So the amazing and tragic story of Michael Jackson is now coming to a close. People who weeks ago were using Michael Jackson as the butt their jokes are now proclaiming his greatness and the tragedy of his loss. Jackson’s final performance will be as the star of a media circus that is now pitching its tent and deploying its side show hucksters for one last money grab.  As if on cue his doctor disappears into the night laying the groundwork for more shocking revelations to come.

Jackson, of course, is deserving of a great deal of scrutiny, not only for his amazing talent but for his bizarre lifestyle. His talent is undeniable, his influence on the industry as well. The real mystery though, and the one thing we can never know for sure is . . . what happened? How did the young boy we all loved and admired turn into the odd caricature of a human being that we’ve witnessed over the past couple of decades?

The conventional wisdom is that Michael Jackson never had a childhood, he never had a chance at normalcy. So, like Peter Pan, he never grew up. He spoke in a whisper and spent his time with children, with whom he had some sort of connection. Whether that connection was innocent or illicit is up for speculation. This explanation for Jackson’s behavior is reasonable but I think it’s too easy. There’s more to the picture than that.

I think Micheal Jackson simply had to pay the Black Tax.

The black tax for those of you who don’t know, is that extra bit of fucked upness that black folk have to deal with no matter their stature or accomplishments. Life is hard enough as it is. Everyone has to deal with issues of economics, health, relationships and the like. African Americans deal with all of the usual stuff plus issues of race. Whether it’s current racism or the neurosis that seems to plague us as a vestige of our slave experience. No matter how skilled or talented you are, no matter how successful you’ve been, no matter how often you attend church, if you’re black in America, you’re going to pay the Black Tax. The ills that plague black America will find you.

It almost seems like the bigger or more important you are the higher the price. Political leaders like Malcolm, Martin, and Huey were assassinated or gunned down. Entertainers such as Muhammad Ali ended up with Parkinson’s, Richard Pryor with MS. Then there’s Jennifer Hudson and the Williams sisters, both victimized horribly by violence against their families. So was Micheal Jordan who lost his father and Bill Cosby who lost his son. Marvin Gaye was gunned down by his own father and I haven’t even gotten to Biggie and Tupac yet. Add to that the string of well paid entertainers who end up bankrupt, drugged out or on the wrong side of the law, even old heads like James Brown. And did I mention OJ? I could go on and on.

I think Micheal could never reconcile his African features. A typical black neurosis. Most black folk, at one time or another, have secretly wished some part of their anatomy was a bit more . . . mainstream. But most of us don’t have the wealth. Nor do we live in the heart of the cosmetic surgery industry. So Micheal attacked his nose, his hair, and his skin in a futile attempt to stage manage his appearance. It’s a wonder he lasted this long as he slowly chipped away at his face and starved himself towards anorexia. He couldn’t stop peeling and scraping at his skin, getting lighter and lighter until he was nearly transparent. If he hadn’t died through heart failure he would have eventually whittled himself away to nothing.

So R.I.P. Micheal Jackson. Though your life is gone your musical legacy will live forever. Hopefully history will reflect more on you triumphs than your failings.

Related posts:

1. Death and Taxes, The Curious Case of Michael Jackson