Her chest swelled with adrenaline as she tried to speak. “Shit—I can’t even…thank you.”
He nodded, then handed it back. “I appreciate you askingabout my mother, wanting to do right by me in that way. But that’s not something I want out there publicly.”
Brinton’s heart sank, but she understood. And yet, she mourned the loss of her most viable story angle. It would have set her article apart from anything else published about him. It would have all but guaranteed a cover story.
She felt for Jamie’s immense loss. She truly did. She couldn’t imagine surviving her own growing pains without her chronically supportive mother.
However, Brinton simply couldn’t afford to go home empty-handed.
“Then you have to give me something else,” she said.
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Iwill, just—ask me anything else,” Jamie said earnestly. His pleading eyes made Brinton’s heart jump into her throat.
She thumbed her recorder and exhaled. “Right, let’s talk about your father. But I need something that’s not out there. I wanna dig deep.”
“What do you wanna know,” he answered. His shoulders slumped as if anchored by an invisible weight.
She leaned back, summoning strength of her own. Committed to peeling back his layers. “When your dad was still performing, country music wasn’t exactly an inclusive space. Some would argue that it still isn’t. Is that something you’ve discussed with him?”
If she had a rare opportunity to mine Jamie’s depths, in a wayLandmarknever would, she had to take it. It was then her new story angle crystalized beneath the silver moonlight: who was themanbehind themythof Jamie Crawford Jr.?
He let out a pained sigh, but his expression remained open. Head tilted, a faint smile on his lips, he laughed. “You wait until we’re stuck in a boat to ask me that?”
She shrugged, smiling back. “I thought you liked my thoughtful questions?”
“I do. So, let’s talk about it.”
Brinton exhaled, bracing for this conversation to take a hard right turn, pun intended. “Country music in the American South wouldn’t be what it is today without the influence and ingenuity of enslaved Black people,” she started. “In fact, historians have traced the banjo—a staple in early country, bluegrass, and folk music—to origins in West and Central Africa before appearing in North America due to?—”
“Slavery. Yes, I’m aware,” he interjected. Remorse blanketed his tone.
Was he genuine or trying to win her over because he was, in fact, being recorded?
“I think there’s an opportunity with artists of my generation and everybody who comes long after,” he continued. “A chance to correct these mistakes and level the playing field for a lot of people who’ve been shut out.”
She picked at a ragged cuticle on her thumb. She needed to be strategic without scaring him off.
“Right. Largely, Black country artists today are still fighting for financial parity with their white counterparts. Let alone for respect.”
Brinton had discovered this in her own research. It filled her with despair for the stories she hadn’t heard, and those no one ever would.
He nodded slowly. “You ever heard of Charlie Pride? He was one of the most influential country artists ever. He’s also remembered as the first Black country superstar. Charlie was a friend of my father’s. Meant a great deal to our family.”
“I researched him. And his contributions are undeniable. Same with Linda Martell, the first Black woman to release a country album. And Beyoncé—the first Black woman to have a number one country album on Billboard. You and I bothknow there are countless more deserving of recognition, but who are denied a seat at the table because they were born with the wrong skin color and last name.”
Brinton cleared her throat. “No offense.”
Jamie ran a hand through a soft-looking thatch of waves that had fallen into his eyes. “You’re absolutely right. I’m not going to argue with you, but—I guess—I’m still learning how to navigate this myself.”
“Are you talking about that Instagram photo?”
He nodded. “Case in point why my team controls my social media accounts.”
The previous summer, Cory posted a photo of him and Jamie in front of the Eiffel Tower and captioned it “N****s in Paris.”
This was fine for Cory, a Black man. But when Jamie, a white man, hearted it on Instagram, the flogging was swift. The post was only up for a few minutes. Jamie donated tens of thousands to various civil rights organizations and apologized publicly, but the damage had been done.
