There are moments when television or radio has broken into my little world and broken my heart. I will never forget the day I heard that Magic Johnson had AIDS. I was in our little rented house in Nebraska, where Casey was teaching in a one-room school house (very Little House on the Prairie). I was cleaning the living room, dusting the wood floors with a dry mop, the television on to keep me company. When I heard the news break in, I laid my mop down and walked over to see what was going on. When I saw Magic and heard the announcement, I felt sick and had to sit down. I was no great basketball fan, but I had graduated from high school in California, and everybody loved Magic. At that time (1992, I believe), AIDS was a sure death sentence, and I could not imagine how someone so likable, so straight could have it.
A few years later, after we had moved to Oklahoma, I was driving to Tulsa to visit my mother and I heard on the radio that Princess Diana and Mother Theresa had died on the same day. I was shocked and saddened for Princess Di, being so young, dying in such an awful way, but I was devastated by the news of Mother Theresa. So much so that I had to pull over and weep. It felt as if a certain measure of light and goodness had left the world, and I have always feared the dark.
Today we were watching re-runs of The Office and I saw a commercial for Dateline "Celebrating the lives of two legends: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson." What was that? Farrah I had been expecting . . . but Michael? I rushed over to the computer and read the news, tears welling up in my eyes. I have been a devoted Michael Jackson fan since the Jackson Five days. It was one of the few shows that made it to Kenya, and my sister and I watched it faithfully every week. She said Randy was her favorite Jackson, but my heart always, always belonged to Michael. In boarding school, we were forbidden to listen to Thriller because the powers-that-were deemed it "demonic" and "sexually explicit." We listened to it anyway--once, we got caught DANCING (another big RVA no-no) to "PYT," for which we all received a demerit.
It was worth it.
*****
As some of you may or may not know, I have written a book about my life at Rift. Rather than going on with any new thoughts about Michael Jackson, I am going to post an excerpt from my book. I wrote this part about three years ago (editing is an excruciating process--especially when one decides to write a novel at the same time--but I am getting close to being done, once and for all). I remember smiling as I wrote it, and I smiled again as I re-read it just now. That was what I loved about Michael--he always made me smile.
****
From The Food Is Crap, but at Least It's Always Cold: My Life as a Buffalo by Becky Marietta.
Please note that names have been changed in this book to protect the innocent . . . and the not-so-innocent.
The first and most important decision my friends made that term was that our room would be hands-down, no questions asked, the coolest room in Titchie Swot. So when Jean pulled last year’s kitty and unicorn posters out of her bag and started to stick them up on the yellowy concrete wall, Njema stopped her with one cold look.
“What?” Jean asked, twisting the poster in her hands nervously.
“We are not babies anymore, Jean. We are women.” Njema reached into her own bag and pulled out a magazine. She held it aloft and we all crowded around her, as if glimpsing Excalibur. The magazine was an American one called Teen Beat, and its cover was crammed from edge to edge with pictures of delectable male American stars. Njema flipped the cover open and Tom Selleck’s perfect white teeth gleamed out at us.
“Mmm,” Carrie said. “That Tom Selleck is one handsome guy.” She reached out a finger to caress Tom’s bristly mustache, but before her hands could come in contact with the glossy photo, Njema had snatched the magazine away.
“Tom is MINE,” Njema said. She looked down at Mr. Magnum P.I. and sighed in ecstasy. “Here is what I think,” she said. “We should all pick out some guy to love, then we will each ‘own’ that guy. Any picture we may find of that guy belongs to the girl who owns him, and we will call the girl by the name of the guy—like I will be ‘Selleck.’ We will decorate the walls around our own beds with our special guy. Understand?”
Carrie, Jean, and I nodded. Njema pulled out more fan magazines like Teen Beat—garishly colored mags, rich with pictures and skimpy on words, bearing names like “Starz,” “Fanfare,” and “Tiger.” We each grabbed a magazine and started “shopping” for our man.
I had no trouble finding my dream fellow. Ever since a friend of ours in the States had sent us a pile of recorded VHS tapes of “Happy Days,” I had been secretly, passionately in love with Chachi (and conversely and not surprisingly, I had an equally passionate hatred of Joanie). When I discovered a picture of Scott Baio leaning against a barn door, wearing a denim jean-jacket and pleasingly tight blue jean pants, grinning that beautiful grin of his, I let out a squeal of delight. I traced the outline of his brown Italian eyes lovingly. “I’m gonna be Mrs. Baio,” I murmured.
Njema heard me. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” she said. She walked over to my bed and looked at the picture I was stroking. “Okay. Becky is ‘Baio,” she announced. She turned a few pages in the magazine she was holding, found a two-page-spread poster of Scott Baio, ripped it out, and handed it to me. I held my prize to my chest and sighed in rapture.
