This is a rejoinder to Pam Pastor’s article, “I am no Michael Jackson fan.” (Inquirer, 7/4/09) I wasn’t a huge fan of Jackson either, despite being reared in the MTV age when his videos reigned supreme. I simply found his music amiable, creatively good for a chorus and a dance to a beat or two. I cannot recall the number of times I’ve heard “You Are Not Alone” or “Rock With You” or “Black or White” during my childhood. “We Are The World” was something we’d sing as a class during a United Nations-themed school program. “Beat It” was the perennial ditty the teachers would shimmy to on Teacher’s Day. The video for “Thriller” until now can still make the hair on the back of my neck stand.
Such was the scope of his influence on me, heightened much more when my neighbor and friend Mona Rae proclaimed herself “The Ultimate MJ Fan” in my slumbook, signed along the time he arrived here for the smash 1997 “HIStory” concert. It sadly was one of his final glimpses of the zenith before his persona imploded, spiraling him down to a dark abyss he never was able to recover from.
I heard the news at the moment I woke up on Friday morning. There were no tears, just shock. How someone who still held so much promise could fade away in the starkest of circumstances. Jackson’s demise alludes to the myth of an unfinished life, joining the ranks of Marilyn Monroe, Elvis Presley, Princess Diana and Heath Ledger. I held some resentment for the media circuses that made his life tabloid fodder and the butt of jokes. I even felt angry at him for giving in—but then, we will never know what went on in his mind that compelled him to become a man truly larger than life.
Just as his death sparked controversy, Michael Jackson’s music phenomenally resurrected. We now hear it everywhere. The songs I once was inundated with but took for granted assumed a new life. I listened to them and found them to be perfect—the masterpieces of a prodigy. He encapsulated the essence of what he wanted to say in several choice words, punctuated by apt melodies. “Earth Song” was written long before all the buzz about climate change. My mother, who was indifferent upon his death, went teary-eyed when she heard “Heal the World.” The poignancy of “Childhood” struck a deep chord, helping me understand what he really felt. And I cried.
From the many memories we have of Jackson, I choose to remember him most as an extraordinary songwriter. I’m glad that his words, along with his music, serve as a catalyst to inspire billions.
