Michael Jackson’s Friend ‘Knew the Real Reason’ He Wore Single White Glove on Right Hand
Michael Jackson’s single white glove became one of his most famous fashion choices during his career. According to actor Cicely Tyson, she knew the real reason why he wore it. Tyson shared that she had been aware of what motivated Jackson to make this iconic glove a part of his look.
Michael Jackson Wore His Famous White Glove to Hide a Skin Condition, Says Friend
Michael Jackson’s iconic white glove became a signature part of his look during his career. According to a friend, the glove was originally designed to hide signs of vitiligo, a condition that causes patches of skin to lose color. Jackson, who passed away in 2009, often wore the glove on his right hand.
Vitiligo affects the skin, especially on the face, neck, and hands, and is caused by a lack of melanin, the pigment that gives skin its color. It affects about 1 in every 100 people.
https://googleads.g.doubleclick.net/pagead/ads?gdpr=0&us_privacy=1—&gpp_sid=-1&client=ca-pub-1773658762833587&output=html&h=280&adk=2121561433&adf=3979302052&pi=t.aa~a.95137260~i.13~rp.4&w=622&abgtt=7&fwrn=4&fwrnh=100&lmt=1726849386&num_ads=1&rafmt=1&armr=3&sem=mc&pwprc=1191565633&ad_type=text_image&format=622×280&url=https%3A%2F%2Fjokesdaddy.com%2Fmichael-jacksons-friend-finally-spills-the-real-reason-behind-his-famous-glove%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwY2xjawFagLlleHRuA2FlbQIxMAABHezhKDvvy5GNJSEPgfrbmcC6oGZsziUPFEH-Od-BF5jKOuEaKNfw0z6boA_aem_wiUWwC8w9cUp9qirk4ZU_w&host=ca-host-pub-2644536267352236&fwr=0&pra=3&rh=156&rw=622&rpe=1&resp_fmts=3&wgl=1&fa=27&uach=WyJXaW5kb3dzIiwiNy4wLjAiLCJ4ODYiLCIiLCIxMjguMC42NjEzLjEzOCIsbnVsbCwwLG51bGwsIjY0IixbWyJDaHJvbWl1bSIsIjEyOC4wLjY2MTMuMTM4Il0sWyJOb3Q7QT1CcmFuZCIsIjI0LjAuMC4wIl0sWyJHb29nbGUgQ2hyb21lIiwiMTI4LjAuNjYxMy4xMzgiXV0sMF0.&dt=1726849385867&bpp=1&bdt=410&idt=1&shv=r20240918&mjsv=m202409180101&ptt=9&saldr=aa&abxe=1&cookie=ID%3D7b20416647364f5b%3AT%3D1726322449%3ART%3D1726847943%3AS%3DALNI_MZpLszTnzQ9UIpvri7rf-Nvkymgqw&gpic=UID%3D00000f01a4fcfdfa%3AT%3D1726322449%3ART%3D1726847943%3AS%3DALNI_MbY7lAlwLY5uk2o_yrVgm9rCAdHOg&eo_id_str=ID%3D3eab1fc17d3c657c%3AT%3D1726322449%3ART%3D1726847943%3AS%3DAA-AfjZ-y03aOjnfgIilO4F5CCmp&prev_fmts=0x0%2C980x280%2C622x280&nras=4&correlator=1422070135229&frm=20&pv=1&u_tz=420&u_his=1&u_h=768&u_w=1360&u_ah=728&u_aw=1360&u_cd=24&u_sd=1&dmc=8&adx=202&ady=1400&biw=1343&bih=607&scr_x=0&scr_y=0&eid=44759876%2C44759927%2C44759837%2C95339781%2C31087066%2C95338227%2C95342766%2C31087333%2C95342336&oid=2&pvsid=4009290669012551&tmod=187296524&uas=0&nvt=1&ref=https%3A%2F%2Fl.facebook.com%2F&fc=1408&brdim=0%2C0%2C0%2C0%2C1360%2C0%2C1360%2C728%2C1360%2C607&vis=1&rsz=%7C%7Cs%7C&abl=NS&fu=128&bc=31&bz=1&td=1&tdf=0&psd=W251bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLDFd&nt=1&ifi=4&uci=a!4&btvi=2&fsb=1&dtd=245
Late actor Cicely Tyson, who knew Jackson, shared this detail about his glove during his 2009 memorial service.
A single white glove became a signature accessory for the late Michael Jackson throughout his career. The glove, often worn on his right hand, was part of his iconic style. It was originally created to help cover the effects of vitiligo, a skin condition that causes patches of skin to lose their color. Jackson, who passed away in 2009, used the glove to make a fashion statement while also concealing the condition. Vitiligo affects around 1 in 100 people and is caused by a lack of melanin, the pigment that gives skin its color.
