Category: Letter From The Editor

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Breaking a Broody Mood

The Cluck Crew (Photo: Shara Clark)

I moved into my friends’ house last week. Well, I didn’t actually move in. How I got here is a bit of a loop-the-loop. I thought I may have to relocate for homeowners insurance to cover repairs from damage inflicted by a tree that fell in an April storm, and they were looking to rent out their house for a month while traveling abroad — the timing might be right and insurance should reimburse the cost, I thought. Long story short, it’s June 13th and I still have a hole in my roof and the remains of a collapsed shed in my backyard — and the friends still wanted a non-stranger to occupy their space while away.

So here I am in Midtown, not 10 minutes from my own home near U of M, for what will essentially be a summer staycation in a happening ’hood. But even a few days in, 10 minutes away — just over four miles — it’s proving to be a whole new world, both geographically and mentally. My neighborhood walks are different now. Big, charming bungalows, every six or so in line painted vibrant yellows and blues. Any given afternoon, a motley crew of people are out jogging, walking their dogs, or on leisurely couples’ strolls. Music wafts from not-far loudspeakers, and the area bustles with cars and pedestrians and cyclists in a distinctly Midtown way.

Back at the house, I’m the new caretaker for five hens. Hannah is the oldest, the queen (she’s curious but keeps her distance); Tulip sports iridescent black feathers (a beaut who doesn’t mind a pet here and there); and Geli is the most finicky of the bunch (she jumped in my lap and pecked my side moments before I typed this). My first day meeting them, either Pancake or Biscuit — both a lovely peachy blonde — was broody and didn’t want to budge from her nesting space in the coop, where she was determined to wait for an (unfertilized) egg to hatch. Knowing nothing about handling chickens, I puzzled how I’d go about getting the egg from under her or — gasp! — picking her up to move her and help ease her out of this state. Nope, can’t do it, gotta call for help. A kind neighbor sent her daughter over — she picked her up, placed her outside of the coop, and retrieved two eggs. Easy-peasy. But, day two, the hen was back in her nest, still broody, unwilling to come out even for chicken treats, and I thought — by god — I’m gonna do this today. A cup of coffee, some cover story editing, a sandwich, a phone call, a dozen emails, a little googling, and two false starts later, I finally said to me, “Shara, this can’t be that hard. If a kid can do it, you can do it.” So out I went, hyping myself up (“It’s just a chicken; she can’t hurt you!”). A deep breath, some gentle maneuvering to get the right hold on her, and 1, 2, 3 … go!

Pancake or Biscuit — “I’ve never been able to tell [them] apart and saying their name won’t help,” their owner told me — wasn’t too happy with me, raising all kinds of bawk-gawk hell outside the coop. But I got her egg and successfully, and without injury, picked up a chicken. A lot of you are probably thinking, “What’s the big deal? I’ve picked up chickens so many times.” Or “I picked up a chicken once, and I wasn’t even scared!” If that’s you, great! For me, this was the conquering of a small fear I didn’t even know I had — mustering the confidence to do something completely out of my scope of skill (or comfort) for the first time.

Geli and Pancake … or Biscuit

Pancake/Biscuit has snapped out of it now, but I keep going back to the idea of this broody hen. How she was so set on hatching those eggs, ingrained in her nature to nurture them, steadfast, irritated at interruptions. Maybe before coming here I had been blindly incubating fruitless things I should have long let go. Set in my ways, rarely leaving the house, generally irritated and brooding. Perhaps I was meant to be plucked from my own comfy coop and moved — even if for a short time — to redirect my thoughts and refresh my perspective. Hey, I don’t have to sit on that egg anymore. There are many paths outside my comfort zone worth exploring and cultivating. For now, I’ll graze and feast on the new sights and sounds, different daily tasks in an alternate environment — a break from my own broody mood.

See ya around Midtown, folks.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

On Ja and Guns

When guns are involved, no one is invincible. (Photo: Tom Def | Unsplash)

You’ve all heard by now that Grizzlies star Ja Morant has been seen, once again, on a social media live stream flaunting a gun. Back in March, Ja, looking a bit intoxicated, flashed a small handgun on an Instagram Live from a nightclub in Denver, Colorado. He was suspended for eight games following that incident and entered a counseling program in Florida, issuing a statement saying he needed “to get help and work on learning better methods of dealing with stress and my overall well-being.” On May 13th, another video surfaced of Ja and friends having a big time in a car, with Ja swinging a gun to and fro in the passenger seat.

