The first time Lynn Melnick listened to a Dolly Parton song in full, she was fourteen years old, in the triage room of a Los Angeles hospital, waiting to be admitted to a drug rehab program. Already in her young life as a Jewish teen in the 1980s, she had been the victim of rape, abuse, and trauma, and her path to healing would be long. But in Parton’s words and music, she recognized a fellow survivor.

In this powerful, incisive work of social and self-exploration, Melnick blends personal essay with cultural criticism to explore Parton’s dual identities as feminist icon and objectified sex symbol, identities that reflect the author’s own fraught history with rape culture and the arduous work of reclaiming her voice. Each chapter engages with the artistry and impact of one of Parton’s songs, as Melnick reckons with violence, misogyny, creativity, parenting, friendship, sex, love, and the consolations and cruelties of religion. Bold and inventive, I’ve Had to Think Up a Way to Survive gives us an accessible and memorable framework for understanding our times and a revelatory account of survival, persistence, and self-discovery.

PRODUCT DETAILS

ISBN: 9781954118478
Price: $18.00
On-sale date: 8/1/2023
Weight: 1 lbs.

The first time I remember hearing a Dolly Parton song start to finish was in the triage room of a hospital, as I waited to be admitted to a drug rehabilitation program in West Los Angeles. I was fourteen. It was 1988, and Dolly and Kenny Rogers were singing 1983’s “Islands in the Stream” across LA’s KOST-FM. I knew her voice, of course. It would have been hard to be anywhere near a radio or television in the last fifty years without getting to know Dolly’s warm, clarion soprano. But while I grew up on folk songs—basically country for blue states—music like Dolly’s was often scorned in my parents’ home, and by my friends. My friends and I spent our time chasing down heavy metal bands on the Sunset Strip and would not have given Dolly the time of day. Many people of my generation—or at least those born outside the reign of country radio—first knew of Dolly as a straight-talking goofball on The Tonight Show, a set of giant tits, someone your grandma got a kick out of, someone who, my father would say with derision, was “famous for being famous.” Meanwhile, Dolly had been churning out hits for decades, possessed of a preternatural talent for writing and for singing authentic emotion into every song. Class and gender stereotypes could not and would not obscure her absolute genius or stop her from going where she wanted to go.

I don’t remember my parents in the moment they signed me into rehab, not their probably weary faces—younger than my own now—or much of what they said, only that the high cost of hospitalization was mentioned, and a joke made about hitting the annual insurance deductible in one night. March 3. A date I have marked every year in the thirty-plus years since. As a parent of a teenager myself now, I assume there was significant pain involved, some bewilderment, but also perhaps some acknowledgment of this predictable next step in the falling-apart sequence I’d been slowly enacting since I was raped by a teenage boy on overgrown 1970s carpeting before I’d turned ten years old. Now halfway through ninth grade, I had already been expelled from school twice; reckless behavior, followed by variously successful attempts to cover it up, was how I spent my free time while other kids studied or kissed or participated in team sports.

I welcomed the stay at Glen Recovery Center. If I couldn’t just be given an entirely new self, at least I wanted to make it clear to the world that the one I inhabited was wrecked. Being in rehab seemed like a rubber stamp to that effect. Less fond of cocaine and whiskey than of the exhilaration of forgetting, I craved the fresh environment. My parents filled out intake forms, and I was asked to create a list of people I approved to visit me. I sat with the lined sheet of paper on my lap even though I knew I didn’t want to see anyone. Outside, on Pico Boulevard, the Santa Ana winds blew through the tops of the palm trees visible from the windows of the triage room. I could hear the traffic flow east toward the tall vacant buildings of Downtown after dark and west toward Twentieth Century–Fox Studios and eventually the Pacific Ocean. It was a relief to abandon whatever promise I’d held as a curious, shy girl in my brother’s hand-me-down Sears dungarees and a cherished Strawberry Shortcake turtleneck shirt, the outfit I’d worn to school on picture day a couple months before my body was violated on that deep pile of beige shag carpet.

I’d worked hard since then to convince the outside world to join me in giving up on my potential. But Dolly’s voice from the hospital’s ceiling speakers held a different kind of promise than that which I’d failed to meet. It was a release, a renewal, euphoric. When I heard Dolly’s voice over the four-plus minutes of “Islands in the Stream,” I knew I needed to hear it again. Though it would be a few months before I purchased a Greatest Hits cassette tape from the bargain bin at a Thrifty Drugs, the multifaceted clarity of her voice hooked me instantly. I needed to feel that euphoria in my body again. I needed to believe in that bright precision, in an artistry as unstoppable as Dolly herself.

