Authors: Janet Jackson
True You (13 page)
A forty-year-old man I know is an only child who lives with his seventy-year-old mother. The husband/dad deserted them thirty years ago, and the mother has never gotten over it. She never dated another man, and she has always insisted that if her son left her, she would go mad. Nevertheless, he decided to go off to college. The day he left, his mother swallowed a bottle of pills and had to be rushed to the emergency room. My friend came back and attended a college close to home. He has not left since.
His love life has been stymied; he’s gone through at least a half-dozen unsuccessful romantic relationships. He has spent years in psychotherapy, trying to understand this ironclad tie to his mother, and figuring out what it would take to leave her. For years he has been convinced that something is wrong with him—that some flaw in his character prevents him from going out on his own.
When he speaks of his mom, though, it is in positive terms. She reads a variety of magazines, newspapers, and books every day. She likes to discuss politics; she keeps up with the cinema; she attends lectures at the downtown library; and she has many friends whom she sees regularly. She hardly seems like an ogre. As you can imagine, though, my friend harbored a smoldering resentment for allowing himself to be captive. For many years—all through his twenties and thirties—he was simultaneously attentive to his mother and bitter in his behavior toward her.
A year ago, his mother, always in remarkably good health, developed a number of life-threatening physical problems and grew even more dependent on her son. He hired a nurse to help, but of course his mother wanted him to be by her side.
“Something shifted in me,” he told me. “I realized that no
matter what people had been telling me—friends, psychologists, even well-meaning pastors—I actually felt privileged to be able to take care of Mom. Learning to love her, in spite of her demands, has been the challenge of a lifetime. To meet this challenge has been a triumph. Other people may choose to deal with the same sort of situation differently. Some might even accuse me of hiding out in her world for fear of entering a world of my own. I’ve looked at all these issues and decided that I’m not hiding. I’m seeing what sacrificial love is all about. I don’t argue for the correctness of my decisions, and I don’t expect anyone to agree with me. How people view me is none of my business. All that matters is that I’ve learned to love more deeply. This woman, for all her faults, has been the only way I could have learned these lessons. I thank God for her. The doctors say she has only a few months left. I cherish these months, and I know that when she is gone my life will be different. In many ways, it will be better—better because I stayed to watch how love can deepen.”
The
Rhythm Nation
experience was a major learning experience for me. Ironically, though, it wasn’t what I was teaching others; it was what others were teaching me.
“Dear Janet,” wrote a woman I’ll call Laurie.
I’m a young adult who grew up in a religion that believes in converting everyone to our strict doctrine. My mother has been a member of this church her entire life—as was her mother before her. The same was expected of me. I never considered anything else. I never questioned the church or rebelled against it. I attended a college
founded by elders of the church, and I did extremely well. I married a wonderful man who, like me, was born into this religion. We decided to devote our lives to church and attend a theological seminary together. After graduation, we traveled to a foreign land where our mission was to show people our way—in our minds, the only true way—of approaching God. The year proved difficult. My husband became ill. Medical treatment was inadequate and we had to come home early. I didn’t feel as though I had accomplished my goal; of all the people I had met, I hadn’t been able to convert anyone. I questioned my powers of persuasion—maybe even my faith—and then fell into a period of doubt that led to depression.
I thought about those people I had met overseas. They were fascinating. Their culture was new to me and so were their various spiritual practices and beliefs. In my heart, I wanted to listen to them rather than make them listen to me. I wanted to understand their origins and characteristics. My husband felt the same. That’s one of the reasons, I later learned, that he became sick. We were both there to teach, but when we got there, we realized our main mission was to learn.
Our church did not respond well to our report, which included some of the ideas I’m expressing here. They wanted converts. In their minds, our goals remained unfulfilled. We were chastised and made to feel like failures. As you could guess, that deepened my sadness and added to my confusion. Then, by chance, I was at the
home of a friend who’s a big music fan. I confess that I’m not. I grew up enjoying certain country singers, but that’s about it. My friend had your song
Rhythm Nation
playing on her stereo. I heard the words, “With music by our side, to break the color lines, let’s work together to improve our way of life.” The words went right to my heart. I felt the immediacy of what you were singing; the crucial need to break down
all
lines—color, social, even religious. For the first time, I saw what should have been obvious to me years before. It took a song, though, to make the obvious come to life. The love I was feeling as an adult woman was—and
is—
something I need to share. It’s the love that counts, not the philosophy or theology or psychology behind the love. Love is simple. If it’s pure love—if it’s the compassionate all-encompassing love of God—it reaches outward. It touches others without making demands. It doesn’t require membership and it doesn’t charge dues. It’s free.
Maybe I’m naïve. Maybe I’ve misinterpreted your song. But that’s the message it gave me. We’re all part of the
Rhythm Nation,
whether we live in the U.S. or Senegal, whether we’re Jewish or Muslim, Baptist or Buddhist. So I’ve been marching on. My husband and I have found new work. We’re still teachers, but we’re teaching in a school that allows us to express the joy that comes with a love based on acceptance, not judgment, a love that isn’t exclusive to one group or one set of beliefs. It’s a love for everyone.
