“What’s wrong?” Daddy asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t know,” I stammered, looking straight into my father’s eyes. Now I had been to hundreds of church services before that night and had heard more than a few people speaking in tongues and loud voices. Yet, never once had I refused to go through a doorway. Frankly, that wasn’t something my father would have tolerated, but that night, I couldn’t control the sense of fear and dread that engulfed me. Daddy recognized that I felt something in my spirit, and he knew it wasn’t something good.
“We need to go,” he said, gently wrapping his arm around my shoulders and motioning for Momma to get back in the car. “The younger you are, the closer you are to God,” he said as we drove away, “and who am I to question that?”
I still don’t know why we weren’t supposed to go in there that night, but the moment we walked away, the shaking stopped. Events like that happened throughout my childhood, solidifying my faith and training me to recognize when God was trying to tell me something. In the years ahead, it would be that voice, that feeling of connectedness to the spiritual world that would assure me that I was on the right path—though there would also be times when I didn’t want to listen.
CHAPTER FIVE
“We find our purpose through our passions.”
“Ladies and gentlemen, I introduce to you, the Harts.”
How I loved hearing those words. By the time I entered seventh grade, Momma, Daddy, and I had started traveling all over northeast Texas to lead praise and worship services. Thanks to my grandparents in Irving, I was also taking piano lessons and practicing on the old upright that my parents had bought shortly after moving to Detroit. Although my cousins had taught me to play chords years ago, I was now broadening my skills enough to accompany our traveling trio and sing harmony with my mother. Sometimes during our performances, I even played the accordion.
We traveled for miles, often not returning until late in the evening, never refusing a request. It didn’t matter if we were singing in front of small congregations or huge crowds; we threw our hearts into it. Sometimes the audience even took up a “love offering” to help pay our expenses, but payment wasn’t really necessary. We sang because it was our gift and because we wanted to share our love for God and music. Even now when I hear songs by Gospel greats like Vestal Goodman, Dottie Rambo, and the Gaithers, artists that we frequently copied, my heart swells, just like it did in those days. Faith and music were so intertwined that it was hard to see the seam between the two.
For a while, I even saw myself becoming a Gospel star like my idol, Reba Rambo, but over time my taste in music slowly changed, especially after the whirlwind of adolescence ushered in bouts of rebellion and defiance. Once I discovered country music, I knew I was hooked. That’s where my passion was, and that’s the one that stuck. My new idol—Reba McEntire—took my dreams in a whole new direction. Barbara Mandrell and Tanya Tucker added fuel to the fire, and before long I was singing in every contest and talent show I could find, hoping someone would notice me. And how could they not, considering I copied the looks of all my favorite stars by sporting leather vests, fancy cowboy boots, and a palette of makeup? All of it struck a sour note with my parents’ beliefs.
In my father’s Pentecostal world, a world that had grown stricter over the years, there were rules about everything—especially for girls. I wasn’t allowed to wear pants, apply makeup, have short hair, attend dances, or go to the movie theater. Christian music was acceptable; rock and roll wasn’t. Drinking and smoking cigarettes? Well, that would send me straight to hell. And I do mean straight away.
Trying to adhere to all of Daddy’s rules was like lighting a match to the combustion of teenage distress and rebellion rumbling inside me. To ease the anxiety I felt about trying to please my parents while also trying to please myself, my dieting efforts intensified. I also couldn’t seem to resist experimenting with various enticing taboos.
One thing was certain: My worldly desires put me squarely in my father’s crosshairs.
The summer before my freshman year of high school, our family moved yet again. This time it was back to Irving so my mother could attend Texas Woman’s University in nearby Denton to finish her degree. Although Daddy worked long hours at a new job, we couldn’t afford a fancy home, so we moved into government-subsidized housing that was close to the bus stop Momma needed to get to her classes.
