The Whitney I Knew (20 page)

Do what you do.
Whitney's frequent words to BeBe

February 18, 2012. I crawled out of bed and looked at what I was about to wear. I had picked out my suit days earlier. It was pressed and properly tailored, just as my mother had taught us as we were growing up.

Mom always told us to dress appropriately for the occasion. You tend to wrinkle your nose at such notions when you're a kid. Yet now that I'm grown, it turns out that I like dressing for the occasion. On stage, I like to keep it tight and tasteful. At home, I like to be comfortable.

There's something about dressing your best. But this day was different.

I eased into my shirt and straightened my sleeves. My cufflinks turned and fastened, I was getting ready for a Whitney event. Only this was one I never expected to attend: her funeral.

To compound my sadness, there was no one to call, no one to joke with, about what colors they were wearing on this Saturday morning. There was only the quiet of my room and the song—or
songs
, rather—piling up in my head. And all of them were Whitney's.

At some point, I knew that those songs would spill over from my head to my heart. When was that coming?

I slipped into my suit jacket and made my way down to the car. This was her last event. This was the last time I would dress up for Whitney. I wanted to look good, but I didn't want to care about looking good. I wanted to be able to take off the suit and have this particular event go away.

Everything about that morning reminded me of her. Even my cufflinks. Because even my cufflinks mattered to her.

The world will remember Whitney. They will revel in her voice, they will deconstruct her public and private lives, and they will marvel at her beauty. They will make a big deal about how stunning she looked and the custom outfits she bought from top fashion designers. I suppose all that is valid. But hidden in the glitz and glamour is Whitney's voice. Her other voice. The voice that spoke to me in clothes.

“What you wearin', my brotha?”

“No, no. What you wearin', my sister?”

She and I spoke in clothes.

Whenever I would attend one of Whitney's events—a concert or awards ceremony or whatever—Whitney and I always checked with each other about the clothes.

“What you wearing?” she'd ask.

“Sis, don't you worry about it. You'll see when I get there.”

Then, at the event, she'd remark, “Oh brotha, you lookin' fine!”

It might sound funny, even superficial, but clothes were a common language that we both enjoyed.

The magazines and television media kept close tabs on Whitney's flair and fashion. It was part of the gig.
Millions will see you; you'd better look like a million bucks
.

And she did.

Into the car now. On my way to the funeral.

Funerals are just events. You get dressed in your best, drive to the site, and go through the motions—simultaneously numb and yet thoroughly present. Meanwhile, the birds still sing. Traffic still hums. Kids play on the playground—their world unaffected the way your world is affected.

The world moves on and forgets. That morning, however, I wanted time to stop, to rewind.

As we drove to the church my heart grew heavier. And even though the car kept moving forward, time—in a way—did rewind in my memory. The moments before I would step inside Newark's New Hope Baptist Church pressed on, while my mind went back and remembered.

Soon other minds and voices would remember too, recalling to each other—and to a watching world—the person we loved. We'd dress her up in our loveliest thoughts and hear her sing one last time. The Whitney we knew. The Whitney we could never forget.

I recall how Whitney loved dignity. She loved the dignity and confidence that accompanied a person doing what they do best. It was something she knew like few of us do. When she sang, her confidence freed you to enjoy every nuance of the song. She took pride in her craft; she brought a dignity to it.

In the scheme of that morning, I could still hear Whitney telling me, “Now, pull it together, BeBe. Don't mess this up. Don't embarrass me! Stop thinking about me and do what you do.”

That was a common refrain between her and me. Before a big performance, we'd call each other and our pep talk challenged us to bring honor to our names and to the songs and to the event.

When I finally arrived at the funeral, I stepped out of the car and stepped in line like everyone else. But I was ushered in because I was singing. Once inside the church I saw Robyn Crawford, made a beeline for her, and hugged her. Robyn was there from the beginning. When I met Whitney, I met Robyn. And we loved each other instantly.

Then, there was Aunt Bae. She always cooked for us when we went to Whitney's house, and she traveled with Whitney for years, preparing home-cooked meals for the niece she loved. I hugged Aunt Bae. I knew her pain was heavy, heavier than my own.

I noticed people who represented different types of relationships. Some were dignitaries, and they reminded me of Whitney's broad stripes—how she knew and touched so many different kinds of people.

“Pull it together,” I kept hearing her tell me. I strolled through the mass of people and considered how each carried their own grief. “Pull it together, brother!”

Finally, when I stood up and began remembering her out loud, I felt like I was standing in someone's house. I felt like the family had gathered, to remember.

It was as if the sanctuary was a huge family room. Once you're all assembled, and it's time to do family business, everyone sits together. Though there are some people you love and others that you don't really like—still, they're family. That's the defining dynamic.

I could see the loved ones and the not-so-loved ones,
all
in the family room of that sanctuary to “get it together,” to say our best good-byes to Whitney.

I'm moved by it—
something
moved me. It moves you too.

It was always ringing in my head. It was in her. It was always in her. Was it her voice? Or was it something much deeper?

I hear Whitney's cousin, Dionne Warwick, call me up to the church's stage there in Newark, and I remember it was Dionne years ago that called Whitney up to the stage at the Grammys. That was Whitney's first Grammy—the first of many. That was Dionne introducing the world to the girl I knew as my friend. That was when Whitney first hit it big, singing “Saving All My Love for You.”

Dionne opened the envelope on that night and called her name, and then started leaping because it was Whitney who won. America's rising star rose from her seat, decked out in her red dress, approaching the stage. The two embraced. What pure joy!

Now, however, the tables are turned. Dionne isn't calling Whitney to the stage. In fact, nobody will ever call Whitney to the stage again, except in singing one of her songs. Dionne was there when Whitney became “Whitney Houston”—knew her long before she was
the
Whitney Houston—and now she was sharing her cousin with the world, because Whitney was so much more than her celebrity.

That “so much more” is the reason I am sitting in a pew on this gray Saturday morning in February, listening to people talk about her. Suddenly, in death, everyone wants to hear about the
real
Whitney. What should I say?

I am heading up to the stage. But this time, I'm not standing in for Whitney at an awards ceremony because she couldn't make it. I'm eulogizing my friend. My sister.

I had hoped Dionne would skip my name. No such luck.

When she finally calls for me, I want to turn around. I want to sit back down. Maybe if I don't ascend the platform of that church—if I don't say or sing anything—I will wake up and Whitney will come walking down the aisle yelling, “Family!”

That's what she'd done several years earlier when my brother Ronald passed. He was forty-eight when his heart failed him—the same age as Whitney when her heart gave out.