Tag: Letter from the editor

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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.

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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
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Death Is a Door

Photo: Annie Spratt | Unsplash

Editor’s note: This issue of the Memphis Flyer is dedicated to Hailey Thomas, a member of our work family who passed away last week. We welcome you to read this week’s Last Word to get a glimpse of the beautiful mark she left on us.

A week or so ago, I had the most vivid dream. I stopped in my favorite bar and my friend Kristin greeted me, smiling ear to ear as if I’d just walked in on a funny conversation. “I didn’t know you worked here now!” I said, pleasantly surprised but perplexed. “I do! Come give me a hug,” she said as she whipped around the counter. Kristin passed away in March 2020, and although it felt as real as the last time I saw her, I knew it was a dream. And I stayed in it as long as I could to admire the way her eyes lit and lips curled when she laughed, to feel the warmth of her embrace. I like to think this was her way of sending a sweet hello, a gentle reminder that she lives on … somewhere. Reaching through to the other side.

When I was a kid, I developed a deep curiosity about death. From my earliest experience of loss — around the age of 5 — I couldn’t help but wonder where the departed went. They existed, they lived full lives, and then they were just … gone. I thought a lot about growing up, and how grown-ups always died. I decided I didn’t really want to be one.

As a teen, I desperately sought to prove that death wasn’t the end. I went “ghost hunting” with friends, in graveyards or “haunted” spaces, with audio recorders and several cameras — digital and film, black-and-white and color, with flash and without. We needed to cover all the bases. At some point, I messed around with Ouija boards and attempted seances. Was that unidentified blob in the photo an “orb”? What was that indecipherable whisper I heard on the tape playback? Did a summoned spirit blow out that candle?

Later, I read about quantum physics and the possibility of alternate realities and timelines. I studied various religions and beliefs on death across cultures. Eventually, I stopped looking for proof. A fruitless effort, really — too much to wrap one’s head around. I liked the way my thoughts went when I considered the law of conservation of energy: Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, only converted from one form of energy to another. I am not a physicist, and whether or not this can be appropriately applied to life and death doesn’t matter much to me. It’s the idea of it. Because I have seen and felt the energy of everyone I’ve ever met. The imprints left in places, in minds, and on hearts. The deceased have lived and because of this, they live on. Their energy hasn’t been destroyed but transferred, transformed into a thing less tangible than physical existence, just outside of our three-dimensional view.

We can still feel them in dreams, in sunsets, in songs, in special places that held special moments. A butterfly in flight, a falling leaf, a soft breeze, the sound of rain on the roof, the smell of cookies baking. In remembering their smile lines, the times you laughed together until your cheeks hurt, the long talks and road trips and late nights.

Maybe death is just a door. To reincarnation, to heaven, to infinity, the unknown. And we’ll all gather again when it’s our time to step through.

________________________________________________

Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again! — Henry Scott Holland

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Like Caged Birds

The cage door is open. (Photo: Pavan Adepu | Unsplash)

The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
— Maya Angelou

I recently stopped at Petco to pick up some treats for my three pups. I usually go straight to the shelf, grab the package, and head right to the checkout counter. But on this particular day, I was called, quite literally, to the other side of the store.

As the doors swung open, the cheeps and chirps of the birds kept in the corner hit my ears, and, as if pulled by some homing device, I floated over to them. Normally, I steer clear of that area; seeing the feathered beauties behind bars brings me down. How many of them make their way to new homes? How many spend their entire existence under harsh fluorescents in the back of a pet shop? And even if they’re bought, they’re forever in captivity. It just doesn’t sit well with me.

Anyhow, I was particularly drawn to the parakeets, their vibrant blues and greens and yellows, lovely creatures — like paintings come to life. As I stood simultaneously admiring and mourning them, an older gentleman walked up. “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” he asked. I agreed, of course. He started telling me about his new puppy. How he works long hours and wishes he could make more time for it. How cute and fluffy and rambunctious it is. How he came to get some flea powder, but figured it’d probably be expensive, like everything else these days. He didn’t say so, but I sensed his loneliness, his urge to speak to a stranger in Petco just to make a small connection.

We pointed out which birds were our favorites. The pale peach one, the one with the bright teal hue — we’d never even seen such rich color before. We agreed it was sad to see them there, perched in a line like unpicked fruit, yet living, breathing, stretching out their wings with nowhere to go. Before we parted, he said, “What’s that saying about the caged bird? It makes you think, if they can still sing like this, what are we worried about?”