Carrie and Jean claimed their men, too—Carrie pledging her allegiance to the C.H.I.P.s star, Erik Estrada, and Jean deciding that Ricky Schroeder, with his bright blue eyes and white-blonde hair, was the man for her. We spent the afternoon ripping, cutting, and exchanging pictures and tacking them up on the walls around our beds, on the ceiling over our bunks, on our closet doors. As I flipped through yet another magazine, a different face suddenly moved my affection. I held up a picture of a young, light-skinned black man. His gerry curls were oiled just so, his dark brown eyes were velvety and innocent, his smile shy and dangerous, all at once. “And what about . . . ?” I began, displaying the picture to the other girls in the room.
Njema studied the face in the magazine for a moment, then shook her head. “Michael belongs to all of us,” she said. Carrie and Jean nodded, and I agreed too. Michael Jackson WAS for everyone. He had a power over us that we couldn’t explain—we loved his music (although Thriller was banned at our school for being possibly “occultish,” we listened to it anyway), we loved his dancing (who in their right minds wouldn’t love Michael’s dancing?), but there was something more about him, some indefinable quality that spoke to us. In fact, years later, despite all of his troubles, I have to admit to all that I am still a closet Michael fan. (I guess that means I am now out of the closet?) And I’m not alone—I have discovered that M.Ks (“missionary kids”) the world over have always loved Michael Jackson. In fact, I have, to this day, never met an M.K. who would not admit (albeit sometimes reluctantly) that deep in his or her heart-of-hearts, that he or she sorta thinks Michael, is, well, still the coolest.
I recently had an argument with my husband about this very fact. I insisted that a mutual friend of ours, a guy I had gone to Rift with and who was now a good friend of my husband’s, would just naturally like Michael Jackson, based on the fact that he was an M.K. My husband argued that “No way! He may be an AC/DC fan or KISS fan, but NEVER Michael Jackson!” (American males who have lived in the U.S. all their lives don’t seem to share the same appreciation for the King of Pop as we “Wogs” do). I responded that since my husband was NOT an M.K., he was incapable of understanding the magic that was Michael, and would he please like to make a bet? He did, and the next time we were with our friend, I pounced.
“What do you think about Michael Jackson?” I asked our unsuspecting friend, as he polished off the last bit of chocolate pie that I had put down as an unofficial bribe.
He responded without missing a beat, “Michael is awesome.”
My husband stared at him in disbelief. Our friend, oblivious that his masculine stock had just plummeted in my husband’s view, continued, “Did you see the MTV special that showed all of his greatest videos? I taped it, if you want to borrow it. Man, that guy can flat-out MOVE!”
I sat back smugly and stuck my tongue out at my husband. The Michael Jackson phenomenon has proved to be true with every MK I’ve known. I don’t know what it is about Michael—maybe we share a kinship with someone who never really fit in anywhere, like us. Maybe he really is Peter Pan, and MKs, as a rule, have problems with growing up. Whatever the psychological reasons, during my time at Rift, my girls and I all loved Michael with an undying, unfaltering passion and fought like cats in heat over who would get that poster of him reclining on the floor, holding the baby tiger.
Mmm. Michael.
A few years later, after we had moved to Oklahoma, I was driving to Tulsa to visit my mother and I heard on the radio that Princess Diana and Mother Theresa had died on the same day. I was shocked and saddened for Princess Di, being so young, dying in such an awful way, but I was devastated by the news of Mother Theresa. So much so that I had to pull over and weep. It felt as if a certain measure of light and goodness had left the world, and I have always feared the dark.
Today we were watching re-runs of The Office and I saw a commercial for Dateline "Celebrating the lives of two legends: Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson." What was that? Farrah I had been expecting . . . but Michael? I rushed over to the computer and read the news, tears welling up in my eyes. I have been a devoted Michael Jackson fan since the Jackson Five days. It was one of the few shows that made it to Kenya, and my sister and I watched it faithfully every week. She said Randy was her favorite Jackson, but my heart always, always belonged to Michael. In boarding school, we were forbidden to listen to Thriller because the powers-that-were deemed it "demonic" and "sexually explicit." We listened to it anyway--once, we got caught DANCING (another big RVA no-no) to "PYT," for which we all received a demerit.
It was worth it.
*****
As some of you may or may not know, I have written a book about my life at Rift. Rather than going on with any new thoughts about Michael Jackson, I am going to post an excerpt from my book. I wrote this part about three years ago (editing is an excruciating process--especially when one decides to write a novel at the same time--but I am getting close to being done, once and for all). I remember smiling as I wrote it, and I smiled again as I re-read it just now. That was what I loved about Michael--he always made me smile.
****
From The Food Is Crap, but at Least It's Always Cold: My Life as a Buffalo by Becky Marietta.
Please note that names have been changed in this book to protect the innocent . . . and the not-so-innocent.
The first and most important decision my friends made that term was that our room would be hands-down, no questions asked, the coolest room in Titchie Swot. So when Jean pulled last year’s kitty and unicorn posters out of her bag and started to stick them up on the yellowy concrete wall, Njema stopped her with one cold look.
“What?” Jean asked, twisting the poster in her hands nervously.
“We are not babies anymore, Jean. We are women.” Njema reached into her own bag and pulled out a magazine. She held it aloft and we all crowded around her, as if glimpsing Excalibur. The magazine was an American one called Teen Beat, and its cover was crammed from edge to edge with pictures of delectable male American stars. Njema flipped the cover open and Tom Selleck’s perfect white teeth gleamed out at us.
