by Chely Wright
I followed in the truck. He finally stopped, and I pulled up behind him. I ran up to him just as he was climbing off the tractor. I said, “Hey, you dropped your hat.” He flashed a big smile, and I explained how I’d retrieved it. I was well aware that Mike had been a star player on our high school football team. Now he was studying at nearby Ottawa University and was playing football there.
“I’ve seen you play basketball a couple of times,” he said to me. “You’re pretty good.” I was flattered and then told him I needed to get home. When I got back to the truck, I noticed he hadn’t moved from the spot beside his tractor. He didn’t smile or wave. He just stood there, with the rescued cap in his hand, looking back at me.
A few days later, I saw Mike again. I had been working on Sundays at East Kansas Chemical, a convenience store that also sold wholesale farm supplies and served as a gas station. I could work only on Sundays because I was underage and the store didn’t sell beer on Sunday. The owners, Bonnie and Carl Coffman, would open the store early on Sunday morning and I would take over at 11:00 a.m. I stocked shelves, mopped, inventoried, and logged the sales of fuel by the hundreds of gallons. I loved Carl and Bonnie, who let me prove myself at a grown-up job.
Mike walked into the store and waited until I was through serving customers. “I found you,” he said, once the store had grown quiet and it was just the two of us standing there. I was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say—surely he hadn’t come in there just to see me? Indeed, he had. It was the beginning of a cherished relationship that lasted through much of my teens.
I began dating Mike. I wanted to measure up to other girls my age, and they were starting to have physical relationships with boys. My friends would complain about how hard it was to resist going all the way with a boy, how things would just be getting going and they’d get caught up in how good it felt. It was as if they were speaking another language.
Mike and I had a pretty traditional courtship. When he wasn’t in class or at football practice in Ottawa, he’d come to Wellsville to see me. His parents were great to be around, and we’d eat family dinners with them whenever we could. I liked how important family was to him, and I especially loved how he doted on his nephew Phillip. After family dinners, Mike would drive me over to his college and we’d spend time at the house he shared with his friends. He showed great respect for me, but like any guy his age he wanted to move things along sexually, and I dreaded that. I actually liked kissing, but making out with Mike managed to both bore and frighten me. Attempts to do more than kissing always ended awkwardly. I’m sure Mike thought that I was being a good girl and showing restraint, and he never ever made me feel bad for not giving in, even though he was by no means a virgin. Still, he once hurt me terribly by cheating on me with a girl named Michelle, who was known around town. I’ve always thought he did it out of frustration, and in a way Michelle took the pressure off of me.
Mike and I dated on and off while I was in high school. At some point during my junior year, I began dating Andrew Collins. Andrew was the starting quarterback of his football team in Gardner, just a couple of exits up I-35. I’m not sure what Andrew saw in me, since he could have had any girl in that rural part of Kansas. I even wondered if he dated me because he’d taken a bet from his buddies to see if he could go all the way with me. If so, he lost.
Like Mike, Andrew wound up cheating on me, in this case with one of my oldest childhood friends, Erin McAlpin. I suspected something was going on between them, but both denied it. Then one day I was at Andrew’s house, waiting for him in his room while he took a quick shower. I wasn’t snooping, but I saw a handful of letters folded into neat squares on his dresser. On the outside of each square, “Andrew” was written in feminine handwriting. I opened one, glanced at the bottom to see who had signed it, saw her name, and then read the letter. I read every one, managing to carry on a conversation with Andrew as he dressed in the bathroom. After, I walked out of his house, got in my car, and drove home before he’d even come out and faced me. Andrew called, but I never spoke to him again.
Sometime the next week, at school, Erin asked me if we could go outside and talk about it. She admitted what had happened, but insisted on showing me letters Andrew had written to her, too. She wanted me to know that they were both guilty. She asked for my forgiveness and I gave it without hesitation. I was upset, but not for the reason one might imagine. I wasn’t hurt that my boyfriend and one of my best friends had betrayed me. I was upset because I didn’t really care what he did or who he did it with. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t feel anything like heartbreak over losing a boy. I was upset that I wasn’t upset enough.
