Remembering Dolly Parton: Few people could unite so many in time of intense division
Fort Worth police officer Kelly French and her K9 dog Wookie in front of a Dolly Parton mural in the Texas city this week, following the singer's death at age 80. Picture: Brandon Bell/Getty Images
Sometimes in the face of loss we gain a valuable clarity. Seeing the tributes flow in this week after the death of Dolly Parton at 80, it was hard to think of anyone who could unite so many people at a time of such intense division.
While there was sadness, there was also something uplifting in witnessing the universal outpouring of love and affection, as so many people, famous and otherwise, recounted their own special memories of the singer.
Mine is of her concert Live at the Marquee in Cork in 2008, when the rain outside was biblical but the atmosphere inside joyous. Water began to drip on to the stage and there was a collective intake of breath as we worried for the safety of the Queen of Country. A true pro as ever, she kept on singing while making a joke about how she always wanted to die on stage in front of a crowd.
That instinct to entertain but also reassure was at the heart of her appeal.
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For a generation that grew up with Parton on the radio and television, it seemed she would live forever, which made her passing feel shocking. But there is no doubt she would have rejoiced in the sense of community and connection evident in the mourning of her loss by millions who adored her not only for her music but also her humanity.
That talent and compassion were rooted in her upbringing in a cabin in the Tennessee mountains and a childhood that seemed too mythical to be true.
Her mother was 15 and her father 17 years old when they married and when Dolly, the fourth of their 12 children, arrived, payment for the doctor who delivered her was a sack of cornmeal.
She had a preternatural talent for music, learning to play on a makeshift guitar and mandolin, and by the age of 13 was being introduced at the Grand Ole Opry by Johnny Cash.
She went on to sell more than 100m records and win 11 Grammys, forging a career that went far beyond music, taking in acting, writing, and the small matter of a business empire spun out of her theme park Dollywood.
And then there was the philanthropy. One of her greatest achievements, the Imagination Library, was inspired by her father, who never learned to read. The initiative has delivered millions of personalised books to children around the world, from birth to age five, including many in communities throughout Cork.
It was only one element of her altruism, which also included donating $1m towards the development of the Moderna vaccine for covid and giving $1,000 per month to families who lost their homes as mountain fires swept through the Great Smoky Mountains.
This kindness and generosity was matched with a shrewdness when it came to business. The equally savvy Taylor Swift, one of many musicians on whom Parton was an influence, described her as "true grace and true grit, all in one dazzling person”.
She knew her own worth, skilfully navigating a cut-throat industry that could be particularly brutal to women.
Parton recounted how, the night before Elvis was set to record one of her most iconic songs, , she got a call from his manager Colonel Tom Parker demanding the publishing rights. She refused, and the rest, including the massive-selling cover version by Whitney Houston, is history.
Parton also became adept at deflecting the sexism and objectification she was subjected to early in her career.
Much of it was down to her distinctive look, which she affectionately said was modelled on the “town trollop”. It was mocked by many but came off, like everything else in her life, as gloriously authentic.
She leaned into it all with whip-smart humour: “I’m not offended by dumb blonde jokes because I know I’m not dumb and I’m not blonde.”
Parton had many links to Ireland. Her father had Irish and Scottish heritage and she credited her love of folk and country music to hearing the songs of those countries growing up.
In 1990, she holidayed in Ireland with her friend Walter Hagan, who had relatives in West Kerry. They visited Foley’s pub in Inch and he also brought her to the church where his mother was baptised in Ventry.
Most famously, she dropped in to the late Páidí Ó Sé’s pub, giving a spine-tingling impromptu rendition of , which was luckily recorded for posterity.
The Kerry footballing legend presented her with the jersey he had worn in the 1985 All-Ireland final, saying, in true Páidí fashion, that he hadn’t washed it since. She replied, in true Dolly fashion, that she hoped it still had some sweat left in it.
In 2023, she told RTÉ that the jersey was framed and hanging in her recreation room in the basement.
In another unlikely GAA link, her hit song could be heard ringing out from the terraces of Páirc Uí Chaoimh and Semple Stadium throughout the 2000s, fans replacing the name of the titular temptress with ‘Joe Deane’ in honour of the Cork hurling star.
It was just another small illustration of how her fandom was a broad church.
She was careful to avoid making any political statements that would alienate people, once telling an interviewer: “My daddy was a Republican, my mama was a Democrat, and I’m a hypocrite.”
She twice declined the Presidential Medal of Freedom during the first Trump administration, and later signalled she would also be reluctant to accept the award from Joe Biden.
She did speak out on social issues, however, supporting the rights of the working class especially. Her acceptance of the LGBTQ community demonstrated how she was a Christian in the true sense of the word; she told the broadcaster Larry King: “If you’re gay, you’re gay. If you’re straight, you’re straight, and you should be allowed to be how you are and who you are.”
It is understandable that in the wake of Parton’s death, much of the focus has been on her acts of kindness and generosity, but it is important not to lose sight of her talent and the pure yet powerful voice over which she exerted a seemingly effortless control.
The legendary jazz artist Wynton Marsalis said she never sang a wrong note and this mastery was showcased in a roster of peerless tunes such as and .
Parton gave her all on stage and to her fans but when it came to her private life, she was well-practised in keeping the media at arm’s length.
She was married for almost 60 years and her husband Carl Dean, who died last year, stayed out of the limelight. They never had children; Parton was diagnosed with endometriosis and said that “God didn’t mean for me to have kids so everybody’s kids could be mine”. She added that not being a mother gave her a freedom that allowed her career to thrive.
Parton’s legacy is secured; it will be felt in her music, in the countless people who she helped, and the millions of children who will grow up with an appreciation for reading.
As her nephew Bryan Seaver said in a video posted to her social media accounts on her death: “She never saw a door she couldn't open, and the doors she opened made and changed history.”
He added that “the sadness lies with us, not with Dolly”.
There is a sense in the response to her death that not only are we mourning her but the erosion of the decency, grace, and integrity that she embodied.
It has been reported that Parton would have been a billionaire if she hadn’t given away so much of her money. One can’t help but think that in a world of Bezoses, Musks, and Zuckerbergs, we would be a lot better off if we had more Dollys.
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