“Mmm,” Carrie said. “That Tom Selleck is one handsome guy.” She reached out a finger to caress Tom’s bristly mustache, but before her hands could come in contact with the glossy photo, Njema had snatched the magazine away.
“Tom is MINE,” Njema said. She looked down at Mr. Magnum P.I. and sighed in ecstasy. “Here is what I think,” she said. “We should all pick out some guy to love, then we will each ‘own’ that guy. Any picture we may find of that guy belongs to the girl who owns him, and we will call the girl by the name of the guy—like I will be ‘Selleck.’ We will decorate the walls around our own beds with our special guy. Understand?”
Carrie, Jean, and I nodded. Njema pulled out more fan magazines like Teen Beat—garishly colored mags, rich with pictures and skimpy on words, bearing names like “Starz,” “Fanfare,” and “Tiger.” We each grabbed a magazine and started “shopping” for our man.
I had no trouble finding my dream fellow. Ever since a friend of ours in the States had sent us a pile of recorded VHS tapes of “Happy Days,” I had been secretly, passionately in love with Chachi (and conversely and not surprisingly, I had an equally passionate hatred of Joanie). When I discovered a picture of Scott Baio leaning against a barn door, wearing a denim jean-jacket and pleasingly tight blue jean pants, grinning that beautiful grin of his, I let out a squeal of delight. I traced the outline of his brown Italian eyes lovingly. “I’m gonna be Mrs. Baio,” I murmured.
Njema heard me. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” she said. She walked over to my bed and looked at the picture I was stroking. “Okay. Becky is ‘Baio,” she announced. She turned a few pages in the magazine she was holding, found a two-page-spread poster of Scott Baio, ripped it out, and handed it to me. I held my prize to my chest and sighed in rapture.
Carrie and Jean claimed their men, too—Carrie pledging her allegiance to the C.H.I.P.s star, Erik Estrada, and Jean deciding that Ricky Schroeder, with his bright blue eyes and white-blonde hair, was the man for her. We spent the afternoon ripping, cutting, and exchanging pictures and tacking them up on the walls around our beds, on the ceiling over our bunks, on our closet doors. As I flipped through yet another magazine, a different face suddenly moved my affection. I held up a picture of a young, light-skinned black man. His gerry curls were oiled just so, his dark brown eyes were velvety and innocent, his smile shy and dangerous, all at once. “And what about . . . ?” I began, displaying the picture to the other girls in the room.
Njema studied the face in the magazine for a moment, then shook her head. “Michael belongs to all of us,” she said. Carrie and Jean nodded, and I agreed too. Michael Jackson WAS for everyone. He had a power over us that we couldn’t explain—we loved his music (although Thriller was banned at our school for being possibly “occultish,” we listened to it anyway), we loved his dancing (who in their right minds wouldn’t love Michael’s dancing?), but there was something more about him, some indefinable quality that spoke to us. In fact, years later, despite all of his troubles, I have to admit to all that I am still a closet Michael fan. (I guess that means I am now out of the closet?) And I’m not alone—I have discovered that M.Ks (“missionary kids”) the world over have always loved Michael Jackson. In fact, I have, to this day, never met an M.K. who would not admit (albeit sometimes reluctantly) that deep in his or her heart-of-hearts, that he or she sorta thinks Michael, is, well, still the coolest.
I recently had an argument with my husband about this very fact. I insisted that a mutual friend of ours, a guy I had gone to Rift with and who was now a good friend of my husband’s, would just naturally like Michael Jackson, based on the fact that he was an M.K. My husband argued that “No way! He may be an AC/DC fan or KISS fan, but NEVER Michael Jackson!” (American males who have lived in the U.S. all their lives don’t seem to share the same appreciation for the King of Pop as we “Wogs” do). I responded that since my husband was NOT an M.K., he was incapable of understanding the magic that was Michael, and would he please like to make a bet? He did, and the next time we were with our friend, I pounced.
“What do you think about Michael Jackson?” I asked our unsuspecting friend, as he polished off the last bit of chocolate pie that I had put down as an unofficial bribe.
He responded without missing a beat, “Michael is awesome.”
My husband stared at him in disbelief. Our friend, oblivious that his masculine stock had just plummeted in my husband’s view, continued, “Did you see the MTV special that showed all of his greatest videos? I taped it, if you want to borrow it. Man, that guy can flat-out MOVE!”
I sat back smugly and stuck my tongue out at my husband. The Michael Jackson phenomenon has proved to be true with every MK I’ve known. I don’t know what it is about Michael—maybe we share a kinship with someone who never really fit in anywhere, like us. Maybe he really is Peter Pan, and MKs, as a rule, have problems with growing up. Whatever the psychological reasons, during my time at Rift, my girls and I all loved Michael with an undying, unfaltering passion and fought like cats in heat over who would get that poster of him reclining on the floor, holding the baby tiger.
Mmm. Michael.
*****
Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. (William Shakespeare, Hamlet).
