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They Call Her Dana book. Read 12 reviews from the world's largest community for readers. Born in the backwater bayous of Louisiana, beautiful Dana O'Mall.
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• Derry's Eurovision star Dana is making a pop comeback at the age of 67.
• FaceBookIt: Makeup Inspired by ‘They Call Her Dana’ by Jennifer Wilde – Bookbed
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Maybe Mama Lou will give you one when you go to fetch Ma's medicine. I pulled on my ragged old white petticoat. The hem of the full skirt was torn and uneven and ended at midcalf, and the bodice was much too tight across my bosom, although I'd let it out twice already. Fancy owning a new petticoat that wudn't three years old.

Fancy owning a new dress, I added, reaching for the tattered pink cotton frock that was the only one I owned.

It was much too short, too, and the neckline that had been demure at fourteen was almost indecent now, barely containing my breasts. If I were to sneeze too hard, they'd likely pop right out. I adjusted the short sleeves that fell off the shoulder and smoothed the cloth around my waist. It was a snug fit, all right, but the dress wouldn't stand another lettin' out. I was going to have to get another one before long, else I'd have to clothe myself with leaves, like Eve. The first thin rays of sunlight were slanting through the window now, all wavery and weak, and I could see myself in the murky mirror hanging over the dressing table.

I examined myself critically, feeling the same disappointment I always felt when I was vain enough to study my reflection. Ma was wise, of course, and I loved her dearly, but she didn't have to warn me about men. They'd been looking at me since I turned thirteen, and I had long since learned to deal with them. You had to be sharp and you had to be quick and you had to be prepared to fight if need be. Men looked at me, all right, but I really couldn't understand why. I wasn't at all fetching. My hair was neither blond nor brown but, instead, a curious combination of the two, the color of dark honey, tumbling to my shoulders in thick, unruly waves.

My eyes were hazel, flecked with gold, and my cheekbones were funny-looking, high and prominent. My lips were too full and too pink, and my complexion was a deep creamy tan. I was too tall, with long legs and a narrow waist with far too many embarrassing curves above and below. Why would any man want to look at someone as plain and gawky as me? Beat all, it did. I guess men didn't really care what a girl looked like. They just wanted to get into her pants. They were a horny bunch, the lot of 'em. A girl had to watch out for herself all the time if she wanted to keep her virtue intact, not that many girls did here in the swamps.

Running my fingers through my hair to work out the tangles, I unlocked my door and started down the creaky old backstairs.

Derry's Eurovision star Dana is making a pop comeback at the age of 67.

My attic room was off to itself, originally intended for a maid's room. Clem O'Malley had never been able to afford a Negro maid, but he didn't really need one. He had me. I'd earned my keep ever since I was old enough to remember. Stepping into the kitchen, I shoved waves from my temple and got the fire started in the old pot-bellied black iron stove that gave me so much trouble.

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I poked at the coals, prodding them, and when they finally caught and began to glow, I sighed and shut the door and set a kettle of water on to boil. I moved down the narrow, dingy hall and stepped outside, pausing on the sagging front porch. It was already warm and sultry, with wavering rays of sunlight streaming through the cypress trees and making pale golden patterns on the dirt.

No grass grew here. Our farm, if it could be dignified with such a name, was completely surrounded by swamp. I could hear the pigs snorting unpleasantly in their sty, and the chickens clucked impatiently. How I longed to flee. How I longed just to take off and discover that world I knew existed beyond the swamps. One day, I promised myself. One day I would know something besides these swamps, this squalor.

I crossed the yard to the old barn. It was small, almost tumbling down, and I smelled damp hay and manure as I pushed open the door. Mollie stood in her stall, chomping with contentment on hay. She lifted her head and mooed when she saw me. She was a placid, stupid creature with huge bovine eyes and a mottled gray-tan coat, utterly indifferent as I picked up the tin bucket and pulled the three-legged wooden stool into place.

I gripped the udders firmly and squeezed and tugged, and streams of milk spewed into the bucket. It was almost full when I had finished. Later I would separate the cream and churn it into butter. Mollie was still chomping hay as I left the barn and carried the milk inside to the larder. Milking done, it was time to feed the chickens. They fretted noisily as I passed the coop on my way to the dilapidated old shed. A rat darted across the dirt floor as I reached for the chipped porcelain pan.

It didn't bother me in the least. You soon got used to rats, and this one hadn't even been that large. I filled the pan with feed and stepped back outside. The Spanish moss hung limp and lifeless on the cypress trees, not a breeze stirring, and I could feel the perspiration on my body.

Hardly daylight, and it was muggy as could be and I didn't have a single thing to look forward to. Seventeen years old, I thought, and trapped. Out of bed when the sky was still dark. Start the fire, milk the cow, feed the chickens and cook breakfast for Clem O'Malley and his two sons, take a tray to Ma, clean the kitchen, sweep the floor and do my other chores and check on Ma and then start preparing lunch.

Work and worry all day long, ignoring my stepfather's brooding silences and surly manners and avoiding my stepbrothers as much as possible, fighting them off if necessary. Seventeen years old, and I was little better off than a Negro slave. At least my cherry was still intact, and that was quite an accomplishment for these parts.

If a lass wasn't married and a mother at seventeen, chances were she'd long since been despoiled, often by some man in her own family. One day, perhaps, I'd give myself to a man, but he wouldn't be one of the oafs from these parts. He would be tall and clean and speak in a soft, cultured voice. He would wear fine clothes and look at me with love and see something besides a piece of tail.

He would see Dana O'Malley, someone special, someone with a heart full of love and a head full of dreams. He would help me make those dreams come true. He wouldn't laugh at me because I wanted to better myself. He wouldn't scoff because I could read and write and speak French as well as English. Those accomplishments weren't worth spit here in the swamps, I realized that, but out there in the world beyond, there must be lots of girls who were able to write their own names and read a page of the almanac without stumbling over too many of the words.

How patiently Ma had taught me when I was a child, and how Clem had resented it. No need for me to learn to read and write, it would just give me airs.

No need to be able to jabber in a foreign language either. Ma had been born French. I had spoken both languages from infancy on. The chickens squacked noisily as I opened the gate and stepped inside the coop, and I was immediately surrounded by savage creatures with wildly flapping wings who clucked and pecked and did acrobatics in the air as I scattered handfuls of feed over the ground. Nasty, ill-tempered, greedy beasts, they were.

I had been fiercely pecked many a time as I gathered eggs, but I still refused to wring their necks when it came time to take some to market. Jake did that, and with considerable relish, I might add. Jake was a bad one, a bully, genuinely vicious, and Randy wasn't far behind. Randy was twenty-one, Jake twenty-three, both hellions of the first stamp. If I was known in the swamps as the little wildcat, it was because since early childhood I had had to learn to defend myself against that pair. Actually, Jake and Randy didn't bother me nearly as much as Clem.

Clem had never laid a hand on me, treated me with surly disdain, yet somehow I felt he was a far greater menace than either of his sons. I had seen that brooding speculation in his eyes when he thought he wasn't being observed.