All in all, it was maybe a four- or five-minute encounter, but it left me with a warm, fuzzy feeling. Because amid all the noise in the news — from underground (the Earth’s core may have reversed rotation; what does it mean?), outer space (a solar polar vortex; is that a big deal?), nearer skies (spy balloons and UFOs), the nation (the toxic train derailment in Ohio), the city (another shooting spree last weekend; a separate shooting which claimed the life of a local beloved bartender) — the impression is that there’s a lot we could worry about. And that’s just scratching the surface. It’s enough to make you feel boxed in, caged without much reason to sing.

The curious part of that brief meeting was that after we talked, I made my way to the treats and then got in line to pay, but that nice gentleman who’d come for flea meds didn’t get anything at all. He walked away from the birds, and instead of browsing the aisles, went straight for the door. Maybe he forgot his wallet. Perhaps he changed his mind. Or maybe he got exactly what he was looking for: a moment of human connection, however fleeting; a small escape from his own lonesome cage.

We are all tired, weary of the worry. Not unlike those birds, wings clipped, clustered in cages built by the world, our government, our own minds — longing for freedom.

Consider, though, that the cage door is open. You’re not alone in this lonesome mess. We need only to sing — and fly.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Anniversary of a Murder

Me and Jessica circa 2000

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Sometimes it causes them to fester. This week will mark 12 years since my friend, Jessica Nicole Lewis, was murdered in South Memphis. Twelve years of unanswered questions. Twelve years knowing the man who took her life was able to continue living his, freely and without consequence.

On February 20, 2011, Jessica’s body was found in Mt. Carmel Cemetery, an unkempt graveyard at Elvis Presley and Elliston, about three miles north of Graceland and as many miles south of the Stax Museum of American Soul Music. There was evidence of a struggle; she’d been dragged through the grounds and shot in the head, the only clothing left on her battered body was underwear and a single sock.

We’d been close friends throughout high school and college, working two separate jobs together. We dated bandmates and arrived arm in arm to many concerts and parties during those years. She was the fiery, beautiful blonde who took no shit, and I was more or less her sidekick. It’d be impossible to share in this short space how much she meant to me or, after her death, how deep the need for justice would embed itself in me. As weeks and months and years went by with no movement in her case, I’d spend countless hours researching, poking through arrest records and crime reports, going down Facebook rabbit holes, and talking to people who knew her in her final days to try to find a single thread that might lead to her killer.

The following words are never easy to say: Jessica was a prostitute. In her last years, she was a drug addict, with arrests for possession of a crack pipe and solicitation. The last time I saw her, about two and half years before her death, she’d just gotten out of rehab, so I knew she had been struggling. But I had no idea how far she’d fallen. She had a pimp. She practically lived in shady hotels. She walked the streets. She walked the streets. I’ve yet to accept that this was her life and not a Lifetime movie.

Jessica, who was 28 at the time, wasn’t the only victim. On January 27, 2011, a “known prostitute,” according to reports, 31-year-old Tamakia McKinney, was found dead in the middle of Hemlock Street, about a mile from Mt. Carmel. Four days after Jessica’s death, another prostitute, 44-year-old Rhonda Wells, was found in the same cemetery. Two days after the discovery of Wells’ body, a fourth victim was shot in the face and left for dead on nearby Ledger Street. She survived.

A composite image of the suspect | Courtesy Memphis Police Department

Investigators believed the cases were connected. They retrieved shell casings linking two of the victims, as well as DNA samples from each crime scene. The survivor was able to give a description of the shooter: a Black male, around 24 years old, hair in cornrows. He drove a dark-colored Dodge Charger or Chrysler 300. Even with evidence, even with DNA, no one was ever charged. How do you not find a man who killed three women in a month’s time? I’ve formulated a few theories that I won’t get into here. And I’ve covered this case in news articles (within these pages) and a feature-length story (“A Voice for Jessica,” Memphis magazine, July 2016). I have met and interviewed the survivor. I worked closely with the cold case investigator, W.D. Merritt (who was almost as tenacious as I was about solving this case), before he passed from Covid in 2020. With so many murders in this city, I don’t expect much time to be spent investigating a 12-year-old case involving “prostitutes.” But had it been me? Had it been a school teacher, the daughter of a politician, a bank teller, or any other upstanding-citizen label you’d like to apply, these women would have had justice.

