True You (8 page)

With my childhood friend La Nette. In high school, feeling fat even though I was so thin.

A
t the end of my stint on
Good Times
, I had to enroll in a new school. I no longer needed to be tutored privately. I had to go to a real school with real kids and deal with my real issues. It was one of the biggest changes in my young life up to this point. I was nervous and not happy. I was struggling with how I looked
and whether I would fit in with the new kids. I would be out of my comfort zone.

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.

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.