Tag: Letter from the editor

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

All Eyes on Ground Zero

Photo: Michael Drager | Dreamstime.com

I was 18 years old, settling into my first semester of college and working the opening shift at my job at a local dry cleaners. Mornings there were especially busy as folks lined up to hurriedly drop off bags of laundry on their way into work. I sorted through the heaps piece by piece, wrote up itemized tickets, and tediously pinned numbered paper tags onto each garment before throwing them into their respective bins — dry-clean only, lights, darks. We had a vintage tube TV — probably a 13-inch, with a bunny-ear antenna atop to facilitate less fuzzy reception, its exterior covered in denim fabric. It sat at the end of the long counter where customers left their dirty business suits and button-ups in piles. Since, like this day in particular, most morning shifts were worked solo, I kept the little TV tuned in to some morning show or another for background noise. Sometimes there’d be celebrity interviews or a topic that caught my interest. But mostly I slogged through, paying little attention as I poured stain remover on soiled collars and mindlessly managed the stacks. At 18, I didn’t know or care much about current events too far beyond my limited view. Until that morning when something way out of the norm happened. Something that connected me to the nation at large in a way I’d never felt before. Something that shook me to my core.

On that edition of NBC’s Today Show (currently viewable on YouTube), Matt Lauer’s interview with Hughes author Richard Hack was abruptly interrupted with breaking news about the World Trade Center. After a brief commercial break, Lauer and Katie Couric returned, cutting to live footage of smoke rising from one of the Twin Towers. “Apparently a plane has just crashed into the World Trade Center here in New York City,” Couric said. “It happened just a few moments ago … We have very little information available at this point in time, but on the phone we do have Jennifer Oberstein, who apparently witnessed this event …”

NBC’s first eyewitness spoke over the line. “It’s quite terrifying. I’m in shock right now,” Oberstein said. “I came out of the subway at Bowling Green, I was heading to work … I heard a boom, walked out and there was a big ball of fire. I’m now looking north at the World Trade Center, and it is the left tower looking north. I’m in Battery Park right now and you can hear the fire engines and the emergency crews behind me … pieces of the building are flying down … it’s horrifying … I see a major fire …”

I watched anxiously (as did most of America) as more information came in throughout the live broadcast — and another plane strike, a hit at the Pentagon — not knowing what this meant or what it could mean for the future. A few customers paused, momentarily glued to the TV with me, as the events unfolded. Do we go about our day as usual? Should we get home to our families?

Nearly 3,000 people died that day in New York City, Washington, D.C., and Shanksville, Pennsylvania. “Terrorism,” a word my young mind hadn’t been familiar with, would become part of everyday conversations. Would there be more attacks to come?

A 2021 Pew Research Center retrospective piece said, “A review of U.S. public opinion in the two decades since 9/11 reveals how a badly shaken nation came together, briefly, in a spirit of sadness and patriotism; how the public initially rallied behind the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, though support waned over time; and how Americans viewed the threat of terrorism at home and the steps the government took to combat it.”

I recently wrote in this space how the early days of the Covid pandemic spurred a unity I hadn’t felt before or since. But that’s not entirely true. While I was too young to fully grasp the effects of 9/11, I do recall the camaraderie in its wake — the American pride, the flags waving from the back of pickup trucks and in front lawns “in a spirit of sadness and patriotism.” But I also remember the fear it caused, the cultural division, how suddenly so many were suspicious of people who didn’t look like them. Tragedy can bring us together as much as it can rip us apart.

As we reflect on that day, where we were, and how we felt, let’s hope the next inevitable tragedy fosters more of the former.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

A Heartfelt Thank You

Photo: Marcus Byrne | Unsplash

I’d like to start off this week by extending a heartfelt thank you to the handful of readers who emailed me in reference to last week’s “I’ve Got Mail” column, in which I shed light on my least favorite part of this job — receiving hateful feedback from “readers.” (I guess we’ll call them that, despite the lack of evidence they’ve actually read what any of us have written.) While that was the first direct negative email I’ve gotten in the months since I’ve been editor of this paper, I do often see angry comments from folks on social media. It’s best to laugh them off, I’ve found, as most times it’s akin to Yelp or Google reviewers who have plenty of time on their hands to rant publicly about bad experiences, but rarely take an opportunity to praise good ones.

