The Truth Trap

Southern Mississippi, 1954

They say a man who speaks in riddles and rhymes has something to hide. That’s what they said about me. I never meant to be confusing—I just learned too early that truth’s easier to carry when it rhymes. More importantly, I never stutter when I sing.

My daddy tuned pianos and taught music to those spoiled rich kids whose families could afford it. Subsequently, he never learned to love people the way he loved quiet. I think maybe he was more ashamed of my stutter than I was, but he found a way to cure me—sort of: When I was still very young, Daddy taught me to sing what I had to say. And once I had enough music in me to converse, he taught me to speak the music playing inside—in notes—speaking notes—that came from the inside, out.

A funny thing about having to take a moment to think through all the notes on everything you say—it means that unlike most people whose mouths outpace their brains, by the time I filter my thoughts through the right music, my words come out earned—and I never have to apologize for them. That unnerves a lot of people. But it beats the hell out of having a stutter.

My mama was a waitress who called every man “sugar” and meant it. She used to tell people I came out humming “Blue Suede Shoes” and didn’t stop. When other boys learned to cuss, I learned to quote Sam Cooke.

By the time I turned thirty-one, I’d memorized more radio tunes than Bible verses, which—around here—meant I was already on the devil’s payroll. Maybe I was. Hell, maybe I am.

When they came for me though, it wasn’t for how I talked. It was for something I didn’t do.