Goodbye To You... Michael Jackson and Growing Up Eighties Style

Since June 25th I have been mulling over my thoughts on the death of Michael Jackson. Only a few things have come to mind; like the fact that his early death may now afford him fame rather than the fate of infamy he was seemingly moving toward, or how his music really was ground-breaking but perhaps not purposely so, or just that the Thriller album was so freaking awesome. As I thought about this unquestionably talented man and the tumultuous life he led I realized that I could not possibly write about Michael Jackson or anyone else I may have enjoyed as a child, or even as a teenager, without writing about my sisters. To me, these girls were everything; the embodiment of 80's pop culture and the reason Michael Jackson's death is able to mean anything to me, other than just the ending to another tragic celebrity biography.

My older sisters were the coolest, my sister April, especially. She tight-rolled her jeans. She wore gigantic t-shirts and sweaters and paired them with even bigger belts. She permed her hair. She wore two or three pairs of socks at a time and always had the coolest, poofiest, craziest looking dresses. She was it. She was the eighties. Most of all, my sister was happy to be a typical eighties girl. She was always herself, or at least that's how it seemed to me, her younger sister. She proudly donned that awesome denim jacket, that giant Swatch watch and Wang-Chunged her way through high school.

Fashion aside, she was so much more than trends. To this day, I honestly believe that my sister April can speak with the most authority and knowledge on any eighties band or musician I can mention. She knows where they were born, who they married, what bands they were in and, of course, she can sing all of their songs. She had all the newest records and, later, all the newest tapes. I remember being an obnoxious little sister, idolizing her and yet terrorizing her at the same time by running off with the True Blue album by Madonna because I thought the song La Isla Bonita was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. To this day, I still have her Duran Duran and Go Go's tapes. The Blondie tape may have belonged to another sister, but it's mine now also. (Until they read this... after which I'm sure there will be reckoning.)

See, these things are almost more mine now than they are theirs. The tapes, the records, the white lace gloves meant to look like Madonna's in the lucky star video; these things all belong to me more than anyone five or seven or ten years older than me. For me they have meaning. They are the pieces of things that used to be everything upon which I depended. Like many middle classes then, and I suppose now, my parents often worked three jobs just to make ends meet and to provide all of us with a happy life. They would often come home from one job, change, and then go to the other. My father somehow managed to work 27 hours into a day, rather than the lazy 24. While my parents were there providing for us they did manage to cultivate relationships with us and help shape a work ethic that I'm proud to say all of their children maintain still. However, those few hours after-school was the time I had with my sisters. It was my second education, the one dealing with music, dances, boys, hair, passed notes in class, and all the other important matters of the world.

If these afternoons were time spent in the classroom of life and growing up, then music surely was the chalkboard. MTV was a staple in our house. Back then they actually showed music videos. Whitney Houston was beautiful. Madonna was what we wanted to be. Rick Springfield was our boyfriend. We didn't know George Michael was gay. We just thought he was a good dancer and decided he might make a good boyfriend too! Pat Benatar and Tina Turner empowered us and Cyndi Lauper made us misbehave. My personal favorite was Patti Smyth, of Scandal. She was everything I wasn't and everything I wanted to be. She had dark brown hair and an attitude to match her fiery eyes. To a shy, petite blond from the Midwest, this woman was the heart and soul of independence and strength. "Goodbye to You" is still one of my favorite songs.

Of course, the artist that almost needed his own day in our household was Michael Jackson. Many thoughts and memories have run through my mind regarding him but, mainly, I remember the Thriller album. I can close my eyes and place myself in my sister's bedroom, sitting on the edge of her water-bed, looking at her bright pink record player. I can see the cover of the album now: Michael Jackson, in a white suit with a black shirt. He seemed to look right at you. We had a heart drawn around his face. We were girls, remember, and we never thought records would become collector's items. Plus, it didn't matter. We loved him. We thought everything he did and said was so cool. We thought Billie Jean was the greatest song ever and no one had ever heard anything like the song Thriller.

On a near daily basis I am told by people around me that I am not old enough. I am told that I am not old enough to know about this song or that artist. I am not old enough to know about some world event or topic. I am not old enough. I am a woman nearing thirty and I wonder when I will be old enough, and also how long I will be old enough- before I am then considered too old. The music of the eighties means so much to me because it was my means of bonding with the girls who helped to define my sense of self. For this reason, I think I am exempt from the stringent "know only the music of your generation" rule.

Music of the eighties also has meaning to me because the music of now often seems more like a business. When I see a show or I buy a song (not an album- but a song) I know that I am the consumer. I know that someone is selling me something. I know that I am being used in various marketing research projects and I am certainly part of some typical demographic. Artists are suing fans. Fans are suing artists. Record companies are owned by Pepsi and Pepsi has a record. When I was a little girl idolizing Patty Smyth I just knew that I was a fan. I thought her hair, her clothing and her overall style were extensions of her personality and not merely an attempt to fill a niche.

I feel that even though the eighties are often considered the beginning of everything fake in music; synthesizers, breast enhancements and lip-synchers, they were also some of the most sincere and honest times for music. I thought to myself the other day that maybe what I will miss about Michael Jackson is his sincerity. What I realize now is that I began to miss that a long time ago. I began to miss Michael Jackson decades ago. He forgot his fans. He forgot the girls who sat around after school singing his music.

He's not to blame. Who didn't forget those girls? Now my sisters and I are busy. They have children. We all work. We all have homes. We all have responsibilities. Even when we are able to get together, even when we do start to discuss music; we have all forgotten that unbridled joy and innocence that came with each drop of the record needle. We're older now. We don't sing along.

After the little girls who listened to Madonna and the Prince of Pop dealt with all matters of the living: marriage, babies, health, illness, death; we outgrew the songs about zombies and unattainable women and rival gangs. We no longer had use for Patty Smyth and her bad-ass, independent attitude. Remembering Michael Jackson this week made me realize that I had forgotten him long ago. It was only with his death that I was truly able to appreciate his life, and the profound effect it had on mine.


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