For Whitney Houston

source; Pitnerest

Kevin Costner stood behind a pulpit in his Sunday best at Whitney Houston’s childhood church, mourning her death. He shared the story behind The Bodyguard and how he knew instantly he wanted her involved even though he was asked, “Do you realize she’s Black?” He noticed early on that despite all the talent she had, despite all the beauty, she was still insecure. Still asked, “Am I good enough?” To which many would click their teeth, thinking, “How could one of the best singers in the world be insecure?” And sure, that’s easy to think about as I bit my lip watching. Bu I, personally, was trying not to cry as he ended his speech with: If he could tell Whitney something today it would be, “you weren’t just good, you were great.”

The day my body decided to act like a plunging roller coaster, I was dizzy tryna “sleep it off.” Whitney sang me to sleep. “My Love is Your Love.” Fred Hammond’s No Weapon woke me up. Withe very hospitalization that followed, Whitney and Fred have been played.

Whitney was our play pretend auntie - especially after Cinderella with Brandy. Her voice could go from a saintly falsetto to belting, sustaining breath longer than I ever could. She had this dynamic personality and a vocal range like her singing was the gateway to heaven itself. Yet she was told by family, by lovers, by too many surrounding her and benefiting off her: She was not good enough. In fact, she was crazy. Then the public agreed. To have hardship and be Black when you are supposed to be “just a singer” means to lead a life pretending no one has tainted it. Was ridiculed for having a toxic, then abusive relationship. Only because it distracted from the singing. I know I’ve said it before, but to be Black is to be nonhuman no matter how much money our talent makes us. It’s to supersede expectations to only be told, “Do it again but better.” Her addiction made her bad stock. loving a woman made her a heathen, the abuse she endured made her a nobody, and support was never considered something a “strong Black woman” needed. Everything was always Whitney’s fault - never those around her. She took the hit each time.

I am not Whitney - nor will I ever be, but I do cry about her often lately. It seems no matter what we do, as Black folk, that is the question that lingers: “Was I good enough” “Why wasn’t I good enough?” After listening to Kevin Costner’s speech, I sobbed to her Grammy performance of “One Moment in Tim” - snotty nose and all. Because you can hear it. The eagerness to be something meaningful.

I think we can relate to Whitney. I collected the gigantic tears from my face in a bottle of wishes, thinking, “That is all I want, too.” One moment and I can die in peace. Just one moment where everything is falling into place and I know I am gonna be here. Or see for certain that I have left an impact. Or a part of my heart has lived on in another. That is all I notice. I tend to ravenously search through cancer. Before cancer. Probably after cancer.

If anyone could speak to me as a self loathing child, if anyone could speak to me as a self blaming adult, I would want them to say while I am alive to hear it, “You aren’t just Good, Walela, you’re Great.” I want to do the same in return. I don’t want to be thirteen years old, picking rose petals off the bouqet sitting atop my grandmother’s coffin at her funeral, thinking of everything I wish I could have told her. I want to receive flowers while living. I want to give flowers while I am still able. I don’t want to rely on being good enough by someone else’s impossible standard. I want to be good by my own standard, in my own time. I want to be great, I want to be good, and I want to fail.

Perhaps if I’m wishing real hard, I want to be half of the sunbeam Whitney was. I want to evoke the type of emotion with the sound of my voice that makes you jump into the human form of yourself and say gah damn ain’t it wild to be alive? I want to know about love. Like how bell hooks writes about it. I know love is far more vast than what a romantic partner can give me. I want to love people, and I want people to experience my love. I want to understand love in all its forms; I want to stop begging for love, for the bare minimum; I want to stop being afraid of giving love. I want to give others a fraction of what her music and films, like, The Bodyguard, Waiting to Exhale, and The Preacher’s Wife, gave to me.

No, Whitney, you weren’t just great - you were brilliant. You are brilliant. And any good thing I do is for the kid singing along to “My Love is Your Love” on a silver portable CD player in the back of my mom’s car, looking out the window for love to find us both.