I have been clinging, fingernails tearing, to the last vestiges of childhood. I am desperate to continue school, not because I want an education, but because it will allow me the opportunity to be a kid for a bit longer.
I am a woman with an addictive personality. I have been obsessed with superhero movies from the time I hit puberty. More recently, I've found myself with a near obscene need to watch certain television shows: a normal high-school girl chosen to be the lone soldier in a war against evil, women taken away from their mundane lives to go traveling amongst the whole of time and space with a mysterious doctor, and, of course, their various respective spin-offs.
I love to act. I am a pretty fair actress, I think, when I am given a role that I am allowed to make real. The problem with this is that I only do community theatre, which has the terminal illness of, intentionally or not, only using plays with characters that are nothing more than stereotyped hulls of “real” people. Very few community directors will do a show that requires more than learning lines and showing exaggerated emotion while moving from point A to point B. I do understand why this is: it is immensely difficult to showcase real humanity to an audience from fifty feet away without overdoing the emotions for them to be evident. And let's face it: most community actors couldn't handle a character who is built off of being a real person in a unique situation; for most actors in such theatres, acting is a hobby and nothing more. My problem is the opposite. I need to be a real person in my acting roles. When I am told to over-emphasize my emotions or facial expressions, my brain protests, screaming that it's not what my character would do. This leads to my feeling like a failure as an actor. Not only am I not allowed to become the person I'd like to become, but I'm also unable to become the stage-version of that person.
All of this leads me to my rediscovering a very simple, but very distressing, fact about the person that is me: I yearn to be somebody important. I want, with everything that is me, to be someone who matters in this world. I want to be the person in the foreground, saving lives, rather than the woman in the background, screaming at the monsters. Of course, the problem with growing up is that I am forced to come to terms with the fact that I am one of the 99% of humanity who is in the background. I am destined, like the overwhelming majority of the human race, to become a nobody. Sure, I will be somebody to the people in my life. I will matter to a few dozen (maybe even a few hundred) people before I die. When I die, though, I will die knowing that if I'd never been here, I wouldn't have made any lasting differences. Sure, philosophers will argue until the end of time that by their mere existence and through every interaction, every person makes a difference in the direction that the universe travels. I can respect and even acknowledge the validity of that idea. However, I know that I will make no larger difference than the secretary at the local law office.
I will likely go to university, get married, have a job that I moderately enjoy (hopefully), have a few children, retire, and die, all without ever having the satisfaction of knowing that, without me, the world would have gone to hell. I shall never save the world. It's probably a good thing, too. Given the opportunity, I would likely blow it, out of fear or other human emotion, just like most others would.
I'm sure I will eventually come to terms with the simple fact of my being a backgrounder. I will tell myself that I made a difference in the lives of my family, friends, and perhaps even a few strangers, and that is all that truly matters. For now, though, I know that I will never be a hero.
And that kills me every single day.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Saturday, July 17, 2010
My take on global warming
It's the topic of the decade. Everyone over the age of seven knows about it; everyone has an opinion about it. Most people have very strong feelings about it, one way or the other. I am one of the rare people who has a fairly wishy-washy stance on the issue. What is it? Global warming.
I am Everyman. I see what happens and react like everyone else does. I've seen self-righteous jerks proclaim the terrifying effects of human beings on our mother Earth. I believed it, without protest, for years. Then, as I got older, I began to become interested in hot-button issues and researched further.
As it turns out, this topic isn't nearly as clear-cut as I had originally thought. While it is true that a fair majority of scientists believes in global warming (or global climate change, if you prefer), there are quite a few scientists respected in their fields who do not agree that the topic is as open and shut as the media is presenting it.
My belief in the global warming epidemic began to waver. Still, for every well-researched argument against, there are several complete morons who make it difficult to identify as a skeptic.
So, after years of mild research and piqued interest, what conclusion have I come to? Well, first off, I think we should put away all of these extremes. Rather than accepting global warming blindly or throwing it out as pure bull-honkery, we should continue to do solid scientific research, not only on the possible changes in the climate, but also on the different methods of helping the environment that actually work.
When I went to Germany this past spring, I noticed that dotted across the country were these gigantic wind turbines. I also saw many solar farms, places where solar panels are lined up for acres. All of this is done in the idea that these forms of alternative energy will save the world. What has been coming to light recently, however, is that the turbines actually use more energy to run than they are producing. The solar fields are even less useful, as they are not only taking up land that could be used for farming or for ecologic solutions that truly work, but they have also been placed in a country that is well known for its constant cloudy, rainy weather pattern. Germany simply doesn't get enough sunlight to make solar farms worth the costs.
We need to research this. If global warming is true, then it is our responsibility to help the environment, not only for our planet, but for our future. If it isn't, then we should still seek out ways in which to better the environment and avoid future possibilities of climate change. However, we need to ensure that what we're calling a "solution" truly is thus. Many of our current "solutions" are, in fact, hurting the world more. Rather than arguing the falsity or truth of a topic that may not be resolved for decades more, we should be spending the time between now and then finding out what we can do to help.
