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Whitney Houston’s Nephew Writes Open Letter About Step Mom Pat Houston!

Whitney Houston’s nephew Jonathan Houston has penned a letter exposing his step mother Pat Houston….

Jonathan posts on Facebook

The Grinch Who Stole Krissi (Bobbi Kristina Brown); Obsession, Jealousy and Greed. An Open Letter to The Houston Family.

“We Don’t Need No Hateration, Holleration In This Dancererie!” -Mary J. Blidge, Family Affair
I am Light, where there is Light there shall be no darkness. The first step to loyalty is respect. In short, my Step-Mother of twenty sum odd years, Pat Houston has singled handedly convinced me that she is a Sociopathic Master-Superfan Manipulator who was willing to demolish anyone in her path to gain control of the proverbial throne and fortune of my Aunt Whitney E. Houston, thus my cousin, Bobbi Kristina Brown. She should be investigated. Pat, please step down and relieve yourself of all duties pertaining to The Estate of Whitney E. Houston. This open letter serves as a petition to the prior.
I’ve been mulling years now. Asking myself “Why?, Am I tripping…overthinking perhaps?,” I decided to move on, until Christmas Day 2017. I, with clarity heard my Step-Mother, Pat Houston speaking of herself in such an astronomically unparalleled (based on worldly fact) egotistical regard, on my lovely 20-year old sister Rayah’s Instagram live Christmas Day feed. (CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO AUDIO) As I continued to listen to the conversation that Pat was having with her cousin, I became shocked to hear the negative tone in which she was speaking of my transitioned Aunt Whitney (Tia) and cousin, Krissi; of who’s fortune and name she continues to enjoy, boast and profit off of. According to Georgia’s one party consent wire tapping law, it makes it a crime to secretly record a phone call or in person conversation “originating in any private place” unless one party of the conversation consents. In the original audio, all were aware of the live broadcast, my Sister had been asked specifically, “Are you live?”, to which she nodded her head yes, in addition, the private conversation was no longer private on Instagram (careful kids). I was shocked not only on Christmas, but in the house that “you know who” purchased and/or ‘payrolled.’ Misleading. Isn’t this contradicting the loving, peaceful, empathetic demeanor that Pat has portrayed to the World? I was somewhat relieved, knowing Pat, to me, her actions and manipulations have always painted her Christmas Day words. On a world stage though? Aside from her self-proclaimed productive relationship with the deceased then, her character has always been flawed based on my observation. I’m not too sure Bobbi Kristina or her Mother would appreciate this woman leading their posthumous legacy. In a world where everything moves fast, I ask the reader to pause, take the data that I present, make your own judgement.
“ … I walked out there like Michelle Obama.”
I am by no means perfect, and I haven’t always been in or around “The Fish Bowl”. I don’t however manipulate and exploit family members to and beyond their death. That can’t be tolerated. Growing up in (or “so far removed from”) “The Houston Fish Bowl” as Pat refers to it, stands a silent rule to remain loyal, respectful, and mouth shut about anything that doesn’t keep “The Fish Bowl” clean. Pat doesn’t deserve that respect from me, as she married into the already prominent “Fish Bowl.” As I write this Facebook note, several books, movies and documentaries have portrayed half truths and/or lies, mostly misrepresented by Pat. Most of it I wasn’t around for, I can only stand for my perspective and understanding. What I did see and experience for years is the selfish, cold hearted woman that is represented in the audio, oppose to the woman of distinction that my Step-Mother attempts to display to the world. I strongly feel family business is family business, until its bullshit family business on the airwaves.
