Author: Jesse Davis

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Two Years in the Hole

Last supper? (l-r) Jesse Davis, Sydnie Hammer, and Donna and Pete Prunkl in early March 2020 (Courtesy Jesse Davis

Two years and a week ago, I went to the Flyer’s Beer Bracket Challenge award ceremony at the Young Avenue Deli. It was an odd time, as the reports of Covid-19 on the news were creeping closer and closer to home. People weren’t quite sure how to act. Some of us shook hands, while some people opted for a more sanitary fist bump or even just waving at each other. Our film editor’s wife had to keep reminding him not to touch his face. 

It was the beginning of a working vacation for me. No, I don’t mean the time I spent working from home. I had planned to take a week to go visit family in North Carolina and, while there, interview barbecue pitmasters for a cover story for Memphis magazine. Again, no one was quite sure how to act. Some people shook my hand; some didn’t. But I ate a lot of great barbecue, had many interesting conversations about the history of different regional variations, and occasionally worried about this strange new disease everyone was talking about. 

After the North Carolina portion of the trip, my fiancée and I stopped in Martin, Tennessee, where my sister and brother-in-law lived at the time. My mother was in town from Arizona. We were worried about her being in a full airplane, of course, but we weren’t sure just how worried we should be. And she had already bought the tickets — months ago, in fact. So we stayed home or went to the park.

With each day, the situation became more dire, until my work email started blowing up. We would be working from home. Everyone should come to the office, pick up their computers, and take ’em somewhere isolated and with internet. The Flyer’s then-editor Bruce VanWyngarden joked, “See you in June,” thinking we’d be home for two weeks, tops. 

When I left Memphis for nine days of barbecue “research” and visiting family, Covid felt like something I should be vaguely concerned about. By the time I returned, the World Health Organization had declared Covid a worldwide pandemic. The Flyer offices were a ghost town when I ventured there to retrieve my computer. It felt somehow wrong. Newsrooms, even ones as small as ours, are loud and no little bit chaotic. It was just me, the humming of fluorescent lights, and the accumulated dust, made obvious by the hastily packed-up computers and personal possessions. 

We all have our own stories. For most of the world, the first few weeks or months of the pandemic were truly individual experiences. The guidelines seemed to change so quickly, at the mercy of rapidly progressing research into a new virus and the whims of an unprepared supply chain. We worried about our loved ones. We worried about the state of the nation. We worked, and our professions gave us a degree of safety — or they put us in harm’s way. I’ve worked as a cook, a dishwasher, a package handler — I can imagine what it must have been like to be on the job as one of those people in March and April 2020. Let alone a nurse, doctor, or other healthcare professional. Or a grocery store worker. 

Then, it seemed at least that we settled into a pattern of waiting. There were portions of the pandemic that seemed distinct from others — the Tiger King binges, the bread-baking, the long walks outside. Even if you weren’t binging or baking (I wasn’t), you couldn’t help hearing about it. 

So much has changed, now, two years after the pandemic was officially declared. Frankly, I don’t think things will ever be as they were before. In the U.S. alone, 964,000 people have died from Covid. Globally, that number is more than 6 million. 

We have lost people we’ll never get back, an incalculable loss. But the rest of us have to carry on, and forge some kind of equilibrium, a “normal.” It will just look a little different; it will take time. People have lost loved ones, friends, businesses. Young people have lost out on formative experiences. But I hope that we have gained things as well, though it will likely take just as much time to find perspective, to help us realize just what they may be. I hope that, in some aspect, virtual meetings will stick around. I hope we will be more aware of others’ health, of the need for inclusivity — of what we lose without it. 

More than anything, I hope we can be patient with each other as we try to emerge from this pandemic hole. And that we refuse to leave anyone behind.

Jesse Davis
jesse@memphisflyer.com 

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Would You Sell Your Soul for Total Control?

Photo: Dave Newman | Dreamstime.com

Have you ever heard of The Motels? They were a California-based new wave band fronted by singer/guitarist Martha Davis (no relation), primarily active in the late ’70s and early ’80s. Their single “Only the Lonely” is pretty great, and though it shares a name with the Roy Orbison number, it’s a different song completely. My favorite track, though, has got to be “Total Control,” in which Davis muses that she would sell her soul for control of a lover’s heart. You know the type — it’s one of those obsessive love songs that sounds romantic until you realize the portrayal of romance is, uh, problematic at best. It’s probably safer to say anyone who would sell their soul to control someone else is experiencing something that has only the thinnest relation to love. But would you? Sell your soul for total control?