The Memphis Flyer hasn’t officially published “Letters to the Editor” in quite a while, but I’d like to devote some space here to share encouraging tidbits from some of the positive responses I received, from longtime (or lifelong) Memphians (who actually do read the paper). They were healthy reinforcements of why we do what we do, week in and week out.

“Memphis is a deeply human city: living here regularly reminds me of the beauty, joy, misery, and cruelty that make up the human experience,” reads one email. “Too often, I am disappointed and frustrated by the narrow-mindedness, coldheartedness, and fear that infect our largely hardworking, friendly, and generous community. Reading the ‘Checking In’ email that you received is one such incident. … I applaud your call for critical thought and for, above all, kindness. Your response reminded me of one of my favorite Gandhi quotes: ‘We have to answer lies with truth and meanness with generosity.’”

A “Proud ‘Demokrat’ who regularly reads the Flyer” humorously wrote in response to the misplaced-rage commentary, “I too have a mental disorder; I am a proud liberal. … Now y’all have my ever-loving gratitude by being just what I need: a respected member of the socialist insane asylum.”

I’ll admit, while in the throes of writing, editing, and cranking out a paper each week, it’s easy to forget that there are people who genuinely look forward to seeking a news rack and immersing themselves in what we produce, so this was especially moving:

“My weekly ritual involves grabbing a paper copy of the Flyer from the newspaper stand in the lobby of Clark Tower where I work. I typically read it over lunch and I always find something new and different and interesting, every single week. We subscribe to all of the papers in this town but I enjoy and value the Memphis Flyer the most. My wife and I signed up as Frequent Flyers a few years back and I smile every time I see the email reminders.

“Keep up the good work. You and the Flyer crew are the best and Memphis is extremely lucky to have you.”

To that, I say, we are extremely lucky to have you. Each and every one of you who makes a point to add us to your weekly routines, whether that is picking up a physical copy out in the world or reading through our news, politics, sports, music, food, film, arts, culture, or opinion features online — you are the reason the Flyer is still here and going strong, more than 30 years after our first issue hit the streets. We appreciate everyone who has signed on as a Frequent Flyer — by contributing financially, with a one-time or monthly donation. (You can learn more about our Frequent Flyer program via the “Support Us” link at memphisflyer.com.)

As an independent publication, always free to you — in print and online — keeping you informed and connected to our city is at the forefront of our mission. Every time you pick up a paper, pass a copy on to a friend, share our stories online, or do business with our advertisers, you are supporting what we do. For that, we extend our endless gratitude. The Flyer wouldn’t be here without you.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

I’ve Got Mail

“You’ve [always] got mail!” (Photo: Justin Morgan | Unsplash)

Sometimes Sundays feel like the eve of the first day of school. Like a kid anticipating a new semester, the nerves swirl and keep me awake before the “big day.” Working on a perpetual deadline, with a column due each week, it’s as if there’s an essay looming, to be graded — and I’m not always prepared for it. The “grade,” of course, will come from you, the readers — and my aim is to write something relatable, entertaining, or in line with current events.

But this Monday, as is occasionally is the case, I wasn’t sure where to begin. I stared at a blank document longer than I’d like to admit, pausing from that daunting task to edit stories as they traveled through our production process or to review articles awaiting publication on the website. Another distraction, albeit a necessary part of the job, is sorting through emails. Dozens come through my inbox daily, of varying degrees of importance — from promotional product pitches to local news items to (more rare) reader feedback.

One email, with the subject line “Checking In,” caught my eye. Typically if someone is checking in, it’s in relation to a previous conversation or a follow up to a prior email that I’ve not yet replied to. This, though, was something else entirely. Feedback of sorts, I guess you could say, but more just an airing of grievances on Memphis, its politicians, and crime. The note, from a person who no longer lives or works in the city, according to the sender, referred to “you” and “your” a handful of times, as if I or the Flyer has some kind of control over the issues listed within. And they were “checking in” to let me know they still can’t stand our “leftist bullshit.”

“The truth is, Memphis is a steaming, stinking, shithole caused solely by your demokrat [sic]/leftist policies,” the email reads, in part. “Amazing how you otherwise intelligent people, smart enough to write and publish, can be so stupid – or brainwashed – to think your leftist ways work. Liberalism IS a mental disorder and you are both administrators and patients of the socialist insane asylum.”

So this publication, a historically left-leaning alternative newsweekly, somehow, in this person’s mind, contributes to the problems they perceive to weigh on Memphis as a whole? Hmm.