Late actor Cicely Tyson talked about Michael Jackson’s famous white glove in 2009 after his death.
Cicely, known for movies like *Sounder* (1972) and the TV show *How to Get Away with Murder*, spoke to CNN’s Don Lemon in an interview. She mentioned that she and Michael shared the same fashion designer in the 1980s, who worked on creating the glove.
https://googleads.g.doubleclick.net/pagead/ads?gdpr=0&us_privacy=1—&gpp_sid=-1&client=ca-pub-1773658762833587&output=html&h=280&adk=2121561433&adf=2168732072&pi=t.aa~a.95137260~i.25~rp.4&w=622&abgtt=7&fwrn=4&fwrnh=100&lmt=1726849565&num_ads=1&rafmt=1&armr=3&sem=mc&pwprc=1191565633&ad_type=text_image&format=622×280&url=https%3A%2F%2Fjokesdaddy.com%2Fmichael-jacksons-friend-finally-spills-the-real-reason-behind-his-famous-glove%2F%3Ffbclid%3DIwY2xjawFagLlleHRuA2FlbQIxMAABHezhKDvvy5GNJSEPgfrbmcC6oGZsziUPFEH-Od-BF5jKOuEaKNfw0z6boA_aem_wiUWwC8w9cUp9qirk4ZU_w&host=ca-host-pub-2644536267352236&fwr=0&pra=3&rh=156&rw=622&rpe=1&resp_fmts=3&wgl=1&fa=27&uach=WyJXaW5kb3dzIiwiNy4wLjAiLCJ4ODYiLCIiLCIxMjguMC42NjEzLjEzOCIsbnVsbCwwLG51bGwsIjY0IixbWyJDaHJvbWl1bSIsIjEyOC4wLjY2MTMuMTM4Il0sWyJOb3Q7QT1CcmFuZCIsIjI0LjAuMC4wIl0sWyJHb29nbGUgQ2hyb21lIiwiMTI4LjAuNjYxMy4xMzgiXV0sMF0.&dt=1726849385870&bpp=1&bdt=413&idt=1&shv=r20240918&mjsv=m202409180101&ptt=9&saldr=aa&abxe=1&cookie=ID%3D7b20416647364f5b%3AT%3D1726322449%3ART%3D1726849387%3AS%3DALNI_MZpLszTnzQ9UIpvri7rf-Nvkymgqw&gpic=UID%3D00000f01a4fcfdfa%3AT%3D1726322449%3ART%3D1726849387%3AS%3DALNI_MbY7lAlwLY5uk2o_yrVgm9rCAdHOg&eo_id_str=ID%3D3eab1fc17d3c657c%3AT%3D1726322449%3ART%3D1726849387%3AS%3DAA-AfjZ-y03aOjnfgIilO4F5CCmp&prev_fmts=0x0%2C980x280%2C622x280%2C622x280&nras=5&correlator=1422070135229&frm=20&pv=1&u_tz=420&u_his=2&u_h=768&u_w=1360&u_ah=728&u_aw=1360&u_cd=24&u_sd=1&dmc=8&adx=202&ady=2774&biw=1343&bih=607&scr_x=0&scr_y=500&eid=44759876%2C44759927%2C44759837%2C95339781%2C31087066%2C95338227%2C95342766%2C31087333%2C95342336&oid=2&psts=AOrYGsnKlsHJnFTmMMe_NjQqqnASjrm5Bt_zvtW1zCOdQQs5J1RQ4BPXBH4YjhNniBqTilXfMNsPFyWP6jhUz2IZXFnBSzk%2CAOrYGslhD7Ul7xz4miXsWDt3eEDCxMLdsfzlT-C3BlNEcYnS8CqiggZG8OBsmssHthiI7e3PoiNvp9C2KbutbFR7BF1iiYgS&pvsid=4009290669012551&tmod=187296524&uas=3&nvt=1&ref=https%3A%2F%2Fl.facebook.com%2F&fc=1408&brdim=0%2C0%2C0%2C0%2C1360%2C0%2C1360%2C728%2C1360%2C607&vis=1&rsz=%7C%7Cs%7C&abl=NS&fu=128&bc=31&bz=1&td=1&tdf=0&psd=W251bGwsbnVsbCxudWxsLDFd&nt=1&ifi=5&uci=a!5&btvi=3&fsb=1&dtd=M
Cicely remembered the designer saying, “I’m doing this glove for Michael,” explaining that Michael was starting to develop vitiligo, a skin condition, on his hand. She said, “The glove was to cover it. That’s how it came about.”
When asked how she knew, Cicely replied, “I was there when he was creating it.”
Michael first wore the white glove in 1983. He later said, “I felt that one glove was cool… wearing two gloves seemed ordinary.”
Michael Jackson talked about his skin condition during a 1993 interview with Oprah Winfrey, likely referring to vitiligo, a condition that runs in his family.
Oprah asked him about the noticeable change in his skin color and addressed rumors about him possibly bleaching his skin, asking, “Is your skin lighter because you don’t like being Black?”
Michael, unaware of skin bleaching, explained, “I have a skin disorder that destroys the pigmentation of the skin. It’s something I cannot help.” He added, “When people say I don’t want to be what I am, it hurts me.”
He mentioned that he first noticed his skin changing after releasing *Thriller* in 1982. Michael said he used makeup to manage the blotches but denied bleaching his skin.
Oprah later remarked that in 1993, many people didn’t understand vitiligo and noted that it was a sensitive topic for Michael.
78-Year-Old Woman Returns from Nursing Home to Her House – Only to Find a Mansion with Changed Locks in Its Place
Margaret left her home behind years ago, believing it would always be there waiting for her. But when the 78-year-old finally returned, her small house had vanished, replaced by a grand mansion with locked doors and a shocking secret inside.
I sat by the window, watching the garden outside. The roses were in bloom, swaying gently in the breeze. I liked to watch them.
A sad elderly woman | Source: Pexels
I didn’t go outside much anymore—too cold some days, too hot on others. But the garden reminded me of something. Of home. Of the house I left behind.
I had a garden there once. A small one, just a patch of flowers by the porch. I didn’t know why I thought about it so much these days. Maybe because there wasn’t much else to think about.
An elderly woman in her garden | Source: Pexels
The nursing home was quiet. Too quiet. The nurses came and went, always smiling, always polite. The other residents shuffled past my door, some talking to themselves, some staring blankly at the floor.
My children left me long ago. First my daughter, who moved across the country. She sent letters at first, then holiday cards, then nothing at all.
An elderly woman reading a letter | Source: Pexels
My son, David, left next. He got married, started a family, and never looked back. I used to wonder what I did wrong. I didn’t wonder anymore.
I made my choice years ago to leave the house and move here. It was easier than living alone. I still had the key, though. It sat in my bedside drawer. Sometimes, I held it in my palm, feeling its weight. It was warm, even though it shouldn’t have been.
A key in a hand | Source: Pexels
One afternoon, as I sat staring out the window, a nurse tapped my shoulder.
“Margaret, you have a visitor.”
I blinked. “A visitor?”
She nodded, smiling. I didn’t get visitors. Not anymore. My hands trembled as I pushed myself up from the chair.
And then I saw him.
A shocked woman covering her face | Source: Pexels
David.
He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking older than I remembered. His hair had grayed at the edges, his face lined in ways it hadn’t been before. But it was him. After 30 years, it was him.
“Mom,” he said softly.
I didn’t know what to say.
A serious man on the porch | Source: Midjourney
“I—I hope it’s okay that I came,” he continued. “I just… I wanted to see you.”
I gripped the arms of my chair. My heart pounded, but my voice came out steady. “Why now?”
He sighed, looking down. “My wife left me. Took the kids. I—” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I spent years building a life with her, and now it’s gone. And it made me think about you. About how I left you.”
A sad man sitting in a chair | Source: Pexels
I swallowed hard. “That was a long time ago.”
“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry, Mom. I should’ve come back sooner.”
Silence stretched between us. I wasn’t sure what to feel. Anger? Sadness? Relief?
“I don’t know what to say to you,” I admitted.
“I don’t expect you to say anything,” he said quickly. “I just… I want to make things right.”
A happy woman touching her face | Source: Pexels
I didn’t answer.
After a moment, he pulled something from behind his back—a bouquet of daisies. My favorite.
“I remembered,” he said, offering a small, uncertain smile.
I took them, brushing my fingers over the petals.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
An elderly woman holding a bouquet of daisies | Source: Midjourney
He started visiting after that. Not every day, but often. Sometimes he brought flowers. Other times, books he thought I might like. We sat together and talked a little. At first, our words were careful, like stepping over broken glass. But over time, it got easier.
One day, he took me to the park. We sat on a bench and watched the ducks in the pond.
“Do you remember the old house?” I asked, glancing at him.
An elderly woman with her son | Source: Pexels
He hesitated. “Yeah. I remember.”
“I’d like to see it again,” I said. “Just once.”
He shook his head. “No, Mom.”
I frowned. “Why not?”
“It’s just… it’s not the same anymore.”
An unsure man in a chair | Source: Midjourney
That was all he said. And no matter how many times I asked, he always gave the same answer.
No, Mom.
I didn’t understand. But one way or another, I intended to find out.
One afternoon, after David left, I decided I wouldn’t wait any longer. I put on my best coat, slipped my old house key into my pocket, and left the nursing home without telling anyone.
An elderly woman on the street | Source: Pexels
At the bus stop, I counted my change carefully. I hadn’t taken a bus in years. The ride felt longer than I remembered, every stop stretching time. My hands gripped my purse tightly as I watched the familiar streets pass by. Houses I used to know looked different—some painted with new colors, some with fresh gardens, some completely unrecognizable.
Finally, the bus stopped near my old neighborhood. I stepped off, my heart pounding.
A smiling woman in the street | Source: Pexels
As I walked down the street, memories flooded my mind—playing children, barking dogs, the sound of a lawnmower in the distance. My feet knew the way, leading me to the place I had left behind.
But when I arrived, I froze.
My house was gone.
A shocked woman on the street | Source: Midjourney
In its place stood a grand mansion—tall, beautiful, and nothing like what I had left behind. The porch was bigger, the windows gleamed, and a lush, flowering garden surrounded the entire property.
I stared, my breath caught in my throat.
This couldn’t be right.
A mansion with palm trees | Source: Pexels
With trembling fingers, I pulled out my key and stepped onto the porch. My hands shook as I tried to fit the key into the lock. It didn’t fit. I jiggled it, tried again. Nothing.
Someone had changed the locks.
Panic rose in my chest.
I pounded on the door. “Hello?” My voice was weak, swallowed by the quiet street. “Who’s in there? This is my house!”
A woman knocking on a mansion’s door | Source: Midjourney
No answer.
I stumbled back, heart racing. Someone had stolen my home. I pulled my phone from my purse and dialed 911.
“Emergency services. What’s your emergency?”
“My house,” I gasped. “Someone took my house. I—I came home, and it’s gone. It’s different. The locks are changed. Someone’s inside.”
A woman talking on her phone | Source: Midjourney
The operator asked me questions I barely registered. My hands shook as I explained, over and over, that this was my home, that something was wrong.
Minutes later, a police car pulled up. Two officers stepped out, their expressions calm, careful.
“What seems to be the problem, ma’am?”
Before I could answer, the front door of the mansion opened.
A man standing in a mansion’s doorway | Source: Midjourney
David stepped outside.
I stared at him, my chest tightening.
He looked startled, then sighed, rubbing his forehead.
“Mom?”
The officers turned to him. “Sir, do you live here?”
A police officer with his arms crossed | Source: Pexels
He nodded. “Yes. This is my home.”
I gasped, stepping back. “What does this mean? You—you took my house?” My voice cracked, shaking with anger and confusion. “You stole it from me! Changed it! Sold it?”
David’s face fell. “Mom, no, I didn’t sell it.” He let out a deep breath. “You… ruined the surprise.”
I blinked. “What?”
A shocked elderly woman | Source: Freepik
He walked toward me, hands outstretched. “I wasn’t going to tell you until it was done. I—I rebuilt the house, Mom. I kept the foundation, but I expanded it. I made it bigger, stronger. I restored it. And the garden—” He gestured to the flowers. “I planted all your favorites. The same ones you used to have.”
I couldn’t speak. My chest ached, too full of emotions I couldn’t name.
A shocked woman in front of a mansion | Source: Midjourney
“I wanted to bring you back when everything was perfect,” he said. “I wanted it to be a gift.”
I stared at the house—at my home, changed yet still standing, and tears blurred my vision.
David took a step closer. His face was filled with regret.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he said softly. “For leaving you. For waiting so long to come back. For not telling you sooner.” His voice broke. “I never should’ve stayed away.”
An apologetic man in front of a mansion | Source: Midjourney
I swallowed hard. The anger inside me faded, replaced by something else—something heavier.
“I thought you forgot about me,” I whispered.
He shook his head. “I never forgot. I just didn’t know how to come back.” He glanced at the house. “But I wanted to give you this. A home. Our home.” He hesitated, then added, “Come back, Mom. Live here. You don’t have to stay in that nursing home anymore.”
A serious man in his garden | Source: Midjourney
I looked at the house, really looked at it this time. The walls were new, but the bones were the same. The porch where I used to sit, the windows that once held my curtains, the steps that led to the front door—it was different, but it was still mine. And the garden… oh, the garden. Roses, daisies, lavender, and lilacs. Everything I had ever loved, blooming in the sunlight.
Tears slipped down my cheeks. “You did all this for me?”
A crying elderly woman | Source: Pexels
David nodded. “I wanted you to have everything you dreamed of.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Then I suppose I should see what the inside looks like.”
His face lit up. “I’ll make us some tea.”
A little while later, we sat together on the porch, steaming cups in our hands. The scent of flowers filled the air, and for the first time in years, I felt home.
A woman with a cup of tea | Source: Pexels
David smiled at me. “You happy, Mom?”
I looked at him, at my son, my house, my garden.
“Yes,” I said. “I am.”
Leave a Reply