Well, several Tennessee legislators have made up their minds on that issue. As I write these words, bills are due for votes — about local control of land use, about a woman’s right to control her body. Just last month, a bill to ban instant-runoff voting (IRV), which Memphis has twice voted to implement, passed. From the Associated Press, “Voters there still haven’t used the method since voting in 2008 to adopt it for city elections.” I would point out the blatant hypocrisy of the “party of small government” undercutting our right to local control, but at this point it’s clear that the hypocrisy isn’t a cause for shame.

On Monday, March 7th, the state Senate rejected a bill that had already passed the House, which would have eliminated residency requirements for first responders — for Memphis and Shelby County only. That may or may not seem like a big issue, but as someone who has lived in a small, rural town in West Tennessee, I can say with certainty that I wouldn’t want anyone consuming out-of-town media to police Memphis, a community they had little other exposure to. I’m glad the state Senate rejected the bill, and I hope it’s never signed into law. But that would be going against the trend of how our state views local control when it comes to Memphis and Shelby County.

As I mentioned previously, HB 2246/SB 2077 would remove local government control of zoning for fossil fuel infrastructure. I guess that would give the Byhalia Connection another crack at that pipeline. The bill has been delayed for two weeks, so now would be an excellent time to let your representatives know how you feel about it.

And an amendment to HB 2779/SB 2582 is the abortion ban to end all abortion bans. It would even award “damages if the plaintiff has suffered harm from the defendant’s conduct, including, but not limited to, loss of consortium and emotional distress.” And yes, there’s a $10,000 bounty as well.

Anti-abortion laws, like gun owners’ rights and immigration, are blank checks for Republicans seeking campaign donations. And the fossil fuel industry has deep, deep pockets. So I’ve always assumed many of these issues have, at heart, a financial incentive. There are oodles of Tennesseans willing to write a check — or set up a recurring donation — based on a promise to protect the right to bear arms or a promise to end abortion. And, of course, there are the true believers. The people who have a passion for these issues. But more and more I’m forced to believe that much of this is about control.

The most recent abortion ban isn’t so much anti-abortion as it is pro-forced-birth. Through that lens, it seems more about keeping women out of the workforce than about protecting zygotes.

When we in Memphis were told we couldn’t decide which statues would be in a position of prominence in our parks, that wasn’t about protecting history. It’s about making sure the state’s majority-Black city knows who is in charge.

There’s a resurgence of authoritarian politics in this country and this state, and when you strip away the star-spangled wrapping paper, at the heart of it is a desire for control. I believe some people remember the days before a woman could legally open a checking account, before those people had to be counted as equals of people with a different skin color or a different faith. And they remember those days fondly.

By the time this column is in print, votes will have been cast on some of these issues. So why write about it if I can’t tell you to call your reps? Because in the end, we have to decide, if we truly believe everyone deserves agency, are we willing to protect their right to it? Even if we’re not directly impacted by one of these decisions, are we willing to let someone else’s rights be curtailed?

Well, would you? Would you sell your soul for total control?

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

What the Hell Is Going On?

Photo: Simone Secci | Unsplash.com

Not long ago, I ran into my nemesis — Jesse James Davis. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He’s the singer/songwriter/guitarist with the golden vocal cords and a name not unlike mine. He also thinks it’s the height of hilarity to pretend to be me.

In a scene eerily similar to the final duel in The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, our eyes narrowed when we spotted each other across the room.

“Davis,” I hissed, my voice like gravel and cut glass.

“Davis,” he echoed, his lips pulled into a tight frown.

Well, that might have happened, or we might have both yelled “Jesse Davis” and hugged each other. However the initial moment played out, we eventually ended up in a conversation about the strange hesitance people have for admitting that they don’t know something.

One might think that I would be especially susceptible, with knowing and writing about things making up a significant chunk of my job description, but honestly I think it’s my willingness to admit the gaps in my knowledge that makes me suited to this peculiar gig. Who wants a journalist who thinks they know everything already? I’m of the opinion that the world is older and odder and more mysterious than I can ever fully comprehend, so any discerning person’s best option is to be endlessly curious and willing to admit when they don’t know enough to comment.

