Miss Me When I'm Gone

chapter 13



“Would You Hold It Against Me?”

Dollywood

Pigeon Forge, Tennessee

I was a hundred feet in the air on the Thunderhead roller coaster this afternoon, staring down at the trees and thinking of Dottie West. Probably I should have been thinking about Dolly. But no. Just as my car hit the top, I shut my eyes tight. My stomach dropped as the coaster went racing toward the ground, but I missed the view. As the car twisted around the ride’s remaining curves, I thought, Dottie West wouldn’t close her eyes. I opened my eyes at the bottom of the drop just so people watching from the ground wouldn’t see what a chickenshit I am.

Certainly I had Dottie West on the brain because I was listening to her in my car on my way to the park. I know I should’ve been listening to Dolly, but I hit a Dolly-wall when I heard “Me and Little Andy.” (Sorry, Dolly—I love you, but I can’t stand it when you do that baby voice.) Anyway, I switched to some early Dottie West (her album Suffer Time), listening to the title song and “Would You Hold It Against Me?” several times over. Both solid songs from Dottie—more to my old-fashioned taste, I must admit, than the adult contemporary style of her later career.

If you don’t know country music outside of the biggest names, you might not know Dottie West. You might not know that she won country music’s first Grammy for female vocalist, or that she’s known to many as “the first truly liberated woman of country music.”

Dottie West (born Dorothy Marie Marsh) grew up in poverty, helping her mother support her nine younger siblings. She endured sexual abuse by her father until she was seventeen, when she finally had enough. She went to the local police and reported him, and eventually testified against him and put him in jail for forty years. Despite all of the struggles, she managed to make it to college. She went to Tennessee Tech, where she studied music and met her first husband, Bill West, a steel-guitar player. By the time they moved to Nashville together, they had three kids (one more would come later). There they pursued their musical dreams together, befriending other aspiring songwriters like Harlan Howard, Hank Cochran, and Willie Nelson. Dottie and her husband often hosted and fed struggling musicians in their home.

In early performances, Dottie dressed in girlish ruffles and gingham and sang relatively demure songs. Like the early country music star Kitty Wells, she exuded the image of a dutiful housewife and mother who just happened to sing a little on the side. Still, in her early years she befriended Patsy Cline, who was breaking the country music gender barriers at the time.

Dottie got her big break in 1964, when her song “Here Comes My Baby” (cowritten with her husband) hit the top ten in the charts and won her a Grammy, leading to a regular spot for her in the Grand Ole Opry. While she continued to perform and produce albums, her sales and chart performances were spotty by the late sixties.

But things changed for Dottie in 1972. She and her husband divorced. Dottie did not waste much time feeling sorry for herself, however. She began dating younger men, much to the shock of the Nashville community. (She eventually married a drummer twelve years her junior, and after she divorced him, a sound engineer twenty-two years her junior—with a number of younger boyfriends in between, according to some.)

Her career took off again. Coca-Cola paid her to write a commercial jingle. She wrote “Country Sunshine,” which became a big hit and earned her two Grammy nominations (plus a Cleo Award for the commercial). She began to record with Kenny Rogers, and the pairing proved commercially successful.

By the late seventies, her look and act had changed considerably. She became known for her painted-on spandex outfits and mane of red Farrah Fawcett–style hair. Her songs became more sensual. Dottie, who had famously refused to sing Kris Kristofferson’s “Help Me Make It Through the Night” because it was too racy, went ahead and recorded it after her divorce—along with other sexy songs like “She Can’t Take My Love Off the Bed.” The sexual revolution was very real for Dottie West. While her career and family life before divorce were surely rewarding, she was willing to change with the new times and embrace everything they had to offer.

Her success continued. Her 1980 recording “Lesson in Leavin’ ” was number one on the country charts. She made appearances on The Love Boat and The Dukes of Hazzard, and posed for the men’s magazine Oui.

But it ended rather sadly for Dottie. The hits dried up by the late eighties. Due to overspending and bad investments, Dottie filed for bankruptcy in 1991. She lost her house, and all of her personal possessions were auctioned off to pay back the IRS. That same year, she was in a car wreck that destroyed her Camaro. Her old friend Kenny Rogers gave her a car to use, but it crapped out on her on her way to a Grand Ole Opry appearance. An elderly neighbor saw her by the side of the road in her sparkly performance garb and offered to drive her the rest of the way. He lost control of his car, and Dottie died a few days later from injuries sustained in the accident.

She had plans to make a comeback with a duet album, but hadn’t yet started recording it. After she died, a copy of Women Who Love Too Much was found on her bedside table, with sections marked for rereading.

I do wish she was in a happier state when it all came to an end, but at least she was on the way to the Opry, and at least she’d had a hell of a run. She’d packed in more after her divorce than most people do in an entire lifetime.

When I say that Dottie West didn’t close her eyes, I mean that she allowed her life to change. After her divorce in 1972, she looked forward. She didn’t cower in her old life or her old identity. She wasn’t afraid of the future’s possibilities (and it held so many for her, both richly rewarding and deeply tragic). After my own divorce, I wonder if I really have the nerve to proceed in the same way—to open my eyes both to what I’ve been and what I could be next.

After the Thunderhead ride is over, I get on again and try to keep my eyes open at the top. I fail. A little later, after an elephant ear and a ride on the Dollywood Express steam engine, I try again. I do it this time. Eyes open all the way down. It’s terrifying. I suddenly have a newfound respect for all of the screaming teenagers around me. They see it this way every time. But of course they keep their eyes open for every ride. Because what are we all even here for, if we’re going to just shut our eyes the whole time? I wonder how I might be at trying things that way from now on. If I can manage it outside of the magic butterfly gates of Dollywood.

Because I know these things are true: You must try, if the chance comes along, to sing your “Help Me Make It Through the Night.” Sing it. Say the thing you’ve been wanting to say. Ask what you’ve wanted to ask. Don’t worry about people petty enough to hold it against you. Don’t try to anticipate how it all will end. Because that’s not in your power anyway. So open your mouth. Open your eyes. Love too much. Wear gingham. Wear white spandex pants. Do everything.



—Tammyland