LaToya.
Years later, after we had left Gary, we performed on "The Ed Sullivan Show", the live Sunday night variety show
where America first saw the Beatles, Elvis, and Sly and the Family Stone. After the show, Mr. Sullivan complimented and thanked each of us; but I was thinking about what he had said to me before the show. I had been
wandering around backstage, like the kid in the Pepsi commercial, and ran into Mr. Sullivan. He seemed glad to see
me and shook my hand, but before he let it go he had a special message for me. It was 1970, a year when some of the
best people in rock were losing their lives to drugs and alcohol. An older, wiser generation in show business was
unprepared to lose its very young. Some people had already said that I reminded them of Frankie Lymon, a great
young singer of the 1950s who lost his life that way. Ed Sullivan may have been thinking of all this when he told me,
"Never forget where your talent came from, that your talent is a gift from God."
I was grateful for his kindness, but I could have told him that my mother had never let me forget. I never had polio,
which is a frightening thing for a dancer to think about, but I knew God had tested me and my brothers and sisters in
other ways - our large family, our tiny house, the small amount of money we had to make ends meet, even the jealous
kids in the neighborhood who threw rocks at our windows while we rehearsed, yelling that we'd never make it. When
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I think of my mother and our early years, I can tell you there are rewards that go far beyond money and public
acclaim and awards.
My mother was a great provider. If she found out that one of us had an interest in something, she would encourage it
if there was any possible way. If I developed an interest in movie stars, for instance, she'd come home with an armful
of books about famous stars. Even with nine children she treated each of us like an only child. There isn't one of us
who's ever forgotten what a hard worker and great provider she was. It's an old story. Every child thinks their mother
is the greatest mother in the world, but we Jacksons never lost that feeling. Because of Katherine's gentleness,
warmth, and attention, I can't imagine what it must be like to grow up without a mother's love.
One thing I know about children is that if they don't get the love they need from their parents, they'll get it from
someone else and cling to that person, a grandparent, anyone. We never had to look for anyone else with my mother
around. The lessons she taught us were invaluable. Kindness, love, and consideration for other people headed her list.
Don't hurt people. Never beg. Never freeload. Those were sins at our house. She always wanted us to give , but she
never wanted us to ask or beg. That's the way she is.
I remember a good story about my mother that illustrates her nature. One day, back in Gary, when I was real little,
this man knocked on everybody's door early in the morning. He was bleeding so badly you could see where he'd
been around the neighborhood. No one would let him in. Finally he got to our door and he started banging and
knocking. Mother let him in at once. Now, most people would have been too afraid to do that, but that's my mother. I
can remember waking up and finding blood on our floor. I wish we could all be more like Mum.
The earliest memories I have of my father are of him coming home from the steel mill with a big bag of glazed
doughnuts for all of us. My brothers and I could really eat back then and that bag would disappear with a snap of the
fingers. He used to take us all to the merry-go-round in the park, but I was so young I don't remember that very well.
My father has always been something of a mystery to me and he knows it. One of the few things I regret most is
never being able to have a real closeness with him. He built a shell around himself over the years and, once he
stopped talking about our family business, he found it hard to relate to us. We'd all be together and he'd just leave the
room. Even today it's hard for him to touch on father and son stuff because he's too embarrassed. When I see that he
is, I become embarrassed, too.
My father did always protect us and that's no small feat. He always tried to make sure people didn't cheat us. He
looked after our interests in the best ways. He might have made a few mistakes along the way, but he always thought
he was doing what was right for his family. And, of course, most of what my father helped us accomplish was
wonderful and unique, especially in regard to our relationships with companies and people in the business. I'd say we
were among a fortunate few artists who walked away from a childhood in the business with anything substantial -
money, real estate, other investments. My father set all these up for us. He looked out for both our interests and his.
To this day I'm so thankful he didn't try to take all our money for himself the way so many parents of child stars
have. Imagine stealing from your own children. My father never did anything like that. But I still don't know him,
and that's sad for a son who hungers to understand his own father. He's still a mystery man to me and he may always
be one.
What I got from my father wasn't necessarily God-given, though the Bible says you reap what you sow. When we
were coming along, Dad said that in a different way, but the message was just as clear: You could have all the talent
in the world, but if you didn't prepare and plan, it wouldn't do you any good.
Joe Jackson had always loved singing and music as much as my mother did, but he also knew there was a world
beyond Jackson Street. I wasn't old enough to remember his band, the Falcons, but they came over to our house to
rehearse on weekends. The music took them away from their jobs at the steel mill, where Dad drove a crane. The
Falcons would play all over town, and in clubs and colleges around northern Indiana and Chicago. At the rehearsals
at our house, Dad would bring his guitar out of the closet and plug it into the amp he kept in the basement. He'd
always loved rhythm and blues and that guitar was his pride and joy. The closet where the guitar was kept was
considered an almost sacred place. Needless to say, it was off-limits to us kids. Dad didn't go to Kingdom Hall with
us, but both Mom and Dad knew that music was a way of keeping our family together in a neighborhood where
gangs recruited kids my brothers' ages. The three oldest boys would always have an excuse to around when the
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Falcons came over. Dad let them think they were being given a special treat by being allowed to listen, but he was
actually eager to have them there.
Tito watched everything that was going on with the greatest interest. He'd taken saxophone in school, but he could
tell his hands were big enough to grab the chords and slip the riffs that my father played. It made sense that he'd
catch on, because Tito looked so much like my father that we all expected him to share Dad's talents. The extent of
the resemblance was scary as he got older. Maybe my father noticed Tito's zeal because he laid down rules for all my
brothers: No one was to touch the guitar while he was out. Period.
Therefore, Jackie, Tito, and Jermaine were careful to see that Mom was in the kitchen when they "borrowed" the
guitar. They were also careful not to make any noise while removing it. They would then go back to our room and
put on the radio or the little portable record player so they could play along. Tito would hoist the guitar onto his belly as he sat on the bed and prop it up. He took turns with Jackie and Jermaine, and they'd all try the scales they were
learning in school as well as try to figure out how to get the "Green Onions" part they'd hear on the radio.