I bring this up because there’s little going on in my personal life at the moment except nursing my still-rehabilitating cat, trying to get my and my fiancée’s cars to the mechanic, and babysitting my nephew. I’m not sure I can tease a column out of those issues. As far as the hot news goes, well, I’m not going to present myself as a foreign policy expert. (See where I’m going with this now?)

For a weekly paper in Memphis, we have the tragic situation in Ukraine covered as well as I think we can at the moment, and anything I might add would only do our readers a disservice. For one of the local implications of the conflict, see Bruce VanWyngarden’s “At Large” column on page 9, and to hear from someone who actually lived in Ukraine for a while, be sure to read Lyn Wright’s excellent column in “The Last Word.” It adds perspective I could never hope to.

Yes, it can be embarrassing to admit to a gap in knowledge. Adding to the potential embarrassment, it seems that social media has conditioned us to feel we have to respond to whatever the latest trending topic is. If we don’t speak out, are we complicit? In some instances, certainly, but rushing in guns a-blazing when we lack the context to understand the situation can end up doing more harm than good.

So, in the interest of using this space to do as much good as I feel I can, I’m (hopefully) setting a good example by saying that sometimes I have no idea what the hell is going on. Say it with me, won’t you? It can be quite liberating, really.

Sometimes I have no idea what is going on.

Categories
Book Features Books

Good Reads: Trouble the Waters

The Bluff City’s fans of speculative fiction have a new reason to rejoice in the recently released Trouble the Waters: Tales From the Deep Blue (Third Man Books) edited by Pan Morigan and Memphians Sheree Renée Thomas and Troy L. Wiggins. The anthology is mesmerizing, a collection sparkling with a myriad of voices, some plumbing the depths of the mystic while others cast their gaze on the far-off future.

Thomas and Wiggins are no strangers to sci-fi and speculative fiction. Both writers contributed to last year’s Black Panther: Tales of Wakanda prose anthology, and Thomas is the editor of The Magazine of Fantasy & Science-Fiction. In this newest work, water is the unifying motif. Like water itself — freezing, fogging, fluidly expanding to fill any space — the stories within take many shapes.

“The Water Creatures in my own story,” writes Thomas in the collection’s introduction, “remind us that while the earth is round, her waters are vast and deep. We may never know all the strange, wondrous life-forms teeming below.”

In Thomas’ “Love Hangover,” the protagonist, Frankie, fawns over a siren-like singer. “Like Delilah Divine’s voice, the music was sweet water finding its own way home,” Thomas writes. “The challenge was finding a way to listen and not get drenched. With Delilah you drowned.” In the short story, as in much of Thomas’ work, music is tied to the life force; drum beats are like heartbeats (check out her collection Nine Bar Blues, which is populated by dancers, DJs, and other musical magic). The story culminates with the 1979 fire at the Infinity disco, as the author deftly balances the forces of water and fire.

Memphian Danian Darrell Jerry’s “A City Called Heaven” conjures images of epidemic in Memphis. It begins with Sibyl walking west along Beale Street, trodding familiar ground. Beneath the specter of disease, a desire for life takes root, but the question is how to hold on to that life. Music and religion, two of the city’s driving forces, figure prominently in the story.

In “Seven Generations Algorithm” by Andrea Hairston, though the future may be bleak, with the gulf between the haves and have-nots as apparent as it is today, song and story still offer a saving grace. “Refugees, squatters, and former desperadoes were pitching tents in dead big-box stores, hoping for miracles: jobs, food, electricity, a plan, a vision — maybe just cheap cell service,” Hairston writes. Meanwhile, the author and playwright continues, “Folks who could were locked up tight down in the valley behind a flood wall and megawatt gates. Electric Paradise was on the other side of the Mall — a waste of power and good river valley soil.”

Speaking over the phone, Memphian Jamey Hatley tells me about her story, “Spirits Don’t Cross Over ’Til They Do,” which follows a veteran of the Vietnam War, Rabbit, as he tries to find a place for himself. Rabbit has seen too much death, too little reason for hope. He was in Memphis when Otis Redding died, when Martin Luther King Jr. was assassinated.