A few notes: The man is 23 years old. He’s from a small (small) town — he attended high school in Sumter, South Carolina, whose population was just over 43,000 in the 2020 census; for perspective, compare that to the just under 55,000 in Southaven, Mississippi, and 628,000 in Memphis. In 2019, at the age of 19, Ja signed a four-year contract with the Memphis Grizzlies worth $39.6 million. Last summer, he signed a five-year extension, a deal worth a guaranteed $193 million, with a potential $231 million if selected for All-NBA. I’m not an avid basketball fan and couldn’t tell you what All-NBA means without googling it. But this isn’t about basketball, Ja’s talent, or even the specifics of these and other reported events (an alleged confrontation with Indiana Pacers players in January, another with a teen at his home in March). This is about a young man, just past the age to even drink alcohol or buy cigarettes, who, like most young men his age, probably wants to have a good time. But unlike most young men his age, he has risen to fame quickly and has millions of dollars to play with, and that could arguably lead to a bad decision here and there, perhaps even a sense of invincibility. With enough money, you can get away with a lot (or think you can). But — especially when guns are involved — no one is invincible.

My issue with all of this has less to do with Ja Morant — who hasn’t broken a law that I’m aware of — having a gun. My issue is that he’s recklessly brandishing a gun.

To bring it closer to home, I’ll share this. Sixteen years ago this summer, I lost a close friend in a similar incident. It was 4th of July, and he and some peers were joyriding, intoxicated, and he was in the passenger seat waving a gun. I have no idea why he’d do that. Other than he was always a little wild, the life of the party, doing crazy stuff like eating live bugs or walking across fires to see people’s reactions. But one bump in the road, a slip of the finger (we’ll never know exactly) caused the gun to go off, and he shot himself in the head. I can tell you that his sister, one of my very best friends, did not want to see her brother in that condition in a local ER. Nor did she expect that night that she’d be by his bedside as he took his last breath. In the blink of an eye, a good time turned tragic — and this is what I’m reminded of when I see people handling guns without regard.

Ja Morant is a role model for countless youth. Waving guns around in public spaces or while jamming tunes in a car with your buddies is not “cool.” And yes, I know the probability of a gun going off on accident is low, but it is never zero. Add alcohol or inexperience to the mix, and it’s a recipe for disaster — especially for young folks who’ve never been properly trained on gun safety but sadly could likely get their hands on one with little effort. Guns are for hunting, for protection — not for showing off on a live stream to thousands of impressionable followers. Unfortunately, some will want to emulate this behavior. And they will.

According to Gun Violence Archive, as of May 21st, there have been 597 unintentional shootings in the U.S. so far this year. The most recent in Memphis happened on May 17th, in which a 5-year-old was accidentally shot and injured by a sibling.

This isn’t just about Ja. It’s about a culture in which people don’t respect the fact that a gun can end a life in a split second. Promoting reckless gun use has got to stop. So many lives depend on it.

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

You Are Enough

Photo: Marcel Strauß | Unsplash

I experienced my first deep loss at 5 years old — a great-aunt committed suicide. My young mind couldn’t make sense of it. We used to spend afternoons together, taking walks in the neighborhood. Most memories have faded now, but I do recall her smiling and laughing. I could never understand why she chose to end her life. After that day, every time I’d visit or pass that house, I’d envision her outside, wrestling with the idea, and ultimately pulling the trigger. It was a lot for a child’s brain to process.

In my early twenties, I lost three friends to suicide — by hanging and by gun. Later, a person very close to me slit her wrists. I remember receiving the phone call and rushing to the hospital, where she told me, essentially, that she’d failed that time, but I’d eventually have to let her go — she wasn’t meant for this world. In an unbelievable turn of events, after being medically treated, she was sent to jail (please see editor’s note at the end of this article). Not released to go home, to family, to be with friends for encouragement and support. She spent about a month in the county jail before being transferred to a mental health facility and eventually being diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. Why jail was ever a step in this situation always baffled me — what a place to be when you’re already in such a fragile state. (I’m grateful to report today, all these years later, that she is healthy, happily married, and living a full life.)

These losses and experiences have been on my mind of late, as May is Mental Health Awareness Month. Of course, mental health challenges don’t always lead to suicide or suicidal ideation. They can present in the form of emotional outbursts, isolation, mania, insomnia. Anxiety, depression, substance-abuse disorder, obsessive-compulsive behavior, and post-traumatic stress disorder are among the technical terms for such diagnoses. And many of us have either struggled with one or more of the aforementioned or know someone who has.