I know that you want to help. I know that you want to be good people. I know this because I feel the same way. Still, don't just jump on the various bandwagons of environmental goodness without doing the research. Ask for proof, not that it works, but that it doesn't do more harm. Demand that people think before leaping. Save the world, but do it the right way. You don't want to help the old woman across the street and into a burning building.
I am Everyman. I see what happens and react like everyone else does. I've seen self-righteous jerks proclaim the terrifying effects of human beings on our mother Earth. I believed it, without protest, for years. Then, as I got older, I began to become interested in hot-button issues and researched further.
As it turns out, this topic isn't nearly as clear-cut as I had originally thought. While it is true that a fair majority of scientists believes in global warming (or global climate change, if you prefer), there are quite a few scientists respected in their fields who do not agree that the topic is as open and shut as the media is presenting it.
My belief in the global warming epidemic began to waver. Still, for every well-researched argument against, there are several complete morons who make it difficult to identify as a skeptic.
So, after years of mild research and piqued interest, what conclusion have I come to? Well, first off, I think we should put away all of these extremes. Rather than accepting global warming blindly or throwing it out as pure bull-honkery, we should continue to do solid scientific research, not only on the possible changes in the climate, but also on the different methods of helping the environment that actually work.
When I went to Germany this past spring, I noticed that dotted across the country were these gigantic wind turbines. I also saw many solar farms, places where solar panels are lined up for acres. All of this is done in the idea that these forms of alternative energy will save the world. What has been coming to light recently, however, is that the turbines actually use more energy to run than they are producing. The solar fields are even less useful, as they are not only taking up land that could be used for farming or for ecologic solutions that truly work, but they have also been placed in a country that is well known for its constant cloudy, rainy weather pattern. Germany simply doesn't get enough sunlight to make solar farms worth the costs.
We need to research this. If global warming is true, then it is our responsibility to help the environment, not only for our planet, but for our future. If it isn't, then we should still seek out ways in which to better the environment and avoid future possibilities of climate change. However, we need to ensure that what we're calling a "solution" truly is thus. Many of our current "solutions" are, in fact, hurting the world more. Rather than arguing the falsity or truth of a topic that may not be resolved for decades more, we should be spending the time between now and then finding out what we can do to help.
I know that you want to help. I know that you want to be good people. I know this because I feel the same way. Still, don't just jump on the various bandwagons of environmental goodness without doing the research. Ask for proof, not that it works, but that it doesn't do more harm. Demand that people think before leaping. Save the world, but do it the right way. You don't want to help the old woman across the street and into a burning building.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Let's Start a Controversy at FFH
My mother-in-law decided today would be a good day to make jam and jelly-filled cupcakes. This prompted me to get a survey of my dedicated followers: What's the best kind of berry?
I'd have to say that my favorites are blueberries and strawberries.
I'd have to say that my favorites are blueberries and strawberries.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Living Forever
Today, I read an article from the BBC about genetic testing being done on people who live over the age of 100 to find genetic correlations between them. It's a pretty interesting article that, of course, got me thinking about death.
I'm an atheist, but I'm not one of those self-righteous ones that goes around telling every religious person they meet that they're idiotic. I believe that, for some people, the belief in a higher being is a positive one. However, I have a very scientific mind that won't believe in things for which there is no evidence. I was raised Christian by my mother and Wiccan by my babysitter (who I saw more than my mother). I identified as Christian until eighth grade, at which point I realized that the Wiccan faith held more tenants that I could get behind than Christianity did, such as hurting nothing (one could consider me a tree-hugger) and that we're all interconnected. I was a very devout Wiccan, even getting a tattoo of a pentagram with a sun and moon interwoven throughout, until about a year and a half ago. I began to realize that I'd really been kidding myself. I didn't truly believe any of the parts of Wicca that made it a religion; I only liked the wishy-washy parts. I didn't believe in the idea of deities at all and the God/Goddess worship involved always left me feeling guilty. I decided that it was finally time to be true to myself and admit that I was, in fact, an atheist. I discovered a Youtube video that made me feel better about this admission, as it fully summed up my personal spiritual feelings. I could be a good person and not believe in gods. The two were no longer separate from each other.
All of this leads me to one feeling about death: Though I know it's absolutely necessary, it still scares the shit out of me. I know that I'm not going to some fluffy white cloud kingdom when I die. I'm going to be put in the ground or, perhaps, be sprinkled onto a really pretty body of water. Something like that. I don't live my life crazily avoiding anything that could kill me, though. I don't take stupid risks, but if you don't enjoy the little time you have on Earth, you didn't really live.
Becoming an atheist was the best thing that ever happened to me. It made me realize that we do have a limited amount of time with which to make our legacies. It pushed me to start making major decisions about my life. It also helped me create my life's credo, which, as stated in a previous blog, is that I want to make a huge positive change in the life of someone who never expected it.
I don't want to live forever. Doing so would take away the quality of life for future generations. If it weren't for the new generations coming and changing the way people think, we'd still be hiding in caves dying of mud poisoning (or something). Still, I'd like to live a long, happy, meaningful life.
I guess this blog didn't really say anything too interesting, but I guess what I'm trying to get across that life is what you make it. Take the steps needed to make it long, but don't take it to the point that you never lived at all.
