Jackson was born in Washington. He saw his father twice in his lifetime. Before he turned 1, his mother took him to Chattanooga, Tenn., where his grandparents and aunt lived, and returned by herself to Washington. For the next nine years, he saw his mother sporadically. His aunt, a performing-arts teacher, put him in her school plays beginning when he was a toddler. “She was the reason I became an actor,” Jackson said.
She also helped cure his debilitating stutter by taking him to a speech therapist. “It manifests itself more when I read than when I talk,” he said. “I have no idea why. Denzel stuttered. James Earl Jones stuttered. There are still days when I have my n-n-n days or r-r-r days. I try to find another word.”
He grew up in a poor black neighborhood, “but everyone had shoes and food,” he said. There were “two white houses of prostitution” in the neighborhood, and three other houses sold moonshine, and a fourth belonged to a “P.W.T. family. Poor White Trash. Their house had no running water, so they only took baths when it rained. They called me nigger boy and my grandmother Miss Nigger. It was always ‘Miss,’ as if a term of respect. When my grandfather took me to work with him, the whites there would rub my head, affectionately. I’d [expletive] look ’em in the eye to make them uncomfortable. But it was nothing to be angry about. Segregation was just a way of life.”
Jackson relates the details of his childhood without inflection, emotion, affection or resentment, as if reading from a grocery list. The black movie theater played the same movies the white theater did — except when a black actor slapped a white actress, he said, that slap “was cut out of our version.” One day he asked his mother, “Why does the black man always die in movies?” Her response: “Because the black man can’t win, he always gets killed.”