Every day while she was gone, I was in charge of the younger kids, and in the evenings when Momma studied in the living room, I was the one who tried to keep everyone quiet. Although I resented my responsibilities at times, I also admired my mother’s determination and stick-to-itiveness as she pursued her dream of becoming a teacher. A less resolute woman would have caved to the demands of raising five children, but not my momma. She set about to improve her life and the lives of her family and never complained about how hard she worked. Without ever saying a word, she showed me that chasing one’s dreams requires the backbone of tenacity. Given the chance, I wanted to prove that I could do the same.
Although thrilled to be living near my grandparents again, I knew that moving back to the suburbs of Dallas wouldn’t be an easy transition. Having lived in the country for so long, I was no longer familiar with city life, but the bigger problem was my parents’ insistence that I dress ultraconservatively. As much as I loved my family and loved worshipping God, I completely rejected the Pentecostal dress code. My number-one priority became not being noticed for being different, and if that meant sinning, so be it.
Joey Miller, a redhead with freckles like me, appeared one afternoon outside our apartment complex like an angel summoned to duty. “You plan on wearing that to school?” he asked, lifting one eyebrow and smirking at my skirt and neatly pressed blouse.
“My dad won’t let me wear pants,” I sighed.
“There’s no way you’re gonna fit in at school,” he chided, flopping his wrist up and down like a yo-yo as his index finger scrolled from my head to my toes.
Our friendship blossomed that summer, as Joey seized the role of fashion consultant. “Don’t wear that barrette in your hair,” he advised. “It makes you look like a Pekingese puppy!” Or, “Roll that waistline up a bit to make your skirt shorter.” And, yes, he even encouraged me to wear a bit of makeup. After I saved some of the money my Paw Paw occasionally slipped into my hands, the two of us took off on covert shopping missions to scour every sale and bargain store in town. By the start of school, my forbidden wardrobe—pants, jewelry, and makeup—was so plentiful that I had trouble hiding it all. To make matters worse, I couldn’t leave home wearing any of it. Not that it stopped me.
“Bye, Momma,” I said on the first day of school, dressed in a skirt and blouse. I skipped out the door, taking the hands of my younger siblings Joey and Julie and telling them to walk faster. “You don’t want to be late,” I scolded. As soon as I delivered them to their elementary school, I turned and started running. Clutching my books and swinging the bag that dangled from my fingers, I raced past mothers in their cars, scattered squirrels on the sidewalk, and squeezed my way through throngs of little kids, never stopping to say hello, never looking long enough to recognize anyone.
Once I reached the doors to the high school, I slipped into the hall bathroom. Ten minutes later, I was strutting down the hallway like a beauty queen in my forbidden pants and sleeveless top. A little blush and a touch of eye shadow made me feel even prettier. Voilà! Now I fit in. At the end of the day, I headed back to the bathroom to scrub my face and change into my “acceptable” attire. For an entire year, I continued the ruse without a single person questioning what I was doing. In fact, my new best friends, Lorna Bailey and Melody Mitchell, frequently complimented my outfits, which confirmed what I already knew—I was never switching back to the “old” me.
Appearance became so important to me during those years that my anorexia entered a new phase. Pretty soon, I was skipping breakfast and lunch as well as avoiding family dinners when
ever possible. Once, I went three days without eating anything, just to prove that I could do it. After all, I told myself, a star has to look perfect.
* * *
My obsession with being fashionable also enticed me to consider changing my hairstyle. One morning, a pair of scissors gleaming like a shiny coin was too much to resist. Just a snip here and there, I told myself, hoping to give myself a more stylish, layered look. But each snip led to another. When I glanced at all the hair scattered on the bathroom floor, I gasped. Why can’t I get this right? Ten minutes in, I knew my efforts to look better were going in the opposite direction. And, if I cut any shorter, my father would see it as sinful disobedience. There was only one person who could help me and that was Sharon, a bona fide beautician and friend of my mother’s from church. She understood what was at stake.