There is often a stigma surrounding mental health, which can make it difficult to address. How do you treat yourself if you’re experiencing overwhelming stress or incredibly low lows? Do you reach out to friends or family? Do you go to therapy? Do you consider discussing with a doctor? Do you hold it all in and wait for the storms to pass?

If a loved one expresses anxiety or depression and shares with you stories of their battles, do you lend a sympathetic ear? Or do you tell them in short to buck up, buttercup — “It’s all in your head. You can control that. Just use your willpower, honey. You’re stronger than this.” (Don’t do the latter, please.) Sometimes, a person needs only for you to sit with them in silence, be present alongside their sadness or stresses — not offering solutions, just your attention.

It’s never an easy path to navigate in either situation, whether it’s you or another person going through it. But it’s important to look for signs and symptoms, and address them as soon — and as gently — as possible.

Throughout the pandemic and subsequent lockdowns, many people’s mental health took a hit. During the peak and aftermath of Covid, suicide and overdose rates swelled. This could be attributed to heightened instances of domestic violence as people were forced to stay home; loss of income due to society shutdown; increased anxiety and depression amid endless news reports and statistics, and confusion and fear of the virus. We experienced collective trauma, leading to loneliness and even cognitive and behavioral changes that some have yet to recover from. And while, in the grand scheme, the worst of that is behind us, many are still finding it difficult to engage in the same ways they did pre-pandemic.

We all handle life’s challenges differently. We carry our own traumas. No two brains function the same when it comes to confronting or working to overcome mental health crises.

Think of your own internal landscapes, how they ebb and flow, and use this knowledge when interacting with others. You never know what weight someone’s carrying with them.

If you find yourself in a dark place today, remember that your success rate for making it through tough days so far is 100 percent. Hang on, hang in.

You are enough. You are worthy of love. You are never a burden. And there are many beautiful tomorrows — sunrises, sunsets, smiles, handshakes, hugs, hot meals, cool breezes, soft blankets, so many lovely things — waiting for you around this bend.

Help is available 24/7 if you need it. Call or text 988 or visit 988lifeline.org.

*Editor’s note: Since publishing this article, it has come to our attention that the person who attempted suicide had their civil rights violated by being detained. Attempted suicide is not illegal in the United States.

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

The Magic of Music Fest

My 30-somethingth time seeing 311 live; thanks, BSMF! (Photo: Shara Clark)

There was something in the air last weekend in Downtown Memphis, and it wasn’t just the smell of funnel cakes frying or Pronto Pups roasting under heat lamps. It was the magic of Beale Street Music Festival — and its long-awaited return to Tom Lee Park. The weather was about as nice as could be for the fest’s three-day stretch — sun shining, a warm breeze, and, to the surprise of literally everyone, no rain. This was not Memphis in Mud. (And the new park was pretty cool, too.) Welcome back, everyone.

My earliest Beale Street Music Fest memory is of crowd-surfing for the first time at the 1998 Green Day show. I was a teenager, and, appropriate for the time — but not so much for a festival — was sporting a pair of clunky Doc Martens. My friends hyped me up, and some friendly fest-goers agreed to hoist little ol’ me into the crowd. I distinctly recall clocking an unsuspecting fan upside the head with a flailing boot (oops) and having a few creeps grope my nethers as I floated across strangers’ outstretched arms (eek). I also vaguely remember frontman Billie Joe Armstrong stripping down to leopard print skivvies and hollering profanities (punk rock!) — and supposedly getting banned from the fest forevermore.

Every year since, I’ve attended BSMF religiously. I’ve always lived for concerts, chasing my most-loved bands across the country from the time I had a car and a job. And festivals arguably offer the best of that world, a chance to fully immerse yourself in live music, from familiar favorites to new-to-you acts. The endurance test of it all just adds to the experience.

While the memories are somewhat beer-soaked, there are standout BSMF moments that have stuck with me. In 2000, our crew stood through the entirety of a Bryan Adams set to get close to the stage for Foo Fighters, only for me to be overheating — and stepping not on the ground but on other peoples’ feet, crammed in like canned sardines — once they started playing. As I scoured the area for an escape route through the crowd, the only way out, it seemed, was up and over, and a few fine audience members once again hurled me into strange hands that shuffled me over the security railing to safety. In 2002, Stone Temple Pilots opened with a beautiful rendition of Pink Floyd’s “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” — epic. In 2006, I saw James Brown shimmy across the stage in an electric performance, just months before his passing — iconic. There have been some stellar acts through the years, too many to name. And if you’ve ever been, you surely have your own BSMF stories to tell.

