The Death and life of an icon
By Nyam Daniel
When I was little girl, I spent hours on my Granny’s veranda singing into a brush, imagining that I was on stage in front of a screaming crowd draped in a sparkling gown.
I wanted to be Whitney Houston with her earth-shattering vocals and impeccable beauty. She was extraordinary, someone who is regarded as the best singer of our time.
As I grew up, I realized that I was better off being in my church choir as background noise. My dream changed to admiration and appreciation for Whitney and her art.
As a child, I was oblivious to the headlines about her spiraling personal life, and I won’t accept Whitney slander up to today.
Still, with maturity, I realized Whitney was human.
She was talented and probably came out of the womb singing an Aretha Franklin song.
No matter what was going on, she could hold it together and get on stage, and you wanted to watch and listen.
As one of my icons, it did not hit me until the day she died, Whitney was like everyone else. She had hiccups in her personal development. Whitney was not immune, nor immortal.
That somewhat leveled things in mind.
I admired many of Whitney’s attributes, but certain characteristics connected us. We shared the same candor, and no matter what happens, I show up and try to do my best.
There is something that connects us all.
There is also an icon in us waiting to break out, and our stories must be told.
I am launching Caribbean America Web as a platform for people with a cultural connection. It’s an opportunity for Caribbean Americans to tell their stories.
Welcome to my veranda.