Author: Jen Clarke

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Opinion The Last Word

Don’t Destroy the Mural: Public Art Should Make Us Think

CREDIT: Memphis Heritage Trail

Memphis has some amazing murals. My favorites are musical: the blink-and-you’ll-miss it “That’s How Strong My Love Is” at Third and Vance; the history of soul in Barboro Alley; “These Arms of Mine” off Lamar; the Soulsville gateway on Bellevue. I love the enthusiastic and pure homemade tributes to our local sports teams too, especially the bootlegged paintings of ill-proportioned tigers and misshapen grizzlies.

These pieces tell a neighborhood’s story: who lived here, what happened, where to find hot wings and cold beer. All stories have conflicts and characters. Some are tragedies, some have happy endings.

Over the past decade or so, a different kind of mural started appearing — still pretty, but inorganic, generic. Follow the line of people waiting to take pictures for Instagram if you want to find one. At least one wall in every city is tattooed with a pair of wings, so tourists can be butterflies and birds while they show their friends back home how much fun they’re having. These murals don’t really tell a story, besides perhaps that someone read a Richard Florida book and was persuaded to put catnip out for the kinds of people they hope to attract. Art doesn’t have to be deep when the alternative is an ugly wall.

Memphis has space for both kinds of murals. Thousands of bare walls, in fact. So there is absolutely no good reason to replace the 89-foot-tall civil rights mural at the corner of South Main and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Avenue. It may seem trivial in the grand scheme of things, but the fact that the possibility has even been considered is yet another milestone in the city’s impressive legacy of finding innovative ways to screw up the easiest wins. I’d like to submit an amendment to the new slogan: “Memphis, Home of Blues, Soul, Rock-and-Roll, and Actually, Y’know, We Didn’t Really Think This Through.”

The mural captivates passersby with a powerful primer of the region’s real story. Local children who visit the area for basketball games and Orpheum field trips can see themselves reflected in the figures depicted, instead of sanitized and whitewashed textbook accounts. Yet people allegedly have complained that the modern family depicted at the bottom, a woman and two children described in The Commercial Appeal as “fatherless” look “sad.” That’s open to interpretation, but why wouldn’t they be sad? They have plenty of reasons not to smile; go to half the population of the city and you’ll find them. Maybe they’re offended to have been presumed fatherless. Maybe they’re just hot.

The city commemorated the 50th anniversary of the MLK assassination three months ago by asking, “Where do we go from here?” Must we return to our regularly scheduled programming so quickly? Black history is Memphis history, and erasing it — in this case, literally — signals an enduring unwillingness to confront the issues still stifling progress. Do we want to spend our bicentennial toasting decades of boneheaded decisions and crippling inequity, or charting a blueprint for creating 200 years of justice?

I’m no art critic, but if a mural makes people uneasy about the state of civil rights in 2018, that’s probably its intent. Painting over a thoughtful and provocative piece of art because some baby boomers didn’t like seeing a tiny “Black Lives Matter” during their novelty trolley ride sends an ugly message to the people who live here. This is reality. If tourists are uncomfortable, they can stroll down to Beale Street for a Big Ass Beer to cleanse their palates before they take selfies in front of a sign that says “Everything Is Fine.”

The city and UrbanArt Commission may swear up and down the motivation for repainting has nothing to do with the inscription, but they’ll need to give a better explanation than what has been provided so far. Historians’ nitpicking about unspecified inaccuracies is weak: We know Union soldiers didn’t wear seafoam and Robert Church’s face wasn’t purple. If the mural wasn’t meant to stay on that wall forever, why was it permanently installed? Why did the artists — Derrick Dent and Michael Roy, aka Birdcap — spend months planning, designing, creating, and installing something only to see it destroyed after two years? What a waste. If there’s another artist lined up and another idea in the works, great. Find another wall and put it there. Let us have nice things — and leave that gorgeous mural alone.

Jen Clarke is an unapologetic Memphian and digital marketing specialist.


Editor’s Note: As the Flyer went to press on Tuesday, Mayor Strickland’s spokesperson, Kyle Veazey, stated that the mayor would not allow the mural to be taken down.

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Opinion The Last Word

Food Service: A Confidential Tie that Binds

CREDIT: Starstock | Dreamstime.com

You can always tell when a person has worked in a restaurant. There’s an empathy that can only be cultivated by those who’ve stood between a hungry mouth and a $28 pork chop, a special understanding of the way a bunch of motley misfits can be a family. Service industry work develops the “soft skills” recruiters talk about on LinkedIn — discipline, promptness, the ability to absorb criticism, and most important, how to read people like a book. The work is thankless and fun and messy, and the world would be a kinder place if more people tried it. With all due respect to my former professors, I’ve long believed I gained more knowledge in kitchens, bars, and dining rooms than any college could even hold.