I realized last week that it’s been nine months since I took the helm as editor-in-chief of this paper (and this was my first hate mail, a good run if you ask me). There have been growing pains, as is natural with any job, but particularly one in which you have a platform such as this. Writing something of substance in my column is top of mind, and I’d like to use my voice for good as often as possible. Anyone who has followed this space over the course of my tenure may have noticed I don’t make a habit of intentionally riling people up. I prefer not to promote division, but rather gently remind people that we’re all human, mere specks floating on a rock in space, trying to get by.

So I find myself wondering what would inspire a person to wake up one morning and think, “You know what? I’m pissed off and the editor of the Flyer needs to know this.” The message wasn’t directed at something in particular I had written or a specific piece composed by one of my many talented colleagues. There were no suggested solutions provided or any actionable critiques. Just an anger-dump, addressed to me, for reasons I can’t quite discern.

There was one thing I wanted to weave into my column last week about the congressional hearing on UAPs and the alleged discovery of “non-human biologics,” but with limited space, it didn’t make the cut. I wrote on how we simply don’t have the time to worry about that — unless UFOs land in our front yards, no big deal, who cares. But in reality, some people have a lot of time to worry about a lot of stuff — to be keyboard warriors berating others for their beliefs, to moan about “woke culture,” to bash people for their personal life choices.

I don’t venture to think I can change anyone’s mind, nor do I impose my opinions in ways that belittle others. But I do urge you to think for yourself, do your own research, and above all, be kind.

Hate is a choice. Imagine where we could be if more of us chose love.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

The Pecking Order

Geli giving side-eye, pondering a peck. (Photo: Shara Clark)

I’m heading into week three of my house-sitting/Midtown staycation, so today you’re getting a follow-up (you didn’t ask for) on my chicken adventures. I’ve just completed the morning hen ritual, wherein I rouse early and, still half-asleep, make my way to the backyard coop, where the girls are anxiously awaiting liberation. They chatter and squabble, crowding around the door and stepping on each other’s toes as I unlatch the lock and swing it open. Their five little fluffy bottoms scurry off, chicken legs waddling hurriedly as if heading into battle. (Release the hens!) “Battle,” in this case, is running directly to and hopping on top of the feed bins, poking at the lids to let me know it’s breakfast time — right now, dammit — and they’re pretty impatient ladies. If I’m not fast enough scooping out the feed, they’ll attempt to jump right in and help themselves.

I’ve learned a good bit about hens since I’ve been here — the different sounds they make, from contented cooing and trills, to alarm calls, to general chit-chat as they graze. I check their nests several times a day for eggs to avoid another broody mood like the one I wrote about in this space last week. As proud as I was to have picked up a chicken, I’d rather not have to do it again if it can be helped. So I listen for the laying songs, their triumphant clucks and squawks, and retrieve eggs before anyone gets too attached to them.

Also, chickens take dust baths. Here, they’ve burrowed divots in the dirt in shady spots in the yard where they roll around and flit their wings, shaking the earth through their feathers. Google tells me this controls parasites and prevents excess oiliness. Who knew? Not me.

I did, finally, work up the nerve to feed the girls fruit scraps out of my hands. At first to the oldest, who was hanging around on the porch by herself. She gently plucked a piece of grape from my palm. But the others caught on quickly — hey, where’s mine?! — and barreled over, scrambling for a treat. Four of the five gingerly took their share from my open hand. But big, bad Geli nearly drew blood.

Which brings me to another thing: the origin of “pecking order,” which I’d never really given much thought to before. According to Modern Farmer, it’s a hierarchy — literally established by pecking — that “determines the order in which chickens are allowed to access food, water, and dust-bathing areas,” among other things. Basically one bullies the others to establish dominance. And apparently Geli sees herself above me in this ranking. Last week, I mentioned how she leapt into my lap and pecked me. But since then, she’s become somewhat more aggressive, charging at me at times for no apparent reason. Well, I’m pretty sure it’s food-motivated because she’ll do it after bawking around the feed bins or if I’ve come outside sans treats (how dare I?). Where’s my food, lady? I require more. Peck, peck! I swear I’ve seen her sharpening her beak on wood and concrete, taunting me. How to align myself back at the top of the brood is something I’ll be studying in the coming days, as being attacked by an indignant chicken was not part of my staycation plans.

