Author: Jenn Hall

BLUNT WORDS

“Day care centers have become death camps for black babies/children.”

Such is the message that greeted me this morning as I made my way down Second, en route to our offices downtown.

It was handwritten on two large pieces of poster board, taped to both the back and the side of a minivan.

Wow.

On the one hand, there are those who are chagrined by the presence of personal politics on one’s bumper. For such witnesses this was most likely quite a shock.

Yet such silent battles rage at every traffic light. A “stop abortion” advocate is often seen neck-in-neck with their “pro-life for life” counterpart.

For every “when the rapture comes this vehicle will be unmanned,” there’s a “when the rapture comes can I have your car…”

Engines revving, tension high.

It can tire the brain, these moving pleas for our hearts or minds.

But then, discourse in the public arena is one of the most crucial elements in solving any problem. And one can imagine that at least several conversations have been sparked by the above citizen’s written protest, all strength of verbiage aside.

Obviously something needs to happen to prevent such tragedies as the recent death of Amber Cox-Cody, who was left behind in a day care van last month in which temperatures were reported to have gotten to levels between 120 and 140 degrees.

The question, of course, is what?

On the legislative end, safety measures are already in place, including a triple-check system in which three workers are supposed to share the responsibility of making certain that no child is left on board. Additional proposals are now on the table, including the possibility for special licenses for van drivers and the implementation of drug screenings.

Theoretically this should prevent a situation like this from happening.

But that doesn’t cover one crucial element–human fallibility.

Watching the news coverage surrounding the incident involving Cox-Cody last month the consistent message of forgiveness voiced by her parents was striking.

Of anyone, these are the ones closest to this loss. And yet, they are willing to forgive. Publicly and without hesitation.

In that regard, it is important to keep in mind the fact that this terrible tragedy didn’t occur simply because the driver was some terrible monster. However horrible, this was an accident. A heartbreaking, unfortunate and ultimately preventable accident, but an accident nonetheless.

But let’s get back to the sentiment displayed on that van. The idea of the day care system as a death camp of sorts for our city’s black children.

Obviously, these are strong words.

But if we look at them in light of the circumstances they indicate a normal level of outrage at a situation compounded by other surrounding, and equally frustrating, issues. We have scandals involving crooked day care center operators. Then we must consider the sheer volume of children being transported in state-subsidized child care plans, estimated to be roughly 20,000 statewide.

Herein lies the rub. As part of a state-subsidized program, the transportation to and from day care should carry with it more than children. It should carry accountability.

Working parents should be able to expect responsibility in the caretaking of their children, whether at or on the way to their day care centers.

That, at the least, should not too much to ask.

It remains to be seen whether or not it is.

Somehow it never occurred to me that the word “cakewalk” was anything other than a figure of speech.

It’s odd how words can do that sometimes. Though every phrase obviously has an origin, it never passed my mind to delve into the meaning of this one in particular.

Part of it is, perhaps, geographic.

If I were asked, growing up, to wager a guess as to the meaning of “cakewalk,” my mind would inevitably have wandered toward something involving chocolate cake, icing, and my naked toes.

Until about two weeks ago, I’ll admit, my deductive reasoning would have led much in the same direction. But then, unsuspectingly, I found myself attending one.

My first thought: Oh God, I hate my feet.

My second: Do I have to?

From what I have gleaned after doing a bit of research, my first cakewalk was a somewhat amended version of the traditional.

As I learned, the cakewalk plays a part in American history as being one of the first dancing traditions passed from Black society into the American cultural landscape. It is said to have originated with the slave population in Florida, who developed the dance as a mockery of the more staid white dancing style of the mid to late 1800’s.

To exacerbate my reluctance, which I somehow managed to overcome, I’m not very schooled in the art of the dance. Perhaps running through a pile of sheet cakes didn’t sound so bad.

Go ahead, laugh. You’d laugh more if you saw me.

Let me explain. When I took ballet lessons in Kindergarten, my attendance was blatantly connected more to the penny toys we were rewarded with at the end of each session than to the acquisition of skill or grace on the dance floor. That acquisition, perhaps for the above-stated reason, never happened.

So what of these two left feet? The stress…

We began our cakewalk, part of a symbolic morale-boosting effort for Artbrew, with some warm-ups. Oh, and a few glasses of wine, necessary to alleviate my anxiety at the prospect of coming out as a challenged dancer.

A few “oms,” some stretches, and then on to the dancing, which was a cakewalk, I’ll admit–all nervousness aside.

