MJ

Everyone has an MJ story. Mine begins on roller skates and ends with Islamic revivalists in northwestern China. As millions join in a fit of nostalgia, they remember that Michael (Mikaeel) Jackson knew no boundaries. I didn't know until I met MJ fans in Xinjiang. I'm afraid this is a persistent theme in my life: I travel far and wide to learn lessons easily grasped from the comforts of home. (Every week or so my mom points triumphantly at the latest segment on the Travel Channel, "See, I've been all around the world!")

Scene 1: It's another scorching summer day in the Chicago suburbs. My sister and I scurry to the basement to escape the heat. We put on our roller skates and pop Thriller into the cassette player. It's been played so many times that the ribbon has thinned in spots that we know by heart. As we skate around the washer/dryer, water heater and other household detritus, we belt out songs in our best Jackson falsettos. We decide to choreograph an MJ concert. We will recruit our friends and neighbors. The zombie moves will be all the more riveting - on skates! The crowning performance, skinned knees and all, is a favorite childhood memory.

Scene 2: I am chatting with my best friend in Urumchi, the captial of the Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, China. It has the distinction of being the city farthest from any ocean (and, incidentally, the farthest from my home). My friend's neighbor, Ziwide, pops by to help roll little pasta ears. After telling me about the latest in Islamic cinema, Ziwide launches into a hagiographic account of Michael Jackson's life and conversion. The man, she gushes, is evidence that Truth reaches across racial, economic and cultural lines. Honestly, it is the first I hear of MJ's Islamic inclinations.

Scene 3: I am now in a remote village in southern Xinjiang. A brother of a friend is taking me on a motorbike ride to see the local mud-brick factory and water mill. He used to be a trader in the city but prefers life in the country. As we take in the bucolic scene, complete with donkey carts and cotton fields, he asks me about the great Michael Jackson. Can I confirm the reports of his conversion that have caused so much excitement here?

My citizenship was the source of more than a few awkward social interactions in Muslim China. Unlike many Americans, Uyghurs were not confused about the lack of relationship between Saddam and Al Qaeda. Like it or not, I fielded accusations about George W's fact-starved foreign policy. But, more often than I would have ever imagined, the questions would wane and the questioner's face would soften. Whether awe-struck or quizzical, he or she would utter his name with a sense of the magical that, lucky for me and I think for all of us, transcends borders.