Why I Will Never Watch “Leaving Neverland”

When the “King of Pop” passed away from cardiac arrest almost a decade ago, the circumstances surrounding his demise was wrapped in the same shroud of mystery that covered his body, as the cameras created the spectacle of our lifetime with the footage of Michael Jackson being ceremoniously transported to the coroner’s office.

After racing back home once I had been gratifyingly released from jury duty, I recall watching in astonished awe, as the 50-year-old man who laid the musical foundation to my impressionable years, was embarrassingly handled as the freak he had evidently proved to be.

The days leading up to the public memorial at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, was another glaring indication of the hacked reputation of a global superstar, who experienced the unfathomable heights of stardom, as well as the lowest of the lows with jarring gaps in-between.

For me, the oddities began in the mid-80s, when Jackson’s complexion was drastically lightened, and the rumors swirled about his battle with the skin disorder, vitiligo, which caused him to employ the regimen of bleaching as the solution for blending in the white patches.