“How do survivors return?” Hatley asks. “There used to be rights of passage if you were a warrior. You would go through this process to be reacclimated into the community. Even now we’re having all these talks about how our veterans are not being taken care of, how the waiting lists for mental healthcare are incredibly long. … How do you try to make yourself whole?”

Featuring authors from familiar environs such as Memphis and New Orleans, but as far away as Northern Ireland and Copenhagen, and casting a net into the world of myth and memory, of foresight and prophecy for inspiration, Trouble the Waters is as beautiful and frightening and changing as the sea itself. Poetry, magic, and Afrofuturism inform the stories within, bidding the reader to drift away, borne aloft on a sea of story, to awake on a strange and wondrous shore.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Irrational Kindness

Photo: Jesse Davis

In October of 2019, I found a bedraggled kitten covered in mud and hiding under a large piece of machinery next to the train tracks across the street from my house. It had stormed the night before — lashing rain, booming thunder, and a tornado touched down in Parkway Village — and the kitten had been lost in the tempest.

I waited a little while to see if the kitten’s piteous cries would lead his mother to him, but no go. So I stole a can of tuna from my housemate and coaxed the mud-covered feline into a towel-lined cardboard box. I called Memphis Animal Services, but it was after hours, so I left a message and took the sad little stray to my girlfriend’s apartment. Though I told Syd, “Don’t get attached. We’re not keeping him,” by the time I got a call back from MAS, I had taken the cat to the vet for a checkup, vaccinations, and to find out if I needed to bottle-feed him. Before long, the little kitten known on his vet intake papers as “stray domestic shorthair” was called Ampersand, and he was here to stay.

Yeah, they know exactly what they’re doing at MAS. They played me like a fiddle, and to be honest, I’m glad they did.

That was two and a half years ago. These days my girlfriend is my fiancée, we live in a different house farther away from train tracks, and Ampersand is definitely eating solid food. As I write these words, the gray gremlin is recovering from a rough couple of weeks.

Not long ago, Amp came down with what’s called feline idiopathic cystitis. The “idiopathic” is there because, as I understand it, the condition is more or less “an inflamed bladder, and we don’t know why.” It’s the diagnosis the vets give after they rule out stones or an infection or any of the other usual suspects for, uh, let’s say, “litter box difficulties.”

Though he had been improving since he was first diagnosed, about a week before then, last Friday, Ampersand was not acting like himself. He growled at me. He was wobbly on his feet. After a brief visit to his usual vet, where Amp was referred to the local emergency clinic for animals, I found myself standing at the counter of said clinic and signing a consent form so they could rush him back to be seen by a doctor. I transferred an exorbitant sum of money to the vet, and they told me Amp had developed a urinary blockage. Well, I would growl at people too if my bladder was swelling without any hope of relief.

So Amp spent the weekend at the emergency clinic. They removed the blockage and hooked him up to a catheter to drain his bladder and IVs to feed him fluids. It seemed to do the trick. Since he’s been back home, my feline shadow has been acting much more like himself, but it’s clear he’s still got some healing to do.

This might seem like an awful lot of trouble to go to for a creature I found in the mud under some construction equipment, and honestly, I can’t disagree. But after three trips to the vet, a weekend stay at the animal ER, the medication I have to give him every six hours, the different medication I have to give him every 12 hours, and that time he peed on me, I can say one thing with certainty: It’s worth it, and in the end it’s a bargain.

Over the course of the past week and a half, I’ve spent hours at various veterinary offices, and I saw absolutely irrational kindness on display. You want to see unconditional love? Go spend an hour in the lobby of the emergency animal clinic on a Sunday night. That’s not how any sane person would want to spend an evening, but I didn’t see a soul who wasn’t ready to do whatever they had to to help the creatures in their care. These days, the world is often confusing and frightening, and the love on display was a comfort.

Maybe it seems silly beyond belief, infantile even, to write about my darn cat. I should be writing about Ukraine or any number of other, more serious topics. But I suspect I’ll get the chance in weeks to come. Today I’m thankful for the things that force us to show compassion, even when ­— especially when — it doesn’t make much sense.

