The Persistence of Memory: Dali, Michael, and the Great Negro Tragedy

"I cried today", she said. I tried to respond but all I could muster was an icy "Oh". My sister looked at me confused by my apparent indifference. Little did she know that I could hardly sleep that night, or the next. 

Four days ago, I was on the phone with her while in Chinatown and I overheard a voice on the television confirm the death of Michael Jackson. I quickly got off the phone. 

I spent the evening perusing a gallery of Salvador Dali's artwork, ignoring the sinking feeling in my chest. Instead, I focused on the walls. Dali's work with the surreal was eye-opening. His personality spoke through his work and his iconic waxed mustache. He was a man who spent his life expressing himself as he saw fit and that ethos manifested itself in his art. There, in that gallery, I had a surreal moment all my own. I looked around and saw all these smiling faces. It was as if no one there knew Michael was gone. No one else seemed to feel hollow or gripped with nausea. Michael Jackson was dead. It seemed like a cruel joke. An impossibility. The melting clocks on the wall made more sense than this.

On the way home I thought about being five and wearing white socks with my dress shoes. I smiled remembering the hours I spent skidding across the kitchen floor trying to moonwalk. I remember being in the third grade and my friend claimed that Michael was his uncle. I remember the  lunchboxes, the Moonwalker videotape my cousins never tired of watching, and the dance battles we used to have. My friend Daya took the words out of my mouth when she said she felt as though a family member had died...he was truly a member of every black family.

Though I was young, I also remember the conversations adults had about how Michael was once a little black boy with nappy hair like mine. Vitiligo aside, everyone had questions about his ever paler complexion and his thinning nose and lips. They often shrugged or shook their heads at the sight of him. Despite no longer looking like the cool older brother I wish I had, I still loved Michael Jackson and would change the subject when people would joke about him.  With each accusation, Michael grew more reclusive and I could no longer see the family resemblance. He became more and more difficult to defend and I stopped altogether eventually.

How far do we have to go to be accepted?

In my teens, I had forgotten about all the hope and optimism that I learned from all the good works Michael had done. He was no longer the greatest entertainer on earth, rather he was the court jester on the world stage - the star of a freak show.

The truth is that Michael was no anomaly. We've all at one point or another felt self-conscious about the color of our skin. Who are we to pretend that we have not teased or been teased?  Who are we to pretend that we never wanted to be accepted as equal human beings in America? 

I couldn't help but ask the questions there were no answers to. Could Michael have transcended race without transcending the features of his own? Could he have been as successful as he was if he had remained brown? In my grief and bitterness, I believe that Michael represents what my friend Shamira called our "great negro tragedy", our desire to seek acceptance even though it often isn't in our best interest to do so. I believe Michael wanted to be loved as he loved the world despite its imperfections. Dali's piece spoke to me that day. Michael was the elephant with stilts for legs, existing and believing in something greater than the boundaries of our perception. 

Michael Jackson showed us the persistence of memory. His passion for music and love of peace and hope are woven through the fabric of our lives. He moonwalked across time and space proving that magic was real. He impacted people of all ages and helped to spread awareness of global crises through his humanitarian efforts. Tributes to his contributions have been consistent throughout the weekend. He croons on every radio station, at every bar, and there are people moonwalking in leather jackets in the middle of the street. This is exactly how I want to remember him.