The Ozark Jubilee
Between my junior and senior years of high school, I moved away from home to chase my dreams of country music fame at the Ozark Jubilee. The Jubilee was one of the hottest live shows in Branson, Missouri, and I’d successfully auditioned to be a featured singer. It had a great history of presenting artists like Porter Wagoner, Red Foley, and Brenda Lee. Back in 1988, Branson was still a quaint little resort, the perfect place for me to try living the life of a performer.
I got the gig after playing around the area and making a name for myself. Tony James, a Branson music promoter, saw me and suggested that I participate in his talent shows. I won a couple of them and I lost a couple of them, but Tony believed in me and recommended me to Clifford and Maggie Sue Campbell, the owners of the Jubilee. They trusted his instinct and agreed to give me an audition.
Branson was five hours from Wellsville. I was seventeen and hadn’t saved up enough money for my own car, so my parents took me up to Branson for my audition. We arrived at the theater a couple of hours early to be safe. No one was there yet, so I hopped out of the car and got my picture taken standing in front of the building. I still have that snapshot. At my audition, it became clear that the other Jubilee performers—all of them seasoned musicians in their thirties—weren’t thrilled about playing with a teenager. The band grudgingly went through the motions onstage with me. At one point, Clifford asked me to go over to the piano and play with the band while someone else sang. I was able to follow along with relative ease and sing the harmony parts.
Mom, Dad, and I returned to Wellsville, and not long after that the Campbells called and offered me a job. I was excited but overwhelmed. I would need to find a place to live, buy a car, and move to Branson.
I ended up renting a mobile home sight unseen in a trailer park called Yeller Holler, about fifteen minutes from Branson’s strip, where the Jubilee and other big theaters were. I bought my first car, a 1976 Plymouth Duster, for $600. I threw my keyboard, my boom box, and all of my clothes in that hideous car and headed down to the Ozarks. Mom rode with me to help me settle in, and Dad came up a few days later to drive her back to Wellsville. I didn’t have a lot of stuff. The trailer had a bed and a kitchen table with no chairs. I was moved in no time flat.
The next day I had a show at the Jubilee. The only thing I had to wear onstage was my hot-pink lamé prom dress that I had debuted in Wellsville a couple weeks before. It had cost $180, and I was thrilled to get to put it to use more than once. After a couple of shows, the veteran members of the cast warmed up to me. In the end, they all proved to be kind and generous, and they taught me so much about performing and how to treat fans.
That summer was unbelievably hot, and my trailer had no air-conditioning. The little thermometer duct-taped to the paneling in the living room would sometimes hit more than 120 degrees. I wasn’t required to be at the theater each day until about four o’clock, but I’d often get there two hours early just to take advantage of the cool sixty-four-degree air that blasted through the Jubilee. With my parents back in Wellsville, Clifford and Maggie looked after me, but I reveled in being on my own. There wasn’t a telephone in my trailer, so every Wednesday I’d call home from a gas station pay phone at the bottom of the hill from Yeller Holler. The one time I forgot, my parents drove all night to check on me.
; During my time in Branson, I again found myself attracted to another girl. I’d hoped that somehow moving to a new town in a new state would end what was tormenting me. Because I lived alone in my trailer, I could say my prayer again and again and no one would overhear it. And one night I thought God must’ve heard me.
During our two-hour show there was an intermission, and the performers would usually stand at the front of the stage and sign autographs. The audience was usually an older crowd, so if young folks did show up, the entire cast noticed. One night, three handsome, athletic-looking boys my age waited after the first half of the show to talk to me. They said they were on a road trip before their first year in college and that this was the best part of their adventure so far. They hailed from Olive Branch, Mississippi, a little town near Memphis. They reminded me of the boys from my hometown—particularly the boy called Augie. We made our small talk, and then I had to get back to work. During the show I found my eyes wandering to the section where Augie and his pals were seated. I was so excited to have people my age in the audience.
