All Hail the King of Pop

First of all, I'd like you to know that in my quest to entertain and inform you, I am now totally destroying any chances of my brother ever speaking to me again. Now, for the "Long Story" I mentioned yesterday.

When I was in third grade I was obsessed with Michael Jackson. Like all prepubescent girls at the time, I worshiped him from a far. I wore my Michael Jackson buttons to school everyday. And when I lost one walking home from the bus stop, I made Daddy help me comb the side walks until we found it. I knew all the words to Billie Jean (even if the meaning escaped me), and could belt out Beat It with the best of them. Thriller was the first "real grown up" album I owned. I could recite Vincent Price's lines along with the record (but never could watch the entire video without covering my eyes). I loved the King of Pop.

In those days, he wasn't a plastic surgery fiend. He had never been accused of molestation. He wasn't dangling babies off balconies. He still spoke to his siblings. The worst thing he did was a little crotch grabbing while dancing and catch on fire while filming a Pepsi commercial.

Being a big sister meant others in the house followed my lead...namely Bubba. He became so enthralled with M.J. that he began referring to himself as Michael Jackson Smith (Not my actual maiden name). When we would meet people they would ask his name and Bubba would pipe in, "My name is Michael Jackson Smith." No matter what my parents did to dissuade him, he wouldn't give his actual name. Then one day he refused to answer to Bubba. At first it was cute. After at least 3 months I think my parents had heard it one too many times.

The straw that broke the camel's (that is "Mama's") back was Mother's Day morning. The nursery kids were going to sing Jesus Loves Me in church that morning for all their mothers. Mama would practice the song with Bubba and he would happily sing along. Then she would ask what he was going to sing at church and he would answer, "Beat It." No matter how many times she asked, he never changed his answer. No matter how many times they'd practice Jesus Loves Me, he would say, "Everyone else is singing that. I'm singing Beat It."

Sunday rolled around and the teachers paraded the 3&4 year olds up on stage, stood them so their moms could see them, then knelt down in front of the kids to lead the song. The class began, "Jesus Loves me, this I know..." and Bubba reaches up, takes the microphone out of it's stand and sings, "Beat it, Beat it!" (Which were the only words of the song he actually knew). A teacher quickly snatched the mic out of his hand, put it back in the stand, and went back to singing. "...for the Bible tells me so..." "BEAT IT! BEAT IT!" Again he has the mic and this time he's much louder. They took the mic and removed Bubba from the stage as Grandma M&M slumped further and further down in her pew.

That night he refused to tell Mama his real name. He continued to insist his name was Michael Jackson Smith. Somehow he ended up on our enclosed (and locked) front porch in his underpants and Mama wouldn't let him in the house saying, "No one by that name lives here!"
Bubba would bang on the door and yell, "Let me in! It's me!"
Mama would say, "Me who?"
"Me, Michael Jackson Smith!"
"Sorry, little boy. No Michael Jackson's live here."
I'm sure this only lasted 10 minutes or so, but to me it seemed to go on all night. Eventually he gave in and mumbled, "Me, Bubba Smith," and Mama let him in. She then promptly dug out my Thriller album and broke it over her knee. I was upset, but the M.J. obsession was beginning to wane (thanks in whole to a pesky little brother) so I recovered quickly. Never again did he refer to himself as Michael Jackson Smith...and never have we let him live it down.

Bubba, you've made our lives so very interesting. I love you, and I hope you'll still condescend to speak to me.