My mother knew her polio was not a curse but a test that God gave her to

triumph over, and she instilled in me a love of Him that I will always have.

She taught me that my talent for singing and dancing was as much God's work

as a beautiful sunset or a storm that left snow for children to play in.

Despite all the time we spent rehearsing and travelling, Mom would find time

to take me to the Kingdom Hall of the Jehovah's Witnesses, usually with

Rebbie and 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

neighbourhood who threw rocks at our windows while we rehearsed, yelling

that we'd never make it. When 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 neighbourhood. 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 neighbourhood where gangs

recruited kids my brothers' ages. The three oldest boys would always have an

excuse to around when the 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.

By now I was old enough to sneak in and watch if I promised not to tell. One

day Mom finally caught them, and we were all worried. She scolded the boys,

but said she wouldn't tell Dad as long as we were careful. She knew that

guitar was keeping them from running with a bad crowd and maybe getting beat

up, so she wasn't about to take away anything that kept them within arm's

reach.

Of course, something had to give sooner or later, and one day a string

broke. My brothers panicked. There wasn't time to get it repaired before Dad

came home, and besides, none if us knew how to go about getting it fixed. My

brothers never figured out what to do, so they put the guitar back in the

closet and hoped fervently that my father would think it broke by itself. Of

course, Dad didn't buy that, and he was furious. My sisters told me to stay

out of it and keep a low profile. I heard Tito crying after Dad found out

and I went to investigate, of course. Tito was on his bed crying when Dad

came back and motioned for him to get up. Tito was scared, but my father

just stood there, holding his favourite guitar. He gave Tito a hard,

penetrating look and said, "Let me see what you can do."

My brother pulled himself together and started to play a few runs he had

taught himself. When my father saw how well Tito could play, he knew he'd

obviously been practising and he realised that Tito and the rest of us

didn't treat his favourite guitar as if it were a toy. It became clear to

him that what had happened had been only an accident. At this point my

mother stepped in and voiced her enthusiasm for our musical ability. She

told him that we boys had talent and he should listen to us. She kept

pushing for us, so one day he began to listen and he liked what he heard.

Tito, Jackie, and Jermaine started rehearsing together in earnest. A couple

of years later, when I was about five, Mom pointed out to my father that I

was a good singer and could play the bongos. I became a member of the group.

About then my father decided that what was happening in his family was

serious. Gradually he began spending less time with the Falcons and more

with us. We'd just woodshed together and he'd give us some tips and teach us

techniques on the guitar. Marlon and I weren't old enough to play, but we'd

watch when my father rehearsed the older boys and we were learning when we

watched. The ban on using Dad's guitar still held when he wasn't around, but

my brothers loved using it when they could. The house on Jackson Street was

bursting with music. Dad and Mom had paid for music lessons for Rebbie and

Jackie when they were little kids, so they had a good background. The rest

of us had music class and band in the Gary schools, but no amount of

practice was enough to harness all that energy.

The Falcons were still earning money, however infrequent their gigs, and

that extra money was important to us. It was enough to keep food on the

table for a growing family but not enough to give us things that weren't

necessary. Mom was working part-time at Sears, Dad was still working the

mill job, and no one was going hungry, but I think, looking back, that

things must have seemed one big dead end.

One day Dad was late coming home and Mom began to get worried. By the time

he arrived, she was ready to give him a piece of her mind, something we boys

didn't mind witnessing once in a while just to see if he could take it like

he dished it out, but when he poked his head through the door, he had a

mischievous look on his face and he was hiding something behind his back. We

were all shocked when he produced a gleaming red guitar, slightly smaller

than the one in the closet. We were all hoping this meant we'd get the old

one. But Dad said the new guitar was Tito's. We gathered around to admire

it, while Dad told Tito he had to share it with anyone who would practice .

We were not to take it to school to show it off. This was a serious present

and that day was a momentous occasion for the Jackson family.

Mom was happy for us, but she also knew her husband. She was more aware than

we of the big ambitions and plans he had for us. He'd begun talking to her

at night after we kids were asleep. He had dreams and those dreams didn't

stop with one guitar. Pretty soon we were dealing with equipment, not just

gifts. Jermaine got a bass and an amp. There were shakers for Jackie. Our

bedroom and living room began to look like a music store. Sometimes I'd hear

Mom and Dad fight when the subject of money was brought up, because all

those instruments and accessories meant having to go without a little

something we needed each week. Dad was persuasive, though, and he didn't

miss a trick.

We even had microphones in the house. They seemed like a real luxury at the

time, especially to a woman who was trying to stretch a very small budget,

but I've come to realise that having those microphones in our house wasn't

just an attempt to keep up with the Joneses or anyone else in amateur night

competitions. They were there to help us prepare. I saw people at talent

shows, who probably sounded great at home, clam up the moment they got in

front of a microphone. Others started screaming their songs like they wanted

to prove they didn't need the mikes. They didn't have the advantage that we

did - an advantage that only experience can give you. I think it probably

made some people jealous because they could tell our expertise with the

mikes gave us an edge. If that was true, we made so many sacrifices - in

free time, schoolwork, and friends - that no one had the right to be

jealous. We were becoming very good, but we were working like people twice

our age.

While I was watching my older brothers, including Marlon on the bongo drums,

Dad got a couple of young guys named Johnny Jackson and Randy Rancifer to

play trap drums and organ. Motown would later claim they were our cousins,

but that was just an embellishment from the P.R. people, who wanted to make

us seem like one big family. We had become a real band! I was like a sponge,

watching everyone, and trying to learn everything I could. I was totally

absorbed when my brothers were rehearsing or playing at charity events or

shopping centres. I was most fascinated when watching Jermaine because he

was the singer at the time and he was a big brother to me - Marlon was too

close to me in age for that. It was Jermaine who would walk me to

kindergarten and whose clothes would be handed down to me. When he did

something, I tried to imitate him. When I was successful at it, my brothers

and Dad would laugh, but when I began singing, they listened. I was singing

in a baby voice then and just imitating sounds. I was so young I didn't know

what many of the words meant, but the more I sang, the better I got.