When I was a kid there was no disposable income. If I wanted something that my mom didn’t think was essential, I had to save my allowance to get it, or just beg and plead and make birthday/Christmas/any gift giving holiday reminder notes to all the grown ups I knew.

Christmas 1982: I was eight years old and looking for anything album-shaped under the tree that might be, could be, please, please, please let it be, the Thriller album from Michael Jackson. I tried not to let myself hope too much that it would be there, as my mother was not interested in all the things that the other kids had. She knew that I knew this, and so when I opened a package that was bigger than a breadbox, she appeared unassuming. Great, more clothes that I needed but didn’t want; definitely not the Sassoon jeans with the hot pink pinstripe I had been coveting at the mall.

No. Better, better than I dared to imagine…inside was Michael, smiling coyly at me from the cover of the Thriller album, cuddling a baby tiger on the inside flap, waiting patiently for me to catch my incredulous breath! I have only owned three albums in my lifetime, all items I dared not pray too hard for least I be disappointed: Olivia Newton John, Twisted Sister (my older brother bought that one), and best of all, Michael Jackson.

Once I had it in my possession, I forgot all about the Cabbage Patch doll my mom probably sucker punched an old lady to procure. Over and over I practiced the moves to Billy Jean in the rec room with my best friend, Kim Savory, who, ironically enough (now that I think about Michael and his later issues) was the closest thing to albino I had ever seen. We made our parents watch the outcome and praise our awkward white girl dance moves like we were the queens of pop. I remember attempting the moon walk at my aunts wedding in front of an eager audience of relatives.

I had the jacket. I found extra things to do for cash when I found the red polyester version of MJ’s red leather zipper jacket at Tower’s department store. (Tower’s was on my way home from middle school and with a working mom I had extra time to kill when class let out.) I tried that jacket on for the last time just before I shoplifted the only thing I have ever stolen: a cherry chap stick. Michael made me think I was a bad-ass, just for that little amount of time to stick it in my backpack and walk out, like I was the king of the world, or at least the king of pop. I ended up telling my mom about the jacket and unwittingly spilling the beans about the theft and was so destroyed by her obvious disappointment that I never stole anything again, but I did save enough for the jacket. I wore it with pride for a year, me and my mullet and my freckles, humming along to “Human Nature” at EI McCulley Elementary.

We watched the premier of the “Thriller” video at Kim’s house. (I didn’t have dibs on evening television at home.) Kim lived seven houses down the street and I was terrified to walk home that night, Vincent Price’s eerie laugh echoing in my ears, drowning out my footsteps in the deserted street. I called my mom before I left to make sure she was watching for me when I arrived. It was one of those “if I’m not home in three and a half minutes, call the Police” kind of moments; scary, but in a good way.

Halloween in Canada means fucking up a perfectly good costume because it is usually so cold in October that you have to wear sweats under your painstakingly prepared disguise. Sometimes it even snows. Years past, this was a major sticking point with my mother. But, in 1983, 1984 and 1985 it was no mas because going out trick or treating as a Thriller Zombie meant shredding my aunt’s hideous bridesmaid dress and smearing mascara on my face. The underclothes complimented the effect. I looked just like the back up dancers in the video, raised from the dead in Sunday’s best and my dad’s long johns. This costume worked for another two or three years when I went as Pat Benetar because “Love is a Battlefield,” and sometimes that means wearing warm weather clothes under your outfit. The only difference was the makeup – now the eye makeup went on the eyes.

I was eight years old when I was blessed enough to find that Thriller album under my tree. Michael Jackson was eleven when he started performing with the Jackson Five. I went to school and made friends, and learned what it meant to fit in. For better or worse I was part of the social hierarchy. Michael Jackson learned how to perform on stage and to give the people, us, what we wanted. Off stage he practiced to perform, preparing for a life in front of millions. I spent a week preparing for my valedictorian speech, given in front of my class and our families and I had diarrhea for a week. He spent a lifetime preparing for the world and we expected him to be just like us.

Think about those moments in the spotlight and the anxiety they created for us. Then, imagine a life spent in those moments. How does a child become an adult when faced with such intense scrutiny? How does he learn to be a man when he becomes a commodity?

Michael, I will miss you and I will mourn your childhood, you sacrificed yourself for us. Thank you.

To contact Smokie Lanark email: jezebel1974@gmail.com