Sunday night, I watched the Oscars. I am not a die-hard fan of the Oscars, or of Movies, in general, but I enjoyed watching them. Watching clips of beautiful movies, seeing and hearing people's speeches of gratitude, and the sheer joy and surprise on their faces at having won. The dialogues between actors, and seeing these many actors behave normally, naturally, and as themselves— instead of pretending to be someone else.
During the Oscars there is always a slideshow of any prominent people in film who have passed away over the passage of the year. One of those, this year, was Whitney Houston. Being that her death is pretty recent news, I feel like I am still processing the fact that it occurred. I feel a little silly at how sad her death has made me feel, but in thinking it through, I connect it to a story from my childhood.
My grandma and I used to hang out a lot. We'd drive around in her little maroon-colored car and run errands, and get an ice cream cone from McDonald's (and one for the dog, Bradley, in the backseat), and every once in awhile that one song by Whitney Houston would come on the radio. You know the one. Every time I would hear her smooth voice start in, a capella, on those first measures— my grandma would start in with the same story.
"I'll never forget the time," she'd say, chuckling to herself, "you were just a little kid. Maybe three years old..."
I'd smile and nod, knowingly, ready to hear the story. Always proud to hear it.
"You were just sitting there in that seat, the one you're sitting in right now..." she'd continue, telling about how I was just hanging out, not seeming to pay much attention, until that one drum beat. THE drum beat. The epic drum beat.
"... and all of a sudden out of nowhere, you were just belting."
"AND I......WILL ALWAYS, LOVE YOUooooOOOOOooooo..."
Baby Austin, third birthday party. Mastered the squinty toddler smile.
I always appreciated that story, for one reason in particular.
In a way, for me, it has become a vivid example of my inborn vigor, and enthusiasm. My "zest for life", as my grandmother always calls it. I've recently heard it called "gushing", which I think sounds about right. Overflowing and probably unnecessary excitement over some silly little thing.
And it seems that in some small way, I connect Whitney, herself, with that enthusiastic, overflow-y part of myself. When I heard the sad news, that story immediately popped into my head, and I felt a loss. A reminder that childhood doesn't last forever, and that life never stays the same (though some character traits can stick with you, thank goodness).
Sometimes, I just feel like it is so so strange to grow up.
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