My best friends in high school. Left to right: Christy, Deb, me, Susan, and Tina.
Afterward, I was backstage putting my dresses and shoes away when Clifford came to tell me that Augie and Co. were still out there and wanted to see me again. “They asked me if it was all right if they invited you to go get some ice cream,” he said. “I told them that if you do go with them, there had better be no funny business or they’ll have to answer to me.” I thanked Clifford and accepted the invitation.
Being in Branson was like living on the grounds of a giant amusement park, so we all went to ride go-carts. During the evening, Augie revealed that they couldn’t afford a hotel, so they’d pitched a tent at a local campground. He asked if we could go back to my trailer. I agreed, even though I knew my parents would have killed me; my gut told me that they were good guys. Since I had only one chair, we all sat on the floor and listened to cassette tapes of my favorite country music. I had no snacks or soda to offer, but they didn’t mind, and we talked until about three in the morning. Then I said I had to get some sleep. The boys hopped to their feet and thanked me for visiting with them. I asked them where their campsite was and if they had enough blankets and sleeping bags. Augie explained that they had only two sleeping bags for the three of them. I couldn’t let one of them shiver in the cold all night in some tent, so I invited the entire crew to spend the night in my trailer’s second bedroom, where there was a queen-size bed and enough blankets for one boy to sleep comfortably on the floor. They behaved like gentlemen and left early the next morning.
About ten days later I got a thank-you letter in the mail from Augie and was struck by how thoughtful he was. We became pen pals, and during his first spring break from Ole Miss, later that year, he borrowed his sister’s car without asking and drove to see me in Kansas. Soon we were dating. We continued to see each other even after I graduated from high school and moved to Nashville. Initially I was hopeful that Augie’s appearance at the Jubilee was divine intervention, designed to save me from homosexuality. But soon I was wrestling with my old fears again. Nothing could save me from being gay.
My senior picture, Class of ‘89. I didn’t want to spend my money on having my senior picture taken because I was saving for my move to Nashville, but I’m glad I went ahead and did it.
Opryland USA, 1989
In May of 1989 I began my new job as a singer at Opryland USA. The theme park no longer exists, but at one time it was a thriving and beloved part of Nashville’s tourism. I was hired to be one of sixteen performers in an outdoor show called Country Music USA, a fast-paced musical revue of country music’s past and present. I’ve never had more fun in my life.
Because it was so fast-paced, the performers had to make multiple costume changes backstage in a matter of seconds. People were hired specifically to help us get in and out of costumes. The changing area backstage was cramped, but all of us became close friends, including the dressers, the band, and the crew. There were nine boys and seven girls in the show, and each of us had worked hard to get there. Thousands of young people from all over the nation had auditioned for a spot on that show, and we were the fortunate sixteen who got hired.
For years I’d been a big fish in a small pond, and now that was changing. Not only was I hired to sing solos but I needed to learn how to sing in a chorale environment. When I did well, it bolstered my confidence to know that there were very few things that I couldn’t learn how to be somewhat good at. One of the things I realized was that I could never be great at dancing.
I did the dance rehearsals every day and I knew them step for step. They were complicated and confusing, but I was determined to do my job. There were group dances that I was required to perform for every show. There were also other dance numbers that were assigned to the more qualified and skilled dancers. Even if a person in the show wasn’t cast in the more difficult dances, we still had to know them in case someone became sick or injured. For the majority of my years at Opryland, I was spared the humiliation of my lack of dancing ability, but I gained a tremendous respect for other people’s gift of performance, and that has served me well over the years.
