I was in a cell phone commercial.

Sub-urban New Delhi, 4 November 2006


An imported popular, affordable Vodka brand sponsored the special guest foreign DJ-event the only other time I had visited this discothèque. The bar only served that particular brand, in addition to the massive branded-posters all around the hallways, stage, and seemed to float above the dance floor like its halo; this was a crafted marketing event. The Rs. 1500 cover charge included 500 rupees worth of drinks that sold for Rs. 150 and included Rs. 20 worth of liquor and Rs. 7 worth of juice. I suppose they charged for ice as well.


The crowd’s hands shot into the air the moment the group finally appeared on stage after several announced delays and stalling by an annoying squirt to whom I shall return to later. The crowd thrust their cellular phones high to capture the action live. Many mobiles had flashes. I could see that others took video recordings that they reviewed, at times ignoring the live performance. This went on throughout the first three acts.


The cell phone company found the biggest, blackest group of loud bling-wearing, thug looking men in American Hip-Hop to rock the crowd in order to promote their brand. The largest man of the bunch both in terms of height and in terms of width, stood in back wearing dark sunglasses and a heavy hooded sweatshirt. He was the only one on stage without a microphone and had, what one of my favorite comedians calls, “the kind of muscle that you get from trying to keep a brutha off you!” (Prison style) Everyone else on stage showed-off muscular torsos and sagging jeans.


The first two songs that the group performed abruptly ended with the DJ spinning the sounds of crashing glass- a broken window or perhaps shattered goods. The end of the third song ended with the sounds of a machine guns- I dare not imagine the target.


The cameramen on stage competed with the local announcer and his tiny digicam for the best shots of the group of men as they rapped and criss-crossed the stage. They must have managed to get a plethora of angles of the crowd cheering. There were several redundant networks to capture each bit of the action.

The crowd cheered quite a bit that night. Certainly, there were those who welcomed the beats with a response when any new, good beat came through the speakers. Besides, the hype-man* made sure that the crowd cheered after each song spun by the DJ as the crowd initially awaited the group to arrive. The crowd began to show agitation towards the hype-man cum squirt after he announced for the third time that the group would arrive in 15 minutes.


After each song the hype-man would come on stage and ask the crowd to, “give it up for the DJ,” or “give it up for that dope beat,” and then, “give it up for the sponsors.” Finally, the hype-man announced: “There are too many white people in here!” I suppose that he bonded with Hip-Hop culture through a mutual dispassion for ‘the man’. Thanks to this cell-phone company the hype-man has taken full root in India. I caution you to consider what it is that they are selling. I caution us all to (re)consider what it is that we choose to buy- and why.



* A hype man is a hip-hop performer responsible for backup rapping and singing, and increasing an audience's excitement with call-and-response chants. A notable hype man is Flavor Flav from Public Enemy.

Peter Pan makes a come back.

I love Michael Jackson. I would like to say that I appreciate his artistry, his song writing skills or his musical arrangements. I would rather say that I respect the sacrifices he and his family made for fame. For whatever reasons Joe and Katharine, sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Jackson, did it, they discovered magic and/or cultivated it (probably the latter with Tito!). If you have ever been to Gary, you can imagine that it takes a surreal level of blood, sweat and tears for anyone, let alone a Black family, to rise up out of that place. Mind you, I have never been to Gary, yet have passed by it several times. My family would drive that route between Louisville and Kenosha to visit family. On the bypass around Gary, all my aunt would ever say is “Oh, that’s not on our way,” in response to my pleas to at least drive by the Jackson’s home, or at least see how the city has acknowledged undoubtedly it’s most famous offspring…or at least the ones most relevant to me. It was only years later that I understood that my folks just got in the habit of not stopping in any odd town along the way, as a result of conditioning from segregation in the south- like so many of us, my folks hail from ‘Bama. It was forbidden and dangerous when they were younger to stop in unknown places. By my early teens, however, they had replaced aluminum-foil-wrapped fried chicken (no, not from that fast food chain, we friend our own) with a pit stop at Cracker Barrel. From the highway, Gar, Indiana looked mighty industrial, grey and nearly deserted. To me, Gary looked like one of those places that Black people should avoid; it was clear that the Jackson family had more than a side order of “We gotta get up out this city,” behind some of those high “Hee, hees,” snaps and slides across the floor. Certainly, I do not condone Mr. Jackson’s (alleged) child-abuse or even child labor (yes, those boys were putting food on the huge Jackson table). From the looks of it, though, ol’ Joe was willing to do just about anything to get he and his family out of the poverty that ravaged Gary. Although I would like to proclaim a more noble adoration for Michael Jackson as an artist, I simply cannot. I love Michael Jackson and would bear his children if, well, if:


1) I could bear children

2) He had not disfigured himself, chiseling away features, which he would then bequeath to our children, who would probably hate the way they looked, and want to disfigure themselves, too.

