The Whitney I Knew (3 page)

It all seems so surreal, like you're watching it happen from the outside, looking in. And it's all because, when you step up to the microphone, you light up an arena. But the tension and mystery of your fame runs even deeper. You love to share your gift—and it's not about the money or the trappings of fame. It's in your blood. Your mama sang, your family sang. It's what you do. It's what you've always done.

But it's not
just
that you sing. It's that you sing from a place deep within. The world burgeons with great singers, but only a few voices
make people stop and listen and cry. You're one of them. Not by choice, but by Design. And it just so happens that you find incredible joy when you lose yourself in a song.

You tell Anthony DeCurtis of
Rolling Stone
that when you'd watch your mother sing in church, you'd get “that feeling, that soul, that thing . . . like electricity rolling through you”—the same thing you experienced when the Holy Spirit would be on the move in a worship service. “It's incredible,” you said. “That's what I wanted.”

The world watches you get lost when
you
sing—they get lost with you. That's what makes you special. That's what separates your voice from all the others.

Is it worth the pressure and everything you give up when you use it? Sometimes.

Achieving fame doesn't happen on a whim. Sure, we live in an age where YouTube creates overnight success stories. But more often than not, those flames burn out as quickly as they flared up. True fame, on the other hand, is birthed. It begins with a gift. In Whitney's case, it was the gift of a voice and the infusion of a soul that loved deeply all the time. And when those two components mix, you have something uncommon. That's the Whitney I knew.

She lived in the tension of wanting to love those she was close to—to be gregarious and spontaneous because that's
who
she was—and dealing with the tremendous pressure and demands of her fame. It was a fame birthed from her incredible gift, a gift everyone wanted—the kind of gift that gave us that “Star - Spangled” moment.

Hers was a tangible gift that audibly and even visibly set her apart. That's what Whitney possessed. There was no gimmick to her, only giftedness. But with that giftedness came great promise and
great responsibility, the weight of which can be too much for even the most pure in heart.

The world saw Whitney in the tabloids just like it sees Madonna or Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. Our mistake is that we make our assumptions about the kind of people they are based on the manipulative lenses of photographers scrambling to land their photo on the front page of the tabloids. We watch
Being Bobby Brown
and think that the scenes caught on tape constitute Whitney as a person, a mom, and a wife. True, the reality show was not Whitney's (or Bobby's) shining moment. But are we really that eager to remember someone for their worst moments when they've given us so many of their best?

The truth is, those images never constituted Whitney's reality. Her life was not lived at the reality-show/tabloid level. And yet, because that's all so many people saw, it's all they allowed themselves to believe. The public formed their opinion of her through writers and photographers who never met her. To me, that's a tragedy.

Imagine yourself in this situation. You can't escape the expectations of the mob. And it kills you.

It's like what one writer wrote in the
San Francisco Chronicle
when remembering Whitney as a role model: “I'm not talking about the Whitney who succumbed to . . . erratic behavior. Lord knows that the crown—six Grammys, 22 American Music Awards, well over 100 million albums sold, ‘Most Successful Female Solo Artist of All Time' ”—must have been heavy to bear.” Absolutely, it was heavy to bear. And when the expectations of the mob join with the pressures of stratospheric fame, you can begin to doubt your own identity, which can ignite a desire to get it back no matter the cost.

Sometimes we think we own those in the public eye. We buy an album and, back in the day, we'd haul it around in our Walkmans or keep it spinning on our record players. Now we can literally carry songs in our back pockets, keeping little pieces of our favorite artists with us at all times. Some people think this entitles them to a part of that celebrity's life.

Luther Vandross once told me of a time when he was riding an escalator up and a lady who was headed on the
down
escalator recognized him. She made a big fuss when Luther didn't stop and sign something for her, blurting out, “I'm never going to buy another one of your albums again!”

Though Luther couldn't stop—he was on an escalator!—when he reached the top, he immediately hopped the
down
escalator. Upon catching up to the woman, he asked, “How many of my records do you own?” The lady quickly rattled off several titles. Luther then reached in his pocket and paid her a couple hundred dollars and said, “There, that should cover it. I never want you to buy my records again. You don't own me!”

I think Whitney felt all the time like Luther did that day. She couldn't go into a restaurant and enjoy a meal without someone coming up and saying, “I don't mean to bother you . . .”
Don't mean to bother you?
Whitney was gracious to people, but she still was never able to eat a meal uninterrupted when in public.

Whitney bore that weight. And yes, she embraced it at some point, but it never becomes less of a burden just because you acknowledge it as your reality. It's always with you. It was always with her.

