Like Me

by Chely Wright

  We spent all of our free time together, but many months went by before we discussed what we were feeling. When she asked me if I’d ever before had feelings for a woman, I lied. Just like Brenda had lied to me.

  Once we did discuss it, we agreed that we shouldn’t act on our attraction; neither one of us thought it was acceptable to be in a gay relationship. She had been raised Catholic, and although I knew very well that my natural instincts were to be with a woman, I just didn’t want it. It was an exciting time in my life. I was writing and recording my first album and all those years of struggle were finally starting to pay off. I had money in my pocket for meals and could pay my rent with no worry. My life was beginning to take the shape I’d imagined, and falling in love with Julia would complicate things. I was a public person and had to navigate those risky waters, and because she was in the country music industry too, we were very well aware that if we were to be together we’d have to hide.

  I think I fell in love with her before our first kiss, but once we began to be sexual with each other, our connection strengthened. Any act of togetherness felt intimate, whether it was holding hands, falling asleep, or waking up together. I knew during those times that if I were asked to make a choice in my lifetime to have only those few acts with her versus a thousand sexual interactions with a man, I would choose hand-holding with Julia.

  I was more willing to allow myself to be with her than she was with me during those first few months of our relationship. Every couple of weeks, she’d suggest that we should just be friends. When she made those declarations, I expressed my feelings to the contrary but promised that I’d try to respect her position. A day or two later, she’d break down and say that she’d changed her mind because she didn’t think she could bear to be without me.

  We’d been in a good place for a couple of months, without the usual every-other-day meltdown, when she called me on the phone one Friday afternoon. I assumed that she was calling to let me know what time she thought she’d be through with work that evening so we could meet up. At that point in my career, because I was recording and I wasn’t touring, I had my weekends to myself. I enjoyed every minute of that time with Julia.

  I answered the phone and I was taken aback by what she told me.

  “Do you know that guy Phillip? He’s a singer-songwriter here in town.”

  “I’ve heard of him, but I don’t know him. Why?”

  “I’m thinking of going on a date with him tonight.”

  I listened, trying not to cry, and asked her why she was telling me this. She wanted to let me know before she did it. She called me again within an hour and asked if I wanted to go with them. Even though I knew it was odd for her to invite me, and more bizarre for me to go, I said yes.

  I went with Julia and Phillip on their first date and whether I wanted to or not, I liked him instantly. We ate dinner, then found a pool hall where I uncharacteristically drank too much beer. I felt so bad the next morning, physically and emotionally.

  Julia told me that they had spent the weekend together and that he was crazy about her. She said that he was funny and she liked how much he liked her. She simply seemed pleased that he was a nice, fun guy. She went on to say that she had confided in him that she and I loved each other but that she wanted to have a normal life. He told her that her relationship with me was fine with him, and he appreciated the complex person that she was. I’m not sure if he was telling her that he was okay with her loving me or if he was saying that it was okay for us to actually “be together.” Nevertheless, it was understood that she and I had a special relationship.

  Julia and Phillip spent the next few months together. I pulled back, not because I wasn’t drawn to her but because I found the situation confusing and a bit hopeless. We did try to hang out together now and again. I’d been going out on dates with a guy named Daniel in hopes of being granted a miracle of my own, that I’d fall in love with a man. I didn’t fall in love with Daniel. What I ended up doing was leaving him perplexed and hurt by my detached behavior.

  Julia, Phillip, Daniel, and I even spent time together. Daniel was quite the host, and he decided to have a barbecue at his house one Saturday afternoon. He invited about thirty people to visit, eat, drink, and be merry on his back porch. I was on the road promoting my first single, but was scheduled to fly back to Nashville on Saturday around noon. I got home from the airport, got myself ready, and drove over to Daniel’s house on Belmont Boulevard for the gathering. Even though the skies threatened to open up, there were lots of people there, mostly music industry folks.

  I found Daniel in the kitchen whipping up an impressive culinary concoction. He asked me to announce to everyone on the front porch that the beer and food were on the back porch. On the way, I ran into Phillip. We hugged, he asked me how the tour was going, and if I’d heard. “Heard what?” I said. He had proposed to Julia that morning and she’d said yes. I turned and walked down the steps of Daniel’s front porch, onto the street, and like a zombie, began to walk up Belmont Boulevard. It started to pour down rain and it seemed fitting.

  I’d walked half a mile or so when I noticed Phillip’s little blue truck pulling up in the street next to me. Julia was seated on the passenger side and she rolled down the manual crank window, asking me to get in, to get out of the rain. I said no and kept walking. She asked if I was sure and, without ever once looking her way, I said, “Yes, I’m sure.” My car was back at Daniel’s and I didn’t even have my purse, but I walked for a long time. Eventually, I made my way back to Daniel’s house. All of the guests were in the backyard. I walked in unnoticed, grabbed my purse, got in my car, and left.

  Julia called the next day and left a voice mail message saying that she was sorry she didn’t tell me before Phillip did, but that she just wanted to have a normal life and she wished I’d just understand. The next day, I called her back at work. I knew that if I called her there, she wouldn’t be able to talk for more than a minute or two. I lied, telling her that I completely understood, then quickly got off the phone.

