Dolly

I’m ashamed to admit that as the prototypical Gen X boy, my introduction to Dolly Parton was far from wholesome. There in the dawning days of adolescence, the sheer absurdity of her physical form was enough to elicit childish snickers, even if the specific nature of the amusement wasn’t yet clear to me.

Unfortunately, the late ’70s and early ’80s were not widely known as an Age of Enlightenment. Mix in preteen naivety, a dash of farm town simplicity, and a healthy dose of generational misogyny, and I was destined to miss the point.

Sadly, she was just a punchline for a good stretch of my formative years.

Movies like 9 to 5 and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas did little to improve this myopic view of Ms. Parton. Looking back, that probably says considerably more about me than it does about the movies. I can only hope we are judged by where we end up and not where we started.

The intervening years would do wonders to dismantle that embarrassingly limited view of her. Interestingly, there was a point where my awkwardly developing sexuality should have intersected with her image in an obvious way, but for some reason, there was always something in me that resisted. Maybe it was latent empathy or some kernel of decency dwelling deep beneath my meathead facade, but there in the horniest era of my life, Dolly somehow managed to wedge herself into a maternal safe space.

Fast forward a decade or so, and I finally encountered her music outside of the inescapable title track from 9 to 5 through another movie: The Bodyguard.

Whitney Houston sang “I Will Always Love You” spectacularly. I remember being surprised to learn it was a cover and, thanks to a well-placed radio segment, was blessed to hear Dolly’s original version.

This changed everything.

Where Whitney’s version was a ramped-up, emotionally charged catharsis, Dolly’s was a restrained and achingly beautiful hymn.

As a card-carrying member of the “Anything but Country” music club, I was suddenly forced to reconsider my stance and, in doing so, broaden my horizons.

Call it a sonic awakening or a liberation from self-imposed limitation, but I immediately ceased genre shaming. As far as I was concerned, labels were the death of inclusiveness.

Was it Kierkegaard or Dick Van Patten who said, “If you label me, you negate me”?

Regardless of the source of this oft-misquoted missive, the sentiment remains. Labels are the shackles of experience. That seed took root and expanded well beyond music.

Another time hop forward and I’m a dad, with children firmly in the orbit of another crossover sensation, once again forced to reckon with my ridiculously outmoded preadolescent notions.

Enter Miley Cyrus, aka Hannah Montana.

There in the Disneyfied silliness of her show, I was given yet another glimpse into the unyielding talent of Dolly Parton. This time, however, I was afforded a view through much more innocent and unspoiled eyes.

My children didn’t recognize any absurdity in her feminine form, nor did they snicker uncontrollably. Instead, they saw the person, the talent, and the grace of her existence without judgment or condition.

Remembering Joey, version 1980, I winced with shame.

From that point on, I resolved to keep my ears tuned to her career, and though still not my go-to music of choice, I marveled at the music she created.

Then things shifted once again.

Just when I thought my recalibration was complete, Dolly cemented herself as a leading LGBTQ ally. As a father of a trans son, her open love and defiant disregard for red and blue alignment gave me genuine joy.

It turns out that this absurd and exaggerated cartoon of femininity I thought I saw as a boy was so much more.

She was everything I had once failed to see.

Caring.

Creative.

Selfless.

Unapologetically original.

Thanks, Dolly, for the 40-year lesson in humility that you graciously and unknowingly bestowed upon a clueless, small-town boy.

I will always love you.