Jessica is never far from my mind, but as the anniversary of her murder approaches, I can’t help but paint a picture of her last days, the final horrifying moments before she was killed execution-style in a cemetery. I’ll never forget how the media sensationalized these killings, dehumanized the victims. Does time heal all wounds? Ask their mothers. Ask their children. Ask their friends. You’ll hear a resounding no.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Cracking the Case of Soaring Egg Prices

Photo: Shara Clark

There has been a lot of talk about eggs lately. I can’t tell you how many egg memes I’ve seen, with people attempting to make light of pocketbook pangs from purchasing this kitchen staple. Friends out west are paying more than $7 a dozen, and down south I’m hearing reports of 18-packs costing around $11. So what’s the deal? I did some digging to try and help crack the case (yes, I went there) on egg prices.

I needed to pick up a few things, eggs included, so I stopped at the nearest Superlo last Monday. The shelves were much more bare than usual, with none of the fancy cage-free/organic options available at all. A few stacks of Best Choice regular ol’ eggs were on offer, ranging from about $3.99 to $5.99, depending on size and color (don’t ask why brown eggs are higher — or why some eggs are brown to begin with; those are questions to explore another day). So, okay, something is going on here — but what?

The U.S. Department of Labor (DOL) listed the December 2022 national average for a dozen eggs at $4.25. For comparison, that number was $3.59 the previous month, and $1.79 a year ago. On January 12th, the DOL released its current Consumer Price Index, showing increases and decreases (mostly the former, sadly) in various spending categories. According to the release, “The index for meats, poultry, fish, and eggs increased 1.0 percent in December [from November], as the index for eggs rose 11.1 percent.” A closer look at the report shows that items in the “food at home” category rose 11.8 percent from December 2021 to December 2022. Under that umbrella, several groupings saw significant year-over-year increases — cereals and bakery products (16.1 percent); meats, poultry, fish, and eggs (7.7 percent); and dairy and related products (15.1 percent) among them. Ouch.

Alright, we know inflation has hit a number of industries, but what else? One major factor is the 2022 avian flu outbreak, which to date has affected nearly 60 million chickens in 47 states, exceeding the 50.5 million birds in 21 states that were affected by the 2015 outbreak, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), that caused egg prices to soar to a then-record-high of $2.96/dozen in September of that year. The CDC data shows that from September to December 2022, more than 150,000 chickens were affected in Tennessee facilities alone.

In an email response, Dale Barnett, executive director of the Tennessee Poultry Association, says that beyond the effects of bird flu, inflation, and “lingering supply chain challenges due to Covid,” there’s another component: “The exorbitant costs associated with the ongoing conversion to cage-free egg production systems (to meet the near-future goals and requirements of an increasing number of major grocers and restaurant chains) has been substantial.”

Barnett directed me to an editorial by Terrence O’Keefe in Egg Industry magazine for further clarification. O’Keefe writes that “10 U.S. states have passed legislation mandating sales of cage-free eggs, either now or at some future date.” Tennessee is not included among them at present. He continues, “The two largest grocers in the U.S., Walmart and Kroger, each backed away from prior 100 percent cage-free egg purchase pledges in the summer of 2022. This means cage-produced eggs will be available at retail in many U.S. states for several years. … Who an egg producer sells to and what states the customer does business in will determine whether a farm will go cage-free or keep its cages.”

The U.S. Department of Agriculture’s recent Egg Markets Overview states that current cage-free commitments require “66.7 billion cage-free eggs per year to meet 100 percent of needs from an approximate cage-free flock of 221.4 million hens … indicating a shortage of 133.4 million hens.”

As you can see, there’s much ado in the egg world (way more than I’ve been able to lay — heh — out here). There’s no clear timeline for when we’ll see things balance out, but one thing’s for sure: If the chicken comes before the egg, we’re going to need a lot more chickens.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

New Year, Same Me?

Any day is a good day to start anew. (Photo: Behnam Norouzi | Unsplash)

Happy New Year, all, and welcome to 2023! Did y’all eat your black-eyed peas and greens on New Year’s Day? I made a big pot of collards and cabbage, a pan of cornbread, and a pile of peas in hopes of ushering in some luck and money, although when I think back on literally every other year I’ve done this as an adult, I can’t recall any particular instance where it might have made a measurable difference. “Remember that one time I won $10 on a scratch-off? Had to be those peas!” said no one, ever.

Regardless, each year will have its highs and lows, and luck — good or otherwise. I’m not so sure how much a plate of food will alter that. This go-round, I even followed the “don’t do laundry on January 1st” rule, although I read somewhere a few days ago that it’s actually supposed to be the last Friday of the previous year and the first Friday of the new year that are avoided. Oops, I guess. Will someone I love die because I washed my clothes on the wrong day? Gosh, I hope not. What happens if I don’t eat my greens on the right day? To me, all these superstitions merely add to the stresses and expectations we place on ourselves when we turn the page on our calendars.