After a two-year Covid hiatus and a temporary move to Liberty Park in 2022, it was a welcome return home for those of us who’ve loved the festival all these years. Were crowds smaller? Sure. Could the lineup have been better? Depends on who you ask. All in all, though, things appeared to have gone off without a hitch. The revamped Tom Lee Park was fun to navigate, with its winding walkways, hilly areas, and fenced-off newly planted landscaping. We still got that majestic river view, the notes wafting on the wind, and the energy of thousands of fest fanatics living in the moment.

I passed crowd-surfing age long ago, but I’ll never outgrow the magic of live music, the emotive nature of it. Did I dance like no one was watching? Absolutely. Did I jump around and scream-sing along until I lost my voice? You bet. (If you saw me, I apologize for nothing.) Am I still physically recovering on Tuesday? Yep, I’m definitely not a teenager anymore. Would I do it all again next weekend if I could? No doubt.

There’s something undeniably special about Beale Street Music Festival, made more so by its home along the Mississippi River. We’re incredibly lucky to have had this event here, at our back door, for so long, bringing not just our city but people from all over the world together for a big, beautiful time.

Hope to see you there next year. I’ll be somewhere up front living my best life.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

The World Wide Web Turns 30 (Thanks?)

Photo: Rahul Chakraborty | Unsplash

I have 17 tabs open on my laptop right now.

In trying to home in on what to write about this week, I was pulled in several directions. More gun violence. An uptick in fentanyl overdoses. (Both topics I’ll explore in this space later.) But what caught my attention while researching was the fact that my attention was actually all over the place. Between the many tabs and my phone’s notifications, my brain was abuzz with information overload.

As I clicked and scrolled, I stumbled upon an NPR story: “30 years ago, one decision altered the course of our connected world.” April 30th was the 30th anniversary of the launch of the World Wide Web into public domain — and alter the course it did.

Thirty years ago, I was a carefree adolescent. Sometimes I’d play Paperboy on Nintendo until my thumbs blistered or watch hours of rock-and-roll videos on MTV. But most of my free time I’d spend outside — meandering the neighborhood scanning the streets for loose change or catching bees in Coke bottles or some other random activity that would be considered rather boring by a kid today. I got a pager in high school — a useless thing, really. The little electronic box would buzz, a number would appear on the slim rectangular screen, then I’d have to go find a landline to call said number. I didn’t get my first cell phone or home computer until college. Which was great at first. I could look up essay resources or travel maps online. If my car broke down, I could call someone right then to help rather than walk to the nearest pay phone. (And people still met up, in person, and looked at each other and engaged, uninterrupted! That was nice.) But it’s been a slippery slope from there.

In the NPR story, the author recalled how, 30 years ago, Morning Edition listeners heard from host Neal Conan: “Imagine being able to communicate at-will with 10 million people all over the world. Imagine having direct access to catalogs of hundreds of libraries as well as the most up-to-date news, business, and weather reports. Imagine being able to get medical advice or gardening advice immediately from any number of experts. This is not a dream. It’s internet.”

The World Wide Web opened a portal to uncharted territory, unlimited information, and instant communication. With digital technology at our fingertips at every moment, we can do all that was imagined and more. But it’s more like a fever dream today, full of strange reels and live streams and windows into weirder worlds than we could have ever conceived. Now we have “influencers,” TikTok trends, online gaming, the metaverse (and, and, and) to take up the time of bored teens and, well, all of us, worldwide, if we let ’em.

Between work, keeping in touch with folks, and mindless entertainment, I’m looking at one screen or another the majority of my day, constantly bombarded with emails and reminders:

Have you had any water today?

It’s time for your daily meditation.

[XYZ] uploaded a new video on YouTube.

A person you may know is on TikTok.

You have three new WhatsApp messages.

Here’s your affirmation for today!

Pedometer service is running.

Time to get moving!

You have 14 new unread emails.

[So-and-so] is live on Instagram.

Hungry? You’re one click away on UberEats.

Missed alarm: Dog meds.

*Ding* a Slack notification.

*Ring* a spam call.

*Ting* a text.

It’s exhausting. I could delete some apps (and yes, I have an app reminding me to drink water; in the tangled mess of tasks and tings, it’s easy to forget to hydrate) or silence notifications (but then how would I know when I get an angry email from a reader who hated my column about woke beers?!).

I have 17 tabs open in my brain right now. How about you? The internet — this wonderful, horrible thing that altered society — is a blessing and a curse. Perhaps I’ll try a World Wide Web detox. Turn off the damn phone. Take a stroll and scan the streets for a shiny quarter.

