Mourning Whitney

The music of your childhood will always stay with you. I wasn’t allowed to listen to contemporary music often as a child. When I did it was on rare occasions, playing on mall speakers, or, my favorite, driving around with my older sisters. Whitney Houston was everywhere: the radio, the mall, doctor’s offices, and television.

The cynic in me will make crack jokes. Whitney was no saint. She wasn’t a musical genius in the league of Michael Jackson or John Lennon. I’m not going to walk around behaving as if the Dalai Lama has died.

I can’t mourn Whitney Elizabeth Houston who grew up around gospel and R&B legends like Dionne Warwick and Aretha Franklin in Newark. I never met the woman. I don’t know her family. I don’t know what her life was like.

Not being an MTV kid, and not a fan of Houston’s acting, I can’t even say I will mourn her face, which aged too fast. I won’t mourn an image of her, bopping around in 80’s videos or standing stately in long gowns onstage.

I mourn the voice that was a pervasive element of my childhood. The songs that were the soundtrack to my life. There was a soaring effervescence to Whitney’s voice that belonged to no other diva. My favorite performance of hers is the duet with Mariah Carey for the film Prince of Egypt. The pop veteran outsang her duet partner in every way, and carried herself regally in the video. It’s Whitney’s voice I mourn, and to say anything different would be hypocritical.

Whitney imploded in front of us. As my friend Cara Schulz remarked, she really died years ago and her body finally caught up. We saw her die publicly. Her arms rail thin, her bizarre interviews, the way she aged too fast for her years, the decline of her magnificent voice and her family struggles. While other celebrities were in the tabloids for entering and exiting rehab, I have no knowledge that Whitney ever checked herself in.

I don’t know why Whitney died in that tub in Beverly Hills. Reports of her behavior that evening seem to suggest she was not at her best. All I know is her music so often spoke of the hope and self-love that her own life seemed to be lacking.

Whitney isn’t a saint. She’s just another talented person who has imploded in public as we gleefully watched. Something is wrong with this whole system. If fans can get Betty White on SNL, where was the massive movement of Whitney fans trying to get her into rehab? Maybe this fandom has a responsibility. Maybe it’s not enough to buy albums and go to the movies. Maybe if we truly love an artist we should be more vocal about their well-being?

And what does Whitney’s death teach us? I think it’s reminder that all things should be in moderation. Following one path, God or philosophy exclusively might not be wise. Dionysus’ wild decadence can lead to madness. Sometimes we need to order of Zeus, of Apollo and Athena. We need to recognize when we are too uptight, but we also need to recognize when we need more order and discipline. I think it also teaches us that being popular doesn’t mean you aren’t alone. Maybe I’m wrong, but my impression has always been that Whitney was a lonely woman.

At any rate, her music is indelibly printed on my life, and my memories. She may be gone, but her name will live on.