Developmentally Disabled Population Revered Michael Jackson

Everyone knows that Michael Jackson, who died this week, was famous for his crotch-grabbing dance moves and his catchy pop tunes. What most don’t realize is that for decades, Jackson has been idolized by members of the developmentally disabled community.

It’s not uncommon to chaperone monthly dances for this demographic–to ride with them on the bus to Special Olympics sports events and attend their birthday parties–all to the sounds of “Billie Jean” and “Beat It” cranked up to ear-splitting levels. They slow dance in couples to “Baby Be Mine” and sit through “The Wiz” for the sheer pleasure of watching Jackson’s funky dance moves as The Scarecrow.

I know this because my 34-year old brother has Down syndrome. From the time he could walk, Tim practiced Jackson’s dance movies from the “Thriller” video—at last able to emulate the gloved one so skillfully that my family seriously considered setting him up on the Santa Monica Promenade with a boom box and a collection jar.

I loathe to tell my brother that Michael Jackson has passed on. In the suspicious climate surrounding the goings-on at Neverland and the dangling of babies off of balconies, my brother and his friends continued to revere the singer, buying each new album and memorizing the lyrics. They didn’t care that he never appeared in public without his face covered, that he got paler and paler as the years progressed and sported a nose that eventually bore no resemblance to anything we see on a human face.

They adored his music and his showmanship. He gave them an image after which to style themselves, larger than the life which often seemed to pass them by. In Jackson, they saw themselves grown suddenly cool as they executed spins and head bobs while collecting shopping carts in the Home Depot parking lot or wiping down tables in cafeterias.

Last Christmas, I listened to a phone conversation between my brother and his girlfriend, who also has Down syndrome. They talk for hours every night, each of them watching TV in their respective bedrooms. On this particular evening in December, Tim had Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” on the screen. He held the receiver with one hand, and executed the classic werewolf claw-sway with the other. “This guy’s got the moves,” he said into the phone.

His girlfriend must’ve agreed, because my brother dropped the phone and spun in synch with Jackson, then echoed his trademark falsetto squeal before returning to his conversation. “I love this guy,” he cried.

I believe Jackson offered a tremendous gift to my brother and his friends. Because of that, I can’t help but love him, too.