I'm an atheist, but I'm not one of those self-righteous ones that goes around telling every religious person they meet that they're idiotic. I believe that, for some people, the belief in a higher being is a positive one. However, I have a very scientific mind that won't believe in things for which there is no evidence. I was raised Christian by my mother and Wiccan by my babysitter (who I saw more than my mother). I identified as Christian until eighth grade, at which point I realized that the Wiccan faith held more tenants that I could get behind than Christianity did, such as hurting nothing (one could consider me a tree-hugger) and that we're all interconnected. I was a very devout Wiccan, even getting a tattoo of a pentagram with a sun and moon interwoven throughout, until about a year and a half ago. I began to realize that I'd really been kidding myself. I didn't truly believe any of the parts of Wicca that made it a religion; I only liked the wishy-washy parts. I didn't believe in the idea of deities at all and the God/Goddess worship involved always left me feeling guilty. I decided that it was finally time to be true to myself and admit that I was, in fact, an atheist. I discovered a Youtube video that made me feel better about this admission, as it fully summed up my personal spiritual feelings. I could be a good person and not believe in gods. The two were no longer separate from each other.
All of this leads me to one feeling about death: Though I know it's absolutely necessary, it still scares the shit out of me. I know that I'm not going to some fluffy white cloud kingdom when I die. I'm going to be put in the ground or, perhaps, be sprinkled onto a really pretty body of water. Something like that. I don't live my life crazily avoiding anything that could kill me, though. I don't take stupid risks, but if you don't enjoy the little time you have on Earth, you didn't really live.
Becoming an atheist was the best thing that ever happened to me. It made me realize that we do have a limited amount of time with which to make our legacies. It pushed me to start making major decisions about my life. It also helped me create my life's credo, which, as stated in a previous blog, is that I want to make a huge positive change in the life of someone who never expected it.
I don't want to live forever. Doing so would take away the quality of life for future generations. If it weren't for the new generations coming and changing the way people think, we'd still be hiding in caves dying of mud poisoning (or something). Still, I'd like to live a long, happy, meaningful life.
I guess this blog didn't really say anything too interesting, but I guess what I'm trying to get across that life is what you make it. Take the steps needed to make it long, but don't take it to the point that you never lived at all.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Donating blood is my little way of saving the world
I really only have one goal in my life: I want to make a huge positive difference in the life of someone who never expected it. If I can do this before I shuffle off this mortal coil, then my life wasn't lived in vain. One of the ways I try to do this is by donating blood as often as I can.
When I was in high school, I couldn't wait to turn 17. Turning 17 meant that I could donate blood, one of the few things I could do at that young age to help make the world a better place. The first blood drive the school had after I reached that pivotal birthday, I strolled down to the gymnasium, signed the release forms, and nervously waited in line. When I was finally called, I gave my dollop of blood for iron testing and, after they put it in the centrifuge, I received the okay to donate. I watched as the needle was put into my arm and was pretty amused by the bag slowly swelling with blood. Thankfully, it didn't hurt all that badly; my arm felt like it was being pinched the whole time, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle.
Afterward, I stood up and walked over to the refreshment table for cookies and juice. I started feeling woozy after a few moments and the world started to turn grey. I told the student volunteer sitting across from me that I was about to pass out and I lay down on the floor. Somehow, the Red Cross workers got me on the neat wheelie chair and took me to a private bed where I lay for about 20 minutes, getting my strength back. The rest of the day was tough for me. Walking a few hundred feet wiped me out and I had to lay down a few more times. Still, two months later, I donated blood again.
It became a routine for me to donate as often as the Red Cross would allow me. I became a big advocate for the cause. My boyfriend noticed that every time I donated, I felt sick for hours after. One day, he asked me why, if it made me feel so crappy, I still donated. I told him that if someone's life could be saved by my feeling like shit for a few hours, it was more than worth it.
Mine is one of the most extreme cases for donation. The vast majority of people who donate feel a short period of weakness, then are back to normal. It amazes me when people tell me they could never donate blood because they "just don't like needles."
Today, I learned something new about tattoos and donation: if you are in a state with state-regulated artists using sterile needles and ink that is not reused, there is no time restriction on when you can give blood. As an ink collector, this was wonderful news. My state is one of the 32 that has such regulations in place.
I strongly recommend that everyone who is eligible to give blood do so at least once in their lifetimes. It's a great feeling, knowing that you could directly save the life of another human being. There's nothing quite like it.
If you're interested in donating blood, you can visit the American Red Cross website to learn more about it and to find a drive in your area.
If you decide that donating is right for you, thank you. You are helping to save the world.
When I was in high school, I couldn't wait to turn 17. Turning 17 meant that I could donate blood, one of the few things I could do at that young age to help make the world a better place. The first blood drive the school had after I reached that pivotal birthday, I strolled down to the gymnasium, signed the release forms, and nervously waited in line. When I was finally called, I gave my dollop of blood for iron testing and, after they put it in the centrifuge, I received the okay to donate. I watched as the needle was put into my arm and was pretty amused by the bag slowly swelling with blood. Thankfully, it didn't hurt all that badly; my arm felt like it was being pinched the whole time, but it wasn't anything I couldn't handle.