This statue of Roy Acuff and Minnie Pearl sits in the lobby of the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee, the original home of the Grand Ole Opry. I played the role of Minnie Pearl in the Country Music USA show. Several years later, the artist commissioned to sculpt the statue had me “sit and pose” for reference photos because I knew Minnie’s mannerisms and had the “Minnie dress and hat.” Shortly before Miss Minnie passed away, I visited her and she thanked me. Her husband, Henry, had taken pictures of the statue to show her and she was pleased with the result.
One of the guys in the show was particularly extraordinary, as a dancer and as a vocalist. His name was Ray Kinman, and he was a star of our show on and off the stage. We were all relatively outgoing and enjoyed kidding around, but Ray was a ham. He was intelligent, quick-witted, and willing to do just about anything for a laugh. We made up skits, did monologues and dialogues, created characters, and made everything in our tiny world seem funny.
Ray was a young gay man from Alabama who used sarcasm and comedy to deflect any blow that came his way.
I was a little bit timid around Ray because he was so clever and smart. He and I had never really had a confrontation, mostly because I was the new kid in the show and there was an unspoken hierarchy at Opryland.
Then one day, in between shows, he and I happened to be in the backstage area re-setting our costumes for the next performance. Each cast member had about six assigned hooks on the wall, and with the help of our dressers we’d make our lightning-quick costume changes next to our hooks.
Ray and I were making small talk and tidying up our respective areas when one of the other guys in the show came up behind him and playfully slapped him on the backside. Ray quipped to the other guy as he trotted off, “I know you want me, you big queen.” I must’ve made a noise or given a look of disapproval because Ray asked me, “What’s your problem?” I told him that I didn’t appreciate having to witness things like that. We got into a discussion about homosexuality. I told him that I thought it was a sin, a deviant behavior that someone chooses, and that the Bible supported my position. I told him that I didn’t care what he did or who he was, but I asked him to please not do it around me. His face turned red in anger and frustration as he tried to explain to me that it was not a choice for him. He went on to tell me that I was ignorant and I was not in Kansas anymore. As he walked off, he said, “You better get used to it. Opryland is full of fags.”
I felt bad for saying what I’d said to him, and I felt bad for myself too. My experience in Branson the summer before had scared me in a whole new way. I wanted another brand-new start. I was disappointed that I had not been able to leave my homosexuality behind the summer before, and I’d made up my mind to dedicate myself to changing. Not only did I truly want to change—I didn’t want to be discov
ered by other gays. I’d never been around anyone whom I knew to be gay. I had an overwhelming fear that they might see “it” in me. I didn’t know any better. I thought that I could, without realizing it, have some characteristic or trait that other gays might be able to identify.
Years later, I heard from a friend of a friend that Ray had told people that I was gay. He did have reason to say that, by the way. He’d been aware of a friendship that I had with a girl whom they all suspected of being gay, and she was. I suppose that my hateful rant against homosexuality in those first few weeks at Opryland only fueled his speculation about me. As I have grown older, I have paid attention to those who are so overtly opposed to and vocal against homosexuality, especially those who prop up their arguments with the Bible. An educated guess tells me that some of them who rant are actually gay.
Ray and I enjoyed a good friendship for years, even though I kept him at arm’s length. There were times when I wanted to confide in him, and there were times over the years when I desperately needed him. I’m hopeful that I can find Ray Kinman and ask his forgiveness.
Brenda
One of the only things I knew for certain when I moved to Nashville was that I had three months of employment. My contract with Opryland was for the summer of 1989, but that short contract was my ticket to Nashville.
The Opryland casts were seasonal workers, but some casts had longer contracts than others. The Opryland management assigned a color to the different groups. I was in the Blue Cast, and our contract was only for the summer months. The more-seasoned cast was called the Red Cast. In theory, the Opryland higher-ups would choose performers at the end of the summer from Red and Blue to constitute the group of performers who would get to have employment into the fall months. They called this the Purple Cast. It was understood, however, that if anyone in Red chose to stay and be in Purple, they had seniority.