When you and I see a famous person like Whitney flying all around the world, singing in front of hundreds of thousands of
people, we marvel, “That must be the life.” In some ways, it is an incredible opportunity, but not without its share of darkness. When you and I are sick, we can call in to work and take a sick day. But when 20,000 fans become angry and demand their money back, and the concert promoter then wants to turn around and sue you for millions of dollars if you fail to deliver the goods, you must learn to cope. Let me break this down for you so you can understand how the pressure links back to the talent—the performer.

Let's say you're a major act like Whitney was, and a concert promoter in London agrees to pay you $2 million to come to his venue. That promoter must then pay for event insurance and marketing and must also pay to fly you and your entire band to the venue. Maybe the promoter struck a deal with Coca-Cola, who agrees to sponsor the event (this means they will pay the promoter a huge sum of cash) with the contractual understanding that they can sell Coke at the venue exclusively.

If you fail to perform, more than an “I'm sorry, I won't be able to make the event” will be demanded of you. The promoter, now with millions of dollars fronted to make this concert happen, is about to be sued by Coke and other vendors. Not to mention the money he paid to get everyone to the venue. The dominoes fall, and in this fictitious scenario, you would be the one to take the fall.

This is a very simplified picture of what happens, but hopefully it paints a little of the scene for you.

When entertainers sign the dotted line, they are promised huge sums of money. But the Bible says that to whom much is given, much is required. And that principle holds true in this situation. The performer will receive millions, but they are also on the hook for millions if they fail to deliver.

The pressure to perform and be on top of your game can overwhelm even the most grounded celebrities. It's more than any one person can deal with.

Another diva (and sister in the Lord) who knew what it was like to be a longstanding premiere act atop the music world was Donna Summer. In a 1978
Rolling Stone
cover story, Donna admitted to Mikal Gilmore: “Sometimes it gets to the point where you've been pushed for so long by this . . . monstrous force, this whole production of people and props that you're responsible for, by audiences and everything that rules you, until you take it upon yourself to be a
machine
. And at some point a machine breaks down. I feel like I want to cry most of the time and just get rid of it, but sometimes I get so pent-up, I can't. And that's when I get afraid.”

That's why Whitney loved her friends. That's why she wanted family around her constantly. That's why she'd call me from London and ask me to hop on a plane just to hang out with her. That's why, when I did hop that plane to be with her, she lovingly coerced me to continue on to Paris. That's why she and her assistant, Robyn Crawford, coaxed me into buying some ridiculously expensive leather jacket that was way too lavish for me. She loved deeply and wanted to be loved deeply in return, and when she was, she felt safe and at home.

We all feel that way, right?

In order to keep some semblance of normalcy, Whitney held on to the little things of life. Little things that you and I take for granted—like driving a car—helped her keep life in perspective.

To Whitney, getting behind the wheel was one way to feel like a
real person again. She
loved
to drive. The problem was, she was a horrible driver! It makes me laugh even now to think of how she'd want to drive us around when I would show up in Atlanta. I'd tell her, “Girl, I don't want to die today. So
I'm
driving.”

No way. She'd have none of it. She wanted to drive, and when she wanted to do something—look out! One time we drove around for forty-five minutes because she couldn't find her house!

Driving the two of us around? Pure gold to Whitney. She could talk to me on those rides around town. She could laugh like she so loved to do. She could let it all hang out.

Not all celebrities pursue the “glamour” that comes with the occupation. If it meant being normal for an hour, Whitney would rather get lost on a mini-road trip in downtown Atlanta than be flown to some exotic concert destination. She liked going to her friends' homes to hang out—as she sometimes did with Pauletta and Denzel Washington. She adored going to the mall, but after about five minutes, there'd be a train of people behind her. She also loved going to movies. But that, like everything else, came at a price: the price of privacy.

She didn't want to give up her public life, but it was taken from her by a force beyond her control. Some stars, like Whitney, would sing background vocals the rest of their lives if they could. If it were possible to perform and use their gift in some kind of anonymity, they'd do it in a heartbeat.

Whitney saw that desire for “normal” in my sister, CeCe, who she nicknamed “the reluctant star.” We already had named CeCe “Betty
Crocker,” because while my sister loves to sing, if she had her way, she'd sit at home and sing while folding laundry.

At some point, I realized that, buried in that little “reluctant star” moniker that Whitney gave to CeCe, was a window into Whitney's own heart. And I think she'd admit this today if she were still with us.

Singing was Whitney's escape. On one occasion in 2002, Whitney and Bobby (Brown), my brother Marvin, Gloria Estefan, and Stevie Wonder, among others, attended the opening of the One and Only Resort, another property of the Atlantis Hotel in the Bahamas. They showed up as part of the audience. They weren't there to sing; they were there to be with friends and to enjoy the evening. But then I asked each of them to the stage. And that's when the magic happened.
GO TO TheWhitneyIKnewVideos.com TO VIEW THIS AND OTHER BONUS MATERIAL.