Afterward, I stood up and walked over to the refreshment table for cookies and juice. I started feeling woozy after a few moments and the world started to turn grey. I told the student volunteer sitting across from me that I was about to pass out and I lay down on the floor. Somehow, the Red Cross workers got me on the neat wheelie chair and took me to a private bed where I lay for about 20 minutes, getting my strength back. The rest of the day was tough for me. Walking a few hundred feet wiped me out and I had to lay down a few more times. Still, two months later, I donated blood again.
It became a routine for me to donate as often as the Red Cross would allow me. I became a big advocate for the cause. My boyfriend noticed that every time I donated, I felt sick for hours after. One day, he asked me why, if it made me feel so crappy, I still donated. I told him that if someone's life could be saved by my feeling like shit for a few hours, it was more than worth it.
Mine is one of the most extreme cases for donation. The vast majority of people who donate feel a short period of weakness, then are back to normal. It amazes me when people tell me they could never donate blood because they "just don't like needles."
Today, I learned something new about tattoos and donation: if you are in a state with state-regulated artists using sterile needles and ink that is not reused, there is no time restriction on when you can give blood. As an ink collector, this was wonderful news. My state is one of the 32 that has such regulations in place.
I strongly recommend that everyone who is eligible to give blood do so at least once in their lifetimes. It's a great feeling, knowing that you could directly save the life of another human being. There's nothing quite like it.
If you're interested in donating blood, you can visit the American Red Cross website to learn more about it and to find a drive in your area.
If you decide that donating is right for you, thank you. You are helping to save the world.
This just in: Puppy breath no longer adorable
So, the family got a new puppy today, which means that everyone's excited except for the three other animals we have. Of course, we're at the most difficult part of the pet time span: Potty training. Mia (the puppy) is only five weeks old, so we (meaning everybody not me) are attempting to teach her to not piss in my shoe (first five minutes in the house...seriously).
It may seem like I am unhappy with the puppy. It's quite the opposite. I still get squeaky every time I see her. She's absolutely adorable and the knowledge that I could snap her little spine like a toothpick keeps me from getting too pissy when she destroys my footwear. It also helps to know that, at that age, I was also probably doing the same thing.
One thing I have to say, though, is I will never understand why people say puppy breath is cute. Puppy chow smells like the product of a night full of Chinese food followed by a goatse session.
Still, Mia is adorable. She can cuddle me any time.
It may seem like I am unhappy with the puppy. It's quite the opposite. I still get squeaky every time I see her. She's absolutely adorable and the knowledge that I could snap her little spine like a toothpick keeps me from getting too pissy when she destroys my footwear. It also helps to know that, at that age, I was also probably doing the same thing.
One thing I have to say, though, is I will never understand why people say puppy breath is cute. Puppy chow smells like the product of a night full of Chinese food followed by a goatse session.
Still, Mia is adorable. She can cuddle me any time.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Self Destructive Behavior: My Autobiography Concerning Michael Jackson
I fell in love with Michael Jackson long after he became passé. It was about 2001, when I was in seventh grade, when I watched the movie "Free Willy" for the first time since childhood. By some stroke of luck, I decided to watch the previews rather than fast-forwarding through to the beginning of the film, which would have been my normal course of action. A song began to play. A thin, but good-looking man began singing a song that had more feeling than anything else I had ever heard. I spent the next hour rewinding and rewatching this music video over and over again. My memory has never been good, for whatever reason, so it took me a while to remember doing this same thing about five years earlier, when I was still too young to really grasp the meaning behind the song, before I even knew who Michael Jackson was. By this time (2001), I HAD heard the name. I had only known of him from the jokes, the tabloid news stories. All I knew was that he was a child molester who had bleached his skin. Watching him on the stage, singing “Will You Be There?,” I just couldn’t imagine him doing something so horrible.
When I was six or so, I was repeatedly sexually molested by my babysitter’s then-husband. At the time, I didn’t think it was a bad thing. It made me feel good and it was special attention, just between him and me. He was a normal guy. He was nice enough to everyone, but he had a kind of “screw the world” attitude that was to be expected by someone who had been brushed off by society. He drank, but not excessively. Still, by no means was he a “good guy.” Even my babysitter would have probably agreed with me, even at the time. There was something “off” about him when you looked at him, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. He wasn’t a scary monster, he was just a guy, but you could still tell that he was a bad one.
I finally had my own computer and was discovering the wonders of music piracy. I was getting tired of listening to the same song repeatedly after about a week and a half, so I went on my computer and looked up Michael Jackson songs. I found out that he had roughly a gajillion different songs on a bajillion different records. I downloaded nearly every single one and found that I loved all of them. At this point, I became hooked. Every CD I burned had at least one song by MJ on it. I downloaded his movies, including “Smooth Criminal,” “Captain EO,” and “Thriller.” I told my close friends about my newest obsession and, though they didn’t like his music (“the group” was more into hard rock and…well, anything that included curse words), they didn’t give me too much lip about it. One friend even made me a pendant in a jewelry class that said “MJ.”
I was in love with Michael Jackson, the performer. I was still too young to truly understand the man behind the music.