Resilience. Longevity. Outlast those who would doubt you. Just keep going. In my darkest moments, that’s been the light she shone on me. With over one hundred singles, fifty albums, 160 million records sold, more than four hundred television appearances, and scores of awards, Dolly has become even more of an icon in recent years, claimed and reclaimed by fans across a startling number of demographics and featured prominently and with due reverence everywhere, from memes and kitsch merchandise to awards shows and a Ken Burns PBS series. Dolly is an icon of feminine strength and yet also an objectified caricature of womanhood. She’s super savvy while often playing the rattlebrain—a deflection, perhaps, a feint of self-protection in a world where big talent and business acumen prove threatening when coming from a woman. She’s a phenomenally accomplished artist who gig¬gles it off as she keeps marching forward (in five-inch heels) through the life she wants. She’s an American Dream.

My husband, two daughters, and I arrived in Dollywood—a theme park in Pigeon Forge, Tennessee, that is partly owned by and fully named after Dolly—in the middle of the worst year of my adult life. A year so horrible that we were pretty sure Dollywood would be a disaster, a fairly expen¬sive disaster, this dream vacation paid for with the remains of a fellowship from the New York Public Library—money I’d earned for once, maybe for always, with my poetry. I’m not great at desks, so I spent that year with my ass on the industrial carpet of the very posh offices of the New York Public Library’s Cullman Center for Scholars and Writers, fielding phone calls and texts of crisis more than I spent it working on poems. My grandmother died. My husband’s best friend died. My beloved father-in-law had emergency open-heart surgery. I suffered with whooping cough for months. My daughter Ada, in seventh grade, was melting down in ways both predictable and terrifying. I was trying to promote my just-released book of poems about my own trauma, which in effect kept retraumatizing me. I needed a break.

The afternoon we arrived in East Tennessee, I stood in my rainbow wedge heels on the deck of our rental log cabin overlooking the Great Smoky Mountains and I let the land¬scape lap over me. I had never really grasped the rightness of their name, which is derived from the Cherokee “shakonage,” or “place of blue smoke,” until just that moment. Dense green, hawks soaring toward the sun, then erased by the low, thick clouds that create the illusion of another world: I felt desper¬ate to lose myself in it, and to find myself there as well.

One of twelve children, Dolly was born in the hills of East Tennessee to Avie Lee and Robert Lee Parton in January of 1946, and grew up in poverty. I grew up the daughter of a college professor and a second-grade teacher; my older brother, Cliff, was my only sibling. Now my brother’s family and mine were sharing one of the priciest cabins you can rent at Dollywood—“High Hopes.” How could I learn to be more Dollylike, rising again and again from the embers of expectation? What did it mean to be a forty-four-year-old woman, survivor, mother of two young daughters? A woman with years of missteps and recovery behind me? As a diehardrecords despite the relentless pace, and they thrived on country radio each time. By the 1980s, Dolly was in her thirties, and country radio had benefited from her crossover success. Hooky, irresistible songs like “Islands in the Stream” and “Here You Come Again” appeared on both the pop charts and the country charts, and she began to enter the public con¬sciousness as a celebrity as well as an artist. By the mid-1990s, however, she suddenly wasn’t contemporary, mainstream, or young enough for either chart. “Nobody plays artists like me on country radio anymore,” Dolly said in an interview in Goldmine in 2002, “because they assume people my age are over. But artists like me hopefully never are. Because I’ve lived so many lifetimes.”

Dolly’s later-career roots albums of bluegrass, country gospel, and Appalachian folk—namely, 1999’s The Grass Is Blue and 2001’s Little Sparrow—brought her back to her beginning and reinvigorated her career. This music of her youth finds her unbound by commercial considerations, and also serves to remind anyone who might have forgotten her impeccable talent. Little Sparrow was, until very recently, unavailable for download, and I no longer own a CD player, so I listened to its songs on YouTube, most frequently the title track and also “Seven Bridges Road.” I listen to “Seven Bridges Road” via my laptop’s dinky sound system whenever I need inspiration or cheering up—which, because I am human and frantic and overwrought inside the demands of womanhood and moth¬erhood, and the work demands of late capitalism, is near daily. “Seven Bridges Road” is a deep Dolly cut, one of my very favorites because of its unchecked, almost cosmic exuberance. It starts off my playlist.

I created my Dolly playlist in 2012 to celebrate my first non-hand-me-down laptop, just months before my first book would be published. I felt a rush trying to remember all my favorites, as they tumbled too quickly through my head. Why do people make playlists? To weed out the filler? To create their dream album? Control? To me, making a playlist is like ordering a book of poems; the story changes depending on how you arrange it—where it begins, where it ends, and all the little feats of magic that happen in between. My playlist (entitled, imaginatively, “Dolly”) was the story I wanted to tell with her music. This book is also that story; it follows the order of my playlist.

