In James L. McPherson’s 1978 Pulitzer winning book, Elbow Room, his very first story struck a chord with me. Why I Like Country Music” reads like a letter to his wife, who doesn’t quite understand why a Black man enjoys square dancing and country music, both almost completely associated not only with whiteness, but whiteness often tied to racism, sexism, and violence.

Like McPherson, I grew up hearing country, and we all had to learn square dancing in gym classes at school. Country was just another of the multiple genres I was exposed to as a kid at home. My music loving parents ignored boundaries and had old 16s, 78s, 33s, and 45s of any musician or band that caught their fancy. My mother had grown up in North Carolina, and in her youth, there were no Black radio stations, so it was country, European classical, and maybe some jazz. She heard local blues singers, had Native American family who sang traditional music, and knew genres and songs associated with Appalachia. My parents favored Big Band music and they’d occasionally go into Manhattan if Ella, Duke, Basie, or Goodman was in town, but there were no limits on what was enjoyed. I grew up knowing that, as in every other genre of music in America, Black (then Negro) artists had started or contributed to it. Mom was very happy when Charlie Pride became popular, and we watched the Patsy Cline show, and Tennessee Ernie Ford every week. I was convinced as a little kid that Patsy was somehow related to my mom, as she resembled mom’s sisters and seemed to have a bit of soul in her voice. Johnny Cash was a big favorite, a trifecta of mom’s approval: he marched for Civil Rights, Native American Rights, and had a great voice.

Pop dug Hank Williams and enjoyed and was amused by his plaintive voice, mimicking him in his own tenor. Through his job in first the Bayway, and later Linden Standard Oil refineries, he was friendly with workers from a number of  nationalities and cultures, and would come home with songs or foods that weren’t common in our neighborhood back then.

My dad was also a fun dad who loved dance and every form of entertainment around. Athletic into his eighties, he would often tap dance or get down and do a Russian Cossack dance through the house. It was he who taught me to waltz and a version of the minuet. Weekends were full of music and singing, and the Big Band records would come out, but there was also a lot of opera and orchestral music. Through my mom, I knew who The Weavers, Odetta, and Pete Seeger were, as well as the those we boycotted because they were racists or had “named names” during the infamous McCarthy era.

Paul Robeson and Marian Anderson were as close to saintliness in our house as MLK, while other popular actors or musicians were avoided, if not banned. While we were allowed to watch Ivanhoe on tv, we knew that Robert Taylor wasn’t a good guy, as sure as we knew that the Santaesque Burl Ives testified against colleagues. My parents wouldn’t purchase their music or pay to see their films, and we were aware of the gaps between entertainment and reality. Even as kids, our First Amendment rights were never denied, but no one was above critique or reality checks, and ratting out others to groups like McCarthy’s was considered no different than informing on neighbors to local thugs.

All of this matters and might explain the special place that Dolly Parton holds in my story. In 1971, I was still living at home, a year after graduating high school. I was working as a switchboard operator at Ma Bell, figuring out next moves after turning away from my planned career as a concert pianist, and refusing the offer to go to our local Jersey City State College. I was not in my mother’s good graces, but our bond was always deep, even when we struggled to understand each other.

I remember one day coming in through the upstairs door, entering the kitchen to say hi, knowing Mom would be there, cooking or setting up for dinner. The late afternoon sun was behind her as she sat in her usual spot at what was in my mind the head of the table, nearest the stove. Daddy always sat right beside her, with Richard across from him when he was home, and me across from Mom, nearest the fridge for reaching any last minute ingredients or condiments.

She had clearly been waiting for me and she had the special look her nearly black eyes got when she had something to share with me. My mother was a nerd who seldom got to indulge her intellectual forays with an appreciative audience during the week. Five kids, husband, and job left little time for hanging out with friends who might share her love of history and politics. I also doubt that most were as well or widely read as she, so we were natural allies in our enthusiasm for things beyond the mundane, prioritized as those might have to be.

I kissed her on the cheek and made myself comfortable, when she said she wanted me to hear something. It turned out to be a country song by a woman with a warbling but strong, distinctive soprano. As I listened to the distinctly Appalachian accent sing about being poor and being teased about a coat her mother had lovingly made to protect her from the mountain winter cold, I remember being both surprised yet completely understanding why my mother wanted me to listen. She didn’t have the voice of my mom’s usual faves, but the Biblical reference, the child/underdog, the love: all subjects important to the woman watching my face for reactions.

“Who is she?” I asked. A slight confusion over why this particular person and song moved my mother must’ve shown, and my mother proceeded to parse the story and its implications in a way that would shame the most noted music critics of the time.

She talked about her early childhood in Fayetteville, where folks from the mountains came down for work. She talked about the Thirties, the Dustbowl, and knowing people with little food, and clothes worn till they fell apart. She talked about the evils of snobbery and class, but mostly she talked about the love shown, mother to daughter, in the making and wearing of that raggedy coat, and the understanding that those who are blessed often come disguised as the poor, lame, or otherwise socially unaccepted. She briefly quoted the Beatitudes, her piercing eyes looking straight into mine to be sure that the lesson went straight into my heart, as though she hadn’t been posting it there for my entire young life.

Dolly became a favorite and if she was appearing on tv, she was watched. I questioned her appearance and understood it as drag, but her early appearances didn’t presage the powerhouse activist she’d become in a few short years. I’m sure many of her early fans were amazed as her popularity and wealth grew to find that she meant everything she ever said about the centrality of the generous, loving spirit of Jesus and her mama in her life. Her music got better and better as she sang to help farmers, support breast cancer research, and most completely, children and literacy. She was a funny saint: self deprecating, silly, a protective spirit in a world where assaults on human bodies, dignity, and cultures seen as poor or lesser. Through it all, she showered the people with love, good music, and the tools to improve their lives.

I would later introduce my salsa and soul focused husband to the joys of Dolly, and he particularly enjoyed her duets with Kenny Rogers in the 80s. I made sure he understood Coat of Many Colors. Even though I knew it would never be a type of music he’d embrace, I knew he’d love the story and deep bond of mother and child, as well as what it meant to me. And while it’s far from my favorite Dolly song, as she does in the first lines, it always takes me back to the warmth of home, my mother’s love and friendship, and the values that will I form me until the day I die.

Thank you, Dolly Parton. I’ll be listening for your very special voice in the heavenly chorus. My mom picked a winner.

Anjana Mebane-Cruz

August 26, 2026