Working in a restaurant, you see the full spectrum of behavior and emotions. The best is in the kitchen, where people from different backgrounds who speak different languages work together. It’s in the enduring friendships made between trips from kitchen to table — full hands both ways, of course — and fortified at the bar once the money’s been counted and the floors have been swept. It’s at the restaurant across the street, where the chef is happy to spare some rosemary because the truck didn’t show, and the bartender has a shot waiting for you when you wander over on your smoke break. It’s at family meal, a service industry tradition other fields really ought to copycat. It’s in a good review and the look in a guest’s eyes when they take that first amazing bite.

The worst is at the table, when you can barely sputter a “Good evening!” before being interrupted by a brash “DIET COKE!” It’s on the line, when you’ve screwed up so badly and you want to yell back, but you know you deserve every curse word being flung your way. It’s at a corner banquette at the end of the night, when you discover you didn’t earn enough tips to cover your car note because Table 18 wrote “Here’s a tip: you should smile more” on their credit card slip. It’s a call from your manager, waking you up before the second shift of your double, asking if you can come in early. The absolute worst is on Yelp, where everybody “really wanted to like this place” but not enough to tell anyone they had asked for sweet potato fries, not regular ones.

Starstock | Dreamstime.com

Anthony Bourdain

I haven’t tied on an apron in years, but restaurant people will always be part of my tribe. The industry attracts a certain kind of individual, whom I consider to be my people. I’m talking about chefs, bartenders, servers who choose standing for 14 hours, enthusiastically describing tonight’s fresh catch, or artfully arranging herbs on a plate as a lifestyle. I get them.

That’s why Anthony Bourdain was so beloved: He got them, too, and sought to elevate them to the status they deserve. We need food to live. Food is integral to every single culture. Nourishment is an expression of love. Bourdain arrived at the onset of the “foodie” craze with a different perspective and a mission to tell stories beyond what’s on the plate. Knowing those stories made everything taste better.

He was a bard. He was an avatar of so many wise and brilliant restaurant people who, at least in my experience, are the best people.

And the best people never seem to stick around as long as you want or need them to. I’ve attended a lot of funerals for restaurant friends who left the world too soon and for unfair reasons. So the grief felt familiar when I saw the news alert on my phone last Friday morning.

With all celebrity suicides come pleas to get help if you feel suicidal thoughts. If those pleas save one life, I’m happy to hear it. While it’s true that no one is immune, anyone who has suffered can tell you it’s not that simple. It’s hard to tell someone’s in pain when the chemicals that inspire genius in the arts — whether they’re the culinary, literary, or performing kind — are the same ones that take creators to dark places. The adrenaline of a Saturday night dinner rush mutes the voices just as an addict’s intoxicant of choice. Bringing happiness to others briefly fills the hole where one’s own joy belongs.

Instead, I’ll offer some different advice, straight from the pages of Kitchen Confidential: Never use a garlic press. And if you ever get an opportunity to talk shop with a chef, bartender, or another service industry lifer, sit down and listen. They’ve seen some stuff.

Jen Clarke is an unapologetic Memphian. Follow @jensized on Twitter.

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Opinion The Last Word

Put the Phone Down, Ladies!

CREDIT: Ronnie Wu | Dreamstime.com

I’ve never been a victim of racism. I recognize it. I speak out against it when I witness it. But I don’t know how it feels. There’s no Virtual Reality Blackness Simulator, no curriculum of deep conversations and Ta-Nehisi Coates articles and Kendrick Lamar records that can duplicate the African-American experience. I can listen and empathize, but I don’t really know what it’s like to be Latino or Native American or Asian, either.

I can, however, speak to my own experiences as a 30-something white woman, which qualifies me to ask my fellow white ladies: Did no one tell y’all not to play on the phone? Because you’re tying up the line and wasting everyone’s time. Please leave your homes, make some new friends, and find another hobby besides busy-bodying. And for everybody’s sake, stop calling the police every time you see a person who doesn’t look like you out living life. Innocent people are getting hurt.

Just in the past few weeks, police have responded to complaints of black people waiting in Philly and golfing elsewhere in Pennsylvania, checking out of an Airbnb in L.A., shopping at Nordstrom Rack in Missouri, and grilling out at a park in Oakland. Two Native American teens were hassled on a college tour. These incidents are just the ones we’ve heard about. No laws were broken. No, it’s not new, but the list of asinine reasons non-white people have to justify themselves to the police in 2018 keeps reaching new levels of shamefulness.

