I grew up in Glen Dale, West Virginia where everyone listed to the Oakridge Boys and Crystal Gayle. It was very isolating for me, since, from the time I was very young, I knew I was different. I have never liked blue jeans, eschewed plaid flannels for woven silks, and once saved for months to buy a pair of loafers with tassels. In middle school, I discovered Michael Jackson. Sure, I’d known him before as that round-faced, afro-wearing child star, but I never really knew him before 1982. When I met Michael through his music, it was like I met part of myself. He saw who I was inside and gave voice to it in ways the Judds never could.
His style inspired me to go out and find my own unique look. For a while I experimented with a fedora. None of the feed stores carried them, so I had to order one from the J.C. Penny catalogue. Sadly, it ended up being more trouble than it was worth after the bowling team took an especial disliking to it.
I spent one whole summer wearing nothing but button-down white shirts that were at least two sizes too big for me. My mother, who was unwilling to “indulge my teenage phase” wouldn’t buy them for me, so I had to scour the racks at the local thrift store for white shirts that didn’t have yellow stains under the arms or dingy rings on the insides of the collars. I was devoted to those shirts and would launder them myself. I would take the time to pull them from the dryer at just the right moment so I could minimize the time it would take to iron them. It was hard to make it through the day without getting some sort of stain on my shirt, and I swear that that summer my mother served more spaghetti than she ever had before, but I persevered.
No, I never wore a glove as a fashion statement, but I changed my mind about jeans after watching Michael dance. I saw that what I had disliked about jeans was their color; they are just too light. Jeans at Union Junior High school were only one of two things in 1982. They were either stone washed, or if you were one of the girls who wore a banana clip, they were acid washed, but Michael’s dark rise showed me who I was. I watched the “Billie Jean” video over and over until I was that guy on the street strutting with the girls. I learned the moves, and I knew I had “it,” whatever “it” was. I gained a lot of confidence from Michael.
The day after I graduated from high school, I left the town of Glen Dale, West Virginia for good. No, I didn’t become a huge pop star, or even a fashion designer as I’d once hoped to be, but I’m here, and not in West Virginia anymore, and I have Michael to thank for that. I’m here - at the hospital today - because I’m not there anymore.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Why Mary Beth Tinker was outside of the LA Medical Center on June 24th
Here is another statement from one of the many people who gathered outside of the LA Medical Center to mourn Michael Jackson's death:
Mary Beth Tinker
Yes, I really am “that” Mary Beth Tinker. I’m surprised that you recognized me. I always find it so funny that the media calls me a “Free Speech Icon” when hardly anyone knows what I look like without the armband.
I heard the news about Michael’s death on the radio as I was leaving the auditorium where my last speaking engagement was held, and I just felt compelled to come here and mourn. Michael and I have nothing in common except for that one distinctive bit of black cloth, but it unites us. I guess you’d say we’re tied together in a way.
I live in Lubbock, Texas now, and I don’t find that many people there understand what I did or why I did it. Since I was only 13 when I decided to protest the Vietnam War, most people there seem to think that I was just showing off. When I first moved to Lubbock, just a few years ago, someone put a sign on my lawn that said, “Don’t Tinker with the Constitution,” but I’ve gotten used to their snide comments. For example, last Monday I was at the Get Up and Go Café and I overheard Tammy Smith say, “Merle, I hope you still have that ham special on the menu, because Mary Beth’s rights don’t end at the café gate.” There is no creativity in Lubbock, TX.
So back to Michael – I know what kind of balls it takes to wear an armband, and I know what sort of crap Michael had to put up with to do it. People wonder, “why does he wear that armband, and why in different colors.” Well, I happen to know that Michael was a sensitive person who felt the world’s suffering distinctly. That’s why he wore it. When he first decided to really wear that armband, he called me, and let me tell you, I was blown away. I was in my early 30’s and my kids were small. We were living in Berkeley then, and I remember that I was despondent when I answered the phone because the day before I had lost the election for secretary of the local La Leche League. “Hello, this is Mary Beth Tinker.” The words fell from my mouth like squash spooned unenthusiastically onto a plate by a ten-year-old. And then he said, “Hi, this is Michael Jackson and I wanted to talk to you about your armband.” It turned out that Michael’d been wearing an armband in private for a while, but he was reluctant to wear one in public because he knew that it was sort of my fashion signature.