My problem began when I joined choir in eighth grade. The choral director had a special event every other Friday called Do Your Own Thing Day (or DYOT Day). We were able to pick any musical act, be it singing along to a CD or dancing, and perform it in front of the class. It was a way that we could have fun and break loose. One week, a few days before the next DYOT Day, I decided it would be fun to recreate Michael Jackson’s infamous 1983 live Motown performance of “Billie Jean.” On DYOT Day, I slipped into my tight black jeans, a white t-shirt with a black overshirt, a white winter glove, and a pair of shoes I had altered to allow for easy Moonwalking. I was so excited. I popped in my CD and ran to the center of the performance area. It was flawless. I sang along (and sang well, if I may say so) and danced everything almost exactly as done at Motown 25. I finished feeling exhilarated…until I looked at my classmates. They looked amused, but in the mean way I had associated with the elementary school bullies from years before.
They didn’t let me live it down.
I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut when it came to Michael Jackson. I loved his music. It helped me through the beginnings of my depression. It gave me a distraction from the horrible things that had happened and were currently happening in my life. Still, all of this that he gave me wasn’t enough to get me to speak my mind against those who told cruel jokes about him. When I did slip up, I was quickly put back in my place. It was because of all of these things happening around me that I began trying to learn who Michael Jackson was.
I looked into the child molestation accusations. As someone who had been at the receiving end of such abuse, I didn’t want anything to do with a person who did such horrible things. Still, I looked at him in videos and I couldn’t imagine that man hurting a child. As it turns out, the boy who first accused Michael Jackson of molestation, Jordan Chandler, was a friend of Michael’s who visited the Neverland Ranch on a regular basis. He told his psychologist (after he was given a tranquilizer that is well known for clouding the mind and opening it to suggestion) that he had been molested by Michael. He gave a description of Jackson’s genitalia, which, after examination, was actually found to be incorrect. The boy’s father was recorded saying things that boiled down to, “If I go through with this, I get a whole bunch of money and MJ goes broke. I can’t lose.” Now, unfortunately, I didn’t save the websites from where I found this information, but even at such a young age, I found it important to make sure that I wasn’t backing (even in my head) a child molester. I trusted only credible sources, such as trusted news websites and reference sites (none of this Wikipedia junk – though it does give a fairly good overview of the facts in its entry on MJ). Essentially, after weeks of researching the trial and the entire situation, I found that nearly all of the information pointed to Jackson’s innocence, that this whole thing was born out of a broke father’s ingenious scheme to get money. I felt sorry for Jordan Chandler, but only because it must have been terrifying for him to be put through the whole process by his father. Everyone loves to hear that America’s Sweetheart ain’t so sweet. The second (and final) time that he was accused of child molestation, he went to court. He was acquitted of all charges. This set my mind at ease; though I couldn’t prove to those around me that the chances were better he WASN’T a child molester than otherwise, I still knew it.
One thing that confused me from the beginning was the idea that he went from black to white. It was the one thing I had no rebuttal for. You could see it by looking at him. Then, I learned about the V-word: Vitiligo. Amazingly, Jackson had a rare skin condition that was passed down from his father’s side of the family. It causes sufferers’ skin to turn porcelain white in patches. For most people, dealing with the disease is as simple as telling people around them that they have a skin disorder. However, Michael believed that, because he was so famous, people wouldn’t be able to accept him if he came out about it. He and his makeup artist worked together to attempt to cover and blend the spots so that they weren’t noticeable (hence, the glove). Eventually, the disease progressed until over fifty percent of his body was covered in depigmented skin and he had to make the transition from the darker shade to the lighter shade. In 1993, just a few months before the child molestation accusation arose, Michael went on Oprah’s talk show and revealed to the world exactly why he had undergone such a drastic physical change. Still, to be sure that the vitiligo wasn’t a cover for the commonly spouted story of skin-bleaching, I researched that as well. I found no surprises there: though skin bleaching is a possibility for small areas of the skin, it is impossible to completely change the complexion of the entire body. Now, I was confused for a different reason: Did people simply not know that total-body skin depigmentation is impossible…or did they know and ignore it? The first reason is excusable. Ignorance is understandable. However, if people knew that Michael Jackson had a skin condition and still made cruel jokes about it…well, how is that okay? Now, years later, I am in a relationship with someone who has a severe skin condition, psoriasis. It shocks me when I hear people who would never say a word to my boyfriend about his skin make comments about “when Jacko was black.”
All of this information made me feel comfortable with being a fan. However, it did not make it any easier for me to stand up to those around me who joked about him and teased me for being a fan. I tried to stand up for him on internet boards and websites, since nobody could look you in the eye over the internet, but even then I was ridiculed for standing up for a man they believed was bad. Thus, over the course of about four years, I slowly stopped listening to Michael Jackson. It wasn’t a conscious process. It simply happened.
About nine months ago, I went through resurgence. I found my old CDs from eighth grade and found myself adding the songs to my computer. I found that, where before I was interested more in the fun songs from “Thriller,” now, I was more drawn to his recent hits, such as “Earth Song” and “They Don’t Really Care About Us.” They had more meaning. There was so much depth, so much feeling. I looked up videos on Youtube that showed him in everyday situations. A picture began to form in my head.