Another story that came out of
Rhythm Nation
concerns twin girls, Kai and Keisha, who were leading wild lives. They disrespected their parents, neglected their schoolwork, and got into all sorts of trouble. Miraculously, the message of
Rhythm Nation
got into their souls. They took it to heart and turned things around. The transformation was amazing. They became serious about their studies and even graduated from nursing school.
They came to one of my concerts with the intention of giving me their graduation tassels. Their relatives told them not to, arguing that I’d never acknowledge them and would only throw the tassels away. The tassels arrived with a note from the twins. I was deeply moved. As a tribute to Kai and Keisha, I had them framed and met with them both.
Hiding behind my smile.
I
n the last video for
Rhythm Nation
, “Love Will Never Do (Without You),” I had taken off the all-black uniform and danced in jeans and a halter top. The video was directed by Herb Ritts.
Herb was a lovely man who died far too early. He was a gifted photographer and filmmaker with a great eye for form and fashion.
Herb also spoke his mind. For most people that would be okay, but for me, given my extreme sensitivity, it wasn’t always comfortable.
Years ago, when we were set to work together, Herb called me and, even before exchanging pleasantries, blurted out, “How’s your weight?”
The question came suddenly, and I was taken aback. At the time I was feeling especially self-conscious about my body and didn’t know how to respond. When I paused, Herb was even more blunt. “Janet,” he said, “are you fat?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
I didn’t know what it meant and ultimately canceled the shoot.
Time passed and I wanted to work with Herb again. I realized it was my fault, not his, that I was so overly sensitive when it came to discussing my body. Besides, this time I knew that by no stretch of the imagination could I be called fat. I had gone on a stringent diet. I was feeling strong, and certain that many of the psychological challenges I had faced—involving lack of self-regard and worrisome insecurity—had been dramatically reduced. Herb planned for Antonio Sabato, Jr., and Djimon Hounsou to be in the video, men with remarkable bodies. But even that didn’t intimidate me. I was starting to like the way I looked. Maybe even feeling free, at least during the shoot.
After the shoot, though, someone I loved said, “You can’t be seen in public like that. You look nothing like your video, nothing like your television appearances. You can’t go out.” That contributed to my depression. I was too distressed to even go to a movie. I shut myself out from the entire world. There was the “Janet” that
the public saw and the young woman who felt overweight. Despite the success and the public image, the private me felt I wasn’t good enough. Unknowingly, I had surrendered to the programming of my childhood. Be aware. Be alert. Don’t fall into your old patterns. It’s hard to break the cycle.
I wasn’t living life. Even though I am a homebody, it hurt me deeply to be told I shouldn’t go to the movies because I didn’t look right. I wish I had been able to cry. I realize now I was too numb. Crying would have given me some kind of release. Once again I kept it in inside.
I didn’t answer, didn’t argue. I simply absorbed the comment and, crazy as it seems, I didn’t go out after shooting videos, especially if I had gained any weight at all. Between tours and records, I disappeared from the public.
When I appeared after
Rhythm Nation
, it was on the cover of
Rolling Stone
magazine, the same shot that became the image for the CD
janet
.
I thought up the pose when I was making the movie
Poetic Justice
with Tupac Shakur. I had just stepped out of the shower and put a towel around my waist when I walked to the mirror and placed my hands over my breasts. I thought it might look cool as a photograph if someone’s hands were covering my breasts. It was just a fleeting creative idea. And I thought one day that if I ever had the courage to take a photograph like that, it might help me face the demons that were my body issues, my insecurities over how I looked.
Then came the day to shoot stills for
janet.
Patrick Demarchelier, the photographer, had me posing outdoors for hours. The
session was about over, when I suddenly felt the urge to tell Patrick about my creative idea. All day I had been building up my courage to do so, convinced that the picture I had imagined was something I had to do. I believe in fighting the various things that scare me the most. Once Patrick and I moved indoors, I trusted him enough to take the picture.
I was so uncomfortable, though, that I had to ask everyone to leave the set. That was a battle, for sure. And though the photos were taken in private, it was being aimed at a large public. The conflict of my feelings, in being so shy but still understanding that creativity needs to happen, is at the core of who I am. It’s ironic that some people feel I wanted to flaunt my body, when all I was really doing was trying to accept myself as a woman and express myself as an artist.
janet
was extremely successful. The mood of the first song and its video, “That’s the Way Love Goes,” was relaxed and carefree. The groove was easy and fun, soft and seductive. It became the summer song of 1993. I had just turned twenty-seven and was ready to branch out. The record revealed who I was at that moment, presenting sensuality as an important and beautiful part of my being. I was optimistic. I was feeling free.
Yet within that feeling of freedom were seeds of discontent. I worked compulsively. There was a lot of pressure to achieve a certain look and, once I had achieved it, to maintain it at all times The photography, the videos, the world tour—the pressure was unrelenting to look a certain way during the entire process. In my determination to slim down, I overdid it—I underate and I abused laxatives to keep the weight off. In short, I didn’t take care of
myself. I want everyone to know: don’t do it. It’s not healthy. It’s not worth it. It’s not true you.