In the meantime, better check my notifications.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

When Beer Goes Woke

Bud Light introduced a limited-edition Pride Bottle in 2019, with a portion of proceeds donated to GLAAD. (Photo: GLAAD | Facebook)

Bud Light has gone woke. Can you believe it? The tried-and-true, most America-hell-yeah beer ever apparently has an agenda, and folks are angry, by god.

Earlier this month, in a seemingly innocuous move, Bud Light partnered with trans activist and TikTok sensation Dylan Mulvaney. The 26-year-old is best known for her Days of Girlhood series of videos, where she’s documented her gender transition since early 2022. On April 1st, Mulvaney shared a video announcing some sort of beer-sponsored March Madness contest, and — to everyone’s dismay — that Bud Light sent her a tallboy with her face on it.

This made rock/hip-hop/country artist Kid Rock really mad. So mad he put on his MAGA hat and shot up a bunch of beers. In a video uploaded to his social media channels on April 3rd, the 52-year-old “American Bad Ass” said, “Grandpa’s feeling a little frisky today …” and proceeded to blast cases of Bud Light with a semi-automatic before adding, with a middle finger raised, “Fuck Bud Light. Fuck Anheuser-Busch. Have a terrific day.”

He hates those cans!

The backlash landslide continued from there, with conservatives across the country boycotting the brand — mostly by buying it and pouring it out or violently destroying it in one way or another and documenting the whole ordeal on social media. “Hey, let’s stop supporting Bud Light by buying Bud Light and fuggin’ it up! We’ll show them!”

An interesting thing to note is that Kid Rock’s down-home fan base is rallying behind a man who basically built his career on a false narrative. “I ain’t straight outta Compton, I’m straight out the trailer,” he proclaimed in the late-’90s hit “Cowboy.” The truth is, though, that Mr. Kid, whose real name is Robert James Ritchie, was raised by well-to-do parents in a 5,600-square-foot house that sat on five-plus acres in a suburb of Detroit. His father owned several successful car dealerships, and Kid spent his younger days picking apples on the Ritchie orchard and helping care for the family horses. A real cowboy, that guy, just like the song says — but an affluent one who had a personal tennis court, indoor jacuzzi room, and five-car garage at his boyhood home. Hmm.

Another note of interest: Many boycotters boast they’ll now be drinking Corona (owned by Constellation Brands, which has publicly supported LGBTQ events — a Corona Pride rainbow flag can be found on its website). Or Coors (whose parent company, Molson Coors, has a variety of long-standing equality-focused programs, including Tap Into Change, which has raised more than $600,000 for LGBTQ and HIV/AIDS nonprofits since its inception). Or Miller (also owned by Molson Coors and has contributed $450,000 to the LGBTQ advocacy group Equality Federation as part of the brand’s Open & Proud program). People are blindly boycotting Bud Light by switching to brands that also support diversity and inclusion! Gasp!

The fact that a pretend blue-collar Kid started this whole mess by murdering cans with a rifle when gun violence has become a national epidemic astounds me. And so many right-wing celebrities have gotten in line to bash the brand alongside him. What are they really pissed off about? Freedom of choice?

Could this have been a marketing ploy drummed up by Bud Light to rile and stir the public? We all know Bud is the equivalent of piss water, but allies everywhere are heading out in droves to buy the stuff to, eh, boycott the boycott. “We don’t like your beer, but we like what you’re doing! We’ll show them!”

Maybe we should take a second and figure out who “they” are. Who has the agenda? What are we supporting with our dollars? What is proven with mindless boycotts?

Trans rights and gun laws have been at the forefront of news cycles for months. Somehow, Kid Rock of all people brought beer into the mix of things that divide us. It’s all about as nonsensical as his lyrics. Bawitdaba it is.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Armed With Apathy

Photo: Will Porada | Unsplash

Last Monday, 28-year-old Audrey Hale opened fire at Covenant School, a pre-K to sixth grade Christian school in Nashville. Three children, each 9 years old, and three adults were killed in the attack by the former student. As this story unfolded, many people on local social media feeds expressed their shock that this happened at a private school in Nashville, not in Memphis. Others correlated it with a desperate need for mental health resources. And in others, it further spurred fears of sending their children to school at all. Nowhere is safe.

Here at home, just before the clock struck midnight on Monday, a series of loud booms roused me from sleep. Shortly after, a post on the neighborhood Facebook page: “Wow. Hope everyone is okay …” A neighbor shared a clip from her home security footage, which only showed a darkened porch, but the 11 rounds that rang out no doubt came from an assault rifle. We don’t bother calling them in much these days. With no description of the shooter or vehicle and no injuries to report, it won’t make a difference. In the recent past, I’ve had to have the hood of my car repaired — to patch a hole from a stray fallen bullet; thankfully, it was just my car that received damage.