Plus, there were prizes! Duh, you’re thinking, but remember I’m new to this. To make things more fair, or less competitive as I’ve read the original cakewalks could be, the allocation of prizes was left to chance. Meaning that I wasn’t eliminated for lack of coordination.

As I struggled to groove my way around in a circle, loose enough from the wine to be able to ignore my embarrassment, I watched the numbers that had been placed on the floor, one through twelve.

With each round, I grew nervous, half hoping that my number wouldn’t be called, as the winner of a given round was given the duty of leading the dance in the next one.

Though I didn’t take the cake, as it were, I did manage to make off with some killer bath soaps when my number was called, which I promptly used to wash the imagined confection off of my toes. In case you were wondering, which I’m certain you were…

Nobody eliminated me when my leadership skills in the circle were less than stellar, either.

And so, my understanding of a phrase or two, namely “cakewalk” and “that takes the cake,” has had the veil of linguistic ignorance lifted. They somehow, now, sound so much sweeter to the ear

Yes, I know, I’m cheesy. Oh well.

Somehow it never occurred to me that the word “cakewalk” was anything other than a figure of speech.

It’s odd how words can do that sometimes. Though every phrase obviously has an origin, it never passed my mind to delve into the meaning of this one in particular.

Part of it is, perhaps, geographic.

If I were asked, growing up, to wager a guess as to the meaning of “cakewalk,” my mind would inevitably have wandered toward something involving chocolate cake, icing, and my naked toes.

Until about two weeks ago, I’ll admit, my deductive reasoning would have led much in the same direction. But then, unsuspectingly, I found myself attending one.

My first thought: Oh God, I hate my feet.

My second: Do I have to?

From what I have gleaned after doing a bit of research, my first cakewalk was a somewhat amended version of the traditional.

As I learned, the cakewalk plays a part in American history as being one of the first dancing traditions passed from Black society into the American cultural landscape. It is said to have originated with the slave population in Florida, who developed the dance as a mockery of the more staid white dancing style of the mid to late 1800’s.

To exacerbate my reluctance, which I somehow managed to overcome, I’m not very schooled in the art of the dance. Perhaps running through a pile of sheet cakes didn’t sound so bad.

Go ahead, laugh. You’d laugh more if you saw me.

Let me explain. When I took ballet lessons in Kindergarten, my attendance was blatantly connected more to the penny toys we were rewarded with at the end of each session than to the acquisition of skill or grace on the dance floor. That acquisition, perhaps for the above-stated reason, never happened.

So what of these two left feet? The stress…

We began our cakewalk, part of a symbolic morale-boosting effort for Artbrew, with some warm-ups. Oh, and a few glasses of wine, necessary to alleviate my anxiety at the prospect of coming out as a challenged dancer.

A few “oms,” some stretches, and then on to the dancing, which was a cakewalk, I’ll admit–all nervousness aside.

Plus, there were prizes! Duh, you’re thinking, but remember I’m new to this. To make things more fair, or less competitive as I’ve read the original cakewalks could be, the allocation of prizes was left to chance. Meaning that I wasn’t eliminated for lack of coordination.

As I struggled to groove my way around in a circle, loose enough from the wine to be able to ignore my embarrassment, I watched the numbers that had been placed on the floor, one through twelve.

With each round, I grew nervous, half hoping that my number wouldn’t be called, as the winner of a given round was given the duty of leading the dance in the next one.

Though I didn’t take the cake, as it were, I did manage to make off with some killer bath soaps when my number was called, which I promptly used to wash the imagined confection off of my toes. In case you were wondering, which I’m certain you were…

Nobody eliminated me when my leadership skills in the circle were less than stellar, either.

And so, my understanding of a phrase or two, namely “cakewalk” and “that takes the cake,” has had the veil of linguistic ignorance lifted. They somehow, now, sound so much sweeter to the ear

Yes, I know, I’m cheesy. Oh well.

AN ACCEPTABLE EXCEPTION?

There’s a fine line, it seems, between preserving aspects of a city’s history and trampling upon provisions intended to protect a citizenry’s freedom.

Or so it seems at the moment, here in Memphis.

A debate is currently raging over the logistics of just when, not to mention if, it’s appropriate to designate city funds to preserve a religious structure. Two lawsuits are now pending over the legality of a proposed $300,000 worth of grants, designated to restore two historical Black churches here in Memphis. Said churches include the First Baptist Beale Street and the Clayborn-Ball Temple AME church at Hernando and Pontotoc.