  Honestly, what did I expect her to do? Did I think that she and I could really survive, with any quality of life, in Nashville, Tennessee? I was a brand-new artist on Mercury/PolyGram Records; they were pumping millions of dollars into my career. How could I risk ruining my chances of making it as a successful country music artist? I was just getting started. I continued to hope that I’d be able to look back one day on those confusing times and reference them as a “phase” that I went through. I wanted to be normal too and tried to convince myself that this was the best thing for us.

  Julia and Phillip had a short engagement. In the weeks leading up to their wedding, I spent a minimal amount of time with her. We talked on the phone and shared a few meals together. I was on the road most of the time and was thankful for the distraction. I called her at her office on a Monday morning to say hello. She asked me how my weekend had been. I filled her in on the details of promoting my record and asked her what she’d done over the weekend. She said, “Oh, Phillip and I got married.”

  I gave a halfhearted wish of congratulations and got off the phone. I was angry with her for going through with it, but I was also able to recognize that her marrying Phillip was a desperate Hail Mary heaved in the direction of “normal.” I continued to focus on my career and was as busy as I wanted to be. Considering that the woman I loved had just gotten married to someone else, staying busy was the only thing I could do.

  The days that I wasn’t on the road touring, doing promotion for my record, or doing a photo shoot, I was writing songs back in Nashville at my office on Music Row. I was co-writing with Harlan Howard, Whitey Shafer, and Bobby Braddock, among others. I was, as they say in the South, “walking in high cotton.” When I missed Julia, I’d tell myself to get over it and be thankful for the other things that were going so well for me.

  I didn’t really want to hear the details of their newlywed life, so I stayed away. On occasion, I would accept their invitation to go out to
dinner or to just spend time at their apartment for a couple of hours. I was doing my best to tell myself that if I couldn’t love Julia as my girlfriend, I’d rather have her in my life as a friend. Soon they announced to me that they were buying a house, and the three of us piled into Phillip’s truck and went to look at it.

  I wanted to be happy for them, but I felt an incredible amount of hurt. I wondered if she was hoping that being with him, married for all of Music Row to see, would replace me. I wondered if the amenities of that marriage would be enough for her. A brand-new house, the new Chihuahua puppy they’d just bought together, the title of “Mrs.,” and a joint checking account—did all of that add up to be as good as or better than having me?

  Suffering that kind of rejection was overwhelming. I was forced to rationalize. The only reason I survived those particular months was because my brain kicked into high gear and continued to remind me of my reality. I was an up-and-coming country music singer, living in Nashville, Tennessee, and there had never been an openly gay country music star. I knew that I could not—I would not—be the first.

  Being on the road during the release of my first album was an exhilarating experience that filled some of the voids I felt in my life. I took it in and allowed myself to be distracted by my new routines. I missed Julia every day. I wrote notes to her in my hotel rooms that I never sent. I had conversations with her in my head and sometimes spoke my words out loud when I could find private moments. As tormented as I was personally, it was impossible to deny the fact that my job was a blast. Sometimes I’d lie in my bunk as the tour bus rolled down the road and take inventory of all that I was enjoying. I had a contract with a major record label, a song on the radio, a music video on TV, my own tour bus, my own six-piece band and four-man crew, people to dress me, a hair and makeup artist, and more fans than I could count in a lifetime. I began to look at all of the positives as an emotional consolation prize. I guessed that if there were other public people like me who were gay and hiding, they probably felt just like I did. I’m sure they too hoped and prayed that career achievements and success would be enough to sustain their happiness.

  With George Brett, after I sang the National Anthem at a Kansas City Royals season opener in 2005.

  A Dream Come True

  In the spring of 1995, I was nominated for the Top New Female Vocalist award by the Academy of Country Music. The award show would air live on national television from Los Angeles. I was beside myself with excitement that even though I hadn’t scored that big hit record yet, the Academy (made up of people in the industry) had nominated me. My record label and my manager at the time told me, “We’re a long shot,” and I said, “That’s okay. I’m just glad that my family will get to see me on the show!” That was true. I was happy to be included.

  I’d been in Los Angeles doing press for several days, and finally the moment had come. During the broadcast, there was a television commercial break, and the performers in the audience were milling around, talking to one another. As the show went to the break, the announcer said, “Coming up next, the Top New Female Vocalist award!” Directly across the aisle, seated to my left, was Barbara Mandrell. I don’t know a female country singer out there today who hasn’t been influenced by her. I’d known Barbara since 1990 and had always felt fortunate to hear her words of wisdom. She motioned for me to come to her, so I did. I knelt down by her seat and she took my hand and held it with both of hers. The first thing she said was, “Your hands are freezing, little girl!” Then she said, “Remember exactly how this feels right now.” I nodded my head yes. “It will never get more exciting than this very moment, your first nomination.”

