I come from Memphis, Memphis, TN, and it shames me to say, I love that shabby, backwater town. Twice it’s been named “Murder Capital of America." The crime rate, at times, surpasses Chicago’s, but I still love that city the way you love someone you can’t say you like. A brother