The Enigma That Was Michael Jackson

by Diane Dimond

Let's Admit—there was a dark side.

When I was plying my trade as an investigative reporter, the most famous criminal defendant I ever covered was entertainer Michael Jackson. Boy, did I cover him! From breaking the first news about the molestation claims against him back in 1993, to being the first to report the 2003 abuse allegations of a young boy who was a cancer patient when he first met the King of Pop. I was there for every day of the criminal trial and I wrote a book drawing on what I’d learned about the man over the course of the decade I’d investigated his story.

Now, Michael Jackson is dead at age 50.

Since his death, likely related to his long-term drug abuse and anorexia, I’ve been asked to explain the fascination so many have for this Pop Icon. What was it about Jackson that caused the great worldwide crowds of people we saw to drop everything and gather in public forums to mourn his passing? . . .

The answer, of course, is Michael Jackson’s music. And his dancing. And his song-writing ability. He was, quite simply, a self-taught entertainment genius. His talent reached down deep inside us and made us feel good. We couldn’t help but tap our toes to the rhythm, to have his lyrics burned into our memories.

Michael Jackson was also a pioneer on the racial front. He was the first Black artist to break through the MTV barrier, his highly produced music and videos literally brought the races together on both the dance floor and in society. Who among us doesn’t sing along (or do a version of a "cool" dance move) when we hear Jackson tunes like, "A-B-C," "Billy Jean," or "Beat It"?

Here’s another reason for the massive fan base. We watched Michael Jackson grow up. He was ours, no matter what our color, and we reveled in how this wildly talented 10-year-old could captivate us. Later, we became mesmerized by Jackson’s solo career and his obsessively intricate choreography that made his videos, like Thriller, all-time record breakers.

We introduced our kids to his irresistible music and another generation was hooked.

But Michael Jackson was obsessive about other things too—things that don’t make us feel so good. He was accused of one of the most insidious crimes imaginable: the sexual abuse of a child; not just once, but twice. And from my years of reporting on the case, I can tell you there were other young boys with eerily similar stories of abuse by Jackson, sons of parents too reticent, too embarrassed, or scared to press charges.

In public, Jackson flaunted his fascination with male children. Even after his narrow escape from prosecution in 1993, for which he paid out about 30 million dollars to avoid a trial, he flamboyantly continued to pose with and travel with unidentified young boys. He openly declared there was “nothing wrong” with a 40-year-old man sleeping with another’s boy. He called us “ignorant” for not understanding. Jackson seemed to be daring us to stop him. No one could.

Then he started to collect children of his own. Jackson reportedly paid up to 10 million dollars to a nurse named Debbie Rowe in return for her agreement to be inseminated with the sperm of his dermatologist, Dr. Arnold Klein, and to give him two children and then disappear. His third child was reportedly born to a surrogate mother and another mystery sperm donor. No one stopped Jackson from doing this either. He had the wealth and the celebrity clout to indulge his obsessions.

Michael Jackson never did like to be told what to do. That probably stemmed from his iron-fisted father’s cruel upbringing. So, despite warnings from some in his entourage, Jackson went about his drug taking, children buying, shopping binges and other bizarre behavior and we seemed to look right past it . . . because of the glorious music he gave us. We telegraphed our approval of his behavior by continuing to support and adore him. We set no boundaries and he didn’t recognize any.

Separating the art from the artist has long been a dilemma. History shows we can love the art and not the man. Vincent Van Gogh was certifiably insane. The artist Caravaggio had a wicked temper and committed murder. Yet both were also celebrated as brilliant artists. In the case of Michael Jackson, anointed with titles like King and Superstar, the admiration caused him to believe the rules didn’t apply to him.

In our adoration of the artist, we shouldn’t forget that men of bad character do valuable things that benefit society in all sorts of ways. They build fabulous institutions, they write meaningful books, they entertain us in ways no others can. Good deeds seep out in spite of their flaws. That doesn’t mean their bad acts are okay.

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