He lived a crazy and tortured life. His childhood was filled with people trying to make him grow up. He saw things no child should have to see, such as his brothers having sex across the room. His father harassed and abused him (after my experiences with my mother, I understand that physical abuse isn’t the only type that a parent can put their child through). Still, he loved music, and rather than try to fade back into the normal world, he continued to do what he loved. After the release of “Thriller,” he became an international superstar. Still, fame didn’t stop the pain he felt from what had happened to him in the past. Where many people may find this reaction to past abuse unmanly or “wussy,” it only made him lovelier to me. I understood what it felt like to have your childhood stolen from you and to have absent and abusive parents. He was a funny, sensitive, caring man who tried to reclaim his stolen childhood by seeing the world through a child’s eyes. His love for children, in another life, may have translated to social work or working for non-profit organizations to benefit kids. In his life, however, he did something even more incredible: he realized dreams and made children forget they were hurting. One of Michael Jackson’s favorite pastimes was busing sick children into the Neverland Ranch and watching them play, ride the rides, and talk with them. He donated millions upon millions of dollars to various organizations who make it their goal to better the lives of children. He was basically just a big kid. My heart melted as I learned that simple fact. He helped me understand why I, too, am having a problem with growing up. I’m trying to hold on to childhood, not only because growing up is hard, but also because I was forced to be an adult at age six. I began to have daydreams about meeting him, talking with him, meeting Michael Jackson, the man, rather than watching Michael Jackson, the performer. These hopes and daydreams peaked in June of 2009.
25 June, 2009. I’m on Facebook, browsing my friends’ pages, when I see something about Michael Jackson. I stop and read it. My heart skips a beat, my stomach drops. It’s a cruel joke. Gotta be. I go to Google and type in “Michael Jackson sick.” A few odd pages pop up. My stomach tightens into a nasty fist. I leave my computer long enough to turn on the TV. A news network is already on, thanks to my boyfriend. All emotion runs out of me. I sit, catatonic, as I learn that the man who I so recently had come to love, not only as a performer, but as a real live person, is dead. I call my boyfriend, who is in town grocery shopping. I tell him, emotionlessly, “Michael Jackson just…” I can’t say the word. If I say it, then he’s really gone. The man who helped me through my own childhood terrors, including the abuse from my mother and the depression that made it hurt so much more, the MAN… “He’s dead,” I finish. The wall I built up around my emotions breaks. The tears start to flow, but slowly. The grief begins to overshadow the disbelief.
I spent the next several days alternating between grief and shock. In this time, I learned even more about myself. I realized that if my own mother, the woman who birthed and raised me, were to die, I wouldn’t feel a fraction of the grief I felt at the death of this man. It hurt to discover that this wasn’t because I was so enamored with Michael Jackson; I could feel this hurt over the death of someone I would never meet, but would never feel the same emotions over the death of my own mother because of the way she hurt me growing up. I learned that she, my mother, caused more damage to me than even the man who had sexually abused me at age six over and over again. I found that, even though she hurt me, I still turned out to be a good person, who goes out of their way to help those around her. In spite of the cruelty I endured from my mother, I managed to work through it and become someone good. I was shocked when I learned this; it meant that I was so much stronger than I thought I was. At the end of my formal grieving period, I had been essentially reborn as someone much more confident and proud of who I was. Michael Jackson, though never having met me, did all this for me.
It took me over a month after his death to finally watch the memorial service. It was beautiful. It was just what my aching heart needed.
Now, almost five months after the death of the King of Pop, I have fully accepted it. I feel so sorry for his children and I light a candle for them often. However, I don’t grieve the loss of the man. It was, perhaps, for the best. He dealt with a lot of cruelty from the world around him. It may be that death was really the only way to end it. By no means am I implying that his death was a suicide. This is merely my coping excuse: that it’s for the better.
I love to watch old videos of Michael just being himself. It’s almost like watching myself, or who I wish I could be. Michael Jackson was a good man. Tabloids and money-hungry men in suits tried their hardest to tarnish him. To a great degree, they succeeded. For every die-hard Michael Jackson fan in the world, there are two die-hard Michael Jackson haters. This still doesn’t blunt the most amazing fact of all: Despite all of the lies and slanders, Michael Jackson remains to this day the most famous and most loved man in all of history.
You can give me hell for enjoying his music and loving the man, but it doesn’t change how I feel, and it certainly doesn’t change what a beautiful man he was.
When I was six or so, I was repeatedly sexually molested by my babysitter’s then-husband. At the time, I didn’t think it was a bad thing. It made me feel good and it was special attention, just between him and me. He was a normal guy. He was nice enough to everyone, but he had a kind of “screw the world” attitude that was to be expected by someone who had been brushed off by society. He drank, but not excessively. Still, by no means was he a “good guy.” Even my babysitter would have probably agreed with me, even at the time. There was something “off” about him when you looked at him, but you couldn’t put your finger on it. He wasn’t a scary monster, he was just a guy, but you could still tell that he was a bad one.
