The first time I heard his voice, I was in my mother’s office. I pulled an audio-cassette from a rack of audio history she kept. There were songs and tapes from every era – Motown, doo-wap, jazz, what I called “hippie music”, and…him.
Well…at least I thought it was a him.
Michael Jackson inspired me. His thin, feminine face, black curls hanging in his face, the clothes that hung on his frame. He seemed so neutral. Part of everything. Part of nothing. He was free from the laws of gender and sexuality. I too wanted to be free.
I would put the tape on, volume cranked, between my mother’s appointments. I would dance around and watch myself in the double-mirrors on the wall. I would wear a shiny white shirt. It was part of a pirate costume my parents had given me for Christmas. The edges of the sleeves jagged and torn. I wanted to look perfectly dirty. Just like Michael. And, at least to myself, I looked bad. Not just bad. But “Bad“.
“I’m starting with the man in the mirror!” I would shriek along with him, my boy’s soprano tone matching his as I watched the reflection of my body twisting. Sometimes my mom would leave the room, and then I would really let it go. “I’m asking him to make a change! MAKE THAT CHANGE!”
When Michael was tried on molestation charges, I sat by the TV, riveted, and all I could feel was jealousy. For the little boy who got to meet him. The boy who got to hold his hand. The boy who touched an angel.
If you liked this post, you might like these:
