It wasn't until later on that I learned what served as the fuel to ignite the high disdain for a woman she never met: my mom's friendship with a Motown insider who shared shady gossip about working with Diana. At the time, I was too young to understand. In my innocent eyes, having introduced the world to the Jackson 5, as the Motown publicity department led us to believe, was reason enough to love Diana.

More than a decade later, when Diana moved to New York City and began hanging with painter Andy Warhol and his nightclubbing crew, I lovingly recalled seeing pictures of her in the gossip columns. Popping-up in paparazzi shots inside Studio 54 and on the cover of 'Interview,' she always looked glam while posing with the glitterati.

My fandom was untainted by Diana's supposed bad behavior. What did I care if she threw temper tantrums or tried to force the other Motown artists, who had known her since she was a funny-looking teenager from Brewster Projects, to address her as Miss Ross?

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