I finally had my own computer and was discovering the wonders of music piracy. I was getting tired of listening to the same song repeatedly after about a week and a half, so I went on my computer and looked up Michael Jackson songs. I found out that he had roughly a gajillion different songs on a bajillion different records. I downloaded nearly every single one and found that I loved all of them. At this point, I became hooked. Every CD I burned had at least one song by MJ on it. I downloaded his movies, including “Smooth Criminal,” “Captain EO,” and “Thriller.” I told my close friends about my newest obsession and, though they didn’t like his music (“the group” was more into hard rock and…well, anything that included curse words), they didn’t give me too much lip about it. One friend even made me a pendant in a jewelry class that said “MJ.”
I was in love with Michael Jackson, the performer. I was still too young to truly understand the man behind the music.
My problem began when I joined choir in eighth grade. The choral director had a special event every other Friday called Do Your Own Thing Day (or DYOT Day). We were able to pick any musical act, be it singing along to a CD or dancing, and perform it in front of the class. It was a way that we could have fun and break loose. One week, a few days before the next DYOT Day, I decided it would be fun to recreate Michael Jackson’s infamous 1983 live Motown performance of “Billie Jean.” On DYOT Day, I slipped into my tight black jeans, a white t-shirt with a black overshirt, a white winter glove, and a pair of shoes I had altered to allow for easy Moonwalking. I was so excited. I popped in my CD and ran to the center of the performance area. It was flawless. I sang along (and sang well, if I may say so) and danced everything almost exactly as done at Motown 25. I finished feeling exhilarated…until I looked at my classmates. They looked amused, but in the mean way I had associated with the elementary school bullies from years before.
They didn’t let me live it down.
I quickly learned to keep my mouth shut when it came to Michael Jackson. I loved his music. It helped me through the beginnings of my depression. It gave me a distraction from the horrible things that had happened and were currently happening in my life. Still, all of this that he gave me wasn’t enough to get me to speak my mind against those who told cruel jokes about him. When I did slip up, I was quickly put back in my place. It was because of all of these things happening around me that I began trying to learn who Michael Jackson was.
I looked into the child molestation accusations. As someone who had been at the receiving end of such abuse, I didn’t want anything to do with a person who did such horrible things. Still, I looked at him in videos and I couldn’t imagine that man hurting a child. As it turns out, the boy who first accused Michael Jackson of molestation, Jordan Chandler, was a friend of Michael’s who visited the Neverland Ranch on a regular basis. He told his psychologist (after he was given a tranquilizer that is well known for clouding the mind and opening it to suggestion) that he had been molested by Michael. He gave a description of Jackson’s genitalia, which, after examination, was actually found to be incorrect. The boy’s father was recorded saying things that boiled down to, “If I go through with this, I get a whole bunch of money and MJ goes broke. I can’t lose.” Now, unfortunately, I didn’t save the websites from where I found this information, but even at such a young age, I found it important to make sure that I wasn’t backing (even in my head) a child molester. I trusted only credible sources, such as trusted news websites and reference sites (none of this Wikipedia junk – though it does give a fairly good overview of the facts in its entry on MJ). Essentially, after weeks of researching the trial and the entire situation, I found that nearly all of the information pointed to Jackson’s innocence, that this whole thing was born out of a broke father’s ingenious scheme to get money. I felt sorry for Jordan Chandler, but only because it must have been terrifying for him to be put through the whole process by his father. Everyone loves to hear that America’s Sweetheart ain’t so sweet. The second (and final) time that he was accused of child molestation, he went to court. He was acquitted of all charges. This set my mind at ease; though I couldn’t prove to those around me that the chances were better he WASN’T a child molester than otherwise, I still knew it.
One thing that confused me from the beginning was the idea that he went from black to white. It was the one thing I had no rebuttal for. You could see it by looking at him. Then, I learned about the V-word: Vitiligo. Amazingly, Jackson had a rare skin condition that was passed down from his father’s side of the family. It causes sufferers’ skin to turn porcelain white in patches. For most people, dealing with the disease is as simple as telling people around them that they have a skin disorder. However, Michael believed that, because he was so famous, people wouldn’t be able to accept him if he came out about it. He and his makeup artist worked together to attempt to cover and blend the spots so that they weren’t noticeable (hence, the glove). Eventually, the disease progressed until over fifty percent of his body was covered in depigmented skin and he had to make the transition from the darker shade to the lighter shade. In 1993, just a few months before the child molestation accusation arose, Michael went on Oprah’s talk show and revealed to the world exactly why he had undergone such a drastic physical change. Still, to be sure that the vitiligo wasn’t a cover for the commonly spouted story of skin-bleaching, I researched that as well. I found no surprises there: though skin bleaching is a possibility for small areas of the skin, it is impossible to completely change the complexion of the entire body. Now, I was confused for a different reason: Did people simply not know that total-body skin depigmentation is impossible…or did they know and ignore it? The first reason is excusable. Ignorance is understandable. However, if people knew that Michael Jackson had a skin condition and still made cruel jokes about it…well, how is that okay? Now, years later, I am in a relationship with someone who has a severe skin condition, psoriasis. It shocks me when I hear people who would never say a word to my boyfriend about his skin make comments about “when Jacko was black.”
