No One Wants To Be Defeated

God how I wanted to moonwalk. The china hutch that my mother kept in the carpeted sitting room, several rooms away from the eating area, had a mirrored back, like the ones seen in saloons, that provided an excellent view for practicing one's dance moves. My feet would become hot from the friction of socks on rug as I unsuccessfully shuffled the wrong direction. I have watched it in slow-mo, and I still cannot fathom how the feet move forward but carry him back. Even when it was popular, I always knew that the running man was invented as a cast-off to appease those of us who would never master the greatest dance move in history.

After my family purchased our first VCR, I remember watching "Beat It" over and over, attempting to memorize the choreography. I especially loved the single-leg kick where he shakes it back and forth before slapping his knee. (I've toppled many a lamp with this move over the years.) My mom looked on, laughing.

"You're pretty good."
Hopeful, I asked, "Do you think I'm better than Michael Jackson?"
"Oh, no, honey!"

At the time, I was definitely not expecting this blow to my ego. I actually felt a little hurt. As a boy I was, as are most children, used to hearing about my limitless potential. I asked my dad once if he thought I might make the major leagues. He simply said, "Sure." Whether he believed it or not, I cannot say, but there is something deeply amusing and poignant about the fact that my mom could not bring herself to tell a white lie to her eager son and his clumsy dance moves: MJ was the best, and that was that. To claim otherwise would just be wrong.

To say I am mourning the loss is overstating it. The only album I own is a beat up copy of Off the Wall that I found in a thrift store. But I certainly felt sad when I heard the news. Despite his eccentricities, and the many allegations about this tortured, possibly torturous, person, I grew up watching this person sing and dance and show me what it was to be a star. He was huge, and I was transfixed by him and his fluid skeleton. It is hard not to smile when you witness the geometric improbabilities of his motions. And it is even harder, for even the shyest party-goers, not to at least tap a foot when the bass run of Billie Jean invades the airspace.

A lot of people seem angry or annoyed by all the attention his death is receiving when there are more important issues in the world. Or the fact that we continue to celebrate an alleged child molester. To them I can only say that I agree, the world is a troubled place, and the death of a pop star is not the most important thing, and if he did in fact molest those boys, then it is unforgivable, but it does not change the fact that his music and dance moves are amazing, even today, and he was able to inspire more people on this planet than just about anyone, ever. And so, I am not going to sit around and cry and say he was too young, etc., etc. I just wanted to pay respect to someone that I idolized as a boy. He was an entertainer, and I was entertained.