One sultry summer night in Chicago around 1967, I was backstage at the Broadway Strand with my dance troupe, The Foscoettes. The Strand, as it was called then, was located on Chicago’s West Side. On this night, it was transformed into a variety show space similar to the more famous Regal Theater. But most nights, it doubled as a skating rink.
As my fellow Foscoettes and I were getting ready to perform our modern dance number, I observed the other groups waiting with us in the green room. One that particularly caught my eye was “The Boys from Gary,” as we called them—nine-year-old Michael Jackson and his older brothers (Jackie, Tito, Jermaine, and Marlon). They were jovial and eager to sneak peeks at us dancers outfitted in our leotards and tights, as we twisted into stretches before taking the stage.
While the rest of us laughed and talked, Michael stood apart from the pack, looking down shyly at the floor. We signaled for him to join us, but he declined. Something about him reminded me of boys in my own family who were afraid to make eye contact. So I pulled on my duster to cover my leotards and walked over to Michael to engage him in conversation. He looked up, his eye catching my own. In that millisecond of exchange, it was clear that we trusted each other. I sat down, and we began to speak in low tones so as not to call attention to ourselves. I could sense from his smile that he felt more comfortable interacting in this way.
As our conversation continued, I invited him to sit on my lap, as I would have with my own cousins or nephews. He complied. He looked at me with his big brown eyes, and we talked about dancing, singing, and whether it was scary to go on stage. I have to admit that I don’t remember the entirety of our conversation, and it never occurred to me that I might be sheltering a kid who would grow up to be the most famous entertainer in the world, not to mention the undisputed “King of Pop.”
All I know is that once we went on stage, some magic beam from above transformed that timid little boy into a whirling dervish of talent. We were all enthralled by his singing and dancing. The rapidity of the changing gleam in Michael’s eyes and the shift of his body to accommodate his otherworldly moves caused all of us to perform better. And I had no doubt that he and his brothers would go far.
The joy of the performances in Antoine Fuqua’s new movie, “Michael”—led by Michael’s own nephew, Jafaar Jackson, in the title role—took me back to the wonder of that evening. Over the years, as I watched Michael Jackson’s evolution, from the transformation of “the Boys from Gary” into the Jackson Five, followed by Michael’s own groundbreaking solo career, we all concluded that he is a rare talent.
Perhaps he lost his way in the years that followed, but as Spike Lee noted in a recent interview, the child sexual abuse allegations against Michael would not have fit into the film’s timeline. Michael’s alleged crimes took place long after 1988, which is where the film ends, while acknowledging that there are many more stories left to tell. While modern-day cancel culture often aims to delegitimize the value of an artist’s work due to their personal actions, the phenomenal box office success of “Michael,” which grossed $423 million globally over its first two weekends, affirms that, in some instances, the cultural impact of one’s work will long outlive the person who created it. “Michael” reminds us of a time before the controversies and allegations, of the young man who overcame abuse administered by his own father to create some of the most enduring and beloved music of all time.
“Michael” also reminded me that, for someone not in the performing arts, I had the unbelievable fortune of being on stage dancing with another superstar, Prince, at the United Center in September of 2012. Days afterward, someone wrote to my daughter, Sonia, rather disapprovingly, “Did you see that lady prancing all around the stage with Prince?” “Yes,” Sonia replied, “That was my mother.” At this point in my life, it seems like a dream or a fairy tale. And I haven’t told my grandchildren about these instances yet. But now, perhaps I can.
Rest in peace, Michael Jackson and Prince, and thank you for demonstrating to me that one is never too old to keep dancing. I will have you both in mind the next time I hit the dance floor.
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