ltDidn’t We Almost Have It All?
Less than 24 hours later, and I’m more devastated about Whitney’s premature demise. It’s not so much her death that breaks my heart. It’s all the dreams, hopes, the come back. She’ll never get to plan her daughter’s wedding, or rub Bobbi Chris’s back during labor. She won’t ever see her grandchildren, and Whitney Elizabeth Houston won’t get to see a new generation discover her pop classics. This is the woman who’s voice and videos marked so much of a young, awkward unpopular little girl with big glasses. Though the kids at school made fun of my features, while I struggled through puberty and a out of state move, Whitney was there. I would belt out her songs and believe the future was for the children. I Wanna Dance With Someboday— summer 87. A difficult season, where it felt like my dad was always picking on me and even worse, my mind could not quite grasp that this little girl was becoming a woman. My best friend dumped me for the cooler, prettier, more ghetto girls. She forgot to send me the memo. I became useful to help hook her up with the cute boys who looked right through me.
One thing was sure: every hour, I would catch ths infectious pop song at least once on Donald Simpson-led BET or on MTV.
So this is why I mourn. I can’t control the ill talk of the dead, but I can certainly address it. Shut. Up. There.
And perhaps the idea that a once-trusted spouse contributed to her downward spiral sticks a bit closet to home. I am reminded by this that though it is too late for our Whitney, I am still here.
(Source: husssel, via ameliamagritte)