Over the weekend, I saw a post shared from Nextdoor about random gunfire Downtown around 8:30 p.m. Saturday. Danya McMurtrey wrote, “It appears that a couple of expensive sports cars were having a shoot-out amidst a throng of tourists. … My 17 year old niece was one of these tourists buying ice cream at Maggie Moo’s on Main before it all went to hell. She was sobbing, traumatized. Two 87 year old women from Napa CA were tourists enjoying a lovely Memphis evening until this occurred. They were scrambling to return to their hotel, traumatized. A sweet family from Indiana had a lovely day at the zoo and were admiring the lights of Main Street until gunfire invaded their evening. They were traumatized. I hid behind a pillar in a parking garage and came eye-to-eye with a freaked-out shelter-seeking carriage horse. I’ve never seen a horse so afraid. We were both traumatized. … Yet, I’ve seen nothing reporting that this even occurred. I’ve become immune to the sound of gunshots in midtown (heard them Friday night, last night — they are in the distance, not about me, I rationalize). I guess last night made me realize how problematic resignation and apathy are, especially my own.”

I wasn’t able to find any news reports on that incident, but here’s a sampling of gun violence-related stories I did see from Friday to Monday.

“Man fires five shots into car on I-40”

“East Memphis crime spree ends with crash in North Memphis”

“One dead after North Memphis shooting”

“One dead in South Memphis shooting”

“Two injured, one dead in Parkway Village shooting”

“Another suspect in custody after Southaven ‘ambush’”

“Shots fired at deputies in Midtown, deputy crashes on way to scene”

“Man dead after shooting in Soulsville”

“MPD: Suspect shoots, kills man after agreeing to boxing match”

“Shots fired at police after Frayser crash, two detained”

“Teen charged after armed robbery at Olive Branch Piccadilly”

“Two teens in hospital after shooting in Southwest Memphis”

“One dead, one injured after shooting in Frayser”

Four days. This wasn’t an anomaly. It’s a standard news cycle. The scary part lies in the many more incidents that aren’t called in and aren’t covered.

Last week, the Memphis Police Department announced that 44 recruits graduated the 138th training session to become officers. Earlier this month, the Tennessee Department of Safety and Homeland Security said 66 Tennessee Highway Patrol troopers were now serving the Memphis District, which covers Shelby, Fayette, Tipton, Lauderdale, Crockett, Haywood, and Hardeman counties. Can law enforcement curb this violence? We can’t arrest ourselves out of this problem.

In a state allegedly so concerned with protecting its children — by banning drag shows and taking away reproductive and other healthcare rights — there sure are a lot of children being killed by gun violence. And more often, it seems, teens and young adults are pulling the trigger.

We need to support the politicians, activists, and organizations who work to elevate, educate, and empower the citizens of Memphis — the youth, homeless, poverty-stricken, the disadvantaged, and underserved.

This is our city. This is about us. We are not immune. Will we resign to apathy?

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Alligator, My Friend

It's in there somewhere. (Photo: Shara Clark)

I found an unlikely companion in Greenwood.

When I first settled into my grandparents’ trailer, my dad told me about an alligator that lived in the nearby pond. He’s always been an expressive storyteller, and although I believed him, when we went to look for the creature, it was nowhere to be found. In a group chat, I told my friends, half-kidding, that I’d have to watch out for the resident gator during my stay. “Be careful!” they warned, also half-kidding, because they didn’t believe it at all.

Every day, I’d walk the perimeter of the water, scanning the bank and the gaps in the grassy patches wafting within. My dad said it usually stayed in one spot, in one of the holes in the pond’s flora. But every day, I’d look to no avail.

Then, it happened. I spotted what appeared to be a log floating amid the aquatic weeds. I zoomed my camera in as far as I could to examine it. Still not clear. Log or gator? I tried different angles, wishing I had some binoculars. That could be the bark of a thick fallen branch, I thought. Or was it scales? As I moved to and fro to get a better view of this tree or alligator, I must’ve caught its attention. Because out popped its snout and — as I could see through my zoomed-in phone screen — an eyeball, looking right at me as if to say, “Hi, yes, I’m not a piece of wood. Nice to meet you!”

I see you. (Photo: Shara Clark)

I shrieked! Alligators can run 30 miles per hour on land, I’d been told, and if it decided I might be a tasty treat, I’d rather not be near enough for it to sprint in my direction and sink those sharp teeth into me and roll. I quickly snapped a few pics and walked, as calmly as I could so as not to appear as escaping bait, to the porch. Back to safety, looking through my camera roll, I could swear it had flashed me a crooked-lipped smile.

