Never Can Say Goodbye
Michael Jackson: Music Genius, Pop Icon, and My Own
Personal Dance Instructor
S. Appel
Ever since Michael Jackson passed away, I’ve been stopped on the street.
People see the oversized MJ badge affixed to my shoulder bag and just have to know about
it. Where did I get it? Did I just make it? Is it real?
I am touched every single time and love telling them that it is indeed authentic, from
the 80’s, from my childhood. It’s one of several that I never had the heart to get rid
of, all of which somehow stayed in a safe place since roughly 1983.
I had quite a bit of memorabilia from back in the day, most of it long gone.
What’s left are a handful of pinbacks and my set of Colorforms. Still in tact with
every single piece accounted for, I discovered the box in my old bedroom closet several
years ago and brought it back to my grown-up girl apartment knowing it would surely be
a conversation piece. I still marvel at the mini cardboard likeness of a Thriller-era
Michael and his fabulous little wardrobe of complicated leather jackets and sparkly white
gloves.
Lately, I’ve been fondly (and, of course, sadly) recalling those elementary school years when I was
just as obsessed with MJ as every other kid on the block. I still remember the night of
the “Motown 25th Anniversary” special, when Michael officially broke loose from the rest
of his family by singing “Billy Jean” and Moonwalking across my living room. I was about
seven years old, and the memory is still in pristine condition. Awestruck barely begins
to describe my state of mind. Similarly, my mother retells the story of the night she
watched The Beatles’ historic first American television performance on “The Ed Sullivan
Show”, her hands on the TV screen, eyes not able to blink. I can definitely relate
(I guess in a lot of ways, Michael Jackson is my generation’s Beatles).
One of my most favorite memories has to be when I was assigned a book report to do on
someone famous, anyone. We were supposed to choose a biography from our little elementary
school library (one that wasn't any bigger than your average classroom). Needless to say,
I didn't like what the shelves had to offer. So I got my mother to go to the
bookstore at the local mall and buy me a book about Michael Jackson. It was the height of
MJ-mania and cheap paperback bios were a dime a dozen. I gleefully read the book and wrote
my paper. But that wasn't enough for me. I got myself a
white glove and with my not-so-skilled third grade hands, picked up a needle and thread
for the first time, bedazzled it with sequins, and wore it as I read my report in front
of the class. I'm fairly certain I got an A.
But most of all, there was the dancing. Oh dear lord, the dancing. When I think about how I
learned all the choreography from “Beat It” and “Thriller”, I just have to laugh. It
must have been funny seeing my weebot-suburban-white girl-self attempting to
copy the steps (there were even days we’d sneak into empty classrooms to practice those
steps). It’s those early years of MTV and Michael’s videos that instigated my love of the
dance floor, shyness be damned. I was recently telling a friend that whenever she sees
me pop my shoulders while dancing, it is directly rooted in those old school moves.
These days, I have been known to spend hours combing through YouTube, looking for
vintage Jackson 5 footage I may not have seen before. “Blame it on the Boogie” is my
current favorite. When I first found it, I must
have watched it twenty times, feeling as awestruck as I had been twenty-six years ago.
And just as I had worked so hard to become a self-taught Moonwalker, I was determined to
master Michael’s little booty-twist move from the “Boogie” clip (so really, not much has
changed since I was seven).
Thanks to the J5, my preferred
ensemble for a little dance floor throwdown has always included one of the many pairs of
bell-bottoms hanging in my closet. Michael and his brothers proved (at least to me) that there
is nothing like the movement of some flared-legged trousers if you've got a little bit
of rhythm and blues in your soul. Watching him dance is a joyful addiction that I am not so sure I'll
ever properly shake.
