Nashvillian of the Year

Although she knew she probably could return to Magdalene and no one would know she had slipped, again she says her conscience wouldn’t let her lie. She had spent most of her life manipulating others, and for once she wanted to earn something honestly.

Greenlee called a friend to pick her up, and she returned to Magdalene, ashamed and expecting to be kicked out of the program. But she wasn’t kicked out, at least not for good. The program required anyone who relapsed to spend 14 days outside the house. If at that point the woman wanted to return, she would be welcomed back. During those two weeks Greenlee realized she wanted to escape for good the life of addiction and all that came with it, and she prayed. “I said, ‘God, I don’t care what you have to do, you take this taste, this desire, this thought, all of it away from me.” And so she returned to Magdalene and graduated the following year. Although the temptation to use has subsided, she still prays to stay clean. “I’m not saying you go through life and not think about a drink or think about a hit. It comes through my mind, you know. I’m an addict. But now it’s just a thought, and that’s all it is.”

It was only natural that upon graduating from Magdalene she wanted to pay it forward. For about a year she drove a van for Magdalene, picking up women on the streets, just like her friend had done for her two years earlier. Although she now divides her time among a handful of other causes, Greenlee continues to be a vocal advocate for Magdalene. Occasionally, she returns to talk with women currently going through the program, in part to share her own inspirational story, but also to gain inspiration from them.

“Clemmie is a great ambassador for Magdalene. She reminds people that you don’t have to live on the streets forever, that there is a way out,” says the Rev. Rebecca Stevens, founder and director of Magdalene House. Stevens was ecstatic upon learning Greenlee was chosen as Nashvillian of the Year (Stevens was named in 2000), saying her friend has a powerful message and a gift for making people listen.

“I think Clemmie has traveled farther than most people will ever travel in their life,” Stevens adds. “She’s traveled to the depths of hell, she’s been to the mountaintop, she’s gone into the desert, she’s stood in the courtroom in front of the judge. She’s done all those things, so she can speak the truth, and people just need to listen.”

Greenlee speaks on a national level, traveling to other states to share her story. Last summer, she made her third trip to a small town in Missouri where she spoke to young girls at a facility for at-risk youth. After her first visit in 2005, Greenlee was bombarded with letters from the girls asking her to return, and she plans to continue making the annual trip.

Along with her older brother, Lonnie Greenlee, she also runs a nonprofit called Galaxy Star Drug Awareness. The pair launched the program after getting sober and spent several years operating as many as five drug recovery houses. The Greenlees have helped dozens of addicts achieve sobriety, and although it’s been a success, they’re now redirecting the mission of Galaxy Star to curtailing violence in the community, particularly among young black men.

“We’ve done everything together. Good and bad, through addiction, and getting clean, and now helping people together through Galaxy Star,” says Lonnie Greenlee, sitting at a boardroom table in the living room of his East Nashville home, which serves as the headquarters for Galaxy. “I don’t think God could have done anything better than what he did for me and her, because we get a chance to go back and show some light.”

The makeshift office is cluttered with file cabinets, and a few inspirational posters line the wall, along with a dry erase board outlining future goals. On the top of the list is next month’s release of a rap CD entitled Let’s End the Violence, which will spread a message of peace and raise money for their mission.

“Clemmie is excited. She has so much energy. She’s found out that she can make change, and now you just can’t stop her,” says Lonnie, who’s wearing a beige three-piece suit and paisley tie. His slightly graying dreadlocks bounce with him as he talks about his sister’s enthusiasm, which he obviously shares. As the two banter back and forth about their work—a recent mock funeral organized to raise awareness about the rising murder rate, recruiting volunteers from local colleges—they barely stop to take a breath.