Ronnie Wu | Dreamstime.com

Some people need their telephone privileges revoked, starting with the Yale student who called the cops on a black grad student who dozed off in a common area in her own dorm. The alleged criminal catnapper was awakened by officers who had been told she appeared “out of place” in the building. I don’t know how they do things in the Ivy League, but I was a pro napper in college — in my car, in the UC, in the newspaper office, in the library and probably some other buildings that have been torn down. Either someone “smart” enough to get into Yale couldn’t deduce that a sleeping woman surrounded by books and papers is catching a few quick Zs between paragraphs, or …

Things must be going pretty well in Philadelphia if police have the time and manpower to enforce Starbucks’ loitering policy. That policy doesn’t prevent patrons from buying the smallest cup of drip and availing themselves of free wifi all day long, but two black guys grabbing a table before ordering is a reason to get law enforcement involved within minutes? I stopped at the location at Poplar and White Station for an afternoon latté not long ago and saw a woman camped out at a table, eating a meal she’d obviously brought from home. I’m not talking about a purse granola bar, either. She busted out the Tupperware and aluminum foil, right in the middle of the coffee shop. I would have called CrimeStoppers if I’d known it was that serious.

Then again, I’m no angel — I’ve used the Starbucks restroom without buying anything in multiple cities. Once, I sat down and charged my phone for about 10 minutes while I pretended to wait for somebody. Does that mean I’m a fugitive? No, it means a billion-dollar corporation missed out on about $20. They’ll live.

Of course there’s always an excuse. Airbnb lady called because the people checking out didn’t smile or wave at her. Rude, maybe? But not illegal! College tour lady called because the teens showed up late and didn’t answer her questions — in other words, acted like teens. It takes a special kind of entitlement to call the police because a total stranger doesn’t think they owe you their time.

Profiling isn’t only dangerous, it’s a waste of law enforcement resources and taxpayers’ money. If I called the police whenever I felt annoyed or uncomfortable, every 6’3″ guy who has stood in front of me at a rock show, every driver who doesn’t stop at crosswalks, and every person who checks out with more than 15 items in the express lane at Superlo would be doing hard time. But I don’t do that — because I’m not a monster, and the police aren’t a concierge service.

Segregating public spaces is not the police’s job. Helping white people get over their racial grievances? Also not the police’s job, but maybe they should try. Start by saying, “Hey, thanks for calling, but have you considered that this is a you problem, not a them problem? Anyway, call back if you see a crime. That’s more in our wheelhouse.”

Jen Clarke is an unapologetic Memphian. Follow @jensized on Twitter.

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Opinion The Last Word

Bredesen Can’t Be GOP-Lite

CREDIT: Wikimedia Commons

There’s talk of a “blue wave” sweeping the country in 2018. It already has elevated Democrats in impossible places such as Alabama and Pennsylvania and scared the likes of Paul Ryan into retirement.

And it is going to graze Tennessee like a fizzling tropical depression. I don’t want it to be true, and I hope I’m wrong. When it comes to Bob Corker’s soon-to-be-vacant U.S. Senate seat, Tennessee has two options: flip it or get used to hearing the words “Senator Marsha Blackburn.” Recent polling has shown Blackburn lagging behind her opponent, former Governor Phil Bredesen, by up to a double-digit margin, prompting behind-the-scenes pleading for Corker to reconsider. Of the 600 registered voters surveyed, more independents said they would pick Bredesen over Blackburn.

Cool. So this strategy of finding the one Democrat who has proven an ability to win a statewide election in Tennessee is working so far. Not my first choice, but keep doing what you’re doing, I guess. How long will it work if he sticks with the message of “There’s no reason the president and I can’t work together?” Just because half the state hasn’t figured out that nobody can work with the guy doesn’t mean their votes are gettable. Trusting Marsha to stick to her proven track record of being The Actual Worst and hoping it all works out seems a little naive.

Wikimedia Commons

Phil Bredesen

The president announced on a Friday night he’d done another little war, and totally not to distract us from the avalanche of scandal that befell him in that particular week, by the way. No dog-wagging here. He doesn’t even like dogs. He’s a germaphobe, okay? I checked Twitter, as I usually do when these things go down, and I swear I heard a TV-show record-scratch sound effect when I read this tweet from Bredesen:

“The President is justified in his actions. The chemical attacks in Syria compel us to act decisively in cooperation with our allies. If the President intends further action, I trust Congress will take up its Constitutional war-making responsibilities. Godspeed to our military.”

I usually abhor articles about other people’s tweets. I think it’s lazy. But I have been stewing about this particular post for days now, and I just have to ask: why? Why tweet this, Phil Bredesen? Who put you up to this? Who even asked? It looks to me as if someone got a little too confident and decided to let that tepid neoliberal flag fly on a Friday night.

If Marsha Blackburn wins the Senate election, it will not be because the people of Tennessee abhor net neutrality and funding disaster relief, and love Blackburn’s folksy brand of Bought and Paid For. It will be because the Democratic candidate let his eagerness to be Reach Across the Aisle Guy overshadow the fact that there is ostensibly a (D) next to his name. “Reaching across the aisle” isn’t a thing anymore. It’s a nice notion, but it doesn’t work when the people on the other side only reach back only to steal your watch.

“Bomb first, explain later” is never a good look. “The president was justified” is not the way to say that. Especially as a Democrat. Especially with this president.