Dolly Parton is unquestionably one of the greatest American songwriters of all time, though she didn’t write “Seven Bridges Road.” It was written by “outlaw country” singer and songwriter Steve Young in the 1970s and made famous by the Los Angeles–formed band the Eagles. Young moved to Los Angeles from Alabama as a young man, didn’t know what to make of it, and quickly moved back to the South. Even though I never knew what to make of LA, I still long for it in a way that appalls me. But not the city as it is now, airbrushed and grown-up. I long for LA as I knew it, with its glam and booze and bad ideas, its wide, bright boulevards and how the light bounced off the sidewalks in a way that almost hurt. The whole time I lived in Los Angeles I failed to notice the escape hatches around me. I met one bad idea after another drugs, brutal men, LA’s darkest corners—in search of someone to touch me gently, to point me to the wildflowers I couldn’t still my head to notice, to move me past the ordinary as I knew it.

Jim Mills’s banjo on Dolly’s “Seven Bridges Road” is sublime, extraordinary, bubbling under the surface of winding arrangements and simple nostalgia until the end, where the mandolin and the banjo and Stuart Duncan’s always brilliant fiddle and Becky and Susan Isaacs’ complex harmonies finish at a peak; the song doesn’t blink. And it is Dolly’s voice that holds us with her passion and longing, holds every entry in a dictionary of feelings. Her voice is subtext and primary text; it says more per note than I have said in whole books. I’m exaggerating. I’m proud of my books.

In the early 1990s, when I was twenty years old, my then boyfriend pulled a tall, full bookcase down on top of me. He was furious about my reading and my writing. Shelves of Alice Walker, Emily Brontë, and poetry anthologies I’d found at thrift stores; fat Nortons and community college text¬books on anthropology and United States government; lurid dime-store paperbacks I’d inherited from an old woman who handed them to me in a McDonald’s bag at the laundromat: all of these collapsed on top of me, along with the oak shelves, and pinned me to the floor.

He didn’t start off angry. When I met him he was worshipful, couldn’t get enough of me. He touched me so tenderly I felt made of lace, and when I was handled like lace, he made me forget I was blighted. I felt instead lovely, decorous, his, and so I also forgot the strength I’d learned surviving everything I’d endured before him.

He had some books of his own. Carlos Castaneda, The Tao of Pooh, a handful of field guides to the fauna of California. He used Dr. Bronner’s soap and alternated between Taco Bell and being vegan. He wasn’t strictly beautiful—his eyes were wild like a splenetic animal. Early on in our courtship, I called him frightened from a gas station telephone because a man had threatened me, put a knife to my ribs on a city bus. It was decided that I shouldn’t take the bus anymore, that he should drive me everywhere in his always shiny car. This is how I became his to worship, to teach, to protect, to harm.

My cassette of Dolly Parton’s Greatest Hits from Thrifty was long lost by then but I had the CD—already the soundtrack to my own hoped-for resilience—which I slipped into the player while the man who’d just thrown a bookcase on me went to 7-Eleven to buy me yet another package of apology candy, always Red Vines, which are still my favorite. I left the books all over my floor, my bed—they’d even bounced well into the hallway. My body hurt. I couldn’t cry. I started a poem whose words and sounds and placement on the page held my whole story, some of which I couldn’t speak out loud without vomiting until I was in my forties. My body was cov¬ered in bookcase bruises for weeks and the marks shamed me, but I didn’t stop writing, trying to tell my story.

“I think it’s just simple ways of telling stories,” Dolly recently said about country music, “experiencing and express¬ing feelings. You can dance to it, you can cry to it, you can make love to it, you can play it at a funeral. . . . It really has something in it for every body”—she emphasizes these words separately—“and people relate to it.”

Dolly Parton left her hometown in Sevier County, Tennessee, in 1964. “I graduated on a Friday night and hurried to get to Nashville, so I came down on Saturday mornin’.” At her graduation ceremony, she announced to her class and their families that she was going to be a star, and the audience laughed. “They don’t know,” she thought. “They don’t know.” The next day she left for Nashville, which was what I would soon do, only now it was 2018 and my family would be head¬ing to the airport there to go back home to New York City.

I buckled my rainbow wedge heels and sipped my coffee. My visit to Dollywood would take some months to process, but it left me feeling more certain than ever of my strength and ability to create and to shine on my own terms. If you want the rainbow, Dolly says, you gotta put up with the rain. But now there was only sun, as far into the mountains as I could see, as I stepped onto the back deck of the cabin one last time. Like Dolly, the light in Tennessee dazzles. It glints and shifts. It thrums, it astounds, it is nothing but itself.