“New year, new me!” people proclaim. There’s nothing wrong with setting resolutions and fixing your sights on goals. In fact, data exists to explain why it’s healthy to do so. A quick search shows that, among other things, reflecting on the prior year and aiming for changes and/or planning to drop bad habits and create good ones gives us inspiration, hope, and a sense of responsibility as we face our next rotation around the sun. But I think it’s important to be realistic and honest with ourselves — and not to burden our brains with all the things we think we’ve been doing “wrong” in the last year or so.

In this first issue back after the holiday break, we’ve always done some variation of a “New Year, New Me” cover story — wherein we ponder ways in which we can better ourselves with physical activity, staying hydrated, reading more, drinking less, putting down our cell phones, discarding clutter, all that stuff we say we’re gonna do but often abandon after the first week or two. This time, our staff put a little less emphasis on the “new me” part and focused on ways in which we can more fully embrace our city — by further exploring interests, picking up new hobbies (or dusting off old ones), or stepping a little outside of our comfort zones (or living rooms or favorite bars or zip codes) — and discover parts of Memphis we may not have known existed. And perhaps in the process uncover parts of ourselves that have been hidden or dormant, to reinvigorate and renew our lives in ways large or small.

Now that we’re past the holiday pressures — to buy this, do that, go there — let’s resolve to ease into whatever it is we want to achieve in 2023. (A study done by the University of Scranton says only 8 percent of folks follow through with resolutions anyhow, so why not set the bar a little lower and go up from there?) Of course, I’d like to be in better shape, to lose some of the weight I gained last year, see my friends and family more, etc. But I won’t promise myself that I’ll keep a daily journal or meticulously fill out and follow a weekly planner or count calories at every meal. I will, though, reiterate the suggestion I offered in my last editor’s column of 2022: Be gentle on yourself. Goals are good. Self-discipline is great. But don’t let a lack thereof push you into a state of self-loathing or unrest. Take it one step at a time. There’s no starting gun signaling the beginning of a new race, and there’s no finish line at the end of a certain month. You can be the same “you” you were last year if you want (we actually love you just the way you are). And you can begin anew any day or time you wish.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Through Light and Dark

Always look for silver linings. (Photo: Soumyadip Sarkar | Unsplash)

“Even a happy life cannot be without a measure of darkness, and the word happy would lose its meaning if it were not balanced by sadness. It is far better to take things as they come along with patience and equanimity.” — Carl Jung

As we near the end of 2022, I’m reflecting on the year that was, one in which I learned more than any prior about the importance of taking things as they come with patience and equanimity. Personally, it was one of the toughest in recent memory, not counting 2020 — I think we can agree that was one big WTF for us all. But this year brought a great deal of loss for me (three of my grandparents and an uncle passed away). And a great deal of stress (one notable experience: I panic-bought a house). Though it wasn’t without its celebratory moments (panic or no, I did become a homeowner). And successes (I was promoted to editor-in-chief of this fine publication).

At my age, “I’m sorry for your loss” has become more a part of regular dialogue. And fumbles and foibles are standard fare. Getting older has its growing pains (literally and metaphorically), and consistently presents new learning opportunities. We’re all figuring things out as we go, and there are no perfect days — but some are better than others. And the not-so-great ones help remind us to savor the near-perfect ones and to take things in stride. Because there will always be more “things” to get through.

This year, too, has been one of losses and triumphs for Memphis, as you’ll read in this — our double issue. For our staff to have the fortunate ability to take some time off around the holidays, we present this year-end edition, dated December 22nd through January 4th, which will be on newsstands for two full weeks. Within, we’ve used the cover story “Let’s Get Wild & Free” for predictions, and a look ahead, for 2023 — in business development, politics, music, film, and sports. Our writers have utilized their regular column spaces for year-in-review features — a recap of news and more from 2022. It reveals some of the low, even horrific moments our city — and country — endured. But it also displays how much we’ve rebounded from the pandemic peak, with the sports, live music, and film worlds flourishing once again.

Even with all that’s happened in the last 12 months — the ups and downs and stagnant in-betweens — it still somehow feels like we just shot off the bottle rockets on New Year’s Eve. A strange thing, time. Maybe in 2023, we can embrace this chance to start anew, recognize the lessons in hardships, pause for clarity when necessary, and face what may come — the good and the bad — with empathy and courage.

