Trask Avenue

Last night Red, the lovely Ms. Trask and I were buried under a myriad of blankets catching up on recent episodes of New Girl. In the midst of this mindless diversion came news that Whitney Houston had died. My reaction was a sadly familiar one: How awful, but not terribly surprising. Of course I was presupposing the cause of her death (which, as of now, has not been determined and/or made public). My assumption is this is another case of untamed addiction leading to its inevitable conclusion. Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps her demons didn’t directly contribute to her death, although it’s unusual to suddenly die at 48. Frankly, I don’t see much that it matters.

Red, who is 14, has only peripheral knowledge of Whitney Houston. She’s heard of her. Some of her iconic hits sound familiar. She has always been a singer from the past, despite being only 34 when Red was born. While the news of her death was still fresh I asked Red if she ever heard the version of The Star Spangled Banner Whitney performed at the 1991 Super Bowl. (Which today feels like 100 years ago.) She said she hadn’t. I pulled out my iPhone and quickly found it on YouTube. It lasts a little over two minutes. We watched, listening through the unforgiving tiny speakers of the phone. I don’t know the last time I heard or saw this, but it’s been a while. When the song ended Red said to me in a very small voice, “That gave me the chills.” The majesty of Whitney Houston’s gift was on full display that January day two decades ago. She looked young, vibrant and oh so very in command of her voice, her talent and her presence. It gave me the chills too, but I suspect for different reasons.

So many people compromise their talent and destroy their life through addiction. For those in the public eye maybe fame is too heavy a burden. Maybe too much time and money leads down dark alleyways. Maybe certain personalities are more susceptible to destructive excesses. Maybe it’s all this or something else. I don’t know and none of us are in a position to judge. What I do know is this: When someone graces us with an extraordinary gift, a gift filled with beauty and joy, a gift which has the astounding power to lift our soul and make the us forget our troubles if only for a few minutes, when a person like that dies, no matter what the reason, we are all diminished. That’s the harsh duality of beauty. When we see or hear or feel it we rejoice in life’s remarkable possibilities. When it’s taken away we mourn the loss of the person, but we’re really mourning the truth that pure joy is a fleeting gift. And we don’t want to let it go.

But, you know, we don’t have to let it go, not if we try.

Each of us – every single person – has the opportunity and ability to bring some measure of joy, relief and escape to those within our own little spheres of influence. Yes, the world is filled with hatred and bitterness. Yes, sometimes it seems so pervasive that rallying against it is like trying to fill a sinkhole by scooping in dirt with a spoon. So what. It’s true only a handful of people can impact on a large scale, reaching millions and millions of folks and bringing a bit of sunshine into their lives. The rest of us have to settle for contributing in small ways. Whenever we lose someone like that, someone like Whitney Houston, I try to remember for all the happiness they gave us in the end it isn’t the scope of your influence which defines you. It’s the fact you tried.

Endnote: Much like Kate Smith’s God Bless America is that song’s definitive rendition, I hope Whitney Houston’s The Star Spangled Banner will occupy a similar place in this country’s rich musical heritage. It’s difficult to imagine a more deserving interpretation.