All of this information made me feel comfortable with being a fan. However, it did not make it any easier for me to stand up to those around me who joked about him and teased me for being a fan. I tried to stand up for him on internet boards and websites, since nobody could look you in the eye over the internet, but even then I was ridiculed for standing up for a man they believed was bad. Thus, over the course of about four years, I slowly stopped listening to Michael Jackson. It wasn’t a conscious process. It simply happened.
About nine months ago, I went through resurgence. I found my old CDs from eighth grade and found myself adding the songs to my computer. I found that, where before I was interested more in the fun songs from “Thriller,” now, I was more drawn to his recent hits, such as “Earth Song” and “They Don’t Really Care About Us.” They had more meaning. There was so much depth, so much feeling. I looked up videos on Youtube that showed him in everyday situations. A picture began to form in my head.
He lived a crazy and tortured life. His childhood was filled with people trying to make him grow up. He saw things no child should have to see, such as his brothers having sex across the room. His father harassed and abused him (after my experiences with my mother, I understand that physical abuse isn’t the only type that a parent can put their child through). Still, he loved music, and rather than try to fade back into the normal world, he continued to do what he loved. After the release of “Thriller,” he became an international superstar. Still, fame didn’t stop the pain he felt from what had happened to him in the past. Where many people may find this reaction to past abuse unmanly or “wussy,” it only made him lovelier to me. I understood what it felt like to have your childhood stolen from you and to have absent and abusive parents. He was a funny, sensitive, caring man who tried to reclaim his stolen childhood by seeing the world through a child’s eyes. His love for children, in another life, may have translated to social work or working for non-profit organizations to benefit kids. In his life, however, he did something even more incredible: he realized dreams and made children forget they were hurting. One of Michael Jackson’s favorite pastimes was busing sick children into the Neverland Ranch and watching them play, ride the rides, and talk with them. He donated millions upon millions of dollars to various organizations who make it their goal to better the lives of children. He was basically just a big kid. My heart melted as I learned that simple fact. He helped me understand why I, too, am having a problem with growing up. I’m trying to hold on to childhood, not only because growing up is hard, but also because I was forced to be an adult at age six. I began to have daydreams about meeting him, talking with him, meeting Michael Jackson, the man, rather than watching Michael Jackson, the performer. These hopes and daydreams peaked in June of 2009.
25 June, 2009. I’m on Facebook, browsing my friends’ pages, when I see something about Michael Jackson. I stop and read it. My heart skips a beat, my stomach drops. It’s a cruel joke. Gotta be. I go to Google and type in “Michael Jackson sick.” A few odd pages pop up. My stomach tightens into a nasty fist. I leave my computer long enough to turn on the TV. A news network is already on, thanks to my boyfriend. All emotion runs out of me. I sit, catatonic, as I learn that the man who I so recently had come to love, not only as a performer, but as a real live person, is dead. I call my boyfriend, who is in town grocery shopping. I tell him, emotionlessly, “Michael Jackson just…” I can’t say the word. If I say it, then he’s really gone. The man who helped me through my own childhood terrors, including the abuse from my mother and the depression that made it hurt so much more, the MAN… “He’s dead,” I finish. The wall I built up around my emotions breaks. The tears start to flow, but slowly. The grief begins to overshadow the disbelief.
I spent the next several days alternating between grief and shock. In this time, I learned even more about myself. I realized that if my own mother, the woman who birthed and raised me, were to die, I wouldn’t feel a fraction of the grief I felt at the death of this man. It hurt to discover that this wasn’t because I was so enamored with Michael Jackson; I could feel this hurt over the death of someone I would never meet, but would never feel the same emotions over the death of my own mother because of the way she hurt me growing up. I learned that she, my mother, caused more damage to me than even the man who had sexually abused me at age six over and over again. I found that, even though she hurt me, I still turned out to be a good person, who goes out of their way to help those around her. In spite of the cruelty I endured from my mother, I managed to work through it and become someone good. I was shocked when I learned this; it meant that I was so much stronger than I thought I was. At the end of my formal grieving period, I had been essentially reborn as someone much more confident and proud of who I was. Michael Jackson, though never having met me, did all this for me.
It took me over a month after his death to finally watch the memorial service. It was beautiful. It was just what my aching heart needed.
Now, almost five months after the death of the King of Pop, I have fully accepted it. I feel so sorry for his children and I light a candle for them often. However, I don’t grieve the loss of the man. It was, perhaps, for the best. He dealt with a lot of cruelty from the world around him. It may be that death was really the only way to end it. By no means am I implying that his death was a suicide. This is merely my coping excuse: that it’s for the better.
I love to watch old videos of Michael just being himself. It’s almost like watching myself, or who I wish I could be. Michael Jackson was a good man. Tabloids and money-hungry men in suits tried their hardest to tarnish him. To a great degree, they succeeded. For every die-hard Michael Jackson fan in the world, there are two die-hard Michael Jackson haters. This still doesn’t blunt the most amazing fact of all: Despite all of the lies and slanders, Michael Jackson remains to this day the most famous and most loved man in all of history.
You can give me hell for enjoying his music and loving the man, but it doesn’t change how I feel, and it certainly doesn’t change what a beautiful man he was.
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