P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing)

P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing)

Growing up in California, for me, Michael Jackson was a distant yet ever present father like figure.  I figured out that Michael was twenty-two years old when I was born.  He technically is old enough to be my father. I'm going to call him Michael because at this point, I feel like I know him on some level even though in this life, we have never met. Growing up in the decade of the eighties, there were so many cultural moments that I didn't fully understand.  I was too little to fully understand what moments were occurring or the significance of what these moments meant to American society.  I didn't understand the full weight of Michael's celebrity.  Maybe, one of the reasons why Michael was everywhere in the 90's was because of cultural saturation.  This past year, at forty, I am starting to understand how famous Michael was.  The past year, I have never cried so much in my life, forgiven so much, or thought about the monumental weight of my own existence and what my existence means to other people quite as much.  As a child, and even now, I believe that I was born to bring good to the lives of other people.  I have always believed that I am here to inspire and help other people. That being said, there are kindred spirits among us and I believe for me, Michael has always been that through his music.

Last year, I had planned a vacation back to California, my home state, right before Christmas time.  I was really excited about it.  With countless people dying around the world, I was extremely worried about my family in California and I wanted to spend time with them and enjoy being with them.  Imagine my huge sense of defeat when Governor Newsom announced a new statewide lockdown.  My trip was postponed.  To add insult to injury, my manager had called me in for discipline for some b.s. incident that happened over a month ago.  An incident I had to lock up on a calendar to even remember what it was that supposedly occurred.  I was extremely depressed.  On the drive home, Michael Jackson's P.Y.T., my dad's favorite song that he likes as a guilty pleasure (probably the only thing about Michael Jackson that my dad likes) started playing on the radio.  He turned the song up.  My folks both started dancing to it. I wasn't having it.  I asked them repeatedly to turn it off.