Dolly Parton performs in concert on July 31, 2015, in Nashville
(Photo by Wade Payne/Invision/AP, File)
I knew this day would eventually come, but I still wasn’t ready for it.
Dolly Parton has died.
Even typing those words feels wrong, like I have put together a sentence that simply should not exist. Dolly had been part of our lives for so long that she somehow seemed permanent.
She was always there, giving us her music, her humor and so much joy.
Imagining a world without her in it just doesn’t feel possible. She was my favorite musical artist of all time, but that doesn’t begin to explain how much I loved her.
She was joy. She was laughter. She was kindness, strength and hope wrapped in big hair, glitter and rhinestones. She was a source of comfort for me and one of those rare people who made the world feel warmer simply by being in it. Her humor is something I model my own life after; she always seemed to be in on the joke and clearly loved making people laugh.
Now that she is gone, my world has less laughter and feels a little colder. I’m guessing yours might too.
Like millions of people, I first fell in love with her voice. It could be sweet one moment and heartbreaking the next. She sang about love, poverty, faith, heartbreak and survival in a way that felt real. Her songs didn’t sound like random words assembled in a studio to create a hit.
They felt lived in, as if she had opened the door to something private and trusted us enough to come inside.
But her voice was only the beginning.
What kept me devoted to Dolly was the person behind the music. She never forgot where she came from. She grew up dirt poor and built a life bigger, brighter and more colorful than most people could ever imagine. As the son of a working-class butcher, I found that incredibly inspiring. Her success never seemed to convince her that she was more important than anyone else. I think that was part of her magic. Somehow, she made all of us feel like family.
I have watched countless videos of Dolly walking into a room looking like a million dollars yet somehow making everyone else in that room feel important. That is incredibly rare. I’ve met plenty of famous people, and they certainly know how to command attention. Dolly knew how to give it.
She proved you could be ambitious without being cruel, successful without pulling the ladder up behind you and glamorous without taking yourself too seriously. She would make the joke before anyone else could, toss that enormous blond wig and then quietly prove she was probably the smartest person in the room.
Growing up as someone feeling different than everyone else, I saw something else in Dolly that became very personal to me. She gave people permission to be completely themselves — to be louder, brighter and more honest. She never asked anyone to shrink, dull their shine or apologize for being different.
In a world that can be especially harsh toward our community, her acceptance never felt like some carefully-worded public relations statement. It felt genuine, uncomplicated and human. She loved us, and we knew it.
Dolly never treated our community like a political talking point or a marketing opportunity (although I think we can all agree the woman was a marketing MACHINE). She treated us like people worthy of dignity, laughter, music and, most importantly, belonging. That mattered to me more than I can explain, especially during my formative years, when acceptance was much harder to find.
There was also something quietly rebellious about Dolly’s kindness. It had backbone. She could bring people together without surrendering who she was or what she believed. She understood that decency was not weakness and that compassion did not require you to become quiet or afraid. That is a lesson our country desperately needs right now.
Her generosity changed lives. Through her Imagination Library, she put millions of books into the hands of children who otherwise might never have owned one. She helped people in crisis, supported communities as they rebuilt and gave without making the giving about herself. She didn’t need the spotlight.
Her legacy will live on through millions of children who learned to love reading because a book arrived with Dolly’s name on it. I believe that is one of the most beautiful things any entertainer has ever accomplished.
Of course, I loved the Dolly spectacle too — the hair, the clothes, the nails, the one-liners. Oh God, the one-liners! I have probably said, “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap,” a thousand times to my friends.
And then there was her absolute refusal to believe there could ever be too many rhinestones. Dolly understood that life is hard, and if you can add a little sparkle to it, YOU SHOULD! Why wouldn’t you?
Her music became part of the soundtrack of my life. It was there during celebrations and losses, on ordinary days and terrible ones and during times when I simply needed a familiar voice to remind me that sadness eventually passes, people survive and morning does come, even when the night feels impossibly long. That is why this loss feels so personal, even though I am only one of millions grieving her now.
Dolly created an intimacy with her audience that very few performers ever achieve. She made us feel as though we knew her. More importantly, she somehow made us feel as though she knew us, too.
My love for Dolly was never casual. I made the trek to Dollywood because I wanted to experience the world she created. I went to the ACM Awards in Frisco three years ago because Dolly was going to host. Before that, I saw her perform in Oklahoma and held on to every moment, because seeing Dolly in person felt truly special.
But I was supposed to see her again. I was one of the few lucky enough to get tickets to her recently-canceled Las Vegas residency. More than that, I was finally supposed to MEET her. After all those years of loving her music, traveling to see her and following her career, I was going to stand in front of THE Dolly Parton and tell her what she meant to me.
Now that moment will never happen.
I pictured our meeting in my head so many times. I wondered what I would say and whether I could make it through without crying. (Spoiler alert: I absolutely could NOT have.) Now I will never know. I wanted more time. We all did.
But it is impossible to think about Dolly Parton and remain only sad. She showed us that where we begin does not determine how far we can go. She showed us that faith and acceptance can live in the same heart and that kindness can be one of the strongest forces in the world.
There will NEVER be another Dolly.
She was a songwriter, a businesswoman, a humanitarian and an icon. Most importantly, she was a genuinely good person.
Today my heart is broken (and if you’re reading this, I’m sure yours is, too). But underneath the sadness, believe it or not, there is also happiness and an enormous amount of gratitude.
Think about it: Of all the people who have walked this earth, and of all the times we could have been here, we were lucky enough to be alive when Dolly was here.
We got Dolly. We got the songs, the laughter, the rhinestones and the one-liners. What a gift.
Dolly once said of death, “I don’t think it is the end of me. I don’t think it’s the end of any of us.” She was right. She lives on in her music, in her generosity and in every person who felt freer to be themselves because she showed us how.
Now it is up to us to live as Dolly taught us: boldly, joyfully, kindly and, whenever possible, in rhinestones. She spent her whole life showing us how to lead a life full of laughter and love…
I will always love you, Dolly — we all will!
Chad Mantooth is advertising director and associate publisher for Dallas Voice, and a lifelong Dolly Parton fan.