12.17.2004
The Greatest Love of All
"I saw the news this morning, saw your face accross the screen. And as I poured my coffee I picked up a magazine but as I turned the page, and looked inside, there you were again..." ~Whitney Houston, Where You Are
In May of 2003 Savoy Magazine writer Denene Millner, with additional reporting by Melissa de la Cruz, penned a heartfelt open letter to diva Whitney Houston entitled, What Chu Lookinat?
Moved by the attempt to reach a woman everyone thought would forever reign as “The Queen of All Bitches Who Ever Thought They Could Sing”, I decided to write my own letter to Whitney. Hopefully, if we all take time to let her know how we truly feel she’ll get her shit together. Here's to hope...
Dear Whitney:
I know life is hard, believe me I do. Sometimes it seems the more I try to get my shit together, the more confusing it becomes. So I know exactly what it feels like to be down and out, with absolutely nowhere to turn. But Whitney I’m saying, what’s up? What’s really going on? Can we talk?
I remember the first time I heard your voice; I was in the sixth grade at Concord Baptist Elementary School. One of my friends [strange how his name escapes me] snuck his mother’s walkman to school with your debut self titled album. Almost instantly I fell in love with you. There was something about your pose on the cover that just spoke to the heart of me, you were beautiful. Even before I heard your voice I claimed you as my wife. The thought of that day brings back a flood of warm memories. Damon [that’s his name] asked if I wanted to hear one of your songs, I shrugged and mouthed “sure”. He took his walkman and began fast-forwarding the cassette to his favorite song, Saving All My Love For You. As soon as the words began spilling from your mouth I knew right then that you and I were meant to be. Sure I was only twelve, and still lived at home with my mama, and had absolutely no way whatsoever to wine and dine you—none of that mattered because in my heart you belonged to me. And I vowed right then and there to save all of my love for you, and you only.
I set about begging my moms to purchase the cassette for me, which was a challenge in and of itself since gospel was her music of choice and *blues*, her personal reference to secular music, was Satan’s. But much to my delight she picked up the set one day while we were out shopping and for the next hour and a half I asked her over and over, “Maaaaaaaaa! Are we going home soon?” To which she repeatedly replied, “No!”
Two and a half hours later I was in my bedroom staring at the ceiling listening intently as you unraveled our love one track after the other.
I’ll admit. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, loving you. At that age even I supposed it was puppy love, and truly believed once I grew into myself I would cast you aside and seek love elsewhere. But through the years my heart has remained fixed on you. I’ve followed your career and have thoroughly supported you—even when I thought some of your decisions were not the ones I’d thought someone of your standing should make. Like the whole Bobby Brown fiasco. Honesty, it took some time for me to get used to the idea of you marrying that punk, maybe it was because well, I always thought you and I would meet one day, fall madly in love and make beautiful music together. Maybe it was because I believed you were more woman, more lady, more class than he ever deserved, and marrying him seemed more like desperation than love. I like the media criticized and demonized the union and him and gave it a year tops.
But you sure fooled us huh? I can almost hear you singing those familiar words of First Choice “It's not a perfect love, but I'll defend it, cause I believe that's what God intended.” And wholeheartedly believing what He has joined together let no man put asunder. And isn’t that what love is supposed to do? Standup, fight and prove the doubters and nay-sayers wrong? By making the impossible possible? The improbable, probable? I bless you for that lesson. I bless you for sticking by your man. I bless you for not allowing me or the rest of the world to define love for you. I know now, more than ever what true love resembles…I know it is as the great poet Khalil Gibran once proclaimed:
Love is both the good and the bad. The ups and the downs. The ins and the outs. And you and Mr. Brown have surely shown us that through it all love still reigns supreme. But as a fan, a friend, and a reliable source of your income, something—and please do forgive me if this comes out wrong—just ain’t right. But its like, for whatever reason I just can’t put my finger on it. Believe me I’ve tried. Lord knows I tried, but for the life of me I can’t seem to figure out why the hell your love for him hurts me so bad.