  Kenny Chesney and I met in 1993. For a while we had the same manager and producer. We spent time together touring, writing songs, and just being friends. This photograph was taken the night I won my Academy of Country Music Award in 1995.

  Toby Keith and me at the BMI Awards in 2005. We were each signed to Mercury Records but ended up being shuffled around under the PolyGram umbrella to be the flagship artists for Polydor Records. He was one of the performers who presented me with my ACM Award onstage.

  The presenters walked onstage, read the names of the nominees, then opened the envelope. “And the winner for the Top New Female Vocalist is …”

  Everything turned to slow motion. I heard my name being called. I still have no memory of how I made it up to the podium. I had not prepared a speech for that night, but I’d been rehearsing one since I was a little girl, and the right words came out. Barbara Mandrell’s advice to me allowed me to absorb what was happening. As I looked out at the audience and said my thank-you’s, I received proud smiles and thumbs-up from the biggest names in country music. It was one of the greatest moments of my career.

  The Thin Line

  Late one night I was at my apartment packing for a tour in Japan—months after I’d been given my ACM—when the phone rang. It was Aunt Char calling to tell me to fly safely the following day and to ask me what I’d think if my parents were to get divorced.

  “What?” I asked. “Are you serious?”

  “It might be lookin’ that way, kiddo.”

  She wasn’t able to shed much light on the matter and, frankly, I don’t recall that I had many questions for her. I can’t even say that I was upset about the possibility that my mom and dad might be splitting up, but I do know I was surprised. They’d always seemed bound and determined to stay together despite their obvious mutual misery. Even I at a very young age, perhaps in my early teens, knew that they needed to get professional help, call the whole thing off, or both.

  I climbed aboard my international flight the next day and confided my parents’ potential break-up to my drummer, Preston, who’d been as close to me as any family member. He was concerned, and did his best to provide comfort during that trip. Preston had been around my folks a good amount of time, and he shared my sentiment about the situation, that it wasn’t so much sad as it was weird. Whatever warts and dysfunction my parents’ marriage may have had, they just seemed to have a style and a visible that makes sense to their relationship. People, including me (especially after I became a young adult), enjoyed being around them. Most of the time, they were funny and clever.

  As I watched my bandmates slip into sleep at thirty-eight-thousand feet, I began to dissect what had happened in the recent twenty-four hours of my life. I wondered if Aunt Char had called to tip me off, or if she had called to deliver a message sent by one or both of my parents. If it had been the latter, I thought, that would be bizarre, because my mother and I had always been so close, even into my adulthood. Why wouldn’t she tell me herself?

  I was my mother’s youngest child, her baby, and yes, I think she favored me. Perhaps I benefited, in age-old fashion, by being the lucky last in the birth order. When chores were finished, spankings had been administered to each of us, and homework was complete—from even the young age of five, I could usually be found spending time with my mom. We’d listen to records, read liner notes in albums. I’d help her re-thread the bobbin on her old Singer sewing machine, we’d play Gin Rummy, and we’d talk about things—big and small.

  I wouldn’t say we were friends or buddies, but I liked my mom. She was the mother, and I was the child—that was evident.

  When I was very young, perhaps even until junior high school, I adored my mom and thought that she was the wisest woman on earth. I have no idea if this is an unusual notion for a kid or not. She was my mother: she fed me, she taught me to read and write, and she showed me how to put an unwilling worm on my hook and pull a catfish out of a low-water creek. How could I not think she was all-knowing?

  But something ran parallel to that adoration for my mother, and that was fear.

  Of course, I had fear of both of my parents—in different measure, for different reasons. My dad gave spankings, as we called them, which sometimes left our legs covered in welts. The asterisk to that particular fear of my father is that my mother was always (as I recall) th
e one to instruct my dad to dole out the spankings. From my adult perspective, I can see that my dad was still unable to parent his children, and if it were left up to him, I think he’d have taken the easier route and never punished us. The other fear I had of my dad was the fear I assumed on my mom’s behalf. When my dad would be angry with my mother (in my younger years, alcohol made him go nuclear), I became frightened of him—for her. I knew during their screaming matches, which sometimes turned physical, that my dad was not going to hit or harm me, yet I took on tremendous amounts of fear. I don’t recall my mom hitting me outside the customary 1970s swatting of the child’s backside with a wooden spoon, flyswatter, or hand; it was usually three or four staccato quarter-note swats accompanied by a spoken-word lyric: “I. Said. Stop. That.” Which I did. And it barely hurt. The fear I had for my mother was much more frightening, and each time that fear would come to pass, it never left a mark on my body.

  Even as a tiny girl, the biggest fear I had of my mother was that of not having her approval and affection. When my mother assigned household tasks for me to do, I executed them as perfectly as I could. A well-cleaned bathtub or a symmetrically folded bedsheet would, on occasion, earn me high marks.

  “Did I get that really clean, Mom?” “That’s pretty good how all those cans of soup are lined up the way you like ’em, huh?”

  “Yes, Squirrelly, you did a good job.” She might say, punctuating her praise with the slightly crooked smile she got from my grandfather and passed down to me.