Falling with Wings

by Dianna De La Garza

  My social life was equally demanding but for totally different reasons. Living in an apartment with fellow entertainers meant we all let loose when we could, indulging in many of those taboos that my parents loathed. We drank, we smoked, we stayed out late, and we dated without asking for anyone’s permission. My first love, Russ, was actually someone I had met during the auditioning process, and we stayed together for several years, even after I left Six Flags. And one day while hanging out on the steps of the Southern Palace, another venue in the park, I met Lisa Morris, who worked on the lighting crew for that show. We became fast friends, which unbeknownst to me would turn into a lifelong friendship that would have important implications in the years ahead.

  I loved my new life, and every aspect—from performing and making new friends to falling in love—was thrilling. Until it all came to a screeching halt. By mid-August, I completely lost my voice. Even talking was difficult. Without any formal training to teach me about protective measures, I had severely strained my vocal cords.

  No longer able to earn a paycheck, I left the show and asked my parents if I could move back in with them. “Just temporarily, until I heal,” I explained. After I settled into their home, which was now bigger and closer to Daddy’s church, they never once said, “I told you so!” But we also didn’t talk about what had transpired in the months I’d been away. We simply tried to make peace with a new beginning. I also started taking jobs wherever I could find them, which meant that for a time, I worked in a grocery store, alternating between running the register and handing out product samples. It was a far cry from the stardom I had hoped for.

  I didn’t sing for months. When my voice felt strong again, I started booking gigs at bars and restaurants and entered a few contests. But it was a secretarial job in downtown Fort Worth that finally allowed me to regain the independence I coveted. The timing was perfect, as my parents suddenly announced that God was calling them to do missionary work in Alaska. Although I cried as they drove away with a trailer hitched to their truck and my four siblings waving from their seats, I had no desire to join them. With the keys to my new apartment dangling from my fingers, it was time to embark on new plans for the future.

  * * *

  In the spring of 1982, as I continued my office job, I chose an alternate route to stardom—I auditioned to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader (DCC). At the very least, I figured it would help me to develop my stage presence. In reality, it did much more than that. Making the squad turned out to be one of the most amazing experiences of my life, and I learned a lot about being a celebrity, even though no one really knew my name.

  Considered the “Darlings of the NFL,” we, as a squad, represented one of America’s great football teams, and we worked constantly—not just getting ready for game days but also behind the scenes by visiting nursing homes and children’s hospitals, as well as interacting with fans and responding to each and every letter they wrote. Thanks to Suzanne Mitchell, the first director of the squad, I quickly learned that there was more to being a celebrity than just performing. Learning how to treat fans with respect and how to be a role model in the spotlight were also important, wisdom that I’d one day pass on to my own girls.

  Being a DCC required a massive time commitment. Prospective cheerleaders couldn’t even try out unless they could prove that they already had full-time jobs or were enrolled as full-time students. Holding a position as a DCC was considered an extracurricular activity, not employment. Monday through Friday, I’d finish my eight-hour shift at the office, then log another four hours at practice each night. The dancing was incredibly hard for me, so sometimes if there was a break at work, I’d find an empty room and practice the routines on my own. For my efforts, I, like everyone else, got fifteen dollars a game before they took out taxes, which left a whopping $13.99.

  But none of us did it for the paycheck. We did it because we loved our Cowboys. Each and every one of us had been raised on the virtues of our city’s football team. We all had stories about spending countless Sunday afternoons from Labor Day to the Super Bowl in front of the TV, hopping and hollering when our team did well and watching in disbelief as our fathers threw shoes at the screen whenever the team messed up. Supporting “our Cowboys” was as ingrained in us as saying “Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir.” The only downside to the experience was that it totally reinforced my ideas about needing to be skinny. I can still hear the team seamstress as I tried on my uniform for the first time. “My rule of thumb,” she joked, “is that I will take this material up, but I won’t let it out!” Whether she was serious or not, I’ll never know, because I took her comment seriously. In my head, I heard that if my uniform got tight, I’d be in trouble. And there were rumors among the squad that suggested no one was immune from being benched if she gained too much weight. Although I had to eat to have the energy to perform, I also had to be responsible and eat as little as possible.

