True You

by Janet Jackson

New school, new kids, and new teachers. I would be without Mrs. Fine, the wonderful woman who had privately tutored me and my brothers. I couldn’t imagine any teachers would be as nice or patient as her. She came with us on the road. She was there when I did Good Times. Mrs. Fine was an angel, my second mother. And she always told me, Randy, and Mike that we were her children from another lifetime.

  When I wasn’t being tutored, I had had Mrs. Womack—my fourth-grade teacher and the only black teacher I ever had. She was a sweet and reassuring presence in the classroom. Now she wouldn’t be there to watch over me, to reassure me.

  If I could have, at age twelve I would have wound back the clock to the time when I had school with my siblings in hotel suites. But those times were gone.

  I would have to go to school and be normal. I would have to somehow fit in.

  The first day in this new school put me in a guarded and negative mood. Yet within minutes, my mood magically changed. Something happened that I hadn’t dreamed possible. Busloads of black and Latin kids were arriving from south-central Los Angeles to attend this school in the Valley.

  These kids would change my outlook on life.

  It wasn’t that I had anything against the white kids. I had grown up in a white environment and when I was in school, my classmates and teachers were white. Those kids were (and some remain) very close friends.

  But something happened inside my heart when I saw black and Latin kids my age stepping off that bus. I was excited to see them.

  That good feeling spread during lunchtime. There, outside in the yard, the black kids congregated in one area around a boom box blasting Funkadelic’s “One Nation Under a Groove.” When they started dancing, the sight of them moving with such smooth style and funky grace thrilled me.

  A girl named La Nette, who lived in the Crenshaw district of Los Angeles, a world away from the Valley, became my best friend.

  She knew I was a Jackson—everyone did—and said she had seen me on Good Times, but she wasn’t starstruck in the least. She treated me the same way she treated her other friends, with natural ease and friendliness. When she invited me to her house one weekend, I asked Mother if she’d drive me over.

  “Of course, baby,” she said.

  And she did.

  As Mother navigated the freeways to Crenshaw, I was excited by a new friendship in a new part of the city where normal black folks lived. Mother turned up the volume on her favorite Kenny Rogers tape. Mother was a country music fan. The music made the long trip seem short.

  When I arrived at La Nette’s house, we hung out and she played me her favorites—George Clinton & Parliament’s “Knee Deep,” Foxy’s “Get Off,” and Teena Marie and Rick James’s “Fire & Desire.” It was a beautiful exchange, the songs that she loved and the ones I loved. It was even more beautiful to be part of the real world. To fit in. To be all right not just with these kids but with myself.

  My first day at school was different from everyone else’s, because of the Good Times schedule. There were moments when my presence was distracting to the entire class because of the work I was doing in TV, and because of my family. I can remember being sent to the principal’s office just to have a quiet place to do my schoolwork when things got crazy. Growing up, I’d seen others in similar situations, but I didn’t realize how strange it was until I was an adult. It was a lesson in being different.

  In this world, I wasn’t a Jackson. I was just Janet. And that was enough.

  Being in the real world taught me that when it comes to relationships, it’s all about sincerity, not class, or race, or economic status. I found that I was comfortable with straightforward, genuine people. I could relate to them and they could relate to me. I found myself comfortable in any world whose people had open hearts.

  That was a valuable lesson I’ll carry for the rest of my life. Sincerity sees you through any situation.

  Another extracurricular lesson these kids taught me was humility. Seeing how I was privileged—and how many of my new friends were not—humbled me. Their firsthand stories of life in the inner city were powerful and moving. They experienced great joy and great pain. I loved these kids. We were one, and we were together. We were never against the other students at school, yet we formed a special bond among ourselves.

  By my final months at school, though, there was racial tension. Later in my life, this awakening would reemerge in the sounds and stories of Rhythm Nation.

  Perhaps my own lack

  of self-respect had me

  believing that I wasn’t

  worthy of a relationship in

  which, besides addressing

  the needs of someone

  else, I could have my

  own needs met.

  On the beach in Hawaii. Just turned twenty-one. Moments before, I was proposed to. I didn’t know the engagement was coming or what would follow.

  “Young Love”

  I was sixteen when I gave my virginity to my first love, James DeBarge. My general reaction: “This is it? This is what everyone has been talking about?”

  It was awkward and painful. Eventually the pain went away, but for a long time lovemaking was far from a thrilling experience.

  James later became my husband. He was nineteen, a sweet and loving young man. He was more experienced sexually than me, and I certainly don’t blame him for the initial difficulties I had enjoying physical intimacy. We loved each other, and I was sure that I wanted to be with him for the rest of my life.

  I was wrong. James was a good guy with major faults. I was convinced that I could fix him, but I didn’t know that “fixing” wasn’t my job. And even if it had been my job, I didn’t know how to do it. I didn’t realize the seriousness of the challenges he faced. I didn’t have any idea about his many internal conflicts—and how deep they were. Finally, as a teenager, I simply couldn’t fathom the complexities of love.