The best pets are brought into our lives when we need them, which is, in my experience, exactly when another responsibility is the last thing we would choose for ourselves. Sometimes we need a shove in the right direction, and, even after a hectic (and, frankly, gross) week, I’m glad that an autumn storm brought Amp to my doorstep.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Crackpot Theories

Photo: Syda Productions | Dreamstime.com

Another crackpot conspiracy theory has entered the fray. Last week, the right-wing rag Washington Free Beacon took some liberties and a giant leap of logic, reporting that President Joe Biden’s administration will be handing out free crack pipes as part of a $30 million health grant package.

Before long, the headline — “Biden Admin To Fund Crack Pipe Distribution To Advance ‘Racial Equity’” — was out. The article was shared hither and yon, with at least one local news organization repeating it. Prominent Republican politicians lost no time getting in on the game, with Tennessee’s senior senator, Sen. Marsha Blackburn, releasing a video claiming that the Biden administration planned to set up vending machines to distribute crack pipes.

You know, because why not bypass marijuana decriminalization and go straight for crack pipe distribution?

Around the same time, The Daily Beast reported that the claim was false. A spokesperson from the Department of Health and Human Services was interviewed, but they never said that crack pipes were part of the package. In fact, what the spokesperson did say was that “all kits must comply with the law.”

The kits in question are, it’s true, smoking kits. They’re part of a measure to reduce the risk to those addicted to illicit substances, in what’s usually termed harm reduction. “Safe smoking kits have been identified to reduce the spread of disease,” reads the report, and to that end, the kits would include things like brass screens, rubber mouthguards, and disinfectant wipes.

The grant package also includes funding for things like screening for diseases such as HIV, syringe and medicine disposal, safe sex kits, wound care, overdose reversal drugs, and community outreach.

In other words, there are no vending machines distributing free crack pipes, and nobody’s getting high off of anything paid for by this package.

The HHS and the White House denied the crackpot crack pipe claim. The email exchange with the Washington Free Beacon reporter was turned over to the reporter from The Daily Beast, and there was no mention of crack pipes. Various fact checkers weighed in as well. By that point, of course, the damage was done. I doubt that “crack pipe vending machines” will ever leave the talking-point toolbox of far-right politicians. It’s a specter that will haunt any conversation about harm reduction in the future, like microchips in vaccines, former President Obama’s birth certificate, and ritualistic Satanic abuse.

You almost can’t blame them. It really is the perfect right-wing talking point, especially with the “racial equity” phrase in that initial headline. “Look what critical race theory leads to,” I can imagine some self-professed conservative talking head saying. “Right to crack pipe vending machines. And they’ll put them in your neighborhood.” It’s just the right mix of racism, classism, moral outrage, and fear mongering. The best thing about it? Since it was never going to happen anyway, it’s a perfect thing to campaign on. As the aforementioned vending machines will never materialize, that’s one campaign promise anyone can keep.

I’m not sure what pains me more, that a new bogeyman has been added to the right-wing arsenal or that serious public relations damage has no doubt been done to the legitimate need for harm reduction measures. Probably the latter. If the past two years have made anything clear, it’s that any community is only as healthy as its least-cared-for members. Meaning it’s really in everyone’s best interest to help take care of the people who are suffering.

Of course, I make these points, as I often do, because I hope they’ll reach some conservative-minded neighbor or family member, someone who cares about the bottom line, who wants to know what’s in it for them. But really, I just think it’s the right thing to do. To work to reduce the suffering of our fellow human beings — isn’t that a noble calling? A worthwhile use of resources?

Oh well. That’s probably enough of my crackpot theories.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

The Editor Who Came in From the Cold

Photo: Priscilla Foreman

In 1994, Memphis was hit with an ice storm — the Ice Storm, as many people remember it — that left many without power or a means to communicate. I was just a kid at the time, but I remember it well. My sister, my dad, and I spent most of the time huddled together under stacks of blankets and quilts. My dad told us stories and generally tried to seem as though he was unfazed, in an effort, I’m sure, to keep the kids from worrying. I mention this so the reader knows this is not my first ice storm rodeo.

Last Thursday, Memphis was hit with another ice storm. Tree limbs froze, strained, and broke, taking out power lines as they fell. Nearly 140,000 Memphis Light, Gas and Water customers were left without power. (And remember, a “customer” is a household or business, so we’re talking about far more than 140,000 people.)