The debate began several weeks ago when the aforementioned contribution was added to the city’s capital budget.

The complicating factor in what might otherwise be a cut and dry case is whether said structure’s relationship to an historical era, specifically the civil rights era, can deem worthy an exception to laws intended to prevent the enforcement of a certain set of beliefs an acceptable exception.

Try saying that ten times fast.

On the one hand, I can understand the arguments against the grant. We are all too aware of the dangers of legislated spirituality.

But in spite of the inherent legitimacy of that tenet of American freedom, the separation of church and state, we might be remiss in allowing the structures under scrutiny to crumble away into the netherworld of the forgotten past.

The First Baptist Church Beale Street was the first brick church in Memphis built by and for Black worshippers, erected in the late-nineteenth century.

The Clayborn-Ball Temple AME church, also erected in the late 1800’s, was the starting point for what turned out to be Martin Luther King Jr.’s last march before his murder in 1968. As such, it raises the question of whether there isn’t a reason they say there are exceptions to every rule.

Is it not challenging enough that we have to live down the legacy of playing host to the assassination to one of the twentieth century’s most significant figures? It would serve us well to consider the message we might send to the rest of the nation if we allow the starting point of one of our contemporary history’s most important last stands to degrade to the point of being razed.

This is especially worthy of some careful thought in light of the image-building going on here in Memphis. We are actively attempting to attract and retain creative talent based on our being a progressive urban center.

But isn’t it the complexity, the struggles and victories of our past, that have gotten us this far?

History is a funny thing–often painful to remember. And yet, what are the risks we run when we forget?

In spite of the legal implications, in spite of the fact that the philosophy behind the separation of that secular and otherwise is intended to prevent the legislation of one’s beliefs, it doesn’t sound so progressive to allow one of the cornerstones of our city’s history to fade away.

Of course, this isn’t an issue for which there’s an easy answer. It’s complicated, just as the era in which King staged his Poor People’s Campaign was complicated.

But much like King’s cause, perhaps, complications don’t always imply that there isn’t something worth standing up for.

Or in this case, maybe, something that should remain standing.

As the citizens of Memphis we should, if nothing else, give this matter a bit of thought before making a decision that might be irreversible.

Once something’s gone, you can’t get it back. And that, it seems, is something we should know all too well.

A TRACE OF HISTORY

Every now and again I get this wild notion and find myself driving off into the horizon in some random direction.

It’s a beautiful thing, wanderlust.

Recently I gave in to such an urge and found myself cruising the Natchez Trace Parkway on a Sunday afternoon.

After heading out of Memphis via Lamar I started my little trip in Tupelo, birthplace of, yes him again, Elvis. It seemed only fitting, living in Memphis, to give in and check out the two-room shanty that witnessed the birth of our local hero.

Or plague. Just depends on whether your glass o’ rock and roll is half-full or half-empty.

Anyhow, for $2.50 you can “tour” this tiny little home. I’d recommend skipping the museum. In fact, you can skirt the tour fee in general if you just pop into the front of the house, take a glance, and walk out.

None of the furnishings are original anyway, as the Presley family was forced to sell all of their possessions upon vacating. Poor Presleys. But as their story shows things can always get better. Then worse. Then better.

As for Tupelo, it’s a quaint little town by all accounts. My mistake was neglecting to take into account the power of Sunday on a town in Mississippi. Nothing, I mean nothing, was open aside from a few gas stations and the Presley house. It was eerily quiet in God’s country, aside from my radio and the occasional car that passed by as I traversed downtown.

The Bible belt is a decided fashion staple there. But, no matter, my journey was to continue northward.

Finding the Natchez Trace, for me, was an accident. A gorgeous, natural, lush, green accident that left me inspired to explore our neighbor state a bit more.

After my hour-long exploration of Tupelo, I just decided to continue on my tradition of choosing a random direction and going with it.

When I noticed the signs for the Trace, I figured it was, um, a sign, and went with it.

If city life is getting you down at some point, a drive along this road might be just what you need to clear your mind and get some perspective on things. It certainly worked for me.

Almost immediately upon my entrance to the parkway, I realized that the power of chance had definitely worked in my favor.

After a short time, I made my first stop, at visitor’s center just outside of Jackson. There I was instructed that I could make my way up to Highway 72, and take the long way back to Memphis, edging across the corner of Alabama and then heading West.

And so I did.