We’ll leave you with this issue until our next newspaper hits stands (January 5, 2023). In the meantime, some final thoughts for you. This week, a friend shared a 2021 tweet from J.S. Park (@jsparkblog) that still resonates. It read: “My therapist, instead of saying ‘happy holidays,’ says, ‘May you have a gentle holiday.’ Her reason: The holidays are not happy for everyone. The hope is that they’re gentle for us, that we are gentle on ourselves. #selfcare.”

In the hustle of the holidays, remember that not everyone has family or friends with whom to celebrate — or the means to give as generously as they’d like to. It can be a solitary time for some, and an overwhelming time with many road trips and gatherings for others. The stores are packed, retail and restaurant staff are spread thin. Package sorters, delivery drivers, and postal employees are working overtime to get your gifts to where they need to be. In this often stressful season, remember to be gentle on yourself. But remember, too, to be gentle with the people you encounter. You don’t know what they’re going through, and your smile might be one that lights an otherwise dark day.

Best wishes to you all as we ready to rock a brand-new year, wherein there will surely be both light and dark but also a hell of a lot of promising possibilities.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

“Alexa, Thank My Driver”

Photo: Wicked Monday | Unsplash

“Alexa, thank my driver.”

These words rubbed me the wrong way last week when Amazon announced a campaign to allow customers the opportunity to say “thank you” and send a $5 tip to their delivery driver. Not that giving thanks is a bad idea. We should all show more gratitude more often. It’s just that coming from one of the most profitable companies in the U.S. — and on the heels of reports of a lawsuit launched against it, for withholding employee tips of all things, in addition to impending layoffs which include jobs in its Alexa division — it sounds like a bit of a joke.

For the 12 months ending in September 2022, Amazon exceeded $502 billion in revenue and $11 billion in net income. Billion. In a society where instant gratification has become the norm, and where with a few mouse clicks or screen taps, we can have just about anything we’d ever need or want delivered to our front doors in a matter of hours or days, the irony of asking a robot to say thank you to the humans doing all that work does not escape me.

According to Amazon’s announcement: “Starting December 7, any time a customer says, ‘Alexa, thank my driver,’ the driver who delivered their most recent package will be notified of the customer’s appreciation. And, in celebration of this new feature, with each ‘thank you’ received from customers, drivers will also receive an additional $5, at no cost to the customer. We’ll be doing this for the first 1 million ‘thank yous’ received. And, the five drivers who receive the most customer ‘thank yous’ during the promotional period, will also be rewarded with $10,000 and an additional $10,000 to their charity of choice.”

Okay, sounds good. But what’s $5 million to Amazon — a corporation that netted $33.3 billion in profits in 2021? While this year thus far has shaped up to be the first in recent past that the company has shown a decline in profits (2021 showed a 56.41 percent increase from 2020; 2020 an 84.08 percent increase over 2019), that amount is but a drop of water in the ocean.

According to ZipRecruiter, the average national salary for Amazon delivery drivers is $43,794, depending on location, with an average of $41,050 per year in Tennessee. There are also a slew of Amazon Flex drivers — a program that launched in 2015 as the uptick of services like Uber, Lyft, and the like saw more people using their own cars to make extra cash. Those Flex workers are independent contractors who do not receive reimbursement for gas, mileage, parking fees, etc. — and who, Amazon reports, earn $18 to $25 an hour, again depending on location and how quickly they complete their deliveries. Not bad for an hourly rate, but factor in gas, vehicle wear and tear, and physical demands, and you’ve gotta wonder what that balances out to. Of course, people choose to work at Amazon and could seek employment elsewhere at any time. But that’s not the point. Folks who work in the warehouses and in shipping and delivery are among the most integral parts of the business. Do consumers need to log on to an app or ask an electronic device to ensure they’re appreciated or properly compensated?

The “thank my driver” campaign hit its limit just one day after the launch, with Amazon announcing December 8th, “We have received more than 1 million ‘thank yous’ concluding the promotion offering $5 per ‘thank you’ to eligible drivers. You can still share your appreciation by saying, ‘Alexa, thank my driver.’ We are thankful for the enthusiastic response to the promotion and the appreciation shown to drivers.”

So yes, of course, continue to thank your driver. (Although I’m curious if they’re being inundated with constant, now-annoying notifications.) Maybe put a little care package out with snacks or a gift card. But this whole thing reeks of a PR stunt to show Amazon as a company that cares for its workforce. And maybe it does. It could be a great place to work; I wouldn’t know. But I do know that its founder, Jeff Bezos, is reported to be the fourth-wealthiest person in the world, and that doesn’t happen without a certain level of smarts — and, I dare say, greed.

