Maybe we have a problem, Houston. Maybe the loss of so many “greats” in this small fragment of time is actually an issue. Maybe folk who seem to have already served their purpose on this planet and know what’s coming are all too instinctive to jump ship and be out before stuff starts to get real, um, real. Out here. I’m just saying.
Etta James, Steve Jobs, Joe Frazier, Andy Whitfield, were kindof understandable. They were ill. Amy Winehouse, Heavy D., DJ Mehdi , Gil Scott- Heron and Don Cornelius were all surprises. To me anyway. Weird. Philly’s own renowned journalist Fatimah Ali’s passing was incomprehensible. There are many more who are worthy of mention. Yes… many, many more…
So to be in the movie theatre with my mom, watching my colleague Q Deezy’s indie feature film Exit Strategy and hear that whilst we were sitting, giggling aloud and I was gushing over my friend’s accomplishment–one of the greatest greats who ever opened her mouth to sing a note was rushed off this life plane. I didn’t know how to feel. Houston… we have a problem. WE lost Whitney.
I remember being a little girl and wanting to be Whitney Houston. Sing like her. Look like her. I also remember being an adult and having somebody say I looked a bit like Whitney Houston and wanting to smack the shit out of them. Like my face went immediately to *aghast*. Like I already knew the connotation. I was like, “Are you saying I’m so skinny, I look like a crack head?” Clearly embarrassed that a compliment could be so complicated the scramble happened. “Nooooooo. I meant, Pre-crack Whitney.”, They said. Really. “pre-crack Whitney”.
I promised myself I wouldn’t write a post about Whitney Houston’s passing. I made this promise because I was sooooooooo disappointed in her. People always say that when people die, you’re supposed to forgive them their transgressions and such. It’s not that easy for me. The truth lingers for me. How I feel doesn’t just go away because they go.
I was such a fan growing up. Just like the rest of us, I watched in awe as Whitney Houston made any choice that made sense for her and made absolutely “none sense” to us and… maybe I took it all as hard as I thought she should have. I watched her fawning over the clown she called her husband and felt a little sick to my stomach. Particularly because I had a crush on Bobby Brown when he was in New Edition. Maybe I was jealous. But then, I suppose after I discovered Al B. Sure, I realized Bobby Brown wasn’t actually attractive or really that talented and kindof an asshole. I dunno. Maybe I instinctively knew what she found out years later. She was waaaaaaaay too beautiful and amazingly talented for him. But whatever.
Then the drug thing. I could just gag. There were so many things that happened. So many reasons to want to gag. So many ways Whitney Houston proved exactly how human she was. So many ways I found myself angry at her by way of my own humanness. I didn’t think I would even cry for her passing. I was so nonchalant when I heard the news… Tears well. They’re still here. Waiting in the wings.
Watching the rise and downward spiral of Whitney Houston felt exactly like that moment I discovered my parents were human–and were not, in fact, the perfect beings they told me they were. Consequently, it was similarly as devastating. To the point where I found my *aghast face* just about any time Whitney Houston’s name was mentioned in conversation. And yet, Whitney Houston’s life and death isn’t even about me. Were her choices any of my business? No. Was her business any of my concern? Nope. Was her downward spiral any reflection on me AT ALL? Um…
I suppose it took me all these many years as a grown up, going through my own personal set of life explorations, rises, downward spirals and rises again to find that seed of compassion for a person who couldn’t make peace with her own life. Who coupled with a soul way far beneath her and attempted to shrink herself to fit into his world. I know exactly what that looks like because I’ve done it.
Maybe, I’ve been so angry at Whitney Houston for all of these years because I see my own life reflected in hers in a tiny way. Truly, I looked up to her. But maybe I saw her as the embodiment of everything I wanted to have and be and to little humanoid me–she fucked it up by actually being a humanoid too. Maybe I watched the train wreck that became her life and saw way too much of my own life in it–minus the glamour and accolades. The no frills version. But a version, none the less.
Granted, I’ve never done drugs, but I can say with some amount of emphasis that I’ve both realized and wasted my potential. I’ve shat upon, ignored, mishandled a God-given gift. I’ve mingled with the wrong crowd. I’ve wanted to just have a regular life with no one looking up to me. I’ve made a baby with a selfish asshole. I’ve tried to fit myself into painful shapes to stay with said selfish asshole because it made sense to do at the time. I’ve tap danced with my dignity. I’ve felt lost. I’ve danced with the devil. I’ve made a mockery of opportunities given me. I’ve made absolutely zero sense to everybody else. I’ve loved hard. I’ve given my all. I’ve shared every ounce of my soul on a stage in front of relative strangers. I’ve found my voice and lost it and maybe, found it again. Even though I’ve never met Whitney Houston, I can say with some amount of emphasis that I am Whitney Houston. Her struggle was my struggle. Her triumphs were mine. Her failings were mine. Her story is a page in the book I’m writing. Her passing is personal. Besides the fact that we were literal strangers. Why? Because part of this lesson we’re being kept here to learn is that WE are all connected.
Houston… we have a problem. WE lost Whitney… and Don and Etta and Fatimah and Michael, and Heavy and Amy and so, so, so many more. Houston, it appears our greats are jumping ship. Why? Maybe that’s what we’re all still here to figure out.
The moral of this story? No clue. Just some food for thought. Thank you for reading this though. Peace and abundant “we’re all connected” blessings. Love, -e-.