Roughly every 15 minutes, there’s something to stop and see. Particularly eerie and impressive are the graves of thirteen unknown Confederate soldiers, situated along a trail that was part of the old trace, which was used as a trading route some 8,000 years ago.

It was odd for me to stand there, a native of the “other side,” a Yankee I guess, but thought-provoking as well.

It’s difficult for me to imagine what that time must have been like for our country. Fittingly, the graves are both sad and beautiful, decorated with confederate flags and facing the trail for all to see. Or so the legend goes.

In actuality the headstones are not originals, but replacements of the park service from sometime on the 1930’s.

There are also quite a few sites consisting of burial mounds from the Middle Woodland period, roughly 100 BC to 200 AD. The parkway consists of monuments to the dead of many cultures. It makes a trip along the Trace somewhat like a walk-through of the human history of the South.

I visited the Pharr Mounds at milepost 286.7, consisting of eight mounds and striking in how they are spread across a plain and so easy to see.

No matter how often or where you stop, there are beatific sites of both natural and historical significance.

As I made my way back toward Memphis, I listened to the story of the Crossroads in a spoken word piece on the radio. About Elegba and the selling of one’s soul for the sake of music.

Perhaps my next exploration will take me further South.

“There’s a phrase that’s used from time to time, something about not taking things sitting down?

The latest snafu at the school board over the horror, the inequity, the sheer pain in the butt of a non-ergonomic seating environment seemingly indicates that some of those making decisions in this community have little desire to stand up for their constituents.

Who would want to, what with the prospect of a $600 throne?

I mean, we must consider that the 117,000 children who attend our city schools have plush velvet recliners, fit for royalty, in all of their classrooms. There’s no reason the board can’t get in on the deal, right?

And I won’t even sink to commenting on the cold bologna sandwich issue that followed.

Seriously, folks, has it come to this?

There’s another euphemism that I’d like to consider here, namely that of “put your money where your mouth is.” Incidentally, this rolls off the tongue much more musically than “put your money where your ass is.” Unless, of course, you’re at a strip club or a certain address on Avery.

More and more lately, I find myself attempting to internalize that phrase. Put your money where your mouth is.

In the three or so years that I’ve been here, I’ve grown to love Memphis, for all its good and bad. But as I sit in this crazily uncomfortable porch chair that serves as my computer chair for lack of a budget to mismanage, I realize that it’s up to us. (Just kidding by the way- I like my chair just fine.)

Each and every one of us must become actively engaged in the process of building community.

It’s a tough time for cities. It’s an especially tough time for arts and education, which is part of the reason I feel inclined to poke a little fun at the great chair crisis of 2003. It should be more than obvious to the school board that there are more pressing matters at hand than the lavishness of their seats.

Take, for instance, the dissolution of the Center for Arts Education.

The Greater Memphis Arts Council has gotten a lot of flack for this particular move, and I’m not interested in contributing to that here.

But while this move is appalling to many, and blatantly detrimental to a school system that is without adequate arts education, we must remember that we’re living in a political and economic context in which the arts are being dealt financial blows as if they’re in boxing rings. And losing.

Like many have mentioned in regard to this local crisis, there certainly is a call for accountability on the part of those in decision-making positions.

But it’s also time for us, as citizens, to be accountable.

How?

To match the time we spend criticizing the powers that be, which I believe to be a responsibility when necessary, imagine the impact were we to match it with time spent in the community actively engaged in the process of making it better.

How much stronger would it make our voices? How much more insight would it lend to our proclamations about that which needs to be fixed?

It seems hard nowadays to find time to expend time and energy on the outside world when our personal lives have become so complicated. For those of us sitting in comfortable chairs, it must be that much more difficult.

Recently, though, I made the commitment to become a literacy tutor. I hope that it will validate some of my concerns as a citizen, while educating me about the reality of our city at the same time.

Perhaps if we all get involved it will force our elected officials to honor their own commitments to things like, oh, education. Or maybe it won’t change that at all.

Nevertheless, I truly believe that it’s time for us all to start putting our money where our mouths, and not our asses, are.

This is the tale of the little meteorologist who cried storm.

OK, OK, so, like those of you who weren’t clinging to a lamppost or huddled under a trestle trying not to get blown into the river on Friday, I sat fixated by the television, riveted by the multicolored depiction of our impending doom by tornado.

Or not, but so went the story.

I want to make it clear that I don’t have some odd prejudice against those who transmit pertinent messages about aspects of our environment that might be inconvenient, dangerous or both.