My parents divorced early, I must have been three or four. I remember Pat, who had been around for a while and extremely nice to my sister and I, turned me off completely. She was bragging about the size of her engagement ring and how she would touch her chin when approached by [imaginary] men on the streets. By that age I was used to teachers asking me personal questions about my Aunt Whitney Houston (Tia), who was peaking in her legendary career. The red flag went up. Pat continued to speak of the many celebrities and as a result, private security that would be in attendance. I never witnessed any of this as my older sister Aja and I weren’t invited or told about the date of our Father, Gary’s wedding to his mistress. Confusing because she was not and still is not a celebrity, A-F. I remember this so clearly because I’ve constantly rewinded to the moment in my mind whenever Pat looked down from my Aunt Whitney’s high horse, a pattern that continues today. I was a smart ass, old-soul, cocky, sarcastic kid. My soul knew she was full of shit. I was told Tia was an honorary bride’s maid by several family members and friends, all of whom were also a no show to the North Carolina ceremony. From what I understand, at the time Pat was unwelcome by Tia and Uncle Bobby, she can be seen in the most recent documentary fawning over the couple, its present day nauseating, especially considering today’s reality. Perhaps this is what sparked her obsessive plot against Bobbi Kristina and her mother. Growing up, I witnessed Pat leave a voicemail on my mother’s answering machine calling my mother Monique, “a Class Act Joke”, of which she vehemently denies stating she “…would never do such a thing!”, telling me “…thats why your fat” during my adolescence, and denying my Father’s biological role in birthing my older sister Aja, on her 18th birthday by certified mail! Completely outrageous! She was sure to try to confirm with me stating, my “singing talent is genetic, while my sister’s is not.” While enrolled at Morehouse College in 2009, Pat informed me that my Aunt Whitney Houston was essentially jealous of my sister and I because we were enrolled in college and Bobbi Kristina was not. Absurd. She continued to note how “Whitney is lazy and thinks the world owes her something”, with disgust. I usually play dumber then the mark. Pat came in the picture, trying to be a singer, she had a gig with my father, the flyer of which I still have in a photo album. I’ve known Pat basically my entire life. She and I’s relationship has always been straight forward, cut and dry, us both saying the least–yet enough to be comfortable. I’ve always urned to keep in touch with my lovely younger sister Rayah and my father Gary, he who never showed any interest in TRULY KNOWING Aja and I. If I wanted to get in touch with my Father, I was forced to go through Pat, the controlling, manipulative gatekeeper. My Father has never attempted to be a friend, confidante, or role model to me whatsoever. Growing up he would proceed to speak in long winded rants about the love he had for my sister and I, which I still believe and know to be true. Over the years, he’s become empty and figuratively blind, regurgitating only the words and perceptions of his Wife. To this day Pat is on my fathers voicemail greeting, gross.
I was looking forward to February 11, 2012. That was the day my older sister Aja would be home to visit from school in Virginia. I bought two tickets to see Comedian Mike Epps at Atlanta Civic Center, the irony, he just filmed the movie Sparkle with Tia. Five minutes before the intermission, my maternal second cousin Andrell texted me, “Sorry, about Whitney.” I whispered to Aja, “Something happened to Tia.” I replied to the text, “What?!”; “She died”. I didn’t believe it, I couldn’t, I called my father, he briefly told me “Whatever you heard is true”. I was sure he couldn’t stomach it either. In shock, we decided to stay for Mike Epps’ segment, considering our driver left us at the venue (pre-uber). We tried to laugh, thinking “Tia would want us to stay”. At the end of the show Mike announced her passing to the crowd, stating she passed and dedicated the show to her. So eerie, the entire crowd gasped and screamed, one man shouted, “Oh Jesus!”, tears flowed. The first phone call I made the next morning was to my Father, his first words were, “Your mother can’t come to the funeral, and we don’t have money to pay for you and Aja to get there!”, as my Sister and I were independently full-time employed college students. Wait, What? My mother who had no interest in coming? Your Sister just died and the first thing on your mind is my mother of whom you’ve been divorced from for twenty years? I knew it wasn’t him speaking, he was a puppet attached to Pat’s strings.
“I didn’t have anything against Grandma..Pat is doing that..” Bobbi Kristina Brown, 2014 (text message)
Throughout all of the chaos, it’s never dawned on me this was the first time my father and Pat picked up the phone for one and a half years. I repeatedly called, no answer. In the few years prior to Tia’s death, I had not seen her often. The last time I saw her and spoke to my father and Pat, prior to her funeral, was August 9, 2010 during her birthday party, she pulled off with a warm, exuberant “Jonathan, Tia Loves You!” My greatest memories were really of Tia, oppose to Whitney Houston, as I’ve never seen her perform live EVER, that I can remember. Krissi and I stayed in touch throughout my high school and college years consistently through Sidekick 3 instant messenger and text message, mostly joking and checking on each other.