Before him there was life. Before him there was focus. Before him you were a bright and shining morning star. You were the future. You were *it* in the flesh. Mariah Carey tried but even she with her falsetto trained multi octave voice was no match for the heart, soul and love that filled your voice and consistently sent you to the top of the charts. You had a gift girl. A gift so many around the world loved and respected and admired, and wished—God how they wished—theirs was as bright and reliable as yours.
I remember the Bodyguard Tour. I remember sitting in the audience literally in tears listening as you promised to always love me. Your voice was so clear, so succinct, so perfect. I cried out I love you! And you hollered back: I love you too, baby! And you made my life. You acknowledged our love and held it up for the entire audience to see. I left that concert on cloud motherfucking nine, fully aware of the power of you. I even managed to snag an autograph from your mother Cissy who sat just a few seats away from me. I had a piece of you, a tiny, tiny piece of you but to me it was more than I ever had, so I cherished it...
I remember. I remember. I remember.
Living ones’ life in the public eye must be tough. My heart goes out to you. It must be difficult living by your own terms, only to be ridiculed by a public that has no idea what life is like day to day for Whitney. No one knows your struggles but you. No one understands your highs or lows better than you. And so this letter is not meant to judge you as much as it an invitation to you, to open up to me. Talk to me Whitney. I’m willing to listen. I’m willing to maintain an open mind at all times and I promise not to judge you, or run off and tell everyone what I’ve learned. I love you, and all that matters right now to me is you. Your life. Your health. Your future. And right now all of that is in jeopardy. I don’t listen to you like I used to, and when I do I almost always reach for the archives. I purchased your new CD but have yet to force myself to listen to it. I’m afraid it’ll end our struggling relationship, and I don’t want it to end. I want to be there years from now, cheering you on, loving you still. But, all of that is up to you…
I have loved you since I was twelve years old, twelve year old, and I don’t want to stop now. Please, talk to me…
Your number one fan,
Chris.
P.S. I still believe in Miracles. Do you?
|
In May of 2003 Savoy Magazine writer Denene Millner, with additional reporting by Melissa de la Cruz, penned a heartfelt open letter to diva Whitney Houston entitled, What Chu Lookinat? Moved by the attempt to reach a woman everyone thought would forever reign as “The Queen of All Bitches Who Ever Thought They Could Sing”, I decided to write my own letter to Whitney. Hopefully, if we all take time to let her know how we truly feel she’ll get her shit together. Here's to hope...
Dear Whitney:
I know life is hard, believe me I do. Sometimes it seems the more I try to get my shit together, the more confusing it becomes. So I know exactly what it feels like to be down and out, with absolutely nowhere to turn. But Whitney I’m saying, what’s up? What’s really going on? Can we talk?
I remember the first time I heard your voice; I was in the sixth grade at Concord Baptist Elementary School. One of my friends [strange how his name escapes me] snuck his mother’s walkman to school with your debut self titled album. Almost instantly I fell in love with you. There was something about your pose on the cover that just spoke to the heart of me, you were beautiful. Even before I heard your voice I claimed you as my wife. The thought of that day brings back a flood of warm memories. Damon [that’s his name] asked if I wanted to hear one of your songs, I shrugged and mouthed “sure”. He took his walkman and began fast-forwarding the cassette to his favorite song, Saving All My Love For You. As soon as the words began spilling from your mouth I knew right then that you and I were meant to be. Sure I was only twelve, and still lived at home with my mama, and had absolutely no way whatsoever to wine and dine you—none of that mattered because in my heart you belonged to me. And I vowed right then and there to save all of my love for you, and you only.
I set about begging my moms to purchase the cassette for me, which was a challenge in and of itself since gospel was her music of choice and *blues*, her personal reference to secular music, was Satan’s. But much to my delight she picked up the set one day while we were out shopping and for the next hour and a half I asked her over and over, “Maaaaaaaaa! Are we going home soon?” To which she repeatedly replied, “No!”