If it’s going to drizzle, by all means, mention it.

But, there’s something inherently anti-strategic about the wall-to-wall weather coverage that characterizes our city.

At what point, when it’s gotten to where I forget that a radar image of Memphis isn’t part of all syndicated programming in the US, would it seem necessary to pay attention?

It’s not that I’m unsympathetic to the idea that the weather, and the coverage thereof, is relevant. But I don’t need to see an image of every cloud that passes through on every channel. It’s excessive, pretty as they might be in shades of green, yellow and red.

Plus, it makes it hard to perceive just when the threat is truly significant.

Take Friday, for example. Now that was a PERFECT time for an interruption of our regularly scheduled programming.

Hats off to the networks for a responsible play-by-play of a reasonably threatening situation, especially in light of the number of people that were downtown for Barbeque fest.

It was a perfect time to mention that it’s apparently a myth that tornadoes can’t hit the city proper. It was fundamentally sound to note that a spotter thought they saw a funnel traveling down Elvis Presley, which thankfully, was not the case.

It was also excellent to urge people to avoid Tom Lee Park, which was ultimately evacuated.

The problem? Several of my friends noted that there’s so much weather coverage ’round these parts that it’s hard to know when to bother listening.

Were I to hop into my bathtub every time it’s recommended, I’d spend a truly inordinate amount of time there. My friends would start to look at me funny. It’d get embarrassing.

So, for the most part, I watch these broadcasts as if they are for another city, I ignore them until the sirens are whistling into the night, and the sky turns some freakish, apocalyptic color.

And even so, I stay on the couch, hoping that I’m not ignoring a true message of danger, but desensitized after too many warnings with a false sense of urgency.

Care to Respond?

READERS RESPOND:

Jenn:

Truly a well written and informative article. It also said a lot of things that needed to be said.

I look forward to reading more articles by you.

Kenneth J. Derrick 2

Memphis

Jenn,

When you rant about political and cultural topics, I usually disagree

with you. But even when you wander into water-cooler topics like this

one, I STILL can’t agree!

I applaud our local TV stations for their weather coverage. They do a

great job and its not easy trying to inform the public in detail about

something that isn’t entirely understood by the meteorologists themselves.

A lot of folks don’t understand that our local TV stations cover a huge

area that encompasses the entire mid-south – from the Missouri bootheel

to Savannah TN to Oxford MS to Wynne AR. Even if it is sunny in

Memphis, our stations have a moral obligation to cover severe weather in

Kennett Missouri just as thoroughly as if the tornado were bearing down

upon Memphis. It is downright selfish for people to care more about

missing an episode of “Friends” than their fellow citizens in other

parts of the mid-south.

They don’t cover every drop of rain either. They go on the air whenever

there is a tornado warning in their coverage area and also for selected

severe t’storm warnings that have the potential to produce tornadoes,

high winds, or large hail. What would you suggest they start ignoring?

They aren’t doing this to piss you off. They’re on the air to save lives.

Don Johnson

Memphis

IN PRAISE OF PORK ROLL (YOU HEARD ME, PORK ROLL!)

Culinary regionalism is an interesting thing

.

Here are some of the keywords that define my native food snobbery: Cheese steaks, chicken parmesan subs (insert hoagies, heroes, grinders, poor boys, or whatever phrase you use to reference the sandwich,) PIZZA, Italian restaurants to be found on every corner, Tastykakes, seafood fresh from the sea, and Pork roll, egg, and cheese sandwiches. Ah…

After a weeklong trip back to Jersey (don’t even say it) I find myself being a bit of a jerk about food.

And it’s exit 67. Shut up.

Surely it’s like this for a lot of people, but every time I go home I wonder how I live without some of the foods I mentioned.

Oh, to order a pizza pie for $6 or so, to open the box and find 8 steaming slices waiting to be folded over (that’s how we do it up there) and savored in all of their yummy goodness. The absence of such locally tortures me, and if you know where I can find it, please God, tell me.

To sit in a restaurant overlooking the water and eat a plate of seared scallops–actually, my Dad’s are better, come to think of it. Mango chutney. Freshly squeezed orange. I’m actually drooling on my keyboard right now, if you can imagine.

As creatures bound by our senses in the collection and utilization of the information that frames both memory and personality, I think taste is often overlooked in importance.

Do we find it too functional to grant its due credit as one of the primary factors that defines place? Do we forget that cuisine is inextricably bound to the circumstances of environment?