  After the close of the 1982–83 football season, I had the opportunity to audition for Show Group, the elite group of DCCs who perform overseas for our troops. Instead, I signed on with Rick Fleetwood, a promoter out of Midland, Texas, who put me on as the front act for major country artists like George Strait, Reba McEntire, Conway Twitty, and Hank Williams, Jr. It was an exciting time filled with big moments, like the night I found myself onstage with Merle Haggard, watching him direct his entire band by merely looking at them, or the night in Amarillo, Texas, when I got to witness George Strait playing “Amarillo by Morning” just as his song first hit the charts. And I still have fond memories of standing offstage listening to Conway Twitty, microphone in hand, opening his shows with those smooth lyrics of his: “Hello, darlin’ … Nice to see you … It’s been a long time.”

  It felt like stardom was just around the corner, especially when my first album got regional airplay in the Southwest. In the small town of Clovis, New Mexico, I even had the honor of receiving the key to the city and having a day named after me—just don’t ask me what day that was! When you’re young and twenty-one, you don’t realize all the details you’ll forget or all the keys you’ll misplace by the time you get to be my age. But I do remember that I was extraordinarily happy and considered myself to be the luckiest girl alive.

  By 1984, the recession that had started a few years earlier was now taking aim at the music industry. Ticket sales slowed to a trickle and promoters decided that building concerts around multiple stars, rather than up-and-comers like myself, was a smarter strategy. With my career at a standstill, I gratefully accepted a gig in Ruidoso, New Mexico, at The Barn, one of the biggest country-western clubs in the Southwest. For the entire summer, I’d be the opening act. It was a step down from my touring days, but I was grateful for the steady employment. By autumn, I hoped to be back on the road. In the meantime, I’d sing like every note mattered and greet every fan with enthusiasm.

  * * *

  On a lovely June evening, just four years after I graduated from high school, Patrick Lovato walked into my life moments after I finished my first set on opening night at The Barn. As I hurried offstage, Ronnie McDowell, a well-known country singer at the time, prepared to take the stage. In the flurry of activity, I noticed two men backstage having an animated discussion. One was a gray-haired security guard, the other a fine-looking, dark-haired young man sporting a black leather blazer and gray Lucchese snakeskin boots.

  The security guard suddenly turned and walked toward me. “There’s a guy here who’s a big Dallas Cowboys fan, and he’d like to meet you. Do you mind?” he asked, nodding his head in the direction of the younger man in the fancy boots.

  “Of course not! Always in the mood to meet a fan,” I exclaimed, knowing that the headliner on the marquee outside read: DIANNA HART, FORMER DALLAS COWBOYS CHEERLEADER.

  “Hello,” the young man said, offering me his hand, “I’m Patrick. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too,” I replied, noticing how his eyes sparkled when he smiled.

  “Hope you
don’t mind how I bribed your security guard to meet you,” he added, looking a bit bashful.

  “He’s not my security guard,” I laughed, hoping we’d run into each other again.

  My second set finished at about 2:00 a.m., a bewitching hour for musicians when euphoria, hunger, and tiredness all collide. I was surprised and pleased when Patrick reappeared and asked me out to breakfast. “Please,” he insisted, “call me Pat like my friends do.” Over coffee and eggs, we got to know each other. I learned he was a construction contractor from New Mexico who was eleven years my senior. Maturity, I thought, that’s a good quality. He also told me that he was recently divorced and that he had a five-year-old daughter, Amber Devonne, whom he didn’t get to see very often because he had a strained relationship with his ex-wife. Poor guy, I mused. Bet he’d make a great dad. As more and more people stopped by our table to talk to him, I also gathered he was well liked in the community. But I really couldn’t believe my luck when he, a former musician himself, profusely praised my vocals. When had I ever met someone who was handsome, mature, sweet, and interested in my career? More important, I’d finally be in one place long enough to have a relationship.

