Growing Up in Public: Michael Jackson and Us

By the time I was old enough to start listening to Top 40 radio and to buy records (er, tapes), Michael Jackson was already becoming a punch line. “Black or White” topped the charts when I was in Grade Seven and Jacko was more of a freak show draw than music icon throughout my high school years. Then there were the child molestation charges and it looked like the King of Pop would end up irreparably tarnished. He was acquitted of those charges, though, and people started to give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, if there is one person who was so completely divorced from the standard norms of behaviour and so completely outside our collective realm of comprehension that he might innocently share a bedroom with a young boy and be surprised at the outrage, it was Michael Jackson.

A few years ago, though, I started to hear it: the odd M.J. song. We played Billie Jean at the bar where I worked when I was pregnant with Young C and some of the first fetal movements I felt were in time with this pop classic. Many of those early songs are good. They hold up. There was a bit of a Michael Jackson resurgence going on and people wondered if he had anything more. People were talking about the music, not the bizzaro personal circumstances surrounding the man.

Still, I was surprised at how unsettled I felt when I learned of his death last Friday. I had only recently come to appreciate some of his music, but there it was — a definite sense of loss. Reflecting on the phenomenon that is Michael Jackson, one can’t help but wonder, why? Why and how? How did he become such a twisted person?

And maybe it’s just because I’m a mother, but I think it’s safe to assign a good share of the blame to his childhood. (Our celebrity and beauty-obsessed culture, too. Sure.) There was the abuse he suffered at the hands of his father, but there was also the enormous pressure and the insane amount of fame at such a young age. It’s the latter that I’m most interested in today. Because doesn’t it seem like the fate of most — all? — child stars is a pretty messed up adult life?

I get the temptation, though. If you think your kids are special and talented and that they can make money to help the family, then of course you’re going to be tempted. That could be money for their future and a jump start on a career. Who doesn’t want fame and fortune, right? I look at my own two adorable kids and I can’t say it doesn’t occur to me to get them in commercials.

And what about the kids who do commercials? Are they being exploited? Or are they just helping to put together their own education fund? And does it matter if they enjoy the work and want to do it?

How about mommy bloggers? Am I exploiting my kids by writing about them or posting pictures of them? (Exploiting them into obscurity maybe.) But what about Dooce? She is HUGE. And reality t.v. stars, too, right. When does our willingness to make our private life public impact our children’s right to privacy? When have we crossed that line?

Really, I’d love to hear your comments because I just don’t know. For me, for right now, I can tell that I’m not a bare-my-soul type of blogger. I am very honest about the topics I choose to write on, but there are many, like my relationship with my husband and other family members, that I steer well clear of. I didn’t use to post pictures of my kids, but now I will. I used to use their names, but now I don’t. Not that it would be very difficult to discover their identities. I’m merely trying to guard against the Google-ability of their names. To see if I can’t save them the embarassment of having their toilet-training trials come up when a school friend put their name in a search engine. It’s the very sheerest veil on their identity, though, and I often wonder if it’s even worth it.

Somewhere on the parenting spectrum between me and Joe Jackson, though, there is a point where the child’s best interest is no longer being served. I just don’t know where that point is.

(Image courtesy of dwhartwig at Flickr.)