“Oh, my,” she said, sifting through my chopped layers, “I’ll have to give you a neckline to fix that.”
“Uh, sure,” I replied, not really understanding what she meant.
“Take a seat,” she said, pointing to an empty chair. When she finished, I looked like Dorothy Hamill, the Olympic skater. I was speechless. Not because I hated the look but because the siren in my head was blaring: Daddy’s gonna kill me!
“What have you done?” he hollered the moment he saw me. “Sharon did this?” he fumed. “How could she?” As his tirade went on and on, I felt less and less anxious. Clearly, my father blamed Sharon, not me!
That evening, my parents left to do a visitation for the church, which often involved praying for the sick. Their absence became my opportunity. I sprinted to my bedroom, threw on a pair of skinny jeans, and wrangled into a velour V-neck pullover. As I stared at myself in the mirror, I started grinning from ear to ear. My new look was stunning! If anyone dared to stare in disapproval, I knew just what I’d say. “Close your mouth; you’re going to catch flies.” But my boldness didn’t last. Before my parents returned, I was back in my regular clothes.
* * *
Although my relationship with the church was growing thinner by the day, there was no one I valued more dearly than Dorothy Marcantel, a big-busted, heavy-set lady with long black hair that was styled in a typical full-volume Pentecostal hairdo with teased layers and flipped-out ends. (That’s right—you couldn’t cut your hair, but you could tease the daylights out of it!) Dear Dorothy, played Gospel music like nobody’s business, and she never looked at a piece of sheet music. She didn’t need to. Rhythm and notes ran through her like currents of electricity, causing her body to rock and sway with every note. I have no doubt that it was God’s grace that brought the two of us together.
Once a week, I’d walk up to her house and knock on the garage door that led to her studio. “Dianna,” she’d exclaim, as if seeing me was a huge surprise. Then she’d draw her huge arms around my skinny waist and squeeze so sweetly that any troubles I’d brought with me would simply slip away. “You’re just the person I need to brighten my day,” she’d add, but we both knew it was really the other way around.
Whatever prayer line Dorothy had to God, it was wide open and full of guidance, because she always knew what I needed to learn and she knew how to make it fun. She was the only piano teacher I ever had that I didn’t dislike.
“So what do you want to work on this week?” she always asked.
“‘The Entertainer,’” I replied on one visit, knowing I had worked so hard on the piece that I could play it from memory.
“Okay, show me,” she said. I played flawlessly, hitting every note and keeping my hands in perfect position. The confusion on her face mystified me. “Uh, you should have turned the page two minutes ago,” she said. “Someone memorizing again?” One afternoon, she finally sighed, “Dianna, if you’re not going to read the notes, you’re never going to learn them.”
I figured that was the end of my piano lessons.
“It’s time you learned to play by ear,” she said, taking away the sheet music and promptly retrieving her hymnal. Then she began to teach me how to be a church pianist. I learned about every chord—major and minor, augmented and diminished—and I put them all to good use. Songs such as “Power in the Blood,” “Victory in Jesus,” and “I’ll Fly Away” poured out of my fingers without me reading a single note.
Dorothy was such a gift to me, not only because she taught me a ton about music, but because she also nurtured my soul. Using love and laughter, she allowed me to see how faith can be more than a set of rules. To this day, I regret that I never made it back before she passed away to tell this beautiful woman of faith how precious she was to me during those teenage years. Thanks to her, I never completely shut the door on God, and I gained the confidence to strike out on my own.
Midway through my senior year of high school, when I was still seventeen, my aunt Jan told me about an audition at Six Flags Over Texas. “Great opportunity to sing seven days a week and earn money all summer long,” she encouraged, even though my parents were sure to protest since the job involved working on Sundays. And they did.
“But you’re the church pianist,” Momma and Daddy argued when I broke the news. In the end, my parents relented about the audition, mainly because they figured my chances of securing the job were slim to none since thousands of others would be auditioning as well.
