paris jackson

Paris Jackson, Heir of the Moonwalk, Walks a Tightrope of Global Expectation
By Our Correspondent, Somewhere between Neverland and the Gare du Nord

Paris Jackson—yes, that Paris, the one whose godmother is Elizabeth Taylor and whose bedtime lullabies were apparently Grammy-winning—turned 26 in April. While most quarter-lifers are busy Googling “how to fold a fitted sheet” or “symptoms of burnout,” Paris is busy being a walking Rorschach test for the planet’s collective nostalgia and its uneasy relationship with inherited fame.

From the glass towers of Dubai to the soy-latte enclaves of Melbourne, the mere mention of her name triggers a Pavlovian response: a flicker of sequined gloves, a ghostly “hee-hee,” and the dull ache of remembering that the 1980s are now further away from us than the Second World War was from the Summer of Love. In other words, she is not just Michael Jackson’s daughter; she is a living, tattooed, barefoot metaphor for the way the world refuses to let the past die with dignity.

In São Paulo, billboards currently hawk a campaign for a French fashion house in which Paris stares down the camera with the existential dread of someone who has read the comments section. In Lagos, Spotify data show her neo-folk single “bandaid” charting higher than anything her father released posthumously last year—an achievement that would be heart-warming if it weren’t also a reminder that algorithms now curate grief more efficiently than any record label ever could.

Of course, the global press loves a redemption narrative almost as much as it loves a train wreck, and Paris obligingly supplies both on alternating Tuesdays. One week she’s rescuing dogs from wildfires in California; the next she’s on the cover of *Vogue Hong Kong* wearing sustainably sourced despair. The international commentariat—half-horrified, half-envious—treats her like a rare orchid that might bloom into sainthood or wilt into tabloid mulch any minute now. Bookmakers in London offer odds on which outcome is more likely; they are currently leaning toward sainthood, but only because environmental collapse has made mulch so plentiful it’s lost its novelty.

Meanwhile, the French government—never one to miss an opportunity to monetize melancholy—has floated the idea of granting her honorary citizenship in time for the 2024 Olympics. The logic, apparently, is that if Paris (the city) can’t have the original King of Pop, it will settle for a chic, grief-inflected version 2.0. The proposal has sparked outrage in certain arrondissements, delight in others, and a 47-page think piece in *Le Monde Diplomatique* arguing that the move is either post-colonial genius or late-capitalist necromancy. No one is quite sure which, but subscriptions are up.

In Asia, the implications are even more surreal. Japanese variety shows have dispatched camera crews to trail her under the guise of “understanding Gen-Z spirituality,” which mostly involves asking whether she believes in reincarnation while she tries to eat ramen without smudging her eyeliner. In South Korea, K-pop trainees study her interviews the way medieval monks studied illuminated manuscripts—searching for hidden clues on how to weaponize vulnerability into brand equity. The irony, of course, is that Paris has spent the better part of a decade trying to do the exact opposite: to be seen as something more than a footnote in someone else’s discography.

Yet every time she steps outside, the planet’s 7.9 billion amateur directors cue the same tired montage: paparazzi flashbulbs, a whispered “Billie Jean,” a slow-motion hair flip that belongs more to a perfume commercial than to an actual human being. Somewhere in the metaverse, a startup is already selling NFTs of that hair flip. The price is denominated in ether; the value is denominated in collective guilt.

Still, there are signs the tightrope is widening into a boulevard. Last month she headlined a charity concert in Berlin for Ukrainian refugee children, belting out an acoustic mash-up of “Man in the Mirror” and a Ukrainian folk hymn. The crowd—equal parts hipsters, diplomats, and traumatized ten-year-olds—cried in four different languages. For three minutes and forty-seven seconds, the global feed stopped doom-scrolling and simply listened. Then the feed resumed, refreshed, and asked whether her boots were vegan.

So, what does Paris Jackson mean to a world that can’t decide whether it wants to heal or merely to watch? She is at once a cautionary tale about the commodification of grief, a case study in post-internet identity, and—if you squint—a flicker of hope that the children of legends might yet choose to become legends of their own, rather than holograms of their parents’ worst nights.

And if none of that works out, there’s always the next fashion week, where she can model couture body armor for the end times. After all, the show must go on; the planet has front-row seats and a lifetime subscription to schadenfreude.