I stayed about two weeks out there in the country, working remotely and spending evenings and weekends either alone with my thoughts or with my dad and brother who live a short walk across an open field. The trailer had already been emptied out, aside from a couple recliners and beds, a few coffee cups and a coffee maker, a table and fridge, patio furniture, and some knickknacks. No TV, but I did have my laptop and hot spot to work on weekdays and watch Netflix at night. Sitting amid the sparse material items left behind from my granny (83) and pawpaw (86) was a bit surreal. A Bible here, some old photos there. A hummingbird feeder and plantless planters on the deck outside. Not at all representative of the full lives they lived, the work they’d done, the relationships they had with the world around them. But I did get a glimpse inside parts I hadn’t known before, simply existing in the space they once called home.

My dad fishing for the gator. (Photo: Shara Clark)

I made it a daily practice to check on my new alligator friend. One afternoon, my dad brought over a fishing pole and tried to catch it. Its foot got hooked, and my dad reeled it in within a few feet of the water’s edge. It flipped and struggled to get loose, and I felt bad for the thing. It freed itself, and when it snapped away from the line, my dad tripped into a beaver hole on the bank. I was having anxiety for both of them. But the gator slowly swam back to its place in the pond, unfazed.

I’m not a herpetologist and wondered why this alligator was so darn docile. A Google search informed me that it was in brumation, the reptilian equivalent of hibernation, where its metabolic, heart, and respiratory rates slow. They create mud holes for shelter and don’t eat but do come up on warm days to absorb heat through blood vessels in their backs. So it was simply chilling out — and occasionally sunning its scutes. Perhaps we wouldn’t have been friends if we’d met in summer.

The time there was a form of brumation for me, too — to rest and reset, to float and just be. Those walks down the gravel road, the moments spent with my dad, the stunning sunsets, the quiet, the quiet — a brief period of dormancy and rejuvenation to prepare for the coming season, full of blooms and bite.

There was no gator to check on this morning as I drank coffee on my own porch, but there was the familiar chirping of birds, a visiting cardinal, squirrels poking around the yard doing squirrel things.

Ready, as I, to shift into spring.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Seeking Serenity

The view from my office (Photo: Shara Clark)

I stalked her
in the grocery store: her crown
of snowy braids held in place by a great silver clip,
her erect bearing, radiating tenderness,
the way she placed yogurt and avocados in her basket,
beaming peace like the North Star.
I wanted to ask, “What aisle did you find
your serenity in, do you know how
to be married for 50 years, or how to live alone,
excuse me for interrupting, but you seem to possess
some knowledge that makes the earth burn and turn on its axis.”
But we don’t request these things from strangers
nowadays. So I said “I love your hair.”
— Alison Luterman, “I Confess”

You may have noticed I took a week off from writing in this space. To be honest, a few weeks of pouring heavy feelings onto the page turned out to be pretty draining. There was nothing much left to pour. Many thanks to our managing editor, Samuel X. Cicci, for covering for me with a light-hearted column about … well, bugs. A dose of humor every once in a while never hurts.

Anyhow, the above poem came to mind in my off time, as I’ve spent several days alone in the home in which my grandparents lived before they both passed away last summer. It’s a modest trailer near the county line in Greenwood, Mississippi, where the sky is wide and the stars are bright and the thunderstorms shake the ground and echo for miles between the trees across the flatlands. After writing “Death is a Door” a couple weeks ago, I found myself longing for some serenity — the kind that perhaps only comes with age and grace and a change in perspective. So I thought maybe I’d try to tap into some of that knowledge that makes the Earth burn and turn on its axis.

(Photo: Shara Clark)

The first weekend, I waded in a creek and learned that quicksand is a real-life threat, not just something people stumbled upon in treacherous landscapes in 1980s movies. I naively thought I’d be fine trotting through in my rainboots and hadn’t thought to wear something other than jeans. A cousin brought an extra pair of leggings, and as I navigated the murky, shin-high water around a little bend to change pants in private, three-fourths of my left leg was sucked right under. It startled the heck out of me, but my family got a good laugh (it’s okay; I’m sure I looked ridiculous struggling to rescue my leg and boot from two and a half feet of mud).