“I trust Congress” should have stayed in the Drafts folder. Nobody trusts Congress. Not even Congress trusts Congress. That’s why Trump didn’t ask for their permission. Even though the majority party has not yet displayed a willingness to defy him, they can’t afford for their war votes to become a talking point when they’re up for re-election.

I’m out of the social media management game for now, but if I worked on the Bredesen campaign, I would have advised staying mum on this and focusing on localized issues. But here’s what he should have said: What Assad is doing is wrong, and we deplore his actions. We turn to violence only as a last resort and in a way that minimizes harm to civilians. The Syrian people need our support, and as your Senator I’ll do my best to ensure any future action is taken with their human rights in mind.

The state of Tennessee ranks in the bottom 10 in education, median household income, and employment rate. We’re top 15 in opioid deaths. There’s plenty of evidence that the people who represent this state in our federal government aren’t fighting for us. Pandering to the people who elected them — the same ones who’d rather die than vote Democrat — won’t get it done.

Jen Clarke is a digital marketing specialist and an unapologetic Memphian.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Rightly Seasoned!

CREDIT: Pierre Ducharme | Reuters

On March 19, 1992, my teacher brought her own television to school.

She had promised us earlier in the week that we would get to watch the Tigers as a treat if we had good conduct or learned our times tables or whatever else elementary school kids do to earn treats. Being relatively new to the area, I had no idea what “watching the tigers” would entail. A nature documentary maybe? A surprise field trip to the zoo seemed unlikely. But my classmates were excited, so I played along.

We took a break from practicing cursive to watch basketball on a Thursday afternoon. I learned about an extraordinary player called Penny, who was from Memphis. I learned Memphis State was more than the place where I went to day camp in the summer. Crowded around a tiny set in the back of a portable classroom, I learned basketball was a Big Deal here. Watching some basketball players from our city — the same school where my dad took business classes at night! — on national television blew my 9-year-old mind. And they were winning! I was fully on board.

I recall proudly announcing to the crossing guard that “THE TIGERS BEAT PEPPERDINE!” as I skipped to my neighbor’s car at the end of the day. I am confident I had no idea what or where was a Pepperdine, because all I can tell you to this day is that it is in California.

That Tigers team made it to the Elite Eight. It didn’t happen again until I was a senior in college, three coaches and two arenas later. A lot of things have changed, right down to the name of the university.

But the ’90s are back in a big way. Twin Peaks and Roseanne are on TV again. Slipdresses and round eyeglasses are cool for some reason, and Bruno Mars’ tour dates are sponsored by Cross Colours. They’re making another Lion King, for crying out loud. The albums I grew up listening to are being reissued as 20th and 25th anniversary editions, and they’re in heavy rotation on the “classic” stations. Well, they’re in “classic” playlists on Spotify, which I suppose is the closest equivalent. The cultural cycle is coming back around to my generation’s “good old days” and I’m okay with it. Flannel and tearaway pants are extremely comfortable. Just not together.

Pierre Ducharme | Reuters

Penny Hardaway

So yeah, I am 1000 percent here for the ultimate ’90s throwback: a return to the days of Li’l Penny, those black and blue Orlando Magic Starter jackets, and the squeaky-clean foamposite Nikes the boys in my class showed off the first day back at school after Christmas break. I’m here for King Cotton meats (they’re Rightly Seasoned!) and Being Smart, Staying Clean, and Keeping the Dream.

I’ll be honest, Grind City has felt more like Groan City lately. So I am ready to recapture a piece of the excitement. It’s been a few Marches since I’ve felt this optimistic about Tiger basketball.

Long-ago times and long-gone people associate Tiger basketball with happy memories for a lot of us. The moments may have happened in the Mid-South Coliseum in a cloud of Grandpa’s cigar smoke, on the steps of the Tomb of Doom, in a bar off campus, or on a spur-of-the-moment drive to San Antonio, but they have one thing in common: community. I’ve heard so many stories, and they never get old. They start with friends, parents, aunts and uncles, and siblings, and they don’t always end with a win. We remember where we were, who we were with, even what we were wearing in case a particular outfit has lucky powers we might need to activate during a future game. I bet my former teacher told her friends about the time she didn’t want to miss a tournament game, so she lugged her heavy old TV to work and conned her class into thinking they were being rewarded for their good behavior.

That’s not unique to Memphis. What makes us different is the fact that we are a little nuts and we care too much. Memphis fans come in all stripes, but they share a reputation for outsized expectations. Whether those expectations are viewed as passion or delusion, endearing or annoying, determines just as much as recruiting and X’s and O’s. It’s a blessing or a curse, depending on your outlook. And I have a feeling this new guy gets it.

Jen Clarke is a digital marketing specialist and an unapologetic Memphian.

