc idc. One can argue that Janet also has issues with her image, yet as a Black woman, I’ve never felt repulsed by anything she’s done to her face. Janet is Penny. Janet is Justice. Janet is Janet — titties in upright position on the album cover of the same name. I don’t get the same vibes listening to Heal the World or watching Michael jump on prison cafeteria tables in They Don’t Really Care About Us, a video two scenes away from a gay porn reveal — trust, I’ve done this research.
I add it all up: him donning his mama’s sequin jacket to do the moonwalk for the first time at the Motown tribute, Michael in the claymation helicopter with Bubbles in the backseat mad Elizabeth Taylor turned down his marriage proposal, his children whose Blackness is questionable at best — as far as I’m concerned Rachel Dolezal has a better claim to the race than Paris. What do I have left after all this consideration? Incredulity towards anyone claiming Michael Jackson to be the king of anything. An Apollo legend, for sure, but I’m going to leave it there. Fight me.
