When a 22 year old dies, it is a tragedy. Undoubtedly, when a man must bury his daughter and a grandmother must bury her grandchild, it’s a tragedy. Nonetheless, my first reaction when I heard that Bobbi Kristina had passed away was that of relief—relief for her.
I, like everybody else, don’t truly know anything about her life. I just know what the tabloids presented us with. I don’t have the authority to speak as one—but I will.
She was born to parents whom I am sure adored her, but were addicted to drugs, dysfunction and fame. What she got in wealth, she lacked in attention. And when you are a child, you want and need attention, specifically from your parents.
As she grew, so did the dysfunction, it appeared: divorce, drug overdoses, rehab, public family feuds, the Whitney & Bobby television show, arrests, etc. Life was unstable and chaotic to put it mildly.
And then she lost her mother.
When a person is getting punched over and over and over again she tends to hold her breath. Life just delivered blow after blow after blow, and that little girl had to be holding her breath. I just imagine her last breath being a long sigh of relief before she was carefully carried to her new, more peaceful home.
My intention is for Black people to love themselves and each other. It sounds somewhat silly, I guess; but oftentimes my people are overwhelmed with negative images, bad news, and stereotyped characters about us. I’d like to flip that script. I’d like to remind us, as often as I can, how incredible we are. Read more