We talked about armbands in general and his in particular for a while. Michael feared that people would just assume his were functional. Some people actually wear armbands to keep their sleeves up if you can imagine, and if you look at the red leather jacket Michael is wearing in the “Thriller” video, you’ll see that that’s what those armbands are for - with out them, his jacket sleeves would have fallen from his forearms to his wrists and the look would have been ruined. It was around the time that the “Thriller” video came out that he called me. I advised him to go whole hog with the armbands. I told him sternly, “You have to make a firm statement about something you strongly believe in, or you don’t deserve to wear the band.” That was what did it, I think. After that, Michael wore an armband whenever he made a public appearance, but he didn’t always wear them in his videos. Yes, it disappointed me to see that he occasionally put his “look” ahead of his conviction, but I forgave him.
I think that his managers and merchandisers found the armband to be too political, too controversial, and that probably effected his commitment to the armband look. He’s not wearing an armband on his 1985 $4 postage stamp issued by the island country of St. Vincent. Nor does his 1997 “Black or White” singing action figure have an armband (true fans could add one themselves). I guess it’s hard to decide what’s more important, to sell an action figure that is correct down to the armband that signifies the plight of impoverished children everywhere, or to use the sales from the armband-less doll to raise money for impoverished children everywhere. Michael was faced with many difficult decisions in his lifetime.
Over the years, Michael and I have talked a few times. He called me once wondering if it was “ok” to wear a white armband instead of a black one. He liked the symbolism of the black armband, thought it was more sedate, and liked what I’d done with it, but he wanted to wear an armband on the outside of a black suit. “Well, Michael,” I said, “it’s not the color of your armband that matters, it’s the color of your intention. If you intend it to be a symbol of protest, it is a symbol of protest. That’s the way symbols work.” Michael really took that advice to heart, and I notice that over the years he wore all sorts of colored armbands. Ultimately, he really managed to make his whole outfit about the armband if you know what I mean.
Michael and I had a bond that went deeper than accessories; we both knew what it was like to be censored and to struggle for our rights. Michael has had all sorts of problems over the years. His music has been banned, his concerts have been forbidden, his dancers have been stopped at borders, his album art has been censored, and his private life has been held up for ridicule. Recently, Michael has just stopped speaking in public at all. I hurt for him. I hurt for him; I know what its like to be muffled, stifled, told that you’re wrong, undeserving of respect or a voice. The only public voice he’s had in these past several years is that armband, the one I fought for. I’m proud that I did what I did. I said no to Vietnam, but I did more than that, I paved the way for Michael Jackson. In the end he didn’t have much, but he had that armband, and I was a part of that.
Mary Beth Tinker
Yes, I really am “that” Mary Beth Tinker. I’m surprised that you recognized me. I always find it so funny that the media calls me a “Free Speech Icon” when hardly anyone knows what I look like without the armband.
I heard the news about Michael’s death on the radio as I was leaving the auditorium where my last speaking engagement was held, and I just felt compelled to come here and mourn. Michael and I have nothing in common except for that one distinctive bit of black cloth, but it unites us. I guess you’d say we’re tied together in a way.
I live in Lubbock, Texas now, and I don’t find that many people there understand what I did or why I did it. Since I was only 13 when I decided to protest the Vietnam War, most people there seem to think that I was just showing off. When I first moved to Lubbock, just a few years ago, someone put a sign on my lawn that said, “Don’t Tinker with the Constitution,” but I’ve gotten used to their snide comments. For example, last Monday I was at the Get Up and Go Café and I overheard Tammy Smith say, “Merle, I hope you still have that ham special on the menu, because Mary Beth’s rights don’t end at the café gate.” There is no creativity in Lubbock, TX.
So back to Michael – I know what kind of balls it takes to wear an armband, and I know what sort of crap Michael had to put up with to do it. People wonder, “why does he wear that armband, and why in different colors.” Well, I happen to know that Michael was a sensitive person who felt the world’s suffering distinctly. That’s why he wore it. When he first decided to really wear that armband, he called me, and let me tell you, I was blown away. I was in my early 30’s and my kids were small. We were living in Berkeley then, and I remember that I was despondent when I answered the phone because the day before I had lost the election for secretary of the local La Leche League. “Hello, this is Mary Beth Tinker.” The words fell from my mouth like squash spooned unenthusiastically onto a plate by a ten-year-old. And then he said, “Hi, this is Michael Jackson and I wanted to talk to you about your armband.” It turned out that Michael’d been wearing an armband in private for a while, but he was reluctant to wear one in public because he knew that it was sort of my fashion signature.