  By August, we secretly made our way to Vegas to get married.

  * * *

  Life was grand. I moved into Pat’s condo in the mountains, drove his Cadillac whenever I wanted, and performed in local clubs at night. Being married was like wrapping myself in blankets of love. I mailed a letter to my parents in Alaska and told them about eloping with Pat, but our communication from that point forward became sporadic at best. It wasn’t their fault. I figured that if I was such a big disappointment to them for pursuing country music—and now marrying someone who wasn’t a churchgoer—it was probably best to let the distance between us become a natural barrier.

  With my parents’ eyes of disapproval so far away, every sinful temptation glittered like gold. Pat and I eagerly pursued a happy-go-lucky lifestyle, routinely partying after shows. It was a heady time of independence and experimentation. Together, we embraced the nightlife scene with all the passion and cash we could generate, often indulging in pot and cocaine. We also didn’t shy away from occasionally smoking meth and trying crack. Thank God we didn’t get hold of heroin, or we probably would have tried that, too.

  Marrying when you’re young comes with risks. Other than wanting to be a country-music star, I hadn’t really thought about who I was as a person or what I even liked about myself. I certainly hadn’t taken the time to sift through all the emotional baggage from my childhood. Add to that a compulsive need to please others as well as an obsessive quest to appear perfect, and I blissfully put my twenty-two-year-old self right on the path to disaster.

  My parents and siblings never saw my wild behavior, though I suspect that my silence told them more than I realized. Even when we did exchange letters, which took weeks to travel such a distance, or when either of us splurged on expensive phone calls, we had little to talk about because we no longer had much in common. It would have broken their hearts to see me living such a reckless life, but I figured if I was damned for something as harmless as wearing makeup, I might as well enjoy all those other sins, too. It was that great paradox of youth—a time when you’re happiest doing all the wrong things. And my naive self went about it full throttle. I loved with my whole heart, partied like I was a pro, and fueled my dream of becoming a star with enough optimism to launch a fleet of spaceships.

  I don’t know what saved me from becoming an addict, but I suspect that my parents, who never stopped dropping to their knees on my behalf, had something to do with it. So, too, did my dream of becoming a star, because once I noticed that drugs and alcohol affected my voice, I stayed away from them whenever I was performing. It didn’t matter if there were only five people in the audience—I acted like I was onstage at the Grand Ole Opry, and I was always stone-cold sober. But the moment I stepped offstage, no rules applied. My wild side couldn’t be tamed.

  Looking back, I’m not proud of some of the choices I made or the chances I took, but growing up doesn’t come with a handbook. Learning to navigate the boundaries of my own limits, professionally, socially, and emotionally, was a bit like walking a tightrope. Sometimes I could balance the risks and rewards, and sometimes I tumbled in free fall, hoping to survive. By God’s grace, I did. But that didn’t mean my path was easy.

  * * *

  Several years into our marriage, our blissful existence suddenly burst like a bubble. It all started one evening with a phone call. As I walked into the living room, I caught Pat in the middle of an angry conversation. His eyes darkened as his jaw tightened, causing me to freeze in fear.

  “No,” Pat said emphatically. “You got what you paid for.” Then he hung up. Over the course of the week, the scene repeated itself with more calls, more denials. Pat refused to talk about any of it. “Customers always think they’re right,” he muttered before walking away. Eventually, I caught wind of the rumors circulating around town that suggested people were unsatisfied with his work. When checks started to bounce, I knew there was a real problem, but I stubbornly refused to condemn my husband. “It’s no big deal,” I assured him. “I’m going to be a big recording artist and support us both.”

  Things turned sour in a hurry. “Sorry, Dianna, but there’s no money to hire you,” said one club manager after another. Who could have guessed that a second recession would hit so soon? As I tried to keep doubt and anxiety at bay, my confidence crumbled like stale bread. Forget about all those times I had opened for big stars; I was still no closer to stardom then when I had started.

