CHAPTER ONE
“From an early age, I wanted more …I wanted to be a star!”
As far back as I can remember, music surrounded my family like air, filling our home, our car, and our hearts.
“Stand up here,” Daddy said one Sunday long ago, lifting me with his strong hands and placing me on a piano bench that was next to the pulpit at the Union Bower Assembly of God Church in Irving, Texas. “Steady yourself,” he whispered before walking away.
It was 1965, and I was only three years old. Singing solo had been Daddy’s idea. I was tiny, even for my age—the size of an insect compared to the grown-ups sitting in the rows and rows of pews in front of me—and the crowd looked immense to me. Although eager to please everyone, I suddenly wasn’t sure I remembered all the words to the song Daddy had patiently taught me. My legs wobbled as my eyes blinked in the bright lights. Nervously, I slid my hands across the folds of my pale-blue dress, feeling the small, white bumps sprouting from the dotted-swiss fabric. When that didn’t calm me, I shook my head, causing scarlet wisps of my pixie haircut to stick to my cheeks. After that, there was nothing more to do except stare into the eyes of the men and women in front of me. And that’s when the magic happened.
Maybe it was their smiles. Maybe it was the eagerness in their eyes. But the longer we looked at one another, the more I enjoyed the attention. At the sound of the piano, I took a deep breath and began to sing. Don’t ask me the name of the Gospel song or how I left the altar that day—those details are buried under time. What I do remember, quite vividly, is the shower of praise that followed. “Amen,” shouted one woman. “Praise God,” said another. “Hallelujah!” boomed a group of men from the back of the church. But it was the echo of applause swirling around me that sparked a fire in my belly. As the warmth of that flame spread upward, my sense of self grew taller and stronger, and from that day forward, I never doubted that singing was my God-given gift. And I never doubted that I would become a star. In my childhood imagination, I saw that piano bench grow and grow until it became a stage in front of thousands. The crowd’s adoration was like manna from heaven and every crumb reinforced my destiny, which, in my optimism, meant I was going to be a singing sensation with fans around the globe.
I left no detail to chance. Our family’s motto—“Practice makes perfect”—was put to good use. Every afternoon, I disappeared into my bedroom and stood in front of the full-length mirror, wrapping my little fingers around a hairbrush and belting out tunes until I forgot where I was. I loved watching myself, loved dreaming about the future. Although Gospel was the main soundtrack to our lives, popular music was there, too, and radio artists, such as Bobby Sherman and Tony Orlando, inspired me to think about hearing my own songs over the airways someday. My audiences may have been imaginary, but my ambitions were as real as the freckles on my face.
A few months after my church debut, my momma, Sue Dianne Emmons, and I were sitting on the porch as we listened to the radio wedged between us. Pots and pans—my collection of toys that day—were scattered around me, but my sole focus was on the lid to a large pot. As I fidgeted this way and that, trying to nestle myself into the shiny piece of metal, I stared at my mother as she put on her makeup.
Momma was young and naturally beautiful. That day, especially, she was very Annette Funicello–looking with her long, dark hair; stylish pedal pushers; button-up shirt; and white flats. Makeup made her glow like sunshine.
“Doesn’t matter what you’re wearing,” she instructed. “You’ve got to make sure your hair and makeup are done.”
Nodding solemnly, I stared at her intently. Then I studied how she brushed her hair with slow, even strokes and how, with a flick of her wrist, she could turn the ends up. How a bit of mascara could turn her eyelashes dark as charcoal. And how her lips turned a frosty pink with something that resembled a giant crayon. “It’s called putting on your face,” she told me. When she finished, Momma held up a small mirror, smiling at her handiwork. Before looking away, she caught my reflection, making her smile grow even wider. In that instant, an energy passed between us that made my skin tingle. Deliriously happy, I began to spin on the lid beneath me like a human top. Pushing harder and harder, I spun faster and faster, causing rays of sunlight to dance around me. Just as my momentum reached a crescendo, the number-one hit “Lil’ Red Riding Hood” started to play.
Momma sang along. “Hey there Little Red Riding Hood, You sure are looking good,” she trilled, cocking her head from side to side. “You’re everything that a big bad wolf could want.” Then looking right at me, her eyes bright with joy, she unleashed a comical howl, “Owoooo.” Like magic, her voice, the song, and our happiness became an intimate conversation. You see, I knew this Little Red Riding Hood she was singing about, and I also knew about that big, bad wolf. “I mean baaaa. Baaa,” she crooned, looking more beautiful with every note. Time slowed to a trickle as love devoured me.
As I grew older, whenever Elvis came on the radio or television, Momma would pause what she was doing and launch into her legendary Elvis experiences. No matter how many times I had heard the stories before, she’d retell them, always sounding a bit giddy. “Oohh, now there’s a boy who loves his momma,” she’d start, quickly adding, “Do you know I met him in my teens?”
Now I had heard these stories again and again, so, of course, I knew. In fact, I knew most of the details, such as how she had lived with her older sisters in Tennessee for a time in a house not far from Graceland, how Elvis was a good person because he started out in Gospel music, and how he was a fun-loving character who liked to play practical jokes. But I never said a word. How could I steal my momma’s joy in reliving those experiences one more time?
“We’d wander down to Graceland and flirt with the security guards,” she’d brag, “and eventually, they’d let us in.” After she delivered this little tidbit, Momma’s face always beamed like a schoolgirl who’d just found out she was voted prom queen. It made me wonder if living so close to “The King” had been a bit like handing my mother a diamond ring and telling her not to wear it. “That Priscilla, though,” she’d add with attitude, “always got angry when we made too much noise. She’d give us a stern talking-to from her balcony, though we never paid much attention.”
Elvis, who rented out the Memphian Theater to screen his own movies, often invited a group of friends to come along. My mother, friends with a friend who had been invited, always jumped at the opportunity to tag along. “Every time,” she’d laugh, “he’d insist that everyone sit behind him so as not to obstruct his view.” I got the feeling Momma was just fine with his request.
But popular music never dominated the airwaves at our house, mostly because of my father, Perry Hart. With his wavy, sandy-brown hair and bluish-gray eyes, Daddy may have looked like a movie star, but his heart lusted after God. Although he had a good-paying job at Central Freight Lines in Irving, it was his work with the church that he valued the most. As an ordained Pentecostal minister, he felt his true calling was to serve God. He fulfilled that duty by serving as the youth minister at Union Bower Church and leading praise and worship music with my mother. When Daddy finally invited me to sing along, it was like destiny tapping me on the shoulder.
Copyright © 2018 by Dianna De La Garza