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Opinion The Last Word

Overkill

CREDIT: Wisconsinart | Dreamstime.com

Twelve-year-old Mary Kellerman of Elk Grove Village, Illinois, died in 1982 after taking extra-strength Tylenol. Adam Janus, 27, a postal worker in another Chicago suburb, died the same day. Janus’s brother and sister-in-law both died from cyanide poisoning within the next few days. All three had taken pills from the same Tylenol bottle. Three other poisoning deaths in the area were found to be linked to the over-the-counter pain reliever. Around 31 million bottles were pulled from shelves in supermarkets and drugstores all over the country as a precaution.

Working with authorities, Johnson & Johnson determined that the cyanide lacing had occurred after the pills left the factory. Some deranged Illinoisan apparently had taken bottles of Tylenol from store shelves, tainted them with potassium cyanide, and replaced them without being noticed. Johnson & Johnson developed the tamper-evident child-proof packaging that makes us cuss and flail when we’re feeling weak. Congress passed and then-President Ronald Reagan signed the Federal Anti-Tampering Act in 1983.

When seven people died, a corporation in an industry with massive lobbying power put public safety over profit. The recall and subsequent relaunch cost Johnson & Johnson $100 million — all because one person did something sinister with their product.

Seven-year-old Michelle Snow didn’t see the lawn dart sail over the fence before it impaled her skull. Her nine-year-old brother and some friends were playing in the backyard, where one of the boys overthrew the “Jart” that killed her in 1987. Lawn darts had been banned in the mid-1970s, after countless injuries to children, but the game’s manufacturers had negotiated a compromise with the Consumer Product Safety Commission. Under their terms, lawn darts could be sold with a warning label that they were for adults only. They couldn’t be sold in toy stores or near toy departments. Michelle’s grieving father lobbied to have lawn darts removed from stores and banned from further sale.

Wisconsinart | Dreamstime.com

Free to fear

One child died, and 30 years later we wonder who thought throwing steel-tipped projectiles in the grass sounded like a fun time. Because a tepid warning label couldn’t keep a deadly game out of the wrong hands.

Pseudoephedrine is the active ingredient in over-the-counter sinus medications, the stuff that just dries you right up when you have a cold. It also can be used as a chemical precursor in manufacturing meth. The Combat Methamphetamine Epidemic Act of 2005 regulated sales of products containing pseudoephedrine. Retailers are required to keep the products behind the pharmacy counter or in a locked cabinet, and they must maintain a retrievable record of pseudoephedrine buyers for two years. If Memphis allergies are ruining your life (unlikely, I know) and you need Claritin-D, you have to show a verified proof of identity. Some people use products for uses other than the ones intended, so the rest of us have to submit our names to a registry when we buy decongestant.

Such is the cost of freedom. Some rights supercede others, so we compromise a little for the good of society. One person’s individual liberty to puff cigarettes ends at another’s right to breathe clean air, so cities restricted smoking in public places. A motor vehicle is a dangerous machine, so in order to enjoy the freedom to traverse public roads, a driver must demonstrate the ability to operate one, show the capacity to follow automotive laws, and must prove financial responsibility in case of an accident. These demands are not unreasonable.

Twelve moviegoers, 20 elementary schoolers and six of their teachers, 14 public health-care center employees, 49 nightclub revelers, 58 concert attendees, 26 parishioners, 17 high school students and teachers — and counting — have fallen to AR-15 gunfire since the assault weapons ban expired in 2004. Hundreds more have been injured. Each time, Congress has responded swiftly with thoughts and prayers. Gun manufacturers shrugged and quietly rejoiced. Their products worked exactly as advertised. The ability to enter a crowded place and quickly fill it with bullets and bodies is a feature, not a bug. Sales spiked as their loyal customers stocked up, fearing this would be the incident that sparked meaningful action. How long could a just society allow the bloodshed to continue unchecked?

Some rights supercede others. As it stands now, everyone’s right to feel safe in public ends at another person’s right to own and access a killing machine. That’s who we are now.

Jen Clarke is a digital marketing specialist and an unapologetic Memphian.

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Opinion The Last Word

Wonder Wall

CREDIT: Vaclav Lang | Dreamstime.com

Humans start lying at about age two. I caught my otherwise angelic niece in the most minor fib — about whether she’d been to the potty. What struck me wasn’t the ease with which she lied right to my face, but how quickly she realized her mendacity would catch up to her. It’s as if I could see the gears turning in her head as she weighed her options. Take the praise and continue the lie, only to later be exposed as full of crap, both literally and figuratively? Or tell the truth and avoid whatever potential messes await? She looked at me, she looked at her mom, and she blurted: “I’M JUST KIDDING! HA HA HA.”

If only our nation’s president could be so reasoned and mature. Imagine being so committed to an idea that you’re willing to shut down the federal government over it. Now imagine it’s an idea that everyone has told you is simplistic, impractical, and ineffectual. Listen, hear me out — it’s a wall. But not just any wall. A big beautiful $20 billion dollar wall for keeping the brown people out. Mr. Deal Man never expected Democrats to say “Sure, we’ll do your wall, whatever” just to watch him and his band of nationalists and neophytes blow it again. Get your big beautiful wall, but get owned by libs in the process? Talk about a catch-22.

