The Whitney I Knew (2 page)

When my daughter, Miya, was four, she fell in love with the television movie
Cinderella
. The one in which Whitney played the Fairy Godmother and Brandy played Cinderella. We taped it for Miya so she could watch it. And watch it she did. Over and over and over again.

One day Whitney stopped by the house. The doorbell rang and Miya ran to see who was there. When she opened the door, she stood frozen—dumbstruck. Whitney walked in, and Miya ran across the room and grabbed me.

“Daddy, Daddy! The Fairy Godmother is here!”

Whitney clapped her hands, threw her head back, and laughed. “Oh, Lord! I spent all this time trying to be a singer, and now I'm a Fairy Godmother.”

I can just imagine Miya's little mind working—how she would conjure up her little Cinderella world. I used to watch her play in her room. She'd act out both parts, first Whitney, then Brandy. How I'd laugh: my precious little daughter living in the princess world with Whitney.

On that day, when the doorbell rang, my little Miya faced her hero. But in this case, her hero was more than just a character in a fairy tale played over and over on the television. Now her hero was a live human being who took a real interest in her life.

The same woman who played the Fairy Godmother also played the real-life role of Miya's godmother. And maybe at that time in her young life, Miya didn't fully understand the “godmother” idea, but she would over time. Over time she'd see past the glass slipper and the “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo” and into the
real
person. And that time would come by way of laughter . . . play . . . and, later, sadness.

To my Miya and her brother, Benjamin, and to my nieces and nephews as well, Whitney was as real as anybody else. She'd call the house and even stop in from time to time. She held those kids. She played with them. She sang to them. She was around like any friend of the family would be.

The public forgets that behind the glowing television screen a real person lives and breathes and eats breakfast just like
everyone else. A person with friends and even enemies. A person with feelings.

Celebrities get lonely—even if they're superstars.

They get sad.

They get desperate.

They get lost.

They desire to be found.

Whitney wasn't just a singer who wore opulent outfits on stage; she was someone who liked to wear blue jeans and tennis shoes, she liked to play practical jokes, and she loved children. The fairy-tale character on the television found her way into my daughter's heart, but it was even more than that. She found her way into Miya's real
life
. Whitney was like that good friend of the family who everyone refers to as Uncle or Aunt So-and-So. No one remembers when or how they became part of the family; they've just always been so. Always family.

Whitney was Whitney. And that's why we all loved her. She brought herself into everything she did. She made the fairy-tale land her own. She brought that sparkle to
Cinderella
(and would later do so as Jordin Sparks' mother in her final movie,
Sparkle
), and my daughter dove into it headfirst.

When I run into people in my community, they ask how the family is doing and they say how sorry they are for the loss of my friend. And nearly everyone says, “I loved Whitney.” There was universal upheaval when she died on February 11, 2012. I think people feel as if their Fairy Godmother—or maybe more so, Sleeping Beauty—has fallen asleep but isn't waking up.

I remember Oprah's interview with Whitney a few years ago. Whitney's involvement with “the princess movie,”
Cinderella
, prompted
Oprah to call her “our black princess.” I would agree. I think she was that for anyone who heard her sing. She was that for my daughter.

But eventually we all grow up and the fairy tales we love to act out in our pretend worlds lose their luster.

My daughter is sixteen now. She just attended her first prom. She dressed up in her pretty dress and walked out the door, her best version of Princess Whitney. But the fairy-tale world has changed now. It changed the day I received a phone call while at dinner with my son, Benjamin.

My phone started going crazy. It was my cousin Cindy.

“Have you heard what's being reported?” she asked.

“No.”

Cindy told me what she knew. I hit “End” on my iPhone with a trembling finger.

I tried to call Pat, Whitney's sister-in-law, but as I was dialing, my mom's number showed up.

“Mom?”

“Have you heard?” she asked.

“I'm going to call Pat to find out . . .”

“Oh, BeBe. CeCe and I just hung up with Pat. It's all true.”

Everything changed with just the flash of a phone screen.

It changed when Benjamin and I drove to my daughter's work and told her that Whitney had died.

It changed when we cried together.

It changed when I realized my kids were more concerned about me than their own hurt.

