Michael and Me

As Michael Jackson is laid to rest, I just wanna say . . . . . . . .

I AM NOT A GROUPIE.  Let’s just get that right out there on the table.

So I was surprised to find myself crying the other day while singing an old Michael Jackson song, “Wings of My Love.”  Wait, whoa, I thought, No-no-no, I’m not the type of person who cries over celebrities.  What is this about?

That’s when I remembered:  Michael Jackson, at a certain point in my life, was not a celebrity.  Back when I was 6, he represented something real and personal to me.

“Wings of My Love” is the song that played in my head when I was being abused by my step-father.  At age 6, I sincerely believed Michael was sending me a message through that song:

MICHAEL WAS COMING TO SAVE ME.

One day, he would be there, and I would “Climb on the wings of his love,” wave good-bye to my family, and live happily ever after.  The way I saw it, all I had to do was hold on…to hope…to sanity.

“‘Til you break those ties that bind / ‘Til the day you’re really mine / Anytime you wanna leave the world behind / Just climb on the wings of my love…”

And that’s what I did.  I escaped into the fantasy of being with Michael, or with someone like him, who would care for me in a healthy way.

(The human psyche is a wonderful, powerful thing.  Your mind can take you far from your body when what’s happening to your body is psychologically unbearable.)

The other day, after watching the independent film, “Good Dick,” about a girl who had been similarly abused, my husband asked, “How did you survive?  How did you maintain your belief in love?”

It all came back to Michael, and other male vocalists who painted a picture of the kind of love I wanted.  Songs like “Wings of My Love,” “Got to Be There,” “I Can’t Help It,” “I Like Dreamin’” (by Kenny Nolan), “Even the Nights Are Better” (by Air Supply) - these songs convinced me that there were men out there who loved tenderly, respectfully, unselfishly.

In the 80s, my friends couldn’t understand why I chose soft rock over rap.  Why I stopped listening to WGCI in Chicago, and defected to Q101.

Now I know that the romantic lyrics were an important part of my healing.  They kept me focused on what I wanted.  Whereas rap lyrics just seemed to glorify the very thing I didn’t want:  sexual objectification.

For the first few days after Michael’s death, I let myself feel the sadness.  Sometimes I was sad for him, because HE never seemed to find real happiness.

As ridiculous as it sounds, sometimes I was sad for the 6-year-old girl whose dream never came true:  He never came for me.

Today, as he is memorialized in a public ceremony, I am in a different place.  I am grateful that he was there to help me hold on.

IN A WAY…MICHAEL DID SAVE ME…JUST NOT IN THE WAY I IMAGINED.

Today, I celebrate every one and everything that helped me survive, cross over, stay sane.  Every mentor, every songwriter, every author, every teacher - some I have thanked personally, others may not know me or remember me.  By shining the light of love, they were a beacon of hope for a little girl lost.  (OK, enough sappy “Have you seen my childhood” stuff. )

If your childhood was less-than-great…Who gave you hope?  What images symbolized the life you wanted to create for yourself?

Michael never knew how much he touched me (and a million others, I’m sure).  Likewise, we touch the lives of others in ways we may never know.

How are you being a blessing to others?  What mark are you leaving on the world?

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