I was seven, maybe eight?

I didn’t own cassettes.  Genius child that I was, I was into reading, playing outside and begging my parents for cable.

We were sitting in my uncle’s living room in Lahore (Pakistan) and my cousin and I were trying desperately to find something in common with one another.  I was there for the summer.  We were stuck with each other, after all.

He was a boy.  I was a girl.  He was Pakistani and I was American.  He was 11 and I was 8.

So far, not so good.

His eyes lit up, “Do you like Michael Jackson?”

“Sure,” I said.

He smiled and ran to his room.  He entered the room with a battered cassette tape in one hand and a little red boom box in the other.  He  popped in the cassette.  “Billie Jean” blared from the grimy speakers.

We sat and listened and smiled.  “What is he saying?”  my cousin asked.

“Ummm, he’s saying that Billie Jean isn’t his girlfriend.  That she’s just someone he knows.  But nobody listens and everyone keeps saying she is.”

“Ohhh,”  he said in deep thought.  And, then, we both giggled.  Because, we were kids and you’re supposed to giggle at that sort of thing.  “Do you have this cassette at home, in America?”

“No.”

“What cassettes do you have?”

“I don’t have cassettes.”  He raised his eyebrows in a way that clearly indicated that this surprised him.  After all, American kids were supposed to have everything, right?

I smiled feeling a little embarrassed at my complete lack of coolness.

“OK, then”  he stopped the tape player and carelessly tossed the cassette towards me.  “You can have this one, then.”

I held it in my hands and felt a surge of excitement.  For some reason, we didn’t have a problem coming up with things to talk about for the rest of the summer.

Later that evening, I sat in the guest room of my uncle’s house and listened to this little piece of America that my Pakistani cousin had given me earlier that day.  It was the beginning of something deep.  Something that makes me smile every time I hear “Thriller” or “P.Y.T.”  When I got back to the States, I listened to the tape with my brother and we memorized all the songs.

After that summer, I scrimped and saved every nickel I got so that I could go out and buy more music like this.  No matter how vacuous or how inane pop music became, I couldn’t help myself.  I loved and still love pop music.  Even in the 90s, when we all wore flannel and contemplated the darkness of the journey between late adolescence and adulthood, nobody changed the station if a good 80s pop song was on.

Pop music.  It was an escape.  It was lightness in a world that can often be a little too dark.  It was joy in a world that could be a little too painful.

It was my piece of American poetry.  And it began with a little bit of Michael.

Michael Jackson was undoubtedly a flawed man.  Undoubtedly.  If the allegations that had been brought up in the past regarding his relationship with children are even remotely true, his musical genius doesn’t excuse that depravity. He was a victim of his own genius and a prisoner of his own fame in a lot of ways.

Regardless, though, in my mind I don’t remember Michael Jackson as the American pop icon or accused pedophile.

To me, Michael Jackson is a cassette tape that someone who started off as a stranger and became a brother handed to me in an act of friendship almost 25 years ago.

He’s the commonality in a conversation that Tariq and I, who grew up on opposite sides of the world, share in our childhoods.

He’s one of those links that, because of his music’s ability to transcend borders and language, binds Americans to everyone else.

He’s our piece of American poetry.

I’d also like to take a moment to acknowledge the death of the lovely Farrah Fawcett who taught those of us born before 1980 the special and unforgettable brand of American beautiful that can be achieved by a large round brush, a hair dryer and massive quantities of hair spray.

Obviously, I’ve made it abundantly clear that this month was “Parent/In-Law Sycophant Month” here on my blog.  As evidenced by these posts.

Is it fair to assume that we can dispense with the pleasantries, then?

Letting the familial piety gene ravage through your life unabated and unchecked promises to wreak utter devastation in the best of circumstances.

For example, say you have a child.  She’s a sweet, darling, obedient little girl who only requires a time out every six to eight weeks.  This child under the regime of grandparents will become a monster.

The kind of monster that, if you were Catholic, would require you to cross yourself and say a couple of rosaries before you dared to tell her she couldn’t have that fifth brownie for breakfast.

And why has she had five brownies for breakfast?

Because between Super Duper Guilt Inducing Saudi Grandma and Her Royal Alpha Femaleness American Grandma, your self righteous declarations of how sugar is actually bad for a three year old when consumed as if it were oxygen are completely futile.

My mother, the doctor, actually told me that brownies are good for my child because they have milk and eggs in them.

Honestly?  I think she should get her license revoked for that.

You won’t believe what happened last week.  I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t been there myself.

I noticed that my daughter had gone into the pantry and shut the door.  I wasn’t completely surprised by this, as she’s done this on many occasions.  Usually, I’ll find her in there rearranging the labels on the shelves and sorting the items accordingly.  Because she is perfect and wonderful.   Just.  Like.  Me.

Anyway, I assumed it was business as usual, but that little helicopter mom voice in me asked, “What if she’s scaling the pantry shelves in an ill thought out King Kong re-enactment?”  Visions of my child eating her way out of a mountain of Teddy Grahams and Oreo cookies prompted me to check on her immediately.

I opened the pantry door and looked on in horror as the three year old child before me quickly shoved handfuls of plain sugar into her mouth.  Sugar, i.e., crack rock for a three year old.

Despite my take charge aggressive nature, I stood there.  Completely frozen.

Because, first of all, what the hell?

And, second, it was seriously the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.

But, no.  It was wrong.  Oh, so very wrong.

What happened next?  Was even more incredibly wrong.

She looked at me and said, “Mama, I’m busy.  Get.  Out.”

You’re busy?!

Eating sugar?!!

With your bare hands?!!!

DID SHE JUST TELL ME TO GET OUT?!!!!

I steeled myself for the ice cold water that would have to pulse through my veins in order to administer what would most likely go down in history as the mother of all time outs.

And, then.  From around the corner, she appeared.

Saudi Grandma.

“OHMYGAAAAAWWWWD-SOOOOSWEET-SHE-IS-SO-CUTE-HOW-CLEVER-MY-DARLING-MY-SWEEETHEART…”

It all happened so fast.

One minute I’m preparing to become the swift hand of justice.  And the next?  I’m the fun blasting fuzz at a fraternity kegger.

Approximately forty five million thoughts regarding accountability and consequences and blah-di-parenting-books-blah went through my head in those twenty seconds, but all that seemed to make sense was one petty little conclusion.

There is no way I’m going down as the bad guy here.

So.

I smiled really big and scooped her up in my arms and said really loud, “AWWW-THAT-IS-SOO-SWEET-YOU-ARE-A-CLEVER-LITTLE-ONE!!” I hugged my cute, clever, sweetheart really tight and walked slowly past Saudi Grandma who beamed at my daughter as I walked past.

I looked into my daughter’s eyes, then put my cheek next to her sweet little face.  And then, I lowered my voice to the point where only my daughter and dogs could hear it and whispered through clenched teeth, “And if I ever catch you doing that again, you are going to be get a super bad time out.”

Apparently, passive aggressive parenting is totally the Super Duper Grandma kryptonite.

More importantly, does anyone know what the nuance that distinguishes a regular time out from a “super bad” one is going to be?

I sure don’t.