We talked about armbands in general and his in particular for a while. Michael feared that people would just assume his were functional. Some people actually wear armbands to keep their sleeves up if you can imagine, and if you look at the red leather jacket Michael is wearing in the “Thriller” video, you’ll see that that’s what those armbands are for - with out them, his jacket sleeves would have fallen from his forearms to his wrists and the look would have been ruined. It was around the time that the “Thriller” video came out that he called me. I advised him to go whole hog with the armbands. I told him sternly, “You have to make a firm statement about something you strongly believe in, or you don’t deserve to wear the band.” That was what did it, I think. After that, Michael wore an armband whenever he made a public appearance, but he didn’t always wear them in his videos. Yes, it disappointed me to see that he occasionally put his “look” ahead of his conviction, but I forgave him.
I think that his managers and merchandisers found the armband to be too political, too controversial, and that probably effected his commitment to the armband look. He’s not wearing an armband on his 1985 $4 postage stamp issued by the island country of St. Vincent. Nor does his 1997 “Black or White” singing action figure have an armband (true fans could add one themselves). I guess it’s hard to decide what’s more important, to sell an action figure that is correct down to the armband that signifies the plight of impoverished children everywhere, or to use the sales from the armband-less doll to raise money for impoverished children everywhere. Michael was faced with many difficult decisions in his lifetime.
Over the years, Michael and I have talked a few times. He called me once wondering if it was “ok” to wear a white armband instead of a black one. He liked the symbolism of the black armband, thought it was more sedate, and liked what I’d done with it, but he wanted to wear an armband on the outside of a black suit. “Well, Michael,” I said, “it’s not the color of your armband that matters, it’s the color of your intention. If you intend it to be a symbol of protest, it is a symbol of protest. That’s the way symbols work.” Michael really took that advice to heart, and I notice that over the years he wore all sorts of colored armbands. Ultimately, he really managed to make his whole outfit about the armband if you know what I mean.
Michael and I had a bond that went deeper than accessories; we both knew what it was like to be censored and to struggle for our rights. Michael has had all sorts of problems over the years. His music has been banned, his concerts have been forbidden, his dancers have been stopped at borders, his album art has been censored, and his private life has been held up for ridicule. Recently, Michael has just stopped speaking in public at all. I hurt for him. I hurt for him; I know what its like to be muffled, stifled, told that you’re wrong, undeserving of respect or a voice. The only public voice he’s had in these past several years is that armband, the one I fought for. I’m proud that I did what I did. I said no to Vietnam, but I did more than that, I paved the way for Michael Jackson. In the end he didn’t have much, but he had that armband, and I was a part of that.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Why I was outside the LA Medical Center on June 24th
On June 24, 2009, hundreds of people gathered outside of the LA Medical Center where, just hours before, Michael Jackson had been pronounced dead. Fans came to celebrate his life and music and to mourn his death. Each one of them has a story to tell about Michael, how he touched their lives and brought them happiness. My next few blog posts will tell some of those stories:
Elise Hawthorne
Michael Jackson broke my arm. Well, he didn’t really break it, but he was responsible for me breaking it. One day after school I was dancing alone in my room and I tripped. I had gotten two awesome gifts for Christmas (well, at the time I would have called them “wicked”): a new tape deck with a handle and a microphone jack, and the Thriller tape. I distinctly remember that “Beat It” was playing when I broke my arm.
I tripped because I hadn’t put on socks. I was wearing my new jelly shoes, you know, the ones that were made of really gooey plastic and supposed to be so comfortable, but weren’t really because they were too hot to wear barefoot so you had to wear them with socks, which made them feel less comfortable and made you look much less cool than you had before you put on the socks? Well, the tip of the shoe got stuck in the carpet. Our house was built in the late ‘60s and had been really fancy and modern then. It was a ranch and had wall to wall throughout. In its day, the carpet was bad ass. The shag was long and, although my mother called it “gold,” it was really the color of a Werther’s original candy. Well, there I was, practicing my coolest Michael moves and trying to moonwalk, when my rubbery jelly shoe got caught on a too-long piece of shag, I fell, twisting in mid air to avoid landing on my guinea pig – and bam! I remember lying on the floor just looking at my hand and thinking, “shit, that’s not in the right place at all.”
I stayed on the floor through the end of “Beat It,” and all of “Billie Jean”, but since I never really liked “Human Nature” I got up when it came on and went looking for my stepfather.
He was mowing the lawn.
My mom met us at the hospital and immediately started screaming that it was all his fault. At first I couldn’t figure out what was going on, so I just watched, but it turned out that she thought he’d hit me or pushed me or something and had made me break my arm. I knew what he had been doing to her, but my mom had been trying so hard to keep it a secret. And because of that, because she thought I didn’t know, I pretended I didn’t. I was a teenager and somehow I thought that letting her know that I knew would hurt her more than he was hurting her. I hadn’t even said anything about the black eye. That summer I mostly stayed in my room and listened to Joan Jett.