To my family’s surprise, I left the auditorium at Six Flags that January with the golden ticket in my hand. It was official—my singing career had started. I’d be expected to attend rehearsals immediately so that I’d be ready to sing when the park opened on weekends in the spring. By summer, I’d be singing six days a week. It was the opportunity of a lifetime and I wasn’t about to walk away. And that’s when the thin line running between my parents and me completely snapped apart.
“You know we can’t support you on this,” Daddy stated. “I depend on you to help me with Sunday services. Besides, you shouldn’t be working on the Lord’s Day—it’s a day of rest!”
“It’s my dream,” I pleaded.
“If you take the job,” he continued, “you can’t live under our roof.”
It was a strong ultimatum, and one that challenged my resolve. I’m sure they thought I’d buckle and stay, but they underestimated my passion. This was my shot at stardom, and I wasn’t letting it pass. In my mind, my parents saw the job as something frivolous that I wanted, like an expensive new sweater or fancy car, but to me it was so much more. It was opportunity, training, and experience—all the things I needed to get better. The thought of refusing the job offer made my chest tighten so severely that I couldn’t breathe. I figured when something hits you that hard, you really don’t have a choice.
Standing face-to-face in a battle of wills, I finally declared, “I’m taking the job.” My answer wasn’t meant to hurt my parents. But I also didn’t think about how my decision might affect my relationship with my parents in the future. And it did, for years to come. That night, though, there wasn’t a shred of regret in my bones. I took my parents’ silence in stride and made plans to live at my friend Melody’s house until I could work out a better solution. Headstrong and resilient, I was ready to live out of the car my grandparents had bought me if I had to. Staying would surely kill the passion inside me, and I was more afraid of that than living on the streets.
A few nights later, without warning anyone, I picked up my bags and walked to the car after everyone had gone to bed. It was a cowardly move, but I couldn’t bear the pain of saying good-bye to each and every person in my house. I figured it was better to just leave and patch things up later. But every step away from the front door was like wading against high tide. After my final look back, I made a silent vow: Someday if I have a daughter and she wants to do something like I’m doing right now, I will be her biggest fan and cheerleader, regardless of my religious convictions.
CHAPTER SIX
“After falling prey to his charm and wit, I agreed to go out with him one night after the show—and the rest is history.”
Just as planned, I
kept my job and moved in with Melody for a bit. Eventually, I landed at my grandparents’ house and stayed until I finished high school. My parents and I didn’t talk much during those first weeks of separation, but as we saw one another at family gatherings such as holidays and birthdays, we managed to start conversing about nonthreatening topics like the weather and my siblings. To show their support, my parents even came to my graduation, but we never talked about Six Flags or my future plans. Conversations about God were shunned as well. The wall between us had been breached, but it wasn’t completely dismantled.
Keeping parts of my life secret from them seemed harmless at the time. Why dredge up all the ways I had failed and disappointed them? I reasoned. In hindsight, though, I wonder if what I read as disapproval was actually fear, especially since I had graduated before turning eighteen. Surely, Momma and Daddy had worried that I wasn’t mature enough to handle the choices and obligations in front of me—something I, too, would worry about when my own kids became teenagers.
Of course, weighty issues like healing relationships weren’t exactly on my mind. I was too busy enjoying my showbiz life, which was as exciting and wonderful as I had hoped it would be. It also was hard work. Every day, all summer long, I dressed up as a saloon girl and belted out old country standards while dancing across the stage with two other saloon girls and three cowboys who served as our partners. Each show was forty-five minutes long and, typically, we did five shows a day. Another crew performed the exact same show five times a day as well. Then, once a week, my crew did all ten shows to give the other group a day off and they did the same for us. But since I was designated as a “swing,” I also had to learn the parts for all three girls and fill in if anyone got sick. The demands on my vocal cords were extraordinary.
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