THIS IS WHAT I KNOW
When I did that Ed Bradley piece for 60 Minutes at the end of the first year of becoming Gretchen Wilson the country singer, they used the following quote from me to end the whole segment:
“I’m just a simple, ordinary woman. And I think that’s what I’m trying to say—that it’s really cool to be that. I think that’s a lot of the reason why people have really connected to me. I am just like them. The only difference between me and a lot of women that come to my shows is that I can sing. That’s the only difference.”
I made this point throughout this book, but this is really why I wanted to write it in the first place. I wanted to tell people, especially those who like my music and especially women, about where I come from and some of the simple truths I’ve learned along the way. I don’t know all the answers, by a long shot—hell, I don’t even know all the questions—but a few things I do know, things I have learned from the hardest teacher of all—real life.
For me, I had to drop out of high school, grow up fast, develop a bulletproof exterior, and get out of small-town Illinois to realize my dream of being a professional singer and songwriter. As I said before, if you want to do what I wanted to do, you come to Nashville. Chances are extremely slim that Nashville is going to come to you. But that was my choice, or my destiny, and I was only doing the best I could with what I was given. By doing so, that didn’t magically solve all my problems. It doesn’t put me on some higher plane. It surely doesn’t make me any better than anyone else, or even any happier. It’s just the path I took.
There are women I went to school with in Greenville who, as I write this, are on their third husband and fourth child and they’re also working at a job that was available to them in that world—being a waitress at a diner, say, or a factory job near St. Louis, if they’re lucky. For whatever reason, each one of them decided to stay put and embrace the life she leads. It’s her destiny. Should we feel sorry for this hardworking woman? Hell, no. She is probably happier, or at least more content than millions of women in more prosperous circumstances. She doesn’t sit around and compare herself to Paris Hilton or the ladies in Vogue; she just tries to live her life to the fullest.
She’s got four great kids, she’s finally found the right man, she’s working a decent job, she’s at home every night, and she’s pretty damn pleased with things. And, in the end, that’s all that’s important. It doesn’t matter that the family income is low and she’s always looking for bargains at Wal-Mart. It doesn’t matter that the best house she is ever going to buy is a mobile home—maybe a double-wide with some up-to-the-minute features. That double-wide will do just fine. It will provide all the creature comforts anyone could want.
The point is, she’s doing the best she can with what life has given her. Just like my grandma, and my neighbor, Diane Jackson, and my mom and Aunt Vickie, and hell, me—we all do what we can, and we don’t spend a lot of time bitching and moaning about the crappy cards we’ve been dealt. Grandma showed us the way. We just carry on and perhaps take a certain pride—and gain a certain strength—in toughing it out.
My whole life has been an education about toughing it out, an education learned for women who can survive and find their way in spite of a mountain of real-life obstacles. It’s been my experience that these women think very little of themselves. They have been devalued by popular culture and in turn devalue themselves and their accomplishments. If one of these women makes the perfectly human mistake of comparing herself to the richer and more famous, her self-esteem goes straight down. She is surrounded by love and trust and yet is constantly told by newspapers and TV to see that as less important than wealth or notoriety or a perfect figure. Having grown up around some pretty untrustworthy people, I can tell you—trust is a much greater treasure than a vaultful of money.
The irony is, I’m sitting here on my Tennessee farm living the life that many of these women wish they had, and I’m sitting here thinking about how awesome they are. They are not frilly or girly-girly or particularly delicate—most would rather drink a beer and watch football than go to the spa—but I respect the hell out of them. I am here, in many ways, because of them and the inspiration they have given me.
I guess what I’m saying is, if you can see through all the BS about the fabled “good life,” see real value in the life you now have, and don’t feel like you’re missing out on something, then to hell with everybody else and what they think and what the world thinks you are supposed to be doing. Do what you do. You go to bed with yourself and wake up with yourself, and you are the final judge of the life you live or want to live. It’s an internal decision, not an external one. The size of your home or trailer has nothing to do with it.
Of course, we can all trip and fall and we can all learn from those missteps, as painful as that sometimes is. We all have to learn how not to buy our own BS, which can be damn hard to do. You have to be brutally honest with yourself. If you’re happy, then be happy. If you’re not happy, then maybe you should re-evaluate your life. Maybe you need to change.
No one, in other words, is stuck.
However many times you look around in fear or frustration and say to yourself, “God, I am stuck with this man or this job or this trouble-filled life,” you really aren’t. I’ve seen enough people in my life become un-stuck to know that it’s possible. It took my mom fifteen years and fighting through some serious addictions to leave an abusive husband, but she did it. I’ve eaten peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for weeks on end and lived in women’s shelters with my mom and I’m here to tell you, no one is stuck anywhere. Realizing that is the first step to changing your life.
And it can be damn scary, I know. I watched my mom live in fear for all those years, both the fear of being with her husband and the fear of being without him. I’ve seen firsthand and secondhand and thirdhand how scared women can get when they make the leap from the known to the unknown.
John Rich has said that one of the things he likes about me is that I’m wide open to trying new things. I’m not afraid to step out into uncharted territory. I guess you could call that either foolhardy or daring. Whatever it is, my guess is that this risk-taking attitude came from being part of an unstable family and being constantly thrown into new situations every three months or so as a kid. South Miami was certainly uncharted territory for a country girl from Pocahontas, and if I hadn’t stepped out into that world, I would have just holed up in my room, watched reruns of All in the Family, and wasted away. And if I hadn’t put on that blue evening gown and sang that karaoke version of “Blue Kentucky Girl” at fifteen, I’d still be throwing up for an hour anytime anyone asked me to sing in public. Only by taking risks did I ever get anywhere.
I’m looking at uncharted territory right now. Another title for this chapter could have been “The Unwritten.” I really don’t know the next song that might come bubbling up from my brain or whether or not people will like it when they hear it. Songwriting will hopefully keep me in the game for a long time, in the same way it’s kept Willie Nelson, Loretta Lynn, Merle Haggard, and a host of other great artists in the game. As long as you can keep expressing yourself in song, people will probably listen.
When you ask someone like Marc Oswald where I’ll be in fifteen or twenty years, he’ll say I’ll be a multimedia artist, doing everything from making hit music to writing children’s books. If you ask John Rich, he’ll say I’ll be wherever the hell I want to be. If you ask me the same question, my answer is, “Heck if I know.” I will just keep pushing forward, try to keep my life in balance, and see what happens.
And if it all went away tomorrow, could I go back to tending bar, living in a trailer, and playing clubs and be happy? I think my bartending days are over, but I have nothing against trailers and I will always have music in my life in some form. Barring some crazy turn of events, I will always have another precious thing—the love and support of my family, the ones who knew me when, know me now, and will always know me, whatever is going on in my life.
No matter what happens, I will forever hear my grandma’s voice telling me—take care of each other. And don’t worry, Grandma, I won’t let you down on this one.