I grew up in a very boring house, as far as pop culture goes. I was my mother’s daughter. I like[d] Karen Carpenter, Anne Murray, and showtunes. I knew nothing of Madonna and Belinda Carlile or even Michael Jackson. I’m sure my sisters knew a lot more about pop culture, but I was rarely, if ever, invited into their worlds rooms to partake of the fruit of knowledge I did not know existed.
It was my best friend’s mom that introduced me to the king of pop. My eight-year-old best friend, Naomi Barkley, had parents that were younger and more worldly than mine. She was Korean, and almost every memory I made while I was with her I filed into a compartment in my brain named “Korean,” so even now when I smell the scent that her basement smelled like I associate with Koreans. It’s unfair, but it’s how my little brain was wired.
We were in the car, I don’t know where we were going, and Mrs. Barkley put in a Michael Jackson tape. The song I remember singing in that car along with Mrs. Barkley, Naomi, and her twin little brothers, was Man in the Mirror. It’s the first MJ memory I have, and I remember loving it. We all loved it, and it was something we all had in common.
I hope he finally finds some peace.
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