Country Music and Me: My Great Migration in the Wrong Direction
View of the Johnny Cash Bar in Nashville, Tennessee. (Valerie Macon via via Getty Images)
I’m black. Country music is supposedly white. But this summer my father and I reveled in the sounds of the South.
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It’s Sunday night in Nashville, and my father and I wade into a sea of cowboy hats. Most of the 4,000 seats are filled—the women in denim cutoffs with matching hats and boots; the men in faded flannels. Almost everyone is sipping hard seltzer or whiskey out of Dixie cups.
Center stage, Dylan Marlowe from Georgia is strumming his six-string and crooning: …
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