Over the week, I made a few trips to County Market, a grocery store that changed names to Greenwood Market Place at some point, but it’ll always be County Market to the locals. “Hey, Mr. Clark,” someone said as my father and I approached the deli for a plate lunch. “Mr. Clark, we miss seeing your daddy around here,” an employee said on our way out. There aren’t many strangers in a town whose population sits right at 14,000. Even I felt right at home in the eateries, shops, and convenience stores, where everyone smiled and spoke as if they knew me. “Did I jump in front of you in line?” one man asked as I queued up to pay for some snacks at the gas station. “No sir, but thanks for checking,” I replied with a grin. I thought about how in Memphis, it’s every man for himself, whether in line or on the road or anywhere else, really. With more than 620,000 of us, we’re practically all strangers, and everyone’s too hurried or impatient to be considerate or cordial.

(Photo: Shara Clark)

I’m writing this now from a wooden deck, overlooking a pond with wispy clouds streaking the sky beyond. It’s peaceful out here, calm, but I do miss Memphis. In a few days, I’ll be back in the bustle, traversing Poplar Avenue traffic, and following online comments from neighbors who swear they just heard gunshots.

I don’t expect to come back beaming peace like the North Star. But hopefully I can bring a little of this Southern serenity home with me.

Either way, I love your hair.

Categories
Editorial Opinion

The Battle for Belle Harbour

Stay out of my apartment, ladybug. (Photo: Pixabay)

Editor’s note: Flyer writers will occasionally share this space.

They came with the first wave of warmish weather that washed over Memphis this year. It started with the briefest rustling of the blinds near my apartment window, occasionally supplemented by the soft fluttering of wings in the dead of night. But then, slowly, spots of red and orange hues began to appear everywhere, taking over my living space and making themselves at home.

The ladybugs had returned. And they didn’t even offer to pay rent!

Although, according to Google, these aren’t your run-of-the-mill ladybugs. This other species that has set up shop with me over here on Mud Island is likely a family of Asian lady beetles, a more invasive variety that simply can’t stop helping itself to prime suntanning spots on my windows and buzzing around some of my lamps. I don’t really mind bugs, but these ones kind of unnerve me, with their little tails (ladybugs shouldn’t have tails!) and their occasional propensity for extra wing flutters as I lie in the dark trying to sleep. That’s not okay, bugs.

Maybe the rest of you Mid-Southerners are used to this. But not me; where I grew up, in Santa Fe, we got used to centipedes, millipedes, prowling tarantulas, and even the occasional bat hanging from the veranda. So my battle for the last week has revolved around a single-minded goal: to get rid of these scarlet squatters and restore peace to my abode. Okay, sure, they’re pretty harmless, and I could wait for my pest control work order to kick in, but by golly, I can occasionally be obstinate and have to draw the line somewhere when it comes to interlopers.

At first, it was simple enough to coax the bugs onto a sheet of paper or a book cover and deposit them back outside to enjoy the nice weather we’ve been having. But mine was a persistent foe. As I clacked away on my keyboard, helping to edit some of the great columns you’ll read by the talented writers here in the Flyer, my ears would pick up an occasional rustle or another flutter. A quick peek at the window revealed one … no, two, wait, four more ladybugs hanging around? And is that another one hanging out by my bookshelf? How vexing.

The ladybugs occupied my obsession for a week, an unwanted distraction next to real responsibilities that actually matter, like turning this column in on time and getting the issue off to the printer. But this is a problem that I chose to focus on. And as my internal clock ticked past 30 years of age last year and the feeling of old age began to settle, the idea that I needed to more carefully select my battles has never seemed more appealing.

The outrage machine both online and off never even sputters these days, throwing up weird controversies that demand an emotional outpouring of fury and rage. Gas stoves? M&M’s mascots? More stuff about England’s royal family?

To be blunt, on certain days it feels like I can’t care anymore. Maybe a decade ago I would don my armor as a soldier of the Twitter wars, but engaging with a too-online rando who might clearly be a troll now is just, well, a waste of time.

Some days, my brain hurts trying to wrap itself around nonstop vitriol surrounding mundane problems. Not when there are real issues that demand our attention. Not when our governor is trying to police gender or paint scarlet letters on drag performers. Not when innocent people are beat to death in the street.

Direct your outrage towards real issues that merit it, and have some leftover brainspace for the little things important to you. Maybe one of my friends thinks a specific local beer is the best in town (it’s not). No problem, he enjoys it, it’s not hurting me, I’ll save my incredulity for something else. And maybe I’ve wasted time dealing with a bug problem that requires a professional hand. That’s okay; working more actively to tune out all the excess noise means that the smaller issues that pop up week after week won’t become the proverbial straws that break the camel’s back, and I remain motivated for the real challenges that still lie ahead.

But the battles continue. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got another bug to squash.