Since I have done nothing but act like my mother's child and mourn the passing of Whitney Houston for the last 10 days, I knew today's post would be a return, in some way, to The Voice. Early last week, I had resolved to write a fun, lighter post, tentatively titled, "Whitney: Anatomy of a Diva," where I post videos of Whitney singing with other, clearly lesser singers and offer commentary.
But that will have to wait.
After last Monday's post, I got a really thoughtful and thought-provoking email asking about whether or not it was too soon discuss the nature of Whitney's relationship with her former assistant, Robyn Crawford. It took me a few days to respond, because I thought I was deeply ambivalent about the matter. In reply, I questioned the impulse to posthumously out folks, and wondered if we had not found other ways to validate our own sexuality. I made that last claim with a little trepidation, because although I don't find being able to identify with a celebrity in such a way helpful to my own self-esteem, I must acknowledge that others feel differently. (Moreover, I must readily confess that my addiction to poorly produced webseries starring lesbians of color does not stem solely from my thirst for things to hate on.)