  In Romeo and Juliet, a tragedy some call the best play about romance ever written, Juliet is thirteen. Shakespeare doesn’t give Romeo’s age, although he’s likely also a teenager. Yet their love is profound, and embodies a sweet spirituality that has captured the hearts and imaginations of readers for more than four hundred years.

  Isn’t teen love real?

  It sure has its own kind of reality.

  I know that in my own case I was involved on a very deep emotional level. I loved and cared for James with all my heart. When he was in trouble, I was there for him. I wanted to help him, and wanted to save him from himself. It was a long period of anguish for me. Night after night, I cried my eyes out. I wanted it to work, but it never would.

  We had both been raised in show business families. We could relate—or least we thought we could. James faced tremendous emotional challenges with drug addiction. For reasons I don’t entirely understand even to this day, I took on the role of caretaker. When he was down, it was my job to lift him up. When he disappeared, I had to go find him. I had to keep him from destroying himself.

  I can only guess why I put myself in such a thankless position. Perhaps my own lack of self-respect had me believing that I wasn’t worthy of a relationship in which, besides addressing the needs of someone else, I could have my own needs met.

  Confusing matters even more was our position in the world of entertainment. We were entertainers; our siblings were entertainers; our parents were involved in our careers; we lived in the spotlight; and we were both overstimulated by the demands and insecurities of the business. We really didn’t have a chance.

  I recently heard from a woman I’ll call Sonya.

  “I was in love at thirteen,” she said. “I know it was love. I’m not saying it was mature love or adult love, but what difference does that make? It was its own kind of love. The feelings in my heart were so powerful that love is the only word strong enough to describe it. All I could do was think about this boy. I had to be with him every minute of the day. I’d write his name in my notebook a hundred times over. I’d call him ten times a day. He was
three years older than me. He was cute and smart. He had a soft, sexy voice and beautiful hands. He liked me because I liked him so much. I flattered him with my crazy attention. I’d write these love letters that went on for pages and pages. I knew he showed them to his friends as something of a joke, but I didn’t care. As long as he took me out.

  “Of course, I was going to have sex with him. That wasn’t even a question. He could have whatever he wanted from me. The sex, though, was not very good. I didn’t know how, and neither did he. So we just fumbled around and barely managed to connect. He made me promise that I wouldn’t tell anyone that he was awkward, and I agreed. But naturally he went around bragging about everything he’d done with me. He told his friends that I was a freak. Even that, though, didn’t bother me. As long as he kept me by his side.

  “My parents saw what was happening and said I was sick. They sent me to a shrink who said the same thing. She was this uptight woman who threw around words like compulsive and obsessive and recommended that I see her two times a week. But I only wanted to see my boyfriend. I refused help because I didn’t think I needed any. All I needed was him.

  “Finally we figured out the lovemaking thing. It was never great but good enough to get me pregnant. I had turned fourteen. My mother was against an abortion, and so was I. I was sent to live with an aunt in another state and have my baby there. My boyfriend couldn’t have cared less. ‘I’m not even your boyfriend,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what you do.’

  “I moved to my aunt’s, where I continued calling him every day. By now, though, he refused to talk to me. I did nothing but cry night and day, and only stopped when I had a miscarriage. That lifeless fetus became a symbol of my lifeless love. My deep, deep depression lasted for the rest of junior high and high school. I never had another boyfriend till college. And even then, the relationship was short-lived. I couldn’t trust a man with my heart.

  “When I look back, I see that the very thing I didn’t have was the thing I needed most—someone to talk to. That someone couldn’t be my mother because she wasn’t ready to listen to me, especially about things like love and sex. That someone couldn’t be the therapist because she was cold and distant. My father was even more distant and, an only child, I had practically no female friends. I needed to talk to other girls who were going through what I was going through—heavy-duty teen love. I needed to hear how other girls were not only willing but eager to lose themselves, as I had lost myself, in some guy that they had turned into a god.

  “Again, I’m not saying it wasn’t love. It was love. And the more my parents or anyone said I was too young to be in love, the less I listened to them. Teen love is love. But teen love is a crazy love. It was the only kind of love I was able to express at that time. The problem, though, was I had nowhere to go to talk about this love—and no one capable of opening their heart to what I had to say.”

  Sonya’s story brings up so many issues. The main one, though, is how she undervalued herself. I related. I remembered.

  Teens have tremendous pressure on them.

  Parents are overprotective or not protective enough.

  Sex is a constant challenge.

  Body image is always there. Body parts growing too fast or not fast enough. Skin problems. Hair problems. Too heavy, too thin, too wide, too narrow.

  The technological toys are delights and distractions at the same time. Everyone is texting, tweeting, messaging, surfing. Everyone is multitasking to the point that attention spans are reduced to nothing. Four seconds for this task. Two seconds for that one. Click on, click off.

  Who can think?

  Who can reflect?

  Who can stop and say, “Hey, it’s time just to listen to my breath and realize I’m alive”?

  If teens were confused before—and God knows, I was—the confusion is tenfold these days.

  I was a confused teenager without being told that it was not only okay to be confused, but in fact perfectly natural.

