I was completely shocked when I heard Whitney Houston died this weekend. When I read the news online, I ran to tell my husband and his friends. I called my parents, my brother, and texted my friends. Everyone’s responses were the same. Shock and disbelief. We reacted as if we knew her in some strange way.
Yet now, just like in the wake of Michael Jackson’s death, everyone is saying she died of an overdose and looked terrible in the days leading up to her death, while other reports talk of how upbeat and vibrant she was. Does it really matter?
TMZ is reporting she had a beer and a glass of champagne prior to her death. Other outlets say Whitney was partying “heavily” with alcohol at pre-Grammy related events. You know what, if I was at the Grammy’s, I’d be drinking too. And who hasn’t had a cocktail while getting ready to go out? The media is trying to make a story out of events that anyone else might normally do.
I know, I know, they found prescription drugs in her room. And yes, I remember the Diane Sawyer interview where Whitney admitted to drug use and claimed “crack is whack!” OK, so maybe she needed some media training with that one.
Whether Whitney died of drugs, drowned in a bathtub, committed suicide, or died by reasons we are not privy to, the end result is still the same: she is no longer with us, but still one of the greatest artists of all time. Why tarnish her amazing musical legacy with presumptions? We all know she had issues, married bad boy Bobby Brown and did coke.
At the end of the day, Whitney is gone. A mother has lost a daughter, a daughter has lost a mother and countless fans are mourning her passing as we overplay her greatest hits.
I don’t care how Whitney died, I’m just sad she’s gone. She shaped some of my most cherished memories growing up. Whether I was reveling in a breakup with “Where Do Broken Hearts Go” or dancing senselessly with my girlfriends to “I’m Every Woman,” I will always remember Whitney as the icon she was.