Life Behind the Curve

Today, the life of Michael Jackson was memorialized at Staples Center and around the world. In the week and a half since his death, I have not watched TV so haven’t subjected myself to what I’ve heard has been over-the-top media coverage of his life and death. I have spent enough time on Twitter and Facebook to know that there are a number of people who are upset that we’re “celebrating the life of a pedophile.” Others have argued that it is his musical legacy that we are celebrating.

I’ve given Michael Jackson, his actions, his life, and his legacy a lot of thought, and I think both sides have made fair points. But mostly I think about what all of those things have meant to me. And I realized that to me, the shock of his death has little to do with him or his musical genius, and a lot to do with how that music accompanied my own life experiences.

I remember listening to Jackson 5 LPs while in preschool at Kindercare where Old Halls Ferry and New Halls Ferry Roads meet outside of St. Louis, Missouri. It was at that school that I learned how to read, that I lost my first tooth at a Halloween celebration while eating a caramel apple, that I learned the tragedy of miscarriage (the center director lost her baby late in her pregnancy), that I scraped my knee so badly playing four square that I bear a scar on it to this day.

I remember listening to We Are the World while jumping on the trampoline at my aunt’s house in Michigan on one of the many visits of my childhood. My grandparents would drive down from Pontiac or Fenton to St. Louis to pick me and my sister up. We’d drive back with Grandma and Grandpa and spend the week with them. We’d visit with my cousins, who were so much older and cooler than we were. We’d go to Easter church service with Grandma and sit up front for the children’s story. We’d eat Eskimo pies and play with the gemstones that Grandpa had in an old fish tank.

I remember listening to Billie Jean while I was in my parents’ room and figuring out what the words meant. Their bed was right in front of the door at the end of a long hall. My sister and I used to put our right hands up just like Mary Lou Retton, then sprint down the hall and vault onto their bed. We broke their boxspring reenacting the 1984 Olympics. A few years later, their room housed our first Apple IIE. I learned to type on that computer, playing a typing game that ended with the words “enthusiasm and zeal.” I programmed a DOS database as a wishlist of everything from the Sears and Service Merchandise catalogs that I wanted for Christmas.

I remember listening to Bad and (perhaps even more clearly remember) watching the video for Weird Al Yankovich’s Fat while at my new friend Erin’s house after we moved from St. Louis to California. I spent a lot of time at my friends’ houses as I was a latchkey kid during the tail end of elementary school. I got myself to and from summer school. I took a speed reading class at Lucy Stern Community Center. I went swimming and ate cheap hamburgers at Rinconada Park. I played cards in my family room with Heather and collected Garbage Pail Kids with Jodie.

I remember listening to Black and White while dipping my toe in the world of boys and dating (including interracial dating). I was unsure of my braces, my small breasts and growing hips. I endured my first heart break. I was given my first dozen roses as a Valentine’s Day present. I had my first period. I cried. I learned that I was really good at cutting class and getting away with it.

I remember listening to Scream, rushing home after soccer practice to see the world premiere of the video. I played soccer seven days a week, defined myself as a soccer player, and looked forward to playing in college. I broke my leg in the semi-finals of State Cup when a goal keeper slid into me while I was on a fast break. My stopper heard the snap on the other end of the field. I couldn’t play any longer so I coached a little girl who learned from me that she could control where the ball went by pointing the toe on her plant foot in the direction she wanted it to travel. I had surgery that disfigured my shin for life and gave me the opportunity to follow my football-playing boyfriend (now husband) to college instead of being recruited to play at one myself.

Of course I remember the Michael Jackson on display through all this time: his hair catching on fire, his facial features and then color changing, the random marriages, the kid being hung over the balcony, the strange behavior, the accusations, the bankruptcy. And I can’t help but shake my head.

But to me, Michael Jackson’s legacy, to me very personally, is that he was there providing the soundtrack of my life. And for that one, very personal contribution, I am grateful.