  The horizon was muddled in darkness. Opportunity had vanished, and all that was left were the storm clouds of mounting debts. “How are we going to pay our bills?” I screamed one afternoon, throwing a fistful of papers in Pat’s face. He merely looked at me and walked out of the condo, slamming the door behind him. “You’re not helping matters,” I shouted to an empty room.

  Every argument pushed us further and further apart. To make matters worse, it was evident that Pat was spiraling into addiction. I wondered why one person could walk away from drugs and alcohol and another couldn’t. Clearly, Pat was no longer just a recreational user. When I looked into his dark, brooding eyes, I trembled. How bad would things get? Each day was a crapshoot. Would the sweet, loving Pat show up, or would it be the quick-tempered drunk?

  Mornings were Pat’s good times. Often, he showered me with affection and offered to make breakfast. By afternoon, my sweet husband was gone. Literally. And once he walked out the door, I never knew where he was going. By evening, he’d stumble back home, cursing me as though his unsteadiness were my fault. “Please,” I begged, “go to AA and get help.” His answer was always the same—that silent stare, followed by a hasty retreat into another room, where he’d slam the door behind him.

  Of course, I wasn’t exactly the best wife to help Pat out of his darkness. I had my own issues, though I never acknowledged them. For starters, I didn’t consider myself an alcoholic because I didn’t crave alcohol, but when I did decide to have a drink, it never ended with just one. I’d get so drunk that I could barely stand up. It was a trend that had started when I was only seventeen and sneaking into bars with my girlfriends.

  Back in high school, though, it wasn’t just about drinking. There was a method and purpose to our misbehavior. After getting all dressed up, we girls would enter a bar, purchase drinks, and proceed to do “the walk”—a ritual that involved walking through the entire bar with our drinks in hand while surveying and flirting with all the cute boys. It never failed to attract enough young men that we never had to buy another drink all evening long. Of course, when you’re only five feet tall and less than a hundred pounds, getting drunk happens pretty quickly. At the time, it seemed like a harmless way to let off steam and have a good time. Now that I was married, “the walk” wasn’t much of a temptation, but escaping the turmoil of my marriage with a few drinks certainly was.

 
; The bigger problem, though, was my nerves. At times, my hands shook and my heart raced as though I had just chugged a pot of coffee. All the anxiety I had felt in my childhood about getting punished and making mistakes was now spilling over into every little decision I had to make. If I eat that, will I get fat? Should I wear the white boots or the red ones? Should I sing at this club or the one down the street? Forget the big questions like How were we going to pay our bills? or Where can I turn for help? It was the trivial decisions that rendered me helpless. Entire days passed when I couldn’t eat … couldn’t think … couldn’t move. If I could just launch my career, I told myself, my problems would disappear.

  As Pat’s drinking and drug use escalated, I began to wonder if I had strayed so far from God that I was now invisible. Shame kept me from asking for help, and pride dangled the promise that if I pretended everything was fine, our lives might magically get better. After all, I did believe in miracles. But instead of drifting closer to God, I slipped further away. Pat and I spent most of our days fighting, then we’d declare a truce and share a joint or two in the evening. Neither of us had a clue about how to turn our lives around. And with all the extra anxiety, I nearly stopped eating altogether.

  The more our lives fell apart, the more I longed for home. Miraculously, one morning Pat strode into the living room and announced, “Pack your things; we’re moving to Texas.” I was ecstatic. Apparently the construction business was thriving in Irving, my hometown. We moved into a cozy apartment that felt like heaven. While Pat built houses, I landed gigs and entered every singing contest I could find. The change of scenery was good for both of us. Sobriety returned, and paychecks finally arrived with regularity.

  Then, like a yo-yo unfurled, Pat suddenly couldn’t hold onto a job again. His slurred words and glassy eyes said it all. The timing couldn’t have been worse. “Honey,” I told him, “I’m pregnant.” My due date was early January 1988.