Even now, I look at my phone, thinking she'll call. But she doesn't.

If you can, lean in and listen to that voice—the one that sang the National Anthem, the voice that drew us into
The Bodyguard
. Imagine that voice in the form of a phone call. Can you hear it?

“Hello-o, my bro-tha,” she would sing as I answered. Up and down the scale she'd soar—her typical phone greeting to me. We sang our hellos.

“Hello, my bro-tha. Whatcha doin' today? Mmmhmmm.”

And of course, I would respond in kind. “Whatcha' doin', my si-ster! Can you get together sometime? Ohh-ohh, mmmhmmm.”

We'd perform our conversational opera, she and I. Can you hear it? Not just a voice, but a person behind the voice. The playful sister always wanting to sing, even on the phone.

That same playful girl and I were planning my fiftieth birthday party. Hers would follow the next year. We'd talk about what we'd do for the party and who I'd invite. And now, when I think about that birthday, I only hear an echo of our discussions. It's a heavy echo. And I find myself singing back to it the same way I'd sing to her phone calls. But the echo fades and only my voice skims the empty hallway.

She's gone. And I miss her.

When I started singing, it was almost like speaking.
Whitney

Close your eyes. Imagine yourself walking down the street.

Any moment a person with a camera could appear—s
keet-skeet
,
skeet-skeet
—capturing your image for the world to see in the tabloids the next day. There you are, plastered on cheap paper for everyone at the grocery store to gawk at as they pay for their fruit and toothpaste. Imagine how you would think about your day. How it would change your routine to have to prepare yourself for the possibility of being stopped by anyone and everyone, just so they can have a picture of you.

Now imagine that you're intensely relational—a real people person. You love connecting deeply with others. You love your friends. And not just with a “you're a great person” type of warm fuzziness, but a savage love that wants and pursues friendships—that longs to be inside the hearts and minds of others.

Keep your eyes closed and continue imagining. Not only do you love people with every ounce of your being, not only do you thrive on personal loyalty and get lost in the security of your friendships and family, but you're stalked by the international media. Suddenly, it's hard to keep friendships private and family loyal.

In fact, it's hard to keep anything private. You're cut off from a normal life. Why? Because you pursued fame?

No. Because you possess a gift.

This gift was given to you by God, and you know it. You sense it when you use it. You communicate to people on a beautiful and mysterious level when you sing, and you love to sing. And suddenly millions of people the world over love to hear you sing. They love your gift.

Oprah calls you “The Voice” and will say after your death: “We got to hear a part of God every time she sang.” The first time Tony Bennett hears you sing, he phones your mentor, Clive Davis, and says, “You finally found the greatest singer I've ever heard.” Music critic Ann Powers of the
Los Angeles Times
calls you a “national treasure” and writes that yours is one of those voices that “stands like monuments upon the landscape of 20
^th
-century pop, defining the architecture” of your era.
New York Times
music critic Jon Caramanica calls your gift not just “rare” but “impossible to mimic.” Oscar winner Jennifer Hudson tells
Newsday
that you have taught her “the difference between being able to sing and knowing how
to sing.” Lionel Richie states to CNN that you knew how to “turn a . . . melody into magical, magical notes.” Fellow songstress Mariah Carey deems yours “one of the greatest voices to ever grace the earth.” And Celine Dion—a peer if ever you had one—describes your voice as “perfect.”

You are honored by your industry, your peers, your fans—and even MTV (they put you third on their list of the 22 Greatest Voices) and
Rolling Stone
(which says that your true greatness was in your “ability to connect with a song and drive home its drama and emotion with incredible precision”). What's more, you become the most awarded female artist to ever walk Planet Earth, with hit songs in nearly every
Billboard
genre and sales of more than 170 million albums, songs, and videos.

Companies clamor to bottle up your gift so they can make a buck. Oh, and they'll give you some of that money too. That's the game. It's played with exorbitant amounts of cash, which makes things easy for you—or so it would seem. You ride jets all over the world. You own several homes in the best cities. You can literally have whatever you want. Nothing is off limits. The world is for sale, and you're buying. That's the perception
and
the reality.