I watched through a window as a sapling-sized limb gave up the ghost, shedding twinkling diamond-like shards of ice, and hit a power line. The lights went out. My fiancée had the heat turned up so that, when the power inevitably gave out, the house would be able to lose some warmth before it got unbearable. We hung blankets over the already-curtained windows to help trap our body heat. I dutifully texted the Flyer team to let them know the situation. But in an hour or so, the temperature dropped by about 12 degrees. I worried about our cats, about getting work done. It occurred to me, as limbs fell, pinging and thudding off our roof, that we live in a house with thin walls, many windows, and surrounded by trees. What if one came through the window?

So we grabbed the cats, some food, and our laptops and made for Sydnie’s mother’s house, which thankfully still had power. I had to swerve to dodge a falling limb that hit the road in front of our car. Our orange cat, Calcifer, meowed incessantly for the entire journey. I sang to him — Neil Young’s “Don’t Cry No Tears” — and told stories of winter storms past. Less than a minute before we pulled into the driveway, Cal pooped in his pet carrier. That pretty much set the tone for the next six days.

My sister lost power as well, but they have a fireplace and tried to soldier on. After a night with her sick and puking four-year-old son, dropping temperatures, and a panicked dog, I convinced her to make the trip to Syd’s mom’s place. At that point, we had seven humans, five big dogs, and three cats crammed into this house. It’s been a circus, and because I made distracting my nephew a top priority, it wasn’t long before I caught his cold. So I’m feverish and going on day two without sleep as I write this. I hope it makes some sense.

The amazingly resilient Flyer team put out this week’s issue, though nearly everyone lost power or internet. We pulled together work on the ice storm and managed to put out the stories we had already planned. I’m proud of the Flyer folks.

I recognize that I’m incredibly fortunate — I had somewhere warm to go! Not everyone in Memphis can say that. I know many have made tough choices just to get through this.

But as I write this, I am roughly 118 hours and 25 minutes into a power outage, and the MLGW website says that we are still “waiting on damage assessment.” Please understand that I can be in absolute awe of the MLGW linemen who are doing the dangerous and cold work of restoring power, while also frustrated that we have been blindsided by weather two years in a row. After last year’s freak February snowstorm, which led to frozen and ruptured water mains, a decrease in water pressure, and a boil water advisory, I’m beginning to think we really aren’t that great at weathering February here in the Bluff City.

So how do we fix that? As you peruse this issue, be sure to check out page 4, which is devoted to still more spurious bills targeting Tennessee’s LGBTQ community. If passed, the bills will be challenged in court, as they always are. So will the GOP’s gerrymandered redistricting plan, which splits Davidson County into three districts and which Governor Bill Lee signed on Sunday. One wonders what we would be able to afford if we didn’t spend state dollars on this crap.

What could we do with state and federal funding and a small MLGW rate increase? I believe MLGW president and CEO J.T. Young when he says the pandemic has hampered the utility’s efforts to work to prevent these kinds of disasters. But Memphis needs more warming centers, better tree-trimming, and work to bury or otherwise protect power lines.

We can’t expect not to be hit with winter weather. Isn’t being prepared for the worst the best thing about community?

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Of Maus and McMinn County

Photo: Vclements | Dreamstime.com

In middle school, one of my teachers assigned the novel All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque. The book is fiction, but it gives a fairly accurate account of how horribly dehumanizing trench warfare was for WWI soldiers.

Of course, there are chapters dealing with what you might expect — snipers, charges across No Man’s Land, gas attacks. Beyond the more apparent atrocities of war, All Quiet on the Western Front spends time on the poor quality of the food the soldiers eat, the sorry state of the latrines, the mind-numbing boredom between attacks. Almost as much as the violence, those seemingly mundane details drive home the book’s message. War is hell. It strips everyone involved of their humanity.

Similarly, in Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse-Five, when he writes that Billy Pilgrim, then a prisoner of war, “shit thin gruel,” I was struck by the horror of having so little control over one’s body, over what and when one ate.

Some might protest the use of a four-letter word in a book often read by high schoolers or that so much time and attention is devoted to bowel movements, but they’re missing the point. When a student is told about millions of people dying or being subjugated, the scope of the horror is too big to grasp. But when you’re confronted with someone who’s not allowed to dress themself or decide when they will relieve themself, you realize without a doubt that those people were denied even the barest semblance of dignity.

