I stood alone in the center of Clackamas Town Center mall on a temporary stage. I wore a pleated skirt, black flats, a blouse, a sort of perm.
Without any musical accompaniment and with fear like I’d never imagined, I gripped the sides of my legs and prepared to sing a heart-stopping ballad. A song my hero, Whitney Houston, first had sung about me.
“I believe the children are our future. Teach them well and let them lead the way. Show them all the beauty they possess inside.”
In a shaky soprano, I deliberately sung each note of “Greatest Love of All” while my papa offstage looked at me proudly, tears welling in his eyes.
With everything in me, I wanted to impress the people in the audience, the skaters who’d stopped on the rink, the people holding shopping bags who paused for curiosity-sake.
I wanted my talent to startle the production assistants holding the clipboards and the mix of middle-aged men and women who sat at the judging table, choosing kids for a national cable channel talent contest.
I was 12-years-old, at the height of insecurity, and yet something in me believed I could do it.
I believed I was the future. I believed somewhere deep inside I did possess the something beautiful Whitney sung about, even though most days it felt hidden behind scraggly bangs and bad posture.
Some girls took the stage that day with their batons, their keyboards. A boy might have played a trumpet, cheeks puffing. I don’t really remember.
What I do remember is how I wanted more than anything to sing like Whitney. I wanted to sing for Whitney.
For years before and after, my sister and I danced whenever we’d play her cassette or hear her on the radio. I loved the slow songs — “Where Do Broken Hearts Go?” and later “I Will Always Love You” — and the upbeat “How Will I Know?” and “I Wanna Dance with Somebody.” I studied her jeans and mini skirts and white tank top dance moves, and I wanted to move like her, be like her, sing like her.
Months after the talent contest, I’d sit in the upper balcony of Memorial Coliseum with my Uncle Don and watch the most beautiful earthy angel sing elegant and confident in one gorgeous outfit after another.
White gossamer gown, jade mini dress. I had them all memorized.
Over the years, as I watched her decline, I felt sad for the loss of a hero. I could no longer find in her eyes the sparkle light or see the strength that ran deep.
The other night after I heard of her death, I cried for addiction-ravaged lives. I cried for Cicely Tyson’s little girl who sang gospel in the church and who ended life early, with a voice unable to hit the notes that once covered my arms and legs with chills, made me cry, made me want to sing.
The other day, I watched a clip of Whitney singing the National Anthem at the Super Bowl back in the early 90’s and noticed something I’d forgotten.
As she proceeded to the anthem’s crescendo in the most exquisite version of the song I’ve ever heard, I saw a glimmer of shine on her upper lip.
And I remembered. Remembered the way her face gradually covered with beads of sweat when she sang.
As a girl, that was the only giveaway to me that her singing required any effort. That her gift didn’t just slide across golden vocal cords and a perfectly opened mouth of bright teeth.
When I saw the glisten those many years ago, I would remember, oh yeah, my hero, she’s human.
She’s like me.
Connecting through the power of stories written, spoken and lived
![Sometimes nothing says it quite like the way of a child. Before the rest of the house wakes, I read the account of Easter morning in the Jesus Storybook Bible: "And it seemed to [Mary Magdalene] that morning, as she ran, almost as if the whole world was singing for joy-- the trees, tiny sounds in the grass, the birds...her heart." The tomb is empty. Jesus is alive, and so are we. And it is new. Once again. Yes, it is always new...He is risen indeed!](https://scontent.cdninstagram.com/t51.2885-15/s320x320/e35/17934124_1877271335863004_8139172358331039744_n.jpg "Sometimes nothing says it quite like the way of a child. Before the rest of the house wakes, I read the account of Easter morning in the Jesus Storybook Bible: \"And it seemed to [Mary Magdalene] that morning, as she ran, almost as if the whole world was singing for joy-- the trees, tiny sounds in the grass, the birds...her heart.\" The tomb is empty. Jesus is alive, and so are we. And it is new. Once again. Yes, it is always new...He is risen indeed!")
Oh my word Ashley. I swear, your words evoke such feeling, waves of goosebumps crossed up and down my legs and arms. Tears in my eyes, a running nose. I’m sorry that I hadn’t made the connection when Whitney died that my dear girl(s) would be feeling her loss too, remembering the idol who so inspired them to reach deep inside to bring out their very best. This is yet another elegantly written post from my dear and tender-hearted girl. I love you, Ash!
Thank you so much, Mama. xoxo!
Oh sis, Whitney’s music is undoubtedly, the music of OUR era. Countless memories of singing and dancing with you to her ballads and bee-bops!
To this day, your courage in putting yourself out there to stretch your God given talents, is one of my favorite things about you. In fact, you’re still doing it-Draw Near is testiment to that! Xoxo
I remember us looking in the full-length mirror while we sang Whitney with pretend microphones and danced all over the place. You are right — so “our” music! Sweet memories. Thank you for your comments about courage. Means so much, Sissy.
Ashley . . . you write with such beauty! Thank you for sharing your words with us. I am thoroughly enjoying your blog. Much love to you and your family!
Renee, thank you so much. I’m so glad to see you here and appreciate your comments. Blessings to you and yours, too!
What I remember too, about that night long ago were those outfit changes! That, and that incredible voice! Most of all though, the smile on a young girls face as she watched her idol do her thing. So glad to have been a part of that.
Great blog!
Oh, thank you, Uncle Don. That night represents one of my most special memories from childhood. Thank you for making that happen and for sharing in the joy with me. A treasure, truly.
Oh Ashley, I love getting these glimpses of the child you once were and hearing things that shaped you into the beautiful woman and writer you’ve become! What a good reminder that we all are just human with various talents and abilities (though sime are more outstanding then others) but we also each have our own struggles (and sometimes addictions) that can lead us down hill.
Thank you, Becca. It’s such a blessing for me to share these memories and solidify them in my own mind. And yes, it’s so good to remember our shared humanity, isn’t it?
Ashley, i am heartsick over w Houston’s death and how hard it has been on her daughter. Reading your story made me realize the number of people who must be affected so deeply by the loss of her. You helped lighten my spirit w the beautiful way you expressed your connection to her :).
Thank you, Deb. It is heart-breaking and so tragic. A daughter’s love for her mama is a powerful thing.
Wow you opened up the memory bank! So sad that tragic circumstances brought that about. I remember that you were crazy about her (and who wasn’t) You would sing along with her and other artists (who shall remain nameless). You have always been adorable in that and other ways. May Whitney finally be at peace.
Amen, Papa. Such a treasured memory for me. Thank you for always encouraging me to dream big dreams.
Nothing of that quality is effortless, it just appears to us that is so.
I react similarly to reading your work.
Wow, somehow I missed this comment many moons ago and discovered it this morning. Thank you, JT. I appreciate you.