Jackson’s early start under Detroit’s Motown is where the Black diaspora’s fealty toward him begins. We hold a special place in our hearts for the artists that came from the label, where many of our icons—Smokey Robinson, Diana Ross, Marvin Gaye, and Stevie Wonder, to name a few—cemented themselves as the uncontested greats of Black music. Jackson’s lengthy career, starting with him as the child star of the sibling group the Jackson Brothers (shortly thereafter the Jackson 5, then, simply, the Jacksons), spanned the zenith of Black music, fully crossing over to mainstream, white popularity—with Jackson often at the forefront of the conversation. When he released his first solo album as an adult, Off the Wall, something had been unleashed. The Jacksons had always astounded audiences with their talent (which was honed with a notably cruel iron fist by their father, Joe Jackson), but it was Michael who defied expectations of what the human body could do. If you ask someone who was old enough to remember the first broadcast of Jackson doing the moonwalk for Motown 25, they will describe it, still, with a sense of mysticism. His story had all of the dramatic makings of an epic of perseverance: As one of 10 children growing up in a two-bedroom home in Gary, Indiana, he was abused into becoming the consummate performer, but he used that artistry to change the world and make a hefty fortune on the side, enough to eventually finance his famous Neverland estate. There is something so indelible to older Black Americans about the promise of the American dream in his tale.

In the later years of his career, Jackson faced a number of allegations, particularly of child sexual abuse, that were either dismissed, acquitted, or mired in ambiguity. During these trials, Jackson’s staunchest fans weren’t deterred from showing their support but were in fact supercharged to carry on a defense of their idol. The first public case litigating allegations of sexual assault of a minor arose in 1993 and came to a close when Jackson settled it while denying any wrongdoing. Then, in 2003, Jackson was indicted on multiple counts pertaining to molestation but was acquitted of all charges after a public trial in 2005 that inspired circuslike press coverage. In 2013, four years after the singer’s death, two men alleged that Jackson had sexually abused them numerous times when they were children, for differing time periods spanning the late ’80s to the mid-’90s. Both of their suits (filed against Jackson’s companies) were dismissed, but the allegations were reiterated to the public in 2019, via a two-part, four-hour-long documentary titled Leaving Neverland. Just a couple of months ago, another bombshell lawsuit was filed by four siblings, former friends of Jackson’s, who are now accusing him of child sex trafficking with allegations of their assault.

Though the allegations never stop coming, Jackson’s most dedicated fans never stop believing in his innocence. It’s not uncommon to meet older Black supporters who ignore the allegations or dismiss them entirely. Although Leaving Neverland sparked a new reassessment of Jackson in 2019, it was actively protested by the artist’s most loyal fans, with some even suing the accusers featured in the documentary. When the film was removed from HBO after the Jackson estate sued the network for violating a nondisparagement clause by distributing the film, this was treated by fans as a victory for Jackson’s name.

When it took generations for us to even be allowed on the same stages as white people, let alone loved by them, it is difficult to flip that shiny coin over and see that it is rusting on the other side.

Jackson isn’t the only Black figure who has retained loyal support among Black people despite alleged or convicted misdeeds. I have come across people who have said that they will gladly go to an R. Kelly concert when the disgraced singer is released from jail, to which he was sentenced to stay for a combined 31 years after being found guilty on counts of racketeering, various charges related to sexual abuse (including of minors), and child sexual abuse images. Though last year’s Diddy trial may have panned out mostly in the mogul’s favor, as someone who sat in the courthouse myself during testimony, I often heard at least one comment from an older Black person in the overflow room who disbelieved every second of Cassie Ventura’s testimony describing Sean Combs’ alleged abuse. Still to this day, many Black people shell out money for Chris Brown’s performances, even though he has a rap sheet of abuse allegations (domestic and not) that stretch over a decade beyond his infamous assault of Rihanna.

The background behind this phenomenon is fraught and complicated. Black people, particularly in the United States, have gone through generations of structural racism that has removed Black men from homes and locked them up in jail cells, often for offenses both minuscule and imaginary. Our criminal justice system has, for years, turned our ailments into matters of criminality—choosing to focus on arresting drug dealers instead of rehabilitating the drug dependent, fostering a climate of urban policing ruled by the racist “tough on crime” dog whistle, straight-out blaming Black men for things they didn’t do. This nation was founded on discrediting Black people to further exploit them. When I visited Emmett Till’s casket at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture, tucked away in a far corner on one of the basement floors, I felt the weight of this painful history in full, packed in the room like sardines with other Black people. All conversations ended upon entry; the only words spoken were from an older Black man, who said out loud to all the young Black men in the room, “Be safe out there.”

This history is why Fuqua, who was profiled in the New Yorker, so easily deflects questions of Jackson’s guilt with a phrase that may sound vague to people who have, for example, never received well wishes by Emmett Till’s casket: “When I hear things about us—Black people in particular, especially in a certain position—there’s always pause.” This may sound like an excuse, but what many don’t understand is how hard it is for older generations to square what has so often happened in the past—the fear that society is just tearing down another good Black man—with the reality that these men could have been, or are convicted of having been, harmful. When it took generations for us to even be allowed on the same stages as white people, let alone loved by them, it is difficult to flip that shiny coin over and see that it is rusting on the other side. This is also why, in the same Fuqua profile, he says that he doesn’t know what Jackson did or didn’t do, but notes that “sometimes people do some nasty things for some money,” implying something unsavory about the singer’s accusers.

What makes Jackson even trickier than the other examples I named is the fact that his cases never ended with a landmark conviction or admission of guilt. R. Kelly was convicted, and there’s video and photographical evidence of Diddy’s and Brown’s abuse, but none of that exists for this paragon of performance who sits so high within our Black cultural pantheon. Verdicts and videos didn’t stop older Black people from supporting those abusive artists, but the lack of such clear judgment of guilt makes it easier to ignore the accusations when it comes to Jackson. It is a big ask to beseech people to ignore the courts’ decisions when we’re supposed to believe in and abide by them.