Let’s try it out. New York is a city housing a large number of Italians. Ah! New York has a plethora of wonderful Italian food.

Then there’s the Jersey shore. OK, then, great seafood. I think it’s unnecessary to explain that correlation.

But while using this thesis as a basis for my fond feelings about Yankee food, or the food of any region for that matter, there is one thing that completely confuses me.

Pork roll.

What, you’re probably saying, is pork roll?

And that’s exactly what I find so perplexing. It’s pork roll, you know?

As Southern Living magazine recently reminded us, Memphis is hailed as the pork barbeque capital of the world.

Pork roll, my friends, is made of pork.

why, oh why, can’t I find it here?

If you’re a vegetarian you’re probably thinking it’s because it’s nasty, immoral or both. But please bear with me.

Pork roll, for those who have no inkling as to its nature, is kind of like Canadian bacon, I guess, but different. It’s also referred to as Taylor, or Jersey ham, and has been around (in Jersey, at least) for over a century.

Essentially, it’s just pork, hickory smoked with some preservatives and spices. Enter my disbelief at not finding it here in Memphis.

Typically this delicacy is served for breakfast, in the form of a pork roll, egg and cheese sandwich on a Kaiser roll. With salt, pepper and catsup. Yum.

If you find yourself perversely fascinated by this tale of a mysterious Jersey pork product, check out www.fnets.com/johnston.htm, and you can see a photo. Oh, and turn on your speakers. The site plays quite the rockin’ musical accompaniment.

I cannot tell you how many of my grade school lunches consisted of pork roll, and how little I appreciated it. How unaware I was of the fact that this branded me a Jersey girl!

Prior to my emigration, I never even suspected that this might be a cuisine (if you would call it that) particular to my home state. Now I miss it, arteries be damned.

In a pathetic attempt to quell this pork yearning that cannot be sated even here in the capital of all things pig, I found myself ordering a pork roll, egg and cheese at the Manahawkin, NJ flea market last week.

It was wonderful.v

Greasy, salty, and delicious. Yum.

So..if by some chance you read this and are a member of a wayward barbeque team from Jersey, en route to Memphis for the Barbeque Festival, all set to make barbequed pork roll sandwiches, and to enlighten our pig-loving brethren in the South as to the beauty of this meat, please put me on your list.

I will love you forever. Really.

I have a friend who almost refuses to come to Memphis. A former transplant/resident, she left here in a flurry, convinced that the city would do anything in its power to keep her here.

To vouch for her sanity it did seem to try.

Memphis, for her, came to be something akin to purgatory. She likened it to a living creature.

Memphis was a living organism, insidious in her mind, with its own personal will.

Well, gosh, you’re probably thinking, that’s awfully depressing.

But in actuality, I think it’s kind of interesting.

A large part of said former Memphian’s response to the city was based on her perception that an extreme focus on the past, on the formidable history of the River City, operated to the expense of the future. She just plain grew tired of Elvis, I suppose.

But though I’ve only been here a short three years, I can see that something is changing–something that might have kept a person like my friend from running off so quickly.

There is an undeniable momentum building in Memphis wherein the redefinition of the city is being actively, not passively, pursued.

Take this week’s Memphis Manifesto Summit, in which the “Creative 100” will work to develop a plan by which cities can attract and retain a creative class of young professionals. I find it hard to believe that this meeting would have been in Memphis even three years ago.

But now it seems appropriate. So what has changed?

For one thing, the amount of development going on here is staggering. Everywhere you look there seems to be something new, from the arena downtown to the homes popping up along the riverfront. Not to mention South Main, the Powerhouse, and a slew of other new additions to the socio-cultural landscape.

But I don’t think development explains it all.

What really seems to be changing at an ever-increasing rate is the general attitude of Memphians in terms of perceiving change as possible, and even good and necessary.

Though I’d hate to say it, perhaps our getting the Tyson fight helped us get over our smaller-city inferiority complex. Maybe it whispered the word possibility into our collective ear. And didn’t bite it off–imagine that!

OK, Tyson doesn’t deserve that much credit.

I think it might just be our own creative class, our own young workforce, themselves creating and implementing the vision for the city that will attract new talent and keep it rooted.

And how exciting is that? How urban and progressive?

Whatever the cause, Memphis surely is actively engaged in the process of creating its new identity–a contemporary identity based upon creativity, talent, and local pride.

And I don’t think that this will be to the expense of our rich and varied history.

It’s just time for a new chapter.

Who knows, maybe my friend will even come visit me sometime soon