Like Me (7 page)

B
etween 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
.

I
n 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.”