I write this because of the McMinn County School Board’s unanimous decision to remove Art Spiegelman’s graphic novel about the Holocaust, Maus, from the curriculum, ostensibly because of a drawing of mouse genitalia and some profanity. The logic seems to be that a drawing of an anthropomorphic mouse’s private parts and the occasional swear word is obscene and will make children uncomfortable.

I would find their explanation a little more believable if Tennessee weren’t already leading the charge against what some erroneously call “critical race theory” and others might more accurately describe as world and U.S. history and the myriad ways systemic racism continues to impact current social and economic structures.

Let’s speak plainly. This is not about protecting children. It is a clear and concerted effort to control the lens of history, to center white Christians in every narrative, whether or not they were the victims. It is inherently authoritarian and nationalistic, and it is dangerous. If your teaching of the Holocaust or the system of American slavery or the Trail of Tears isn’t, at times, obscene, then it is failing miserably to convey the horror and dehumanization of those atrocities. It is, in short, laying the groundwork for future acts of barbarism.

Scant weeks ago, worshipers in a Texas synagogue were held at gunpoint. Even now, a Jewish couple in Tennessee is suing the state’s Department of Children Services after being denied as potential foster parents, a step on the way to adopting a child with disabilities, because the agency “only provide[s] adoption services to prospective adoptive families that share our belief system.” Among the more bizarre examples of anti-Semitism is the QAnon belief in the Deep State, a conspiracy theory which has its roots in 20th-century European prejudice against Jewish people. Just days ago, Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis danced around calls for him to condemn Nazi demonstrations in Orlando. DeSantis’ spokeswoman Christina Pushaw wondered if the demonstrators were “even Nazis.” They were waving fucking swastikas, so my guess is yes. So let’s please not act as though these issues are no longer with us here in the 21st century. Hatred is alive and well. It’s big business for some people, and we must use every tool available to combat it, to help today’s young people understand history and develop empathy.

Some will point out that Maus is now a bestseller on Amazon, which is nice, but it’s not the same thing as the book being made readily available to students. Not everyone has access to Amazon or Barnes & Noble; not everyone can afford a new copy of a graphic novel.

If our kids are strong enough to sit through active shooter drills, they’re strong enough to confront the past. We owe it to them to teach them about the horrible things humanity has done, and we must remember that learning about the Holocaust should make them uncomfortable.

We must be honest about our past sins, or we’ll soon have even more atrocities to add to some future curriculum.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Not Too Old for Rock-and-Roll

Success has no age limit. (Photo: Mark Adams | Dreamstime.com)

Years ago, I was visiting my sister and brother-in-law. My brother-in-law’s nieces were over as well, which leads me to believe it was probably either Thanksgiving or my nephew’s birthday, though the reason for the occasion hardly matters.

At some point, my BIL’s niece, let’s call her Sandra, was talking about people’s ages — hers, her teacher’s, her friends’ — and I asked her how old she thought I was. Her answer, after a moment of careful consideration, was that I was, “At least 55.”

Reader, I was in my twenties.

We all know children aren’t good at estimating adult ages, but my point here is this: Everyone’s idea of “young” and “old” is different. I don’t mean that in some vaguely creepy “age is relative” way. Your age is your age. It can be measured objectively. But we in the good, ol’ United States have some funny ideas about youth.

Of course, I bring this up because this week’s issue of the Flyer is our “20<30” issue, our annual celebration of the young people who are doing the work of shaping the city. This year’s class is, like the 12 classes that have come before, made up of an inspiring group of Memphians working to make the city a better place — a safer, more musical, more tech-savvy city full of opportunities and hometown pride. I say this with absolute honesty and conviction — they inspire me. It’s impressive to see so many people so devoted to bringing out the best of what the Bluff City has to offer. So I both salute and thank you, our 20<30 class of 2022. At the same time, though, I want to caution any of our readers who are feeling like they haven’t made the leap yet — whatever leap, whatever goal lives in the back of your mind — that it’s not too late. Heck, Joseph Conrad was 32 before he began writing his first novel, let alone published it. There may or may not be a typical path to success in your chosen field, but who’s to say you have to follow the path anyway? I first published a story in a newspaper when I was about 16 — in The Chester County Independent — but my real career in journalism didn’t begin until I was 28. Some might say that’s too late to begin a new endeavor, but some might also learn to keep their noses out of other people’s business.

