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     Michael Jackson turns 47 years old today. As a preteen, he could brag about having three consecutive #1 hits. At a time when most are struggling to pay the rent and student loans, he’d recorded the biggest selling album of all time, Thriller. By his 30th birthday, he owned the publishing rights to the Beatles’ catalog. When middle age was still many years away, he was honored with by the Grammy Awards for lifetime achievement. And now, with AARP membership inching closer and closer, he’s been charged, tried and acquitted of ten felony counts.

     Growing up in the 80s and 90s, I eagerly awaited every move that the King of Pop would make. I watched in amazement as he descended from the ceiling of a subway station in full buckled regalia, I begged my mother to let me stay up late and watch his prime-time interview with Oprah and I eagerly gossiped with my grandmother about the real reason he was going to perform in a wheel chair on the Soul Train Awards. His talent seemed limitless. Who else could sing like that? Tevin Campbell and El Debarge made noble attempts, but their falsettos lacked the grittiness that oozed out of MJ whenever he got just a little heated in song. Who could dance like that? Hammer and Bobby Brown tried, but they paled in comparison.

     Michael Jackson was more than just an entertainer. To many, he was a superhero, mentor and best friend all wrapped out into one non-threatening package. If you were an ethnically ambiguous child coming of age right before it was popular to look “exotic,” you felt validated by the simple message of tolerance and acceptance presented in the song and video for “Black or White.” There’s no doubt in my mind that there are members of the Peace Corps who can trace the first time they realized that there was a world outside their doorstep that needed help to hearing “Man In The Mirror.” And, of course, who didn’t attempt the moonwalk (or in the case of the really daring, the crotch grab)? We were raised on Michael Jackson. We saw him when he was on top of the world and in the past several years, we’ve seen him at his lowest.

     After the first allegations of child molestation surfaced in 1993 (for which Jackson was never charged), it wasn’t cool in certain circles to like Michael Jackson anymore. Many of the same children who gleefully bopped to “Billie Jean” and held hands and sang “Heal The World” were now adolescents consumed by angst-driven rock and rap. The second allegations came about and Jackson’s once intensely private world was ripped open, exposed for all the world to see. And it turned out that the Peter Pan of Pop had a serious penchant for porn. Although the trial ultimately pronounced Jackson “Not Guilty” of any wrongdoing, it did little to win back the hearts of those aforementioned tortured adolescents (now 20-somethings), too jaded by life to fully embrace a man who admits, in all seriousness, that his favorite thing to do is climb trees. Could it be that Michael’s success was inextricably connected to his childlike persona and once that image was tarnished, the magic that had always been synonymous with him disappeared, as well?

     If that were the case, we wouldn’t be grasping so hard to anything that vaguely resembles Michael. Justin Timberlake’s nasal faux-soul was embraced by many, proclaiming him the second coming. Usher’s gyrations excite crowds, though they lack the originality or inspiration of the Gloved One. R&B singer Omarion’s video for “Touch” is a trashier remake of “The Way You Make Me Feel.” Jackson-biting is such an epidemic that the comic-strip The Boondocks recently lampooned the imitators, reminding them that “Michael Jackson is an artist, not a genre.” We continue to eat up anything that has to do with Michael Jackson. His trips to Middle Eastern countries are cover stories on New York tabloids. Nancy Grace’s ratings during the first few months of her show could only be attributed to the public’s fascination with the Jackson trial, as they dropped significantly in the time following the case. We still want him, we just don’t know what we want from him.

     Hidden on Jackson’s much criticized 2001 album Invincible is the pleading song “Whatever Happens” that chronicles a relationship wrought with turbulence. Whether Jackson is speaking of a personal relationship, or his relationship with us, the public, is debatable. Jackson sings “He's working day and night/thinks he'll make her happy/forgetting all the dreams that he had,” but then implores “Whatever happens, don’t let go of my hand.” Some 25 years earlier, on Off The Wall’s “Working Day and Night,” a young Jackson told us that “You say that workin' is what a man's supposed to do/But I say it ain't right if I can't give sweet love to you.” Will Jackson always be wounded man-child, begging for our love, working and putting on a show to earn it? When I think of all that he’s accomplished in his life and all that he’s given to the worlds of music, entertainment and even cable news, I wonder if there’s anything left for him to give. He certainly doesn’t owe us, but because he’s been around for my entire life, I can’t help but feel that there’s something missing when he’s not in the public eye.

     Perhaps Jackson’s talents will free themselves from the confines of the pop-culture prison the singer has occupied for the past ten or so years. Like the mischievous lost boy of Neverland whom Jackson is so fond of likening himself, I still see a certain spark of genius in his eye. But the music and the magic can come later. Today I hope he does something that he was never able to do as when he was the little boy who worked so feverishly to entertain us - have some cake, a party and peace. After 47 years on this planet and 42 years in the spotlight, he deserves at least that. Happy Birthday, Mike.

Josephine Zohny was raised in the DC metropolitan area, now lives in New York City and writes about music, pop culture and critical race theory. Check out her blog at www.jzohny.com .