Outside of the beautiful service, Tia’s funeral was a drag. Instead of staying at a posh Manhattan Hotel with my father, Pat and their family, my sister and I stayed where we were welcomed, at my Grandmother Dr. Cissy Houston’s New Jersey Condo. Pat tried to orchestrate my Sister and I to ride in her limo before the service, we stayed where we’ve been welcomed. Later, I was told how upset my Father, Step-Mother and Sister Rayah were that Aja and I didn’t ride with them. Hogwash. I noticed there was a strange middle aged man riding with them, I hadn’t seen him ever before. During the service, pointing, Pat asked me to “get Raffles’” attention for her. The same Raffles that drove her Range Rover during Krissi’s funeral motorcade. The same Raffles that was covering Ray J’s head exiting the back of The Beverly Hilton on February 11th. (CLICK HERE TO VIEW VIDEO) The same Raffles that opened the door to Krissi and Nick Gordon’s Beverly Hills Beverly Wilshire Suite for another cousin and I during Grammy Weekend 2014. I glared at Raffles and pushed past him. It was weird, I honestly felt like I walked into some sort of obvious sketchyyyy situation. My cousin and I walked in, shocked to see Krissi and Nick asleep on a bed of room service plates and cigarette butts. I woke Krissi up immediately, Nick eventually woke up with two cheeks full of food, he continued to chew and swallowed his soggy, slimed burger, we all screamed, grossed out. Krissi, my other cousin and myself spoke for about an hour in the living area. Raffles watched silently, repeatedly trying to catch Krissi’s attention, once oddly pulling her to his lap, she got up immediately. He was clearly administering the “purple and party”, but to two twenty year olds? Nick Gordon still lay asleep. I can’t, won’t and don’t judge anyone’s medication. I knew Raffles was under direction of Pat Houston though, as I’ve been told several times to reach out to Raffles to get adjusted in entertainment circles in Los Angeles by my Father. No, thanks.
I don’t believe Pat loved Krissi enough to fight to keep her alive or even attempt to keep her healthy. It’s clear all Pat cares about is extending the celebrity aura of herself and Rayah. More than once Pat speaks of the “they” that say she is trying to mirror herself and Rayah to Whitney and Krissi. Who is “they”? “They” truly being her own conscience and fear, and now, Me. What ever happened to “Can’t beat them join em?” To have someone like Raffles around, a man who has a video on YouTube explaining how to hack celebrity circles, an International Con Artist (CLICK HERE FOR VIDEO). In the video, Raffles states “Go for the kill and don’t take no for an answer, especially from someone who doesn’t have the power or liberty to say yes.” Go figure. It looks like a business move (for lack of better terms) Pat, not a family, empathy based move. But what do I know? Krissi dozed off and lost consciousness mid-conversation, we were left with no choice but to leave her how we found her, with a silent prayer and painful glossy eyed stare with my cousin who walked in with me. Raffles silently watched us leave. That was the last time I saw her alive. With disgust, I didn’t bother to visit Pat and my Fathers suite, room 973 (New Jersey Area Code). The day before, on January 24, 2014 at 6:32:56 PM PST, I walked into room 973, by chance as room service walked in, prior repeated phone calls to my father and Pat were avoided. I was recording the encounter to highlight to another cousin the hilarious yet skillful and posed reaction Pat would inevitably display upon seeing me. As the recording continued, my father stated “Nick and Krissi, yea they ain’t gonna make it…We’re just trying to do the right thing, get this documentary done, and Cirque du Soleil, if we can…” At the time it went in one ear and out the other. I was used to my Father’s nonchalant and empty tonality. Pat was the business contact, again he speaking her words. Implying troubled children won’t make it prior to their untimely death only proves the careless approach Pat and my Father has with everyone whose last name isn’t “Franklin”. One year later almost to the day Bobbi Kristina lay in a coma with trauma to the head. I can’t release that audio by law, California is a two party consent state.
