What Dolly Parton Taught Me About Mutual Aid 

From the Dolly Parton birthday homage January 16 (submitted by Betsy Hoody)

When I read of Dolly Parton’s recent death, the first thing I thought about was when I celebrated her birthday with hundreds of fellow Minnesotans in the heart of Operation Metro Surge. In honor of Dolly’s 80th, the Fine Line in downtown Minneapolis hosted a Dolly Tribute night on January 16, 2026 as a fundraiser for Women’s March Minnesota.

When I arrived with a friend that night, the vibe in the venue was jittery. It was a week after federal agents killed Renée Good and one week before other federal agents would kill Alex Pretti. We didn’t yet know where this story was going, only that the crisis seemed to escalate every day.

I hesitated to go out that night. I didn’t know how it would feel to sing and dance after a week of intense mutual aid work. This was the week when a stranger on the street asked me to drive her daughter to school when she saw me picking up her neighbor’s kids. The week when my husband, while conducting safety patrol outside a neighborhood meeting, witnessed federal agents abduct a man at a bus stop.

I wondered if it was okay to have fun while my city suffered so deeply.

As we waited for the show to start, I saw hundreds of faces carrying similar doubts. People huddled close to their friends, swapping stories of encounters with federal agents, shaking their heads in disbelief as they sipped beers.

Finally, four middle-aged men wandered out on stage and lined up behind a keyboard, drums, guitar, and bass. The guitarist stepped up to the mic. “Hey. It’s weird to be here. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to come. But it’s Dolly’s birthday and we’re all here together.”

He took a breath.

“Fuck ICE. Let’s rock.”

With that, the first Dolly took the stage. Over the next two hours, a steady train of local musicians came onstage to belt out their very best in honor of Dolly. Following the guitarist’s lead, each musician offered a brief message of solidarity, then let the music speak for itself.

We danced to “Two Doors Down.” We raised righteous fists to “Just Because I’m a Woman.” We prayed that someday we would see the “Light of a Clear Blue Morning” — a promise that felt eons away on a cold dark night.

Towards the end of the night, a recently married couple took the stage to sing “Islands in the Stream.” At first, their duet felt sweet and intentionally ironic — newlyweds belting out a country love song. Then we hit the chorus. Suddenly, the entire room was crying as we sang together:

Islands in the stream

That is what we are

No one in-between

How can we be wrong?

Sail away with me to another world

And we rely on each other,

From one lover to another.

We rely on each other. No words had ever rung truer for me than these in that moment. I looked around the room, my neighbors’ faces aglow as we let our grief wash over us.

We rely on each other. What other choice did we have? At the same time, what better gift could we ask for? Every time I turned to look for help last winter, I found it in a neighbor, ready to share the load.

I later learned that this song was one of a very few not written by Dolly herself (rather, it’s a 1980s Bee Gees banger). It didn’t matter. Dolly’s spirit — her unapologetic confidence, her love, her radical acceptance — infused those words with the balm we needed on our souls.

We need that spirit more than ever today: As we face rising rates of deportations. As immigrants suffer in unsafe, inhumane conditions in detention centers across the country. As we search for the energy and direction to keep showing up for each other.

I learned something else from Dolly that night. We don’t just rely on each other for survival, but also for joy. There’s both space and a need for celebration in our movements for justice. Laughter, community, and even dancing help guide us through the long dark night, together in our search of a clear blue morning.

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