Vaclav Lang | Dreamstime.com

The Wall

For a few years now, I have wondered how no one has sufficiently explained to Mr. Trump that planes can fly over walls, even 55-foot-tall ones. One would think someone who owned an airline would have considered that. Overstays, according to the nonpartisan Migration Policy Institute, have outnumbered border crossers every year for the past decade. These are people who come here legally and allow their visas to expire, for whatever reason. Maybe war broke out or a natural disaster happened back home. Maybe they like the food better. A wall isn’t going to keep them out. Most unauthorized immigrants have been here more than a decade, and a third of them didn’t come from Mexico. The number of apprehensions at the border between the U.S. and Mexico dropped by about half last year, with virtually no changes in enforcement. Maybe people are “flooding in” from elsewhere. Maybe they’re flying. Maybe they don’t want to live in a shithole where that guy is in charge.

To hear the president tell it, the border is like Texarkana, where you can just hopscotch between countries. “Tee hee! I’m in Mexico! Tee hee! Now I’m in Arizona!” And drugs are imported by a guy throwing a bag of drugs to his buddy on the other side. If it were that easy, it wouldn’t be called smuggling. In reality, most illegal drugs arrive by vehicles, with the product hidden in creative ways. Some drugs arrive disguised as cargo. Maybe your cheap Mexican produce made its journey alongside some hollowed-out watermelons full of heroin. Again, nothing a wall could contain.

He knows these things. He could have ended the charade on day one by saying “Folks, the wall is a metaphor.” But the lie has consumed him and there’s no turning back. Chief of staff John Kelly gave his boss the perfect out, saying Trump’s views on the wall had evolved since he was a candidate. He could have said (tweeted, probably) “General Kelly is right. As president, I have more information at my disposal. Coming from a more knowledgeable place, I’ve concluded a wall is a bad investment. I know this will disappoint some people, but I took an oath to lead the entire country, and I hope you’ll understand that I feel this is in our best interest.”

He could have instead pledged to address the opioid crisis in a meaningful way beyond declaring an emergency — a move that would actually help the white rural voters I keep reading about in The New York Times. He carried four out of the five states with the highest rates of opioid-related deaths — and lost by less than half a percentage point in the fifth. Addressing the root cause would stem demand for those backpacks full of heroin that allegedly keep hitting people over the head.

But that’s not what any of this is about, which makes last weekend’s shutdown so much more enraging than the previous. Holding children’s health care and DREAMers’ futures hostage in exchange for hardline and heartless immigration policy isn’t about priorities or responsible spending or even keeping the country safe. It’s catnip for the GOP’s new base of white-grievance rage-aholics, who are the only ones troubled by the presence of immigrants in this once-welcoming nation.

There were so many ways to compromise without looking like a weak loser who sucks at deals, but now the party that controls both houses of Congress and the presidency is so committed to half-baked soundbyte strategies they can’t even keep the government from shutting down. What a time.

Jen Clarke is a digital marketing specialist and an unapologetic Memphian.

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Opinion The Last Word

To Air is Human

CREDIT: Wisconsinart | Dreamstime

I prefer to stay close to home during Toyotathon and avoid the throngs of holiday travelers scampering away for quality time with grandparents, in-laws, and other loved ones. But responsibilities at my day job called me to the friendly skies just as Happy Honda Days were heating up.

I arrived at Memphis International Airport way early for my connecting flight to Orlando to allow myself plenty of time to endure the TSA cattle call and hoof it to the Starbucks in Terminal B. At the gate — the very last one in the terminal — I discovered I not only was one of the few solo travelers, I was one of the only ones not wearing a monogrammed outfit announcing my impending visit with Mickey and his friends.

I wanted to be excited for the kids in their princess dresses and personalized mouse ears. But I was annoyed that the “quickest” route to DC takes me 850 miles south of there, and frankly, the children were no more chipper than I was. Their T-shirts said “Happy” but their attitudes were repping Grumpy. And why not? They know. Even when the Magic Kingdom is the destination, the journey is two hours in an oversized Pringles can with way too many humans crammed inside. Think about it. Technology and innovation have made our lives easier in so many ways. Yet air travel remains expensive and dumb.

Wisconsinart | Dreamstime

We’ve all heard the reason we have to remove our shoes in the TSA line: the “shoe bomber,” right? Richard Reid, the would-be terrorist, didn’t actually blow anything up. First, he tried to board a flight from Paris to Miami. Authorities pulled him aside because he looked unkempt and he didn’t check any bags on an international flight. They ended up delaying his flight a day. So he came back, boarded the plane, and guess what he did? A flight attendant followed a smoky smell right to him, with a lit match and his shoe in his lap. It didn’t detonate because the fuse was too wet. Sweaty feet save lives.