That year, 2014, Krissi and I kept in sporadic blocks of contact. I just wanted to and always let her know that someone truly cared, she was my cousin but she was also my friend, as most first cousins are. We both understood how to deal with Pat. During that year, Krissi texted me asking about our Grandmother Cissy’s health, later to inform me from her perspective, Pat was manipulating our Grandmother in several ways. Krissi was labeled many things, yet she was so far from dumb, an old soul for sure. She called me on Christmas Eve 2014, what I deem as a cry for help, literally. I was literally in front of customers at work at a restaurant during a short stint in Downtown Pittsburgh. Crying, she said, “They’re not my family, they’re trying to fuck me over.” I asked “Who? Can I call you right back? I’m at work!” Worst. Mistake. Ever. She never answered her phone again. That is the last time we spoke to each other. Regret. After my aunt’s passing, and the media spectacle spearheaded by Pat, my trust for Pat and my Father was waining. Could I have done something?, If still a resident in Atlanta, I could have gone over there? I have three sisters and take pride in being the only male amongst women. I was her “Big Cousin” as she referred to me, not just in age, in stature, I told her if she needed anything, call. A week later, I moved from Pittsburgh back to Los Angeles. Unfortunately, the phone call was moved to the back of my mind. A month later Bobbi Kristina was in a coma.
“They kill me with that you know…We… having Rayah shine for the paparazzi trying to be like Whitney and Krissi. What the hell? Hell no [inaudible] They checked out, they checked out. We ain’t trynna be like that. We aint trynna follow that path, Ain’t nobody trynna follow that path.” -Pat Houston
When Krissi fell into a coma in January 2015, I called the Roswell Georgia Police out of panic, informing them of her tearful phone call, as police don’t take third party tips. I immediately received phone calls from several family members, informing me to “mind my business”, stating I was “so far removed”. The entire year was rough, days passing by, things apparently getting worse. I landed in Atlanta in early July, my first stop, The Gwinnett County Hospice where Krissi’s body lay. I showed up unannounced, my only concern was truly to see and speak to Krissi. Double-edged, that particular morning it was announced that after about five months, Krissi only had days to live, I believe her feeding tube was removed that day (She lived for about two weeks more). I was able to see her, I’m no doctor, but when I spoke, her eyes opened began to roll back and forth. When I stopped speaking, her eyes stopped and closed. My amateur perception suggests that as being someone who had some consciousness. According to several news sources, Bobbi Kristina was surrounded by plenty of amateur perceptions, most notably, Taiwo Sobamowo, a woman who has been indicted for impersonating a nurse (CLICK HERE FOR ARTICLE). Sobamowo is from or has ties to North Carolina, the state where Pat and her family are from. I can’t be the only one who thinks this is strange. While sitting in the lobby of the Hospice in Duluth, Georgia, my father Gary stated his frustrations with the entire process, “Krissi is disrespectful, I can’t stand her. I can’t wait until this shit is over.” He spoke of Papparazzi following them everywhere. He also mentioned with pity how Krissi “pulled into their driveway” the day before her “accident” and passed out at the wheel. As if this was normal. And all he did was nothing? I was confused, heartbroken, and disgusted to say the least, once again I was sure that it was Pat speaking through him. The tone in which Pat and my father have always referred to Krissi has been negative, implying that she is a horrible example for my sister Rayah. The discrepancy arises on the numerous interviews and television broadcasts where she has proclaimed their love for Krissi. My Father, absent from the screen or silent. If the ‘Paps’ were an issue why did Pat parade on TMZ every morning from the front door to the front parking spot, opposed parking by and entering the side or back door? Her lies mirror a 2011 conversation in which an extremely notable Award Winning Music professional questioned me and informed me that Pat was parading around her yearly “Teen Summit” event “telling everyone she took great care of me.” Far from the truth, yet anything for the image.
July 2015 was a rough, depressing month, in my sweltering 200 sq foot Los Angeles Koreatown apartment. I was essentially waiting for the news to break that Krissi transitioned. On July 26, something told me to snap out of the depression. I cleaned my apartment and began to meditate. Almost immediately, I felt an intense electrical shock that rose up my spine, I opened my eyes and jumped up from the jolt. Less than a minute later, my friend Darnell called from Atlanta, within moments of our conversation, he asked if I was watching the news. I had and have never felt a jolt like that. Krissi was gone.