3) Hadn’t been accused of, well, indecent activity with minors. Word to the wise: If someone is known to have been so vehemently accused of indecent activity with a minor, do not leave your child unattended with this person. This is poor parenting!!!


It is pretty unlikely that even if I were the ‘Billie Jean’ type, I would want to have Michael Jackson’s kids. Nevertheless, I adore Michael Jackson. I have always loved Michael. In school, I was afraid to let on that I adored him, and was left to dance to his music at home alone in my mirror or in the shower. At that time, there was no ‘Wacko Jacko’, and the most extreme gossip about Michael Jackson centered on his sexuality, a topic to which I did not even want to in any way link to myself, not even in the most remote instances.


In the seventh grade, Michael Jackson came to the Kentucky fairgrounds in Louisville. One of my cousins scored tickets for her, my mother and I. It was only my second concert in my whole life- the first being Stevie Wonder. My mother said that Songs in the Key of Life got us through my terrible twos, so I can imagine that my mother was going to thank Stevie. Thank you Stevie.


$23 was a load of cash for us to blow on a concert, and I believe that this was the most expensive ticket to come to the city; folks in my family said that Michael was going to alienate his Black fan base by charging so much. From what I could see, Michael did quite fine. My mother got mad because my cousin was supposed to stand in a parking space near the entrance, but let someone bully her away; there were far too few Handicap spaces for a venue of that size. It was crowded, and everybody and their Mommas wanted to see Michael Jackson. Moreover, he was fabulous. Michael gave a full out, high-energy concert, complete with J-5 hits of which I had never heard, and a dramatic burst into tears during “The Lady in my Life.”


As soon as Michael touched the stage, the whole crown jumped to their feet! I was worried that my mother would not be able to stand on her prosthesis for too long and would miss Michael. To my surprise, me and my Momma stood on top of our seats, screaming at the top of our lungs, waving our arms, dancing and swaying for hours as Michael, his band and dancers worked it out on stage. There was even a part when the crowd held their cigarette lighters making a sea of flames, in patronage to Michael Jackson. My mother, the ever-faithful smoker, held her lighter up, too. I love Michael Jackson.


Michael Jackson is strange. To be honest, I have never spoken with Michael Jackson, and have read very few words that he has written (save for the lyrics which he thankfully included in the album notes). Consequently, I can only truthfully say that the rumors surrounding Michael Jackson are beyond bizarre. When I was a kid, knowing that I was somehow not like the other kids in a way that they would not accept, I did not want to be associated with the sexually ambiguous icon that is still Michael Jackson. Yet, after MJ Kentucky ’87, I declared that I would fiercely defend Michael’s right to be himself, and that his distinctiveness was an asset to our people, and to our planet.


When the “Thriller” video came out, nobody I knew could get enough of it. I would like to thank MTV for rocking the full version of the groundbreaking Thriller mini-movie, the, day and night for months after it’s debut. In my dance class, we learned the ‘Thriller’ moves. Our Ballet and Jazz teacher was a flaming queen, and he taught us ‘Michael Jackson’. One day I knew that when I grew up, I could be gay and adore Michael Jackson so unapologetically as to teach to his music to a room full of kids in the roughest block in the city. Though I could not put a name to this queerness then, I knew that my ability to be free-to-be me was somehow connected to Michael Jackson’s ability to be free-to-be as bizarre as he wanted to be and still have people respect his life’s work.


Michael Jackson has come up with a plethora of interesting lyrics through the years, which may be viewed as social commentary. Yet, what I find most a most valuable lesson brought to us all as a result of having Michael Jackson amongst us is that no person’s action deserve the flagrant dehumanization to which we have subjected Michael Jackson.


I respect Michael Jackson. I offer sincere prayers that no child falls prey anywhere in the world to any sexual abuse or misconduct at the hands of anyone, particularly an adult. Still, Michael Jackson affirmed for me that it was ok to be Black and strange and that our story was worth reflection upon, and sharing with the world. The price to live your life against the status quo is a great pressure, but the innocence of talent and the drive to excel pervades that family and is a living example for us all.