Ohio Girl

I saw my first festival film of the week on Saturday. I will see a few more before the Cleveland International Film Festival concludes. Homemade Hillbilly Jam attempted a look at the endangered music and culture of the hillbillies of the Ozarks. I am not sure the movie properly achieved its goal. There were a couple shots of new freeways penetrating the hills—literally and figuratively—and meditations on the hillbilly stereotype, but no big revelations.

It was the music that stole the show. Big Smith--a band of brothers and cousins—was center stage surrounded by generations of musical family. A mix of traditional songs and feisty originals Big Smith manages to be true to its roots while exploring its own creative energy and direction. Or as ‘Hillbilly Hank’ said, they somehow manage to be both straight from the hills-billies, while being “hippie intellectuals.” I don’t know about that, but I bought ‘Gig’--their double, live album--and have been toe-tapping ever since.

My friend and I rushed out of a work-related event—where we had shown up with the denim and cleavage appropriate to a concert and not the fundraiser of a non-profit—to see Lucinda Williams at the House of Blues. It was good-timing; the intermission between her and her opening act.

Work came rushing back in… Amongst the crowd, we were first met by a social worker from the Public Defender’s office. She greeted us a full octave higher than her normal voice. “I had martinis before dinner,” she sang as she introduced us to her people. “Let me get you a beer,” she shrieked and ran off, mid-sentence.

In another corner was an attorney from the Public Defender’s office. She was still wearing a pin-striped suit, although she had loosened the upper buttons of her blouse. I recalled working on some cases with her back in my jail days. I tried to remember names, but faces only blurred into ‘cases.’ She leaned in close to a man who bought her a drink and smiled a flirty smile.

I made my way to the womb—my personal name for the HOB bathroom. It is warm, and red, and musky scented. The concierge was a client of the agency for which I work. She had told me that she got this job and she was excited. It ain’t easy to get work with a criminal record—not at McDonald’s, not at the House of Blues. She squealed when she saw me and gave me a big-armed hug. I tried to wipe the four-beer smirk off my face and heard myself say “bad example” inside my head. "How condescending," was my next thought. What sort of an example does a woman 20 years my senior need from me?

The other women in the restroom took our friendly chatter to be an instruction guide for how they should interact with the only Black woman in the house. They fawned over her and tipped her crazy and asked personal questions, like old friends.

Back out on the floor my friend and I moved to the opposite side to get a better view. Lucinda came out. She looked raw and pretty, like her sound. Women started to sway and men called out ‘baby’ trying to own some part of her passion. Her voice melted the knots in my neck.

To my right I caught sight of a social worker from the court psychiatric clinic--the people who determine whether, or not one is sane enough to stand trial. Still dressed for work, he seemed unaware of his surroundings. He focused on Lucinda the way he might on a client—trying to discern the most essential matter at hand.

I go out to see music a lot in Cleveland. Sometimes I see someone I know. I have never run into so many work-related folks. Folks like me who work on the unpopular side of the criminal justice system. (Or who find themselves smack in the middle of it.) We don’t arrest, prosecute, or imprison. We are there to advocate for the accused, convicted, imprisoned. It is as unpopular as it is vague. What does ‘advocate’ really mean? It is dramatic work never dramatized on primetime television.

And what does it mean that we all are drawn to Lucinda? I feel myself waxing too sentimental (a byproduct of my recent decision to leave Cleveland and my job) so I switch to sugar-free Red Bull. The taste makes me stick out my tongue and go “ack.”

And then I get the urge to dye a purple streak in my hair, or to tattoo myself--something to mark what I have done. What I have been here in Cleveland. I think about talking to my comrades, but they are all heavy into their Friday nights and we are all veterans. All past the point of discussing what the work feels like.

So I return to Lucinda, who I realize is saying it for us--raw and pretty--just like our jobs.

Your hips moved regardless of what your brain had to say. It started as a twitch, a little shake, and moved into a Chubby Checker twist with Latin intonations. And then the rest of your body joined in until you were two-stepping, or swing dancing, or square dancing, or whatever it is that you do, with your neighbor.

Maybe you walked in the door loving Dwight Yoakam, counting down the minutes until his own hips started to swivel. Maybe you came in thinking, yeah, I like a couple of his songs. Maybe you were dragged in by a boyfriend, or a girlfriend, never having heard a note. Regardless, you danced.

The older couple moving in staccato with arthritic joints--they danced. The yuppies with trendy eye wear and chunky shoes danced. The drunken bikers with bandanas and long beards danced. The guy who used to follow the Dead and still moves as if he is feeling the air, he danced. The middle-aged women with smart, short hair cuts danced and giggled. The guys wearing stylized western shirts and too much gel danced. The young women spilling out of their tank tops danced. The working-class couples who blew through the whole month's spending money to be there--they danced too.

I don't care if you don't like country, you still danced. And Dwight brings everyone together with a smooth whine and sounds that are at once pure, back-to-the-beginning, Honky-Tonk and utter reinvention; a synthesis of blue grass, blues, and rockabilly--norteno, swing, and Hank.

And when that guitar started moving propelled by skinny legs and inspired hips, by a man people would hardly recognize without the ten gallon pulled down low; when Dwight danced, well, even the straight men let out a groan.