There, in the hospital waiting room, the lights buzzed and flickered. My arm rested on a pillow. My mom yelled and my stepfather yelled back, saying that he hadn’t done anything, when a nurse walked out and asked me what had happened. I looked at my mom in her career separates pink blouse with the big floppy bow at the neck, and I looked at my stepfather who was still covered with grass. I didn’t like either of them too much right then, but I really hated him.
“He pushed me,” I agreed.
And that was it. My mother called the police, and I stood by my story no matter how many times I told it. Once I’d lied, there was no going back. He didn’t do any jail time or anything, it was 1982 after all, but my mother did divorce him.
I’ve given it a lot of thought over the years, and I think that even though on that day he hadn’t hit me, he would have started hurting me pretty soon. He was a mean bastard, and I think it could have only gotten worse.
I’m here to say good-bye to Michael Jackson today because I’ve always seen him as a character in the story I just told you. If it hadn’t been for his music, I wouldn’t have been dancing like a lunatic that day, I wouldn’t have tripped, I wouldn’t have broken my arm, and I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to tell that wonderful lie. He’s really the hero of my story. I’m sure you don’t see it that way, but I do.
Elise Hawthorne
Michael Jackson broke my arm. Well, he didn’t really break it, but he was responsible for me breaking it. One day after school I was dancing alone in my room and I tripped. I had gotten two awesome gifts for Christmas (well, at the time I would have called them “wicked”): a new tape deck with a handle and a microphone jack, and the Thriller tape. I distinctly remember that “Beat It” was playing when I broke my arm.
I tripped because I hadn’t put on socks. I was wearing my new jelly shoes, you know, the ones that were made of really gooey plastic and supposed to be so comfortable, but weren’t really because they were too hot to wear barefoot so you had to wear them with socks, which made them feel less comfortable and made you look much less cool than you had before you put on the socks? Well, the tip of the shoe got stuck in the carpet. Our house was built in the late ‘60s and had been really fancy and modern then. It was a ranch and had wall to wall throughout. In its day, the carpet was bad ass. The shag was long and, although my mother called it “gold,” it was really the color of a Werther’s original candy. Well, there I was, practicing my coolest Michael moves and trying to moonwalk, when my rubbery jelly shoe got caught on a too-long piece of shag, I fell, twisting in mid air to avoid landing on my guinea pig – and bam! I remember lying on the floor just looking at my hand and thinking, “shit, that’s not in the right place at all.”
I stayed on the floor through the end of “Beat It,” and all of “Billie Jean”, but since I never really liked “Human Nature” I got up when it came on and went looking for my stepfather.
He was mowing the lawn.
My mom met us at the hospital and immediately started screaming that it was all his fault. At first I couldn’t figure out what was going on, so I just watched, but it turned out that she thought he’d hit me or pushed me or something and had made me break my arm. I knew what he had been doing to her, but my mom had been trying so hard to keep it a secret. And because of that, because she thought I didn’t know, I pretended I didn’t. I was a teenager and somehow I thought that letting her know that I knew would hurt her more than he was hurting her. I hadn’t even said anything about the black eye. That summer I mostly stayed in my room and listened to Joan Jett.
There, in the hospital waiting room, the lights buzzed and flickered. My arm rested on a pillow. My mom yelled and my stepfather yelled back, saying that he hadn’t done anything, when a nurse walked out and asked me what had happened. I looked at my mom in her career separates pink blouse with the big floppy bow at the neck, and I looked at my stepfather who was still covered with grass. I didn’t like either of them too much right then, but I really hated him.
“He pushed me,” I agreed.
And that was it. My mother called the police, and I stood by my story no matter how many times I told it. Once I’d lied, there was no going back. He didn’t do any jail time or anything, it was 1982 after all, but my mother did divorce him.
I’ve given it a lot of thought over the years, and I think that even though on that day he hadn’t hit me, he would have started hurting me pretty soon. He was a mean bastard, and I think it could have only gotten worse.
I’m here to say good-bye to Michael Jackson today because I’ve always seen him as a character in the story I just told you. If it hadn’t been for his music, I wouldn’t have been dancing like a lunatic that day, I wouldn’t have tripped, I wouldn’t have broken my arm, and I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to tell that wonderful lie. He’s really the hero of my story. I’m sure you don’t see it that way, but I do.
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