The Most Beautiful Woman

Illustration by Akshita Chandra / The Atlantic* August 26, 2026, 12:30 PM ET Share Save Listen − 1.0 x + Seek 0:00 12:35 Growing up in Tennessee, I could hardly walk into a grocery store without hearing “Jolene” playing on the radio. My mom sang fragments of “9 to 5” as she cooked Hamburger Helper on school nights, after clocking out of work. At my babysitter’s house in the summer, where Country Music Television was our ambient noise, she’d shout, “Good golly, Miss Dolly!” every time a Dolly song came on (which was at least every 30 minutes). Dolly Parton was more of an institution than a star to Tennesseans. Her image was plastered on T-shirts and hung on walls, like Mother Mary would be in a Catholic home. We vacationed at her amusement park, Dollywood, every school break. No one ever used her last name—she was simply Dolly to us all, and she was living proof that tough odds were no match for a cup of ambition.