Instead of banning matches, the newly created Transportation Safety Administration implemented random shoe checks. We didn’t start having to take off our shoes and place them in bins until 2006. Maybe the shoe industry should hire a lobbyist away from the NRA to help put an end to the ridiculous practice that unfairly vilifies footwear. After all, those guys are masters at changing the subject when a crisis necessitates new regulations. Shoes don’t kill people! Good guy with a shoe? Whatever.

And the full-body scanners are so powerful they can see your cells, but I still have to take my computer out of my backpack? Right. Rarely am I as grateful for MEM’s relative chillness as when I’m chasing my belongings down a conveyor belt. But hey, at least I can use my phone as my boarding pass now!

I followed the news about the Atlanta airport power outage with great interest. Every time I’ve been there, I’ve cursed whoever at Delta decided nobody can go anywhere without first visiting ATL. I’ve wondered how it can get worse, with its trams and Kilimanjaroesque escalator. We got our answer: an electrical fire that brought the entire operation to its knees with terrifying ease. As if airports don’t already bring out society’s worst impulses, see what happens when it’s dark, the complimentary wireless internet doesn’t work, and folks have no business being in Atlanta in the first place.

Traveling can be fun! But travel almost always sucks. The stress of flying makes people act like idiots. It’s the only explanation I can muster for the tendency for passengers to stand up and rush the counter the moment the gate agent starts speaking. As if jumping up when they call for Diamond Elite Business Plus is going to make the plane take off faster. Everybody knows the plane’s probably overbooked and we’re all just holding out for enough vouchers to consider a later flight. So get comfortable with me and the other Budget Economy Bucket Seat travelers because this is going to take a while.

Inevitably, these will be the same flyers who spring from their seats in row 209 as soon as the wheels hit the ground and the seat belt indicator goes dark. Or worse, the ones who clap their hands as if to congratulate the pilot for maneuvering a 20-year-old 737 through some clouds above Baltimore. They’re just on edge because they paid a small fortune for a terrible-to-mediocre experience that went about as well as they hoped it would. Aside from health care, and that’s a tirade for another day, where else is the ratio-of-cost-to-experience-quality so unbalanced?

Jen Clarke is a digital marketing specialist and an unapologetic Memphian.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Don’t Be Gross

CREDIT: Pixattitude | Dreamstime

Can you believe (male politician, prominent businessman, or celebrity) (showed his penis to, inappropriately touched, or said repulsive things to) all those (women and/or girls, or men and/or boys)? We have to go with the Mad Libs format here for deadline’s sake, as the flood of sexual harassment and assault allegations washes up a new crop of creeps every day.

What a scary time it must be for men. Seeing their heroes fall, exposed as the predators they are — it must be so exhausting. Almost as exhausting as working twice as hard to earn half as much as less-qualified male colleagues who treat women like secretaries.

How does one live with the uncertainty as he awaits whatever bare-minimum consequence his behavior necessitates? It sounds downright frightening. Almost as frightening as walking alone at any time of day, right ladies?

It must be so unfair for men to have to answer for incidents that occurred 20, 40 years ago. Those were different times! Back then, men were men and gals weren’t allowed to wear pants. It’s almost as unfair as asking a victim “Were you drinking?” and “What were you wearing?” before “Are you okay?” even comes up.

Way to go, men. All these years, you could have been listening to women, treating us as equals instead of objects, and acting like civilized people whose mamas raised you right. Now, the reckoning has arrived and the U.S.S. Patriarchy is on rough seas. You might be one of the “good guys,” but if you were surprised when every single woman you know shared a #MeToo story on Facebook, you are guilty by association. We’ve been trying to tell y’all, the filth is rampant. Now your favorite music, shows, and movies are tainted, and you can’t make Stuart Smalley jokes anymore. These are dark times indeed.

How do you cope in this brave new world, where all of a sudden it is NOT OKAY to casually strut around in an open bathrobe and honk-honk your co-workers’ breasts? Should you just adopt the “Mike Pence Rule” and avoid altogether the company of those temptresses who, as it turns out, do not inhabit this world merely for your pleasure? No. Instead of punishing women for your inability to act appropriately in mixed company, maybe just don’t be gross. We’re not going away, so figure it out, okay?

Pixattitude | Dreamstime

If “just don’t be gross” is too vague an instruction, here are some simple guidelines to follow.

First: If you think something might not be an appropriate thing to say, it probably isn’t. Ask yourself: Would I say this to my grandmother/a male friend/someone to whom I am not sexually attracted? If the answer is no, then you should definitely not say that. For example: “You cut your hair! It looks great!” is an acceptable way to compliment a friend, male or female, on a new haircut. Who doesn’t love a compliment? However, “You should call your mama and tell her thanks for giving you that ass” is not a compliment. It’s not okay. Creative, yes. Appropriate, no.

