The Heart of Michael Jackson
Crowds spontaneously
started to gather
at the Apollo,
in front of the hospital
where his still body lay,
in fact,
across the globe
hordes poured out
into the streets
after the news
broke
that Michael Jackson died.
The man who could achieve
with music
what he had said
in a rare interview
politicians with laws
and clever speeches
could not achieve
once again focused
our collective consciousness.
In unison, strangers
sang his words,
and together danced
his signature moves
to celebrate the man
who had for decades
embodied our collective desire
to express the ineffable.
We had cheered
him when he captured
in lyrics our loves and drives
and measured in beats
and energetic gyrations
our moments of ecstasy.
But then, because
there is the overlooked
law of polarity,
we vilified him
when he reflected
our phobias and fears
about looking different,
acting different,
being different,
than cultural expectations
deemed appropriate.
We forced him
to endure our collective
need for perfection
in an imperfect world
then ridiculed him
for buckling under the pressure.
In the requisite
media montages of his life
with the ubiquitous Barbara Walters
who blurs the line between
reporting and gossip
that we openly crave
or loudly abhor,
I was struck
(yes I watched)
I was struck
by how many times
Michael tapped
his chest
over his
heart
and asked
in one way
or another
that it be
respected,
accepted,
remembered:
“I am a person.
I have feelings.”
Once hailed
as an icon
can the heart
survive?
Once asked
to carry
the collective
weight of our emotions,
can we
be surprised
that a heart
gives out,
gives up,
gives in
to mind and body
numbing drugs?
We speculate
and titch, titch
over the tragedy
of his finances
and wonder aloud
over the unlived
lives of his offspring.
We splash the screens
of television
and all the media forms
that have evolved
in the course
of his lifetime
and now participate
in creating revolutions,
evolutions, de-evolutions,
we splash the scenes
with recounts of accusations
of his alleged salacious behavior
knowing that only
a handful of people
know the truth
yet we feel compelled
to sully his memory.
In my heart,
I carry memories
of a man robbed
of his childhood
(yes he gained
from our theft
but at what price?)
who spent his life
seeking to regain it,
a man driven
to perfect his talent
so that he could
gift to you
and gift to me
the love of melody and movement.
I surrender to his request
to remember his heart
and hear his call:
“Let me fill
your heart
with joy and happiness.”
I tap my heart
and bow my head
to the memory
of a man
fearless enough
to dance
to the beat
of his own heart.
I let his music
enter my soul
and run out
to join the celebration
in the streets.
“I’ll Be There.”
Robin Ridleycopyright 2009
