‘It’s Not Right’… On Whitney Houston, Black Women, And Loss
By Guest Contributor Andreana Clay, cross-posted from QueerBlackFeminist
Like others, I can’t really believe that I’m writing about the death of Whitney Houston. I learned about her death in passing, as I was preparing for a party. And I hadn’t thought about Houston in years, not since seeing her run and literally jump into Bobby Brown’s arms on one of his releases from jail years ago. It wasn’t until I sat down hours later, read some of the news stories and tributes, and started watching videos that a wave of memories and emotions came over me.
The first video I watched and then repeated over and over (until Joan finally said “stop watching Whitney Houston and come to bed”:) was “You Give Good Love” from her debut album, Whitney Houston, released in 1985. Watching it immediately took me back to junior high, 8th grade, when I effectively made the switch from tomboy to girly girl. The year that my mother said I could wear make up (no eyeliner) and let me start going to Boys and Girls Club dances with my best friend Angie, my cousin. Angie kind of looked like Whitney Houston, and both were part of my coming of age as a teenager (along with Sheila E., Lisa Lisa, and Prince). As I watched “You Give Good Love” over and over, I was reminded of that time, my relationship with my cousin, Black women, and loss.
I love(d) Angie. We were close, inseparable even when we were teenagers. Our dads, brothers, were roommates for a long time when we were little, but it wasn’t until 1983, when she moved into the neighborhood we lived in and my sixth grade class that we started to hang out on a regular basis. We went to different junior highs, but the Boys and Girls Club dances, junior high basketball games, Friday night skating rink, and even Sunday morning church services were our playgrounds.We were serious running buddies. Angie pressed my hair for the first time (not really, but this is how I remember it) in her kitchen, showed me how to keep our bracelets “gold” (clear fingernail polish) and taught me how to kiss boys. She was everything to me, not just my best friend, but my family. Her relationship with her dad, whose house we spent the night at regularly, helped me get closer to my own father, who, up to that point, I barely spoke to.
“You Give Good Love” was the song for me because it marked such a moment of possibility. It was Houston’s first hit. It showcased the range of her voice, hinting at how far that range could and would go on future songs. The freshness of her look (loved the pink outfit with Black jacket; I wanted to recreate it but couldn’t), signaled the modeling work she’d done in the past. She was flirty, as was the song, which also had its own sexiness. All of this coincided with what felt like a new beginning for me as well, as I moved further into a pretty girl stage. I held her in my back pocket, her hopefulness, her confidence.
As Whitney Houston’s popularity soared and her star was firmly established, Angie and I entered the ninth grade. Only one of us was pregnant. I didn’t know it until she was five months in; we just thought she was gaining weight. But I distinctly remember sitting in her bedroom, Mickey Mouse phone next to her bed and commenting on her unbuttoned pants, after we had stuffed ourselves with burgers. “Yeah, I guess I’m getting fat.” She was out of school for most of the Fall, had her baby right after her birthday in December, and I picked her up for school one morning in mid-January. Things were different. We were still close, still running buddies, but we were also “grown.”
I stopped listening to Whitney Houston after that first album. Too much had happened to really stay in what felt like an innocent time. More was going to happen, but the end of 1985 was the end of that “innocence” for me, Angie, and the rest of my girls. There were more pregnancies and more heartbreak in years to come. In the next two or three years, crack swept into my small city, putting a significant dent in the structure of the Black community I was growing up in. By my junior year, people I went to high school with who were small-time pot dealers moved onto crack. Older folks I knew went to jail, and close family members (and friends) were addicted. That lasted for several more years, and, in some cases, continues today.
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