Where I grew up, fame meant red carpets and presidents, rock stars and billionaires, mega-church pastors and the twelve apostles. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I realized each of those pairs is exactly the same. Famous people were mostly rich, lived lavish lives, and married whoever they wanted, no matter how ugly they were. And they ran the world, even if they were idiots.
When my family first moved to south Mississippi, we didn’t have the luxury of cable TV to know who was famous. I picked up on pop culture clues from the magazines at the check-out counter of the Piggly Wiggly. In a way it was a blessing because there was no one to envy, no heights to fall from when reaching for greatness.
The suggestion that any of us from my town of several thousand would ever leave the state and make something of themselves was met with laughter and ridicule. When I told my teachers I wanted to get out and go to Syracuse University in New York, my own teachers told me it would never happen. …
