Sunday, June 28, 2009

Master of an Empty Kingdom: The Tragically Short Life of Michael Jackson

I did not expect to be as saddened by the death of Michael Jackson as
I turned out to be. Not that I am cold-hearted, but I lived in the
constant dread that his death was imminent. When I was close with
Michael, there were just too many times that he walked out of a room
with a doctor, after complaining that his foot or back or neck hurt
him, all lightheaded and woozy. There was no way that a body could
survive so regular an assault. So after begging him to give up the
poison and failing, I steeled myself against the inevitable by feeling
angry and disillusioned. Was Michael not the man who had squandered so
many blessings? Was he not the friend who, after I had invested two
years of my life into helping him rehabilitate his, treated me as if I
were a nuisance because I dared to push him to fix his shattered
existence? I would overcome my feelings of pity with a spirit of
defiance. No, I will not cry. He hadn’t earned it.

But then the news came that he had died. And I was devastated. 
Especially when I saw my children’s tears. Michael was accused of
pedophilia. But my children and his children were playmates. Yes, I
made sure to supervise. But the children did not see him as a monster. 
Michael brought cartoon videos for his kids and my kids to watch. We
sat in my living room on Thanksgiving laughing and joking. And the
children missed him.

Once, when my son Mendy was eight years old he accompanied Michael and
me to a kosher restaurant in Manhattan. Mendy tried to order. The
waiter focused on the adults. Mendy felt ignored. He kept on repeating
his order. Michael heard him. He interrupted the waiter. ‘Excuse me, 
but this child is trying to order. Can you please listen to him?’ It
was not something you’d expect from a superstar. They were supposed to
be utterly self-absorbed, right?

And then there was the incident with my children fighting with the
children of another family on the school bus. Michael heard about it. 
My eldest daughter felt bullied. Michael sprang into action. Enter the
peacemaker. He called me, and over several days he planned a peace
parley in earnest. Everything down to the name tags of the children. 
No detail was too miniscule. Kids should not fight. Adults were the
corrupt ones. He wanted to see harmony among kids. And while he put
hours into planning the summit (which never went ahead because the
other family pulled out) he was supposed to be working on his album, 
Invincible. No matter. It would wait. Ending altercations between
school children took precedence.

I did not think I would cry when Michael died. It was only when I went
back and listened to the many hours of taped conversations that
Michael and I conducted so that I would write a book that peered into
his soul. Hearing his voice, hearing him say, in his long drawn out
way, ‘Shmmmuuuulleeeey,’ That did it. The tears flowed. Yes, I was
angry at him. Truly. He threw away his life. He had lived recklessly
and orphaned his children. He had medicated away the afflictions of
the soul as if they were ailments of the body until his body could no
longer tolerate the abuse. He had squandered all of G-d’s blessings. 
But he touched me nonetheless. He made me softer and gentler. He was
highly imperfect and was perhaps guilty of serious, terrible sins for
which there might not be any forgiveness. But G-d, was he tortured. 
And that is no excuse. Because you dare not visit your pain on an
innocent party. But did that cancel out the good he tried to inspire
in others?

He used to watch me tell my children I loved them. He did not approve. 
‘Shmuley, when you tell your children you luuuvve them, you have to
look in their eyes. They have to know that you mean it. You have to
focus only on them. You can’t tell them and look somewhere else.” And
ever since then, I peer in their eyes.

After we had given our lecture at Oxford together, I was waiting at
Heathrow to travel back to the US. Michael was staying on in London. 
He called me on my cell phone. ‘Shmuuullleeey. Did I tell you I love
you?’ ‘Yes Michael, you’ve told me many times.’ ‘But I mean it. I love
you.’ ‘I love you too, Michael. You’re a dear friend.’ I hung up. I
thought he was too sentimental. But I left the conversation with red
eyes. How did he find it so easy to tell people he loved them?

So with all this beauty in your soul, Michael, now that you’re in
heaven, I have to ask you. Why? Why aren’t you still here? Why did you
screw up your life? Why could you find no happiness without a
painkiller? Why did you orphan those beautiful children you loved so
much? How could you promise that you would never be alone with kids
ever again, only to be arrested a second time on charges of
molestation? How could you betray what we tried so hard to build? Why? 
Why?

I didn’t want to feel for him. I wanted to be angry. I never wanted to
forgive him. He had everything, but he acted as though he had nothing. 
He reveled in feeling he was a victim. And even so, there was
something very special about him. A superstar who could sit so humbly
at Shabbat table and make others feel important. A very busy father
who all but refused to travel anywhere without his children. And I’m
left with forever vacillating between feelings of pity and feelings of
disappointment. Feelings of affection and feelings of fury.

And amid that storm of emotions, still I miss him. Amid the darkness
that eventually consumed him, still I remember that he once shone with
a special measure of light.

G-d, I miss you Michael. I always believed that one day we would
reconcile. That one day you would call me up and tell me that you
regretted not heeding the simple advice to get your life together. 
That we would have Shabbat dinner together again and our kids would
play as friends and we would all laugh. Alas, all we have left is the
image. The dark, tragic, sad image. Of the King of Pop. The master of
an empty Kingdom.

Rest in peace, Michael. Perhaps in heaven you will find the acceptance
that you never quite found here on earth.

 

 

Rabbi Shmuley Boteach is the author of the as yet unpublished
manuscript, “Inside the Soul of Michael Jackson.” http://www.shmuley.com