  I try to imagine what it would have felt like to hear those simple words spoken directly to me:

  Janet, it’s okay to be confused. Confusion is normal. If you’re confused, there’s nothing wrong with you. You can live with confusion. Confusion is part of growing up.

  To be given permission to be confused—and remain confused—for as long as it takes would have been a huge gift.

  What’s wrong with confusion if confusion is real?

  To cut off the confusion and accept an answer just because it’s too scary not to have an answer is a good way to get the wrong answer.

  Living with confusion is part of life.

  Embracing confusion is a courageous and honest way to live. Admitting confusion is the quickest way to move past confusion.

  I’m often confused—about professional choices, or private choices. I don’t like to announce that fact. But if I admit it to close friends or associates, I find myself more relaxed. I’ve admitted the truth. Now let me slowly work my way out of the confusion by weighing all the alternatives, thinking clearly, and reaching a reasonable conclusion.

  I guess it all goes back to the strength we gain from exposing our vulnerability. Don’t get me wrong. I love being certain. I love being absolutely sure about a course of action. But if the certainty isn’t there, it isn’t there, and I have to deal with doubt. To deny doubt—to cover it up—is to deny your reality. And that makes matters even worse.

  It’s taken me a lifetime to learn, and to admit, that it’s okay to be confused.

  Living back at home—briefly with my parents—after my first marriage ended.

  Fame

  While James and I were together, I was cast on Fame. Though I loved acting and wanted to pursue it, I wasn’t excited about this television show, and if it had been left up to me, I would have passed. Joseph, though, insisted that I take the role of Cleo Hewitt—so, still the obedient child, I acquiesced. The experience was trying.

  I was taking birth control bills and as a result, I ballooned so much that people on the show thought I was pregnant. Once again, producers were telling me that I looked too big, that I needed to be thinner, and that I was presenting the wrong image to the public. These years, roughly from the ages of sixteen to eighteen, were not happy ones for me. The kids on Fame were not treated well. We had to use public bathrooms in the studio and were given ill-equipped dressing rooms that were so tiny we could barely change in them.

  Some of the cast members were real jokesters. I’d often open my breakfast case and find the food missing. Someone would take it just to tease me. The kids would blow pot smoke into my dressing room, knowing that smoke gave me a terrible headache. They were already a family. It was like an initiation, a rite of passage, and I was the new kid on the block.

  In my heart, all I wanted to do was work out my relationship with James. But how? I’d be out until 2 A.M., looking for him on the streets. Then I’d have to get up at four to be at the set by six. I was often late. I think I wanted to get fired. Fortunately, they did let me go. I had a three-year contract but was released after the first year. Meanwhile, my relationship with James was collapsing, and our brief marriage was annulled.

  I was feeling belittled even while I was still feeling fat. The result was more emotional eating—eating to chase away the blues, eating to beat back fears.

  What were my fears?

  That I would never find love that would last, that I would repeat the failure of my marriage, or that I would remain forever fat? I’m not sure.

  It was touching to see that other young women my age also had a troublesome relationship with their body image. Around this time, I received a long letter from someone I’ll call Sheila, a teenager who had a story much different from mine. Yet I related deeply.

  Sheila was reed-thin, and up until she was fifteen, she had never had problems with weight. On the contrary, her brothers called her a scarecrow and her mother was always saying that she was emaciated. In response, Sheila said that she wanted to be a model and liked h
er body just the way it was.

  She wasn’t ready to have sex with her boyfriend. When he insisted, she still resisted. That’s when he forced her. Now they call it date rape, but back then Sheila didn’t have a name for what happened. Shocked, confused, and afraid, she locked the secret inside her heart. Twelve months later, she had gained nearly seventy pounds. Her family didn’t know what to think.

  “You’ve turned from scarecrow to pig,” said her brother.

  “It’s one thing to gain a little weight,” her mom said, “but you look absolutely grotesque.”

  Despite her attempt to curb her eating, she couldn’t. She became obsessed with food, especially breads and sweets. The doctor put her on a program, which she ignored. She kept getting heavier. It was only when a teacher at school suggested that she see a psychologist, a suggestion her mother called ridiculous, that Sheila experienced a breakthrough.

  In the privacy of the office of the counselor, a sympathetic woman, Sheila was finally able to tell the truth about what had happened. She broke down and wept. She said that it might have been her fault because she had refused her boyfriend, or because she had dressed too provocatively. Whatever the reason, she was desperately afraid it would happen again. It became clear that overeating was her way of becoming unattractive. If she remained fat, men wouldn’t rape her, but they also wouldn’t approach her and date her. Having this understanding didn’t change things immediately for Sheila, but it eventually helped her to come to terms with what was driving her obesity. Ultimately, she took off most of the weight.

  Sometimes I wonder why I did not become anorexic, as so many women have. Anorexics tend to be overachievers, perfectionists, and extremely insecure. For most of my life, I fit that description. I consider myself lucky not to be afflicted with that psychological disease where food becomes repugnant and your very life is threatened by a lack of nutrients. I’ve known girls who, although they are barely eighty pounds, look in the mirror and worry that they appear fat. They can literally starve themselves to death, driven by an unreasonable obsession that defies understanding.