In Atlanta, minutes before leaving the house en route to the viewing of her body, my father informed me that my Sister and I could not attend with the rest of our Family. I asked him “Why?”, he told me to speak to Pat. Pat didn’t answer the phone, but I politely insinuated through text: if we were specifically excluded from the family again, especially during this time, the world will know about her and her motives. She immediately reneged and informed me that Aja and I must drive behind in Aja’s civic behind the motorcade, there was “no room” for us. At the time, paying my respect to Bobbi Kristina and being around family, specifically my other first cousins was my only concern. Never mind my Father’s wife’s motive. I personally believe my sister and I would destroy her paparazzi photo ops portraying her perfect family, hinting my Father had a previous marriage of which she interrupted. Never mind what others told me about my parents marriage, a mistress begs for her manipulative character. I apparently threatened her idealistic family mold during the Sparkle movie premiere. I told Pat several times prior to the premiere that I would be in Los Angeles during the weeks of the viewing. She ignored all of my phone calls since then. I arrived at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel prior to the premiere, I walked into room 973, my father made an about face, walked into the bedroom area and returned, regurgitating Pat’s words, “He can’t walk the Red Carpet with us.” This is and always has been her concern. I sat alone on the other side of the theatre. With Nick, Krissi and a few other friends we partied that night into the morning. Should I go on?
During Pat’s Christmas rant it becomes clear that she is fixed on elevating her personal legacy to the likes of Michelle Obama, Oprah, and Whitney Houston. This is where the “Sociopathic Superfan” attributes remain so consistent. Pat holds a stance of superiority that builds a personal vendetta against other women specifically, who in anyway may seem more appealing. This vendetta was evident until Tia’s last second above ground. During the 2011 burial service, the media attention and her privilege of eulogizing The Greatest Singer of All Time wasn’t enough. As the casket of the woman everyone in the tent adored was being lowered into the ground, descending from the heavens was a silent sense of peace. Pat synchronized a dramatic, tearless, emotional outburst, forcing medical staff to rush into the grave site to attend to her. Everyone’s face absolutely grew stale. At that moment, for a second, I perceive my father was even sick of the act. Once again, it was Pat’s time to shine. Within two weeks of the funeral, Pat was spearheading a media campaign to promote herself and exploit Krissi on Oprah, HER reality show, “The Houston’s on Our Own” (which started taping a month after my aunts death), and other media platforms. During the Oprah interview Pat stated throughout the screams and staff dropping to the floor when realizing Tia’s death, she “calmly walked” down the hall. (CLICK HERE FOR OPRAH INTERVIEW). In the Christmas Rant, Pat speaks on how Krissi [didn’t proceed past 7th grade,] yet in the Oprah interview she brags on how she was Bobbi Kristina’s caregiver for that period of time. Is this evidence of love and adoration? It’s far from the dramatic outpour during the burial. Pat’s sickness continues as she sells candles entitled “Marion P Candles” (her real name is Marion Patricia), quoted “Inspired by Whitney Houston”. Rewind to Christmas 2009 when I witnessed Pat holding a candle up in her greatroom and stated, “Soon my family will be rich.” She’s since gotten that Christmas wish.
It is creepy the extent Pat will go to maintain her seemingly perfect, role model image. According to her, she’s a “Power BrokHER”; ‘A’ failed reality show she claims she was ‘Z’ star of. I believe she is and always has been a super-fan of my aunt Whitney, jealous of her success. So much so, reality has mirrored fantasy. In the movie The Bodyguard, fictional character Rachel Marron, a superstar singer, played by Whitney Houston is conspired to be murdered at The Fontainebleau Hilton in Miami, Florida during The Academy Awards, all arranged by her half-sister or step-sister (can’t recall), after an attempted murder on her son. A short walk to reality, rather The Beverly Hilton is the location, The Grammy Awards, The Event, and let’s say, Pat organized her schedule? Not to mention Bobbi-Kristina was allegedly rumored to be rescued from the bathtub at The Beverly Hilton the night before. Weird.