Two and a half hours later I was in my bedroom staring at the ceiling listening intently as you unraveled our love one track after the other.
I’ll admit. I had no idea what I was getting myself into, loving you. At that age even I supposed it was puppy love, and truly believed once I grew into myself I would cast you aside and seek love elsewhere. But through the years my heart has remained fixed on you. I’ve followed your career and have thoroughly supported you—even when I thought some of your decisions were not the ones I’d thought someone of your standing should make. Like the whole Bobby Brown fiasco. Honesty, it took some time for me to get used to the idea of you marrying that punk, maybe it was because well, I always thought you and I would meet one day, fall madly in love and make beautiful music together. Maybe it was because I believed you were more woman, more lady, more class than he ever deserved, and marrying him seemed more like desperation than love. I like the media criticized and demonized the union and him and gave it a year tops.
But you sure fooled us huh? I can almost hear you singing those familiar words of First Choice “It's not a perfect love, but I'll defend it, cause I believe that's what God intended.” And wholeheartedly believing what He has joined together let no man put asunder. And isn’t that what love is supposed to do? Standup, fight and prove the doubters and nay-sayers wrong? By making the impossible possible? The improbable, probable? I bless you for that lesson. I bless you for sticking by your man. I bless you for not allowing me or the rest of the world to define love for you. I know now, more than ever what true love resembles…I know it is as the great poet Khalil Gibran once proclaimed:
For even as love crowns you, so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth, so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Love is both the good and the bad. The ups and the downs. The ins and the outs. And you and Mr. Brown have surely shown us that through it all love still reigns supreme. But as a fan, a friend, and a reliable source of your income, something—and please do forgive me if this comes out wrong—just ain’t right. But its like, for whatever reason I just can’t put my finger on it. Believe me I’ve tried. Lord knows I tried, but for the life of me I can’t seem to figure out why the hell your love for him hurts me so bad. Before him there was life. Before him there was focus. Before him you were a bright and shining morning star. You were the future. You were *it* in the flesh. Mariah Carey tried but even she with her falsetto trained multi octave voice was no match for the heart, soul and love that filled your voice and consistently sent you to the top of the charts. You had a gift girl. A gift so many around the world loved and respected and admired, and wished—God how they wished—theirs was as bright and reliable as yours.
I remember the Bodyguard Tour. I remember sitting in the audience literally in tears listening as you promised to always love me. Your voice was so clear, so succinct, so perfect. I cried out I love you! And you hollered back: I love you too, baby! And you made my life. You acknowledged our love and held it up for the entire audience to see. I left that concert on cloud motherfucking nine, fully aware of the power of you. I even managed to snag an autograph from your mother Cissy who sat just a few seats away from me. I had a piece of you, a tiny, tiny piece of you but to me it was more than I ever had, so I cherished it...
I remember. I remember. I remember.
Living ones’ life in the public eye must be tough. My heart goes out to you. It must be difficult living by your own terms, only to be ridiculed by a public that has no idea what life is like day to day for Whitney. No one knows your struggles but you. No one understands your highs or lows better than you. And so this letter is not meant to judge you as much as it an invitation to you, to open up to me. Talk to me Whitney. I’m willing to listen. I’m willing to maintain an open mind at all times and I promise not to judge you, or run off and tell everyone what I’ve learned. I love you, and all that matters right now to me is you. Your life. Your health. Your future. And right now all of that is in jeopardy. I don’t listen to you like I used to, and when I do I almost always reach for the archives. I purchased your new CD but have yet to force myself to listen to it. I’m afraid it’ll end our struggling relationship, and I don’t want it to end. I want to be there years from now, cheering you on, loving you still. But, all of that is up to you…
I have loved you since I was twelve years old, twelve year old, and I don’t want to stop now. Please, talk to me…
Your number one fan,
Chris.
P.S. I still believe in Miracles. Do you?