While we’re in the spirit of gratitude, if the opportunity arises, be sure to express thanks to your other delivery drivers, postal workers, restaurant servers, retail associates, and everyone else who keeps the ships afloat, especially this time of year. And consider stopping in a locally owned shop for some of your holiday gifting needs this season. They could use the support much more than Amazon.

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

It’s (Not) Just Your Imagination

Something definitely happened. (Photo: visuals | Unsplash)

I went to Walgreens a few days ago to buy toilet paper. I go for the store brand because it’s decent quality (not the unfortunate shred-while-you-pull-it-off-the-roll kind) and a decent price (not the costly who-pays-this-much-for-TP kind). I was happy to see the four-packs on sale for $1.99 instead of the usual $4.99, so I grabbed a few. Thing is though, the four-packs used to be six-packs. And pre-Covid, those store-brand six-packs were $5.

Pondering this gave me flashbacks to the early days of the pandemic when everyone went insane over toilet paper — ordering in bulk online and clearing shelves in a frenzy as soon as stores restocked. I recall folks announcing on Facebook when they found the stuff, as if they’d struck gold, alerting the rest of us where we might find some if we went right now. Added to the stresses of a new deadly virus, the acquisition of masks, not knowing when it’d be safe to see our friends and family, and wondering if we should sanitize our groceries and mail, we now had to worry about what we were going to wipe with. I found myself counting squares and then painstakingly folding said squares into smaller squares to ration. (I’m still mad at y’all for that.) Rationing toilet paper. That’s so 2020.

That flashback reminded me of an article I read back then on medium.com. In “Prepare for the Ultimate Gaslighting,” author Julio Vincent Gambuto wrote: “ … as the country begins to figure out how we ‘open back up’ and move forward, very powerful forces will try to convince us all to get back to normal. … Billions of dollars will be spent on advertising, messaging, and television and media content to make you feel comfortable again.”

Everything that’s happened since 2020 has been like a smudge on glass. The timeline is so blurred, with a dotting of Covid variants to zap us back into confusion every now and then. It’s like 2021 didn’t even happen — it simply sits somewhere between The Collective Trauma and The Grand Reopening.

In that April 2020 essay, Gambuto also talked about a sort of awakening: “ … what the crisis has given us is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see ourselves and our country in the plainest of views. At no other time, ever in our lives, have we gotten the opportunity to see what would happen if the world simply stopped.

“… If we want to create a better country and a better world for our kids, and if we want to make sure we are even sustainable as a nation and as a democracy, we have to pay attention to how we feel right now.”

I listened closely to how I felt at that time. Took a lot of walks on quiet streets, made all my meals at home, adopted healthier habits, sat with the space and time to process all the big, loud feelings that surfaced. I believe a lot of us paid attention — to our personal lives, our jobs, the media, the healthcare community, the government response. We saw more clearly what was and wasn’t working — careers, relationships, societal structures.

Office meetings were traded for Zooms, birthday parties and graduations for drive-through celebrations — no more hugs or handshakes. As the community sacrificed for the safety of others, solidarity grew. “Stay Home” and “Quaranteam” banners splashed across profile photos. When we weren’t affixed to clocks or schedules, we took up new hobbies, fought for causes, and protested injustices that stood exposed under the spotlight. A magnifying glass was held to the healthcare system, the economy, essential workers, and all the things that made the world tick.

But as we opened back up, we sought those missed comforts, flocking to restaurants, bars, and stores as if we’d been released from solitary confinement. As quickly as the empathy grew, it vanished. Now there were too many customers, not enough employees, longer wait times, product shortages, increased prices — camaraderie exchanged for complaining, selflessness for selfishness.

Now that “quarantine” and “lockdown” are no longer part of our daily language, you’ll still find me pausing on my walks to trace the veins on a fallen leaf. But the background’s noisier now. The grind outside is rougher somehow. Much like a colony of ants whose hill has been disturbed, we’re scrambling, trying to get back to a place — a “normal” — that no longer exists.

As I fold my laundry and glance at the stash of old masks hanging behind the dryer like some relic of the plague, I can’t help but think we’ve all just moved to pretending it never happened.

But it wasn’t just your imagination. We’ve all been lulled back to sleep. As we near a new year, remember how you felt when the world stopped. Let the alarm rouse you. Time to wake up.