Monday, November 20, 2017
By Alfonzo Tucker (Columnist)
Published July 2, 2009

“I wake up from dreams and go “Wow, put this down on paper.” The whole thing is strange. You hear the words, everything is right there in front of your face, (Michael Jackson)”.

Hello world, the title, the quote, and my opinion to follow. I was in the fourth grade, attending Mayfair elementary school in Fresno Ca. during this period I was dealing with my biological father’s transition from Heroin to Crack-Cocaine. We were being evicted from the apartment we lived in yet legally we had another couple months before the County Sheriff’s Department could physically remove my father and me from that home. Of course where I lived was not a comfort zone; it was a dope house with no electricity.

Anyway, unknowingly I was in strong need of a positive outlet. I played the violin and the saxophone at school and had recently signed up to perform in the school talent show. Fortunately these types of programs relieved the negative anxiety that was waiting for me every time I came home from school; I came home to a candle illuminated crack house. The same quarters I shared with different people crawling around upon their hands and knees searching the filthy carpet for what could hopefully be a piece of bass-rock cocaine.

There were nights that I would wake up in fright only to be told by my biological father to remain calm while he beat upon someone who either robbed him of some drugs or cheated him out of money. I thought of writing then, yet I feared self expression in that fashion because it made me feel vulnerable. However, I felt empowered practicing the saxophone and violin. I even felt special practicing for that year’s school talent show. It gave me a reason not to be around the drudgery of my home life.

When the performance date came, I had practiced so much that I could not contain my desire to release my personal frustration via signing and dancing. The artist I would emulate was a bad dude who wore a single glove covered with rhinestones and a leather jacket with more zippers then pockets. My Jeri-Curl or S-Curl I should say was moist by way of Crisco Oil. My biological father told me that it worked the same as the expensive gel people on my block, bought at the swap meet.

I waited back stage for what seemed like forever. Yet when my time came to take the spot light, it didn’t matter that my clothes were rough looking or that night I would be sleeping on a mattress with no sheets and listening to women solicit them selves for drugs in the next room. That bad dude, Michael Jackson, gave me an outlet to imitate him and feel proud of myself for several minutes while I sang and danced to his greatest selling record “Thriller”! 

I later used my athletic prowess to release that negative anxiety. As of late, my frustration and negative past is unconstrained by the movement of my favorite pen which formulates symbols that motivate those who read my works or listen to my speeches. I was fortunate beyond communication to have those types of opportunities to express and liberate myself through the genius of Michael Jackson.

It has been years since I allowed that memory to captivate my attention. It means a great deal to me now, yet from the mind state of myself as a nine year old boy spinning and trying to moon-walk across that stage it was a reason to continue living.

Categories: Opinion

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