Second: Assume by default that nobody wants to see your sexual apparatus. Not on the street, not in your office, not in your car. Even if someone wants to, um, interact with it — she probably doesn’t want to see it even then. It’s not cute. Sorry. Keep it to yourself. And definitely don’t send photos of it. 2a: If someone wants you to disrobe, you’ll know. These signals are hard to misinterpret. Pro tip: Err on the side of caution and keep your clothes on at all times.

Third: Don’t touch anyone without permission. Some people like to hug when they greet people or say goodbye. I think it’s a Southern thing. Not everyone’s okay with it, though. So just ask! Say something like “It was so good to see you! Give me a hug!” If the person says no, back off! If she obliges, give a brief polite hug. No hair-sniffing or putting your head on her shoulder or any weird stuff. This really isn’t complicated. The same thing goes for handshakes. No hand-kissing, no soft lingering two-handed business. Just shake hands like a person. Do not try to kiss anyone on the mouth. Finally, if you make an honest mistake — again, these situations usually can be avoided if you don’t presume everyone in the world wants to sleep with you — apologize immediately. Remember, don’t be gross. Hope that helps!

Jen Clarke is an unapologetic Memphian and digital marketing specialist.

Categories
Opinion The Last Word

Amazon Land

CREDIT: REUTERS/Joshua Roberts

I love Amazon.

I love automating my recurring purchases so a seven-pound bag of cat food appears on my doorstep on the first day of every month. I love adding items to my wishlist, getting eerily accurate recommendations, and never having to wait more than two days for a package. I love AmazonBasics and Amazon Video. I love having a record of every single item I’ve ordered since 2002. “Same, girl,” say the people who profit off my personal data. I grudgingly love how easy it is for me to buy crap 24 hours a day.

However, I do not love the beauty pageant that is the bidding process for Amazon’s second headquarters. Watching city leaders trip over each other to offer up their communities — as if that company isn’t powerful enough already — depresses me.

Since the company announced it was looking for a home for its HQ2, 238 contestants have entered the Thirstiest City in North America Contest. Fifty-four states, provinces, territories, and districts clicked Add to Wishlist. Of the 50 United States, only Montana, Wyoming, the Dakotas, Vermont, and Arkansas opted out. Marketing firms across the continent have billed untold hours to help chambers of commerce, convention boards, and city governments prostrate themselves before CEO Jeff Bezos with viral videos and PR stunts. As if the city with the cleverest hashtag is going to win, instead of the one that coughs up the biggest tax bribe, I mean break.

Shame and sense fly out the window when there are “up to 50,000 high-paying jobs” on the table. It’s so brazen — so transparently capitalistic — I wonder if it’s all a big prank. Will there be consolation prizes? Or will the desperate runner-up cities be shamed for putting so many eggs in one shopping cart?

I get it. The infusion of new jobs and the direct and indirect investment will transform the city Amazon chooses for its HQ2. Can you imagine if Memphis was the one? I cannot. I understand the motivation. The optics would be worse if our city and county mayors said “Nah, we’re good with this.” At best, it’s a long shot. And I’m not sure it would help the people who need it. The idea of 50,000 jobs sounds incredible. The idea of 50,000 jobs with an average annual salary over $100,000 sounds even better. Or it would, if we could secure a promise that Memphis residents would be the ones hired and trained to do them. Otherwise, rents would go up, tax rates would climb (somebody’s got to pay that $60 million incentive), and we’d be stuck wondering how all these blessings haven’t made a dent in the poverty rate. Please, prove me wrong.

REUTERS/Joshua Roberts

Jeff Bezos

Little Rock placed a full-page ad in The Washington Post announcing its withdrawal from the HQ2 incentives arms race. Like Memphis, the city doesn’t meet the mass transit requirement outlined in the request for proposals, among a few other deal-breakers. The disruption would not be worth the sacrifice, the ad explains. San Antonio dropped out too, because as Mayor Ron Nirenberg and Bexar County Judge Nelson Wolff said in an open letter, “blindly giving away the farm isn’t our style.”

I wish Memphis could be that self-aware. The enthusiasm and pride are always nice to see, but no amount of fun facts can change the important reality that this city needs to love itself a little more before it can get a suitor like Amazon’s attention.

In the meantime, I hope having an itemized list of the types of characteristics companies are seeking will inspire some action. We’ve long known what the city needs, but those deficiencies are harder to ignore when they’re spelled out. Designating $10 million for public transit, airport infrastructure improvements, and workforce development in its Amazon resolution is an admission on the Memphis City Council’s part that those should be priorities, no matter what.

Instead of joining a free-for-all to woo a particular name, make Memphis a place where a company would want to invest. Embrace and nurture the people who are already here running their hustles and feeling a little insulted by city council offering 10 percent of the city’s budget to a billionaire. Who knows, the next Jeff Bezos might already be here among us. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Jen Clarke is an unapologetic Memphian and digital marketing specialist.