We live in a system that is, by definition, built on competition, so it’s no surprise that most people spend some time and energy comparing themselves to others. It’s such an easy trap to fall into, but it’s ultimately meaningless. We don’t all share the same goals, so neither should we feel forced to work on the same timelines. Do the work. Get there when you get there.

In the meantime, please join me in congratulating the Flyer’s newest 20<30 honorees. Let’s all dream of — and work toward — a happier, healthier, more hopeful Memphis together.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Cyber Crime and Punishment

Photo: Sooniospro | Dreamstime.com

My Facebook account was hacked last week. Not in some high-stakes, sexy cyber-spy way, as seen in the 1992 film Sneakers. My screen didn’t freeze as green text cascaded down in a digital waterfall. My cursor didn’t suddenly move with a mind of its own.

No, everything went on more or less as normal, except “I” sent a message — “Look who died” — with a link to a nonexistent website out to all 1,389 of my contacts.

I was none the wiser until I started getting Facebook messages, texts, and Slack and Twitter DMs to the effect of “Hey, man, I think you’ve been hacked.”

The Commercial Appeal’s Micaela Watts took a screenshot and posted it on my wall with a cheery note: “You done been hacked.” Another friend messaged me to say that getting one’s account hacked is bound to happen these days, “Just like Omicron, I guess.” That’s bleak.

My dear friend Olivia got thrown in Facebook “jail” for a few days because her (perfectly inoffensive) comment didn’t meet with the site’s Community Standards. The people in charge of flagging these things are, I imagine, bored nearly to death, so I’m not sure they make for the most reliable safety net.

I spent the next half hour or so in a flurry of online activity. I posted about the hack, warning my contacts not to click the bogus link. I notified Facebook’s security and privacy team. I haven’t heard back from them yet. I changed my password to something complicated and hard to remember, and I turned on two-factor authentication, so I have to input a code texted to my phone if I log in from an unfamiliar device. I spent the next two days responding to messages about the fishy message “I” had sent out to people. It was embarrassing and time-consuming, and I don’t recommend it as a pastime.

Before long, I noticed that I was logged in on two devices — and that one of them seemed to have an IP address from somewhere in Kentucky. I kicked the device off (you can do that from the Security and Login page, for future reference) before I remembered that Facebook had asked me earlier that day if I had “liked” a photo from Michael Donahue. I don’t remember seeing anything about a Kentucky-based IP address in that message, and since I do “like” many of Donahue’s photos, I didn’t think much of it. Whoever hacked my account must have looked at my recent activity to make sure their first move was one that wouldn’t arouse my suspicions. What a clever cyber criminal!

After the initial alarm, I realized that the fishy message I’d broadcast to everyone I know online was eerily similar to a message I had received a few days ago.

That’s right. I blundered into this cyber scam. Like the best Greek tragedies, it was all down to my hubris. You see, while I prefer email for work communications, I get messages every way you can imagine — snail mail, Twitter, Facebook. So when I received a message from, well, someone rather older than I am, I assumed a local celebrity had died and someone was sending me a tip. Yes, the method of delivery was tactless, and the grammar wasn’t going to make anyone’s high school English teacher proud, but that’s on par with at least half of the messages I’m sent. Besides, I spent six years as a copy editor, which means that I’m primed to expect most people to write poorly. And as a Millennial, I expect anyone older than Gen X to have trouble with PDFs and digital etiquette, just as I expect anyone in Gen Z to be baffled when expected to use a phone to actually call someone.

You see? Hubris.

In all likelihood, the message was garbled because it was written by either a bot or someone in a troll farm in Russia or North Korea. I wonder if some up-and-coming hacker graduated from digital training wheels to more rewarding, high-stakes cyber crime after they successfully duped me.

So yes, this was my fault, but consider how easy it was for me to fall prey to this scam. All it takes is divided attention. We need to treat cyber malfeasance as a threat to national security. Yes, even on social media. Because, while the democratic premise that everyone is entitled to an opinion is a beautiful thing, it also presents an easy-to-hit target. Our ability to reach a consensus is our most fragile point, and I can’t help but feel that everything from vaccination efforts to political discourse would have been less fraught without the influence of social media. It’s here to stay, though, so we’d best get better about navigating it safely.

In the meantime, though, take it from me and don’t be too proud to ask, “Did someone actually die or is this a spam link?”