Jackson saga speaks to strength of forgiveness
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Updated: July 09, 2009 11:20 AM
I streamed the Michael Jackson memorial earlier this week, determined to find something that would fuel a scathing column about the circus I expected it would be.
And, as it began, the notes taken included such things as “L.A.’s paying $2 to $4 million FOR THIS???”
The scene showing the hearse carrying the golden (“WHAT? GOLDEN????) casket led to a notation about a white Bronco and another celebrity getting way too much attention for all the wrong reasons.
I frantically messaged my husband, asking what an i-reporter is, after listening to breathless CNN anchors talking to these people.
His reply? “Investigative?”
Nope. Apparently, they’re regular folks who just answer questions posed by real reporters.
I even generated some curious looks from co-workers who, unaware of what I was listening to, only heard me loudly groan, “Greatest entertainer that ever lived? Is Berry Gordy nuts?”
But, then, something happened.
And it came courtesy of Brooke Shields, another of those innocents who lost a childhood to the machinery of stardom and obsessive parents.
She mentioned Jackson’s favourite song wasn’t Billie Jean, Thriller or anything his friend Diana Ross ever sang.
It was that tiny gem written by another famous man — Charlie Chaplin.
“Smile through your fear and sorrow, smile and maybe tomorrow you’ll see the sun come shining through.”
Then his brother, Jermaine Jackson, sang Smile — and it was no longer an opportunity to rage about excess (although a golden casket and a multi-million dollar ceremony is a tad overdone).
And I realized how very similar those two megastars — Jackson and Chaplin — really were.
Both came from truly humble beginnings.
Both made stage debuts when they were five — one fronting for his brothers, the other shoved out by a stage manager to sing when his mother couldn’t continue performing.
Both were scarred by their parents — one by his father’s obsessive drive, the other by his mother’s absences and mental illness.
Both were innovators — and the word belies the depth of their creativity.
Both were identified by unique articles of clothing — a glove for one, a bowler hat for the other.
One was called the King of Pop, the other the King of Tragedy.
One was accused of violating children (but never convicted), the other convicted for fathering an illegitimate child (but later proven innocent).
Both ended up living in exile from their homes in America — one by choice thanks to cultural disdain, the other due to vindictiveness, thanks to an anti-Communist paranoia.
And both were eventually praised by their peers and fans alike — Chaplin when he returned from Europe to receive an honourary Oscar, Jackson at his memorial service.
Their stories speak to the strength of forgiveness, of family, of persevering.
Their stories prove what Chaplin once said: “Failure is unimportant. It takes courage to make a fool of yourself.”
So, yes, I wanted to rage about the excess I watched during that three-hour “show,” but, instead, I take away from it all one searing image — a little girl who has lost her daddy.
Her childhood, and that of her brothers, is also now shaped by this pain. But those few words Jackson’s 11-year-old daughter managed to speak at her daddy’s service reminded me of another Chaplin quote:
“We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery, we need humanity. More than cleverness, we need kindness and gentleness.”
If it is true that, as Jackson once said, the greatest education in the world is watching the masters at work, then, as with the lessons Chaplin taught us all, this class is also, sadly, done.
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