Accusing someone of the demise of someone else’s life can be a stretch. But when you know how someone moves, in this case Pat. When one has total control over someone who is already labeled a drug addict publicly, arranges their 24/7 waking moment, etcetera, it forces me to question motives. There also just happened to be a multi-million dollar fortune involved. Cute little Bobbi Kristina Brown that never hurt anyone, ever, she died the same way. The lack of empathy and compassion that My Step-Mother and Father hold toward most leads me to believe that they could have prevented the deaths of both my Aunt Whitney and Bobbi Kristina; particularly and especially, considering the stance they took as leaders and caregivers of Nippy, inc and Bobbi Kristina. My Aunt’s management company Nippy, Inc. has always been ran by family, starting with my late grandfather John R. Houston Jr., Pat became the captain during the downslope later years, after the awards, after the broken records and sold out shows, after moving her to Atlanta, away from the personal team that pampered, babysat and waited on Aunt Whitney in home state of New Jersey. She simply saw her opportunity to take advantage of two sensitive loving individuals. During the Christmas rant she and her cohort continue to insinuate that she is the reason for the success and still hasn’t gotten recognition. Ask any industry professional, friend or artist that is familiar with Whitney Houston, “Where Pat was prior to 2002?”. Sitting somewhere plotting. I conclude that she is the reason for the decline, focused on material and social gain when the ship she was sailing needed direction and time away from the lights, attention and cameras. Leading someone to burn in a fire is the same as watching them walk in the fire blindfolded, especially when it was your eyes that chose to lead.
The musical and entertainment legacy has been started by my Grandmother and her siblings, The Drinkard Sisters, way before my Tia. The Whitney Houston legacy should no longer be driven and continued by such a person as Pat Houston who only has had her personal interest and personal financial gain in mind, from the beginning. I feel my ancestors pulling at my soul. I believe in and am witness to generational cycles. This must be stopped. Its fair to say that the music of Whitney Houston speaks for itself. The wonderful woman I knew and interacted with was extremely during Christmas. Every year my family and I would gather in Newark Symphony Hall with The Whitney E. Houston Foundation and several bus loads of homeless children, of which we’d all watch a STAR STUDDED Christmas concert. There were so many gifts for the homeless, I’d go home with a few. This was serious to Tia. My cousin Gary Micheal, not to be confused with my Father Gary, and I we running around the symphony hall until we ran into Tia. She yanked us both by our collars and yelled in a distinct Newark accent, “Ya here to work!” Why doesn’t The Whitney E. Houston Foundation for Children exist or an organization of its likeness? What part does the legacy and estate play in New Jersey’s Whitney E. Houston Academy for Performing Arts? Is Pat Houston fit and qualified to run the estate from her lofty cloud of dreams? Shouldn’t someone be making a benevolent donation to Newark’s Homeless Children?
I contacted her and my father upon listening to the Instagram Live feed, I refuse to post the entire feed to salvage my sister Rayah’s face and social media account. Pat and my father somehow ridiculously blamed my mother for my calling and questioning what I heard on Instagram. Stating, “they always knew I felt this way.” My father has had equal opportunity to parent and mold me as my mother has. He lost that opportunity, financial child support is not child support at all. In the words of Big Meech “Its only two things a nigga can do for you, he only got time or money… you can’t have them both.” Unfortunately Pops you ain’t choose the time, and money is fleeting, particularly on the other side of the veil. As a resident of Los Angeles, he assured me that we will speak in person opposed to on the phone whenever I’m in Atlanta or he is here, aka never. Its been a year since we’ve seen each other for 10 minutes, and a year before that. The line has clearly been drawn both ways. No longer can I witness, accept and condone the cold hearted approach Gary and Pat Houston have always possessed on a personal level toward myself, my older Sister, Mother, Bobbi Kristina and her Mother, Whitney. After 25 years of trying to build and maintain a relationship with these people, I give up. I am sorry for Tia, this isn’t the love she sang about or represented. Again Bobbi Kristina Brown never hurt anyone, ever. I am sorry for my Grandmother Cissy who is aging and has been manipulated. I am sorry for Rayah whom I love dearly and only knows what she has been taught. And to the Brown Family, who tried to tell the world about this lady.
Truth, the whole truth and nothing but the TRUTH; There is a GOD!


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