In a couple weeks, I’ll be back at my own home — the pecking order there as it’s always been — and this chicken adventure will be in my rearview. I’m sure a lot of you are wondering why the editor of this fine newspaper is writing about hens as opposed to current events, but please bear with me. They’re fascinating creatures, really — and part of this journey’s inadvertent goal has become resetting an overstimulated mind. Tuning out a tad is a given. I also think it’s the duty of any writer to purposely place themselves in new and different situations, to stimulate the creative flow. Things can get pretty stagnant otherwise. For now, hens it is.

Maybe some of you have learned a little, too. And perhaps we can ponder the pecking order in our human societal structures — in which ways they’re detrimental to the greater good or ways in which they may be beneficial. Are there areas in your life where you perceive a pecking order? If so, where do you stand? Think on it.

In the meantime, I’ve got to go check for eggs.

Doing my due diligence. (Photo: Shara Clark)
Categories
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

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.

Categories
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
Editorial Letter From An Editor Opinion

May Flowers

A Santa Fe (not Memphis) skyline. (Photo: Paul Brady | Dreamstime)

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

The stormy spring season has thrown a wrench into my carefully crafted plans this year. Power outages, lost internet connections, new patio furniture hurled from my balcony thanks to strong winds, and rained-out soccer games have been April staples (although my hamstring is grateful for the last one). But as the old saying goes, “April showers bring May flowers.” April has indeed been a bit of a wet blanket, but it’s set to usher in some other notable moments for yours truly.

One such moment is May 12th, a day I’ve had circled on the calendar for the better part of this year. That day, as I’m sure most of you readers are aware, is the official release of The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom, in which the intrepid hero Link will continue to traipse around the wild expanse of an open kingdom of Hyrule. That big mountain off in the distance? You can go there, if you want. The ocean stretching off into the horizon? Go build a boat and sail. Or just fly around the floating island in the sky, soaking up the joy of unparalleled freedom in digital format.

While the game and its predecessor, Breath of the Wild, do capture a freedom unlike anything else in the medium, such wanderlust was a big part of my live, non-digital time growing up in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The views from our patio unfolded endlessly into an expanse of snow-capped mountains, infinite blue skies, and rollicking fluffy clouds. And the recurring pastel sunsets, I must inform you all, put Memphis’ to shame. That little peak jutting up way in the distance? Well, odds are that you can probably head over, hike up to the top, and catch a different view of the sunset.

I picked up a friend before heading to the Porter-Leath Rajun Cajun Crawfish Festival this past weekend, and she stopped by my car trunk for a few beats. “Why do you still have your New Mexico license plate?” she asked, with a mixed look of both interest and distaste. And that proved to be an excellent question. This summer marks the start of another year in Memphis and as a citizen of the Mid-South. And I don’t regret a second of it, learning about the city, finally having a professional basketball team to root for, and having close proximity to the best kind of barbecue. But as I’ve settled into the humdrum routine of life as an adult in a city that requires a car for traversal, it has sometimes felt like a balancing act of absorbing the influences of my new city and holding on to that fleeting feeling of freedom from my Santa Fe years.

No longer can I step outside and immediately set foot onto an interconnected series of complex mountainous hiking trails or turn to my left and see someone walking their llama up a dirt road. The yellow license plate, complete with the requisite Zia symbol in the middle, has always been a pleasant reminder of the sky-blue desert days before I begin a journey to work Downtown that requires nimble maneuvering through myriad speed bumps, construction zones, and our patented potholes. This might all sound a bit negative, but I love my new city. I wouldn’t change a thing about my time here and hope to have many more memorable Memphis years.

But my pieces of Santa Fe have been drifting away in the past couple years. My New Mexico driver’s license disappeared along with my entire wallet at a Grizzlies playoff game last year (still worth it), and now this summer, the state of Tennessee is insistent that my NM license plate finally be replaced with one of their own. The dilly-dallying of our county clerk has given me a little extra time with my beloved yellow plate, but my last material connection to New Mexico isn’t long for this world. It’s been a steady companion over the years, as I’ve navigated some mild fish-out-of-water feelings while functioning alongside many friends and colleagues who have personal and long-standing connections to Memphis and the Mid-South. I’ve always wondered when I can truly call myself a Memphian, or perhaps that benchmark was passed long ago. Again, I love being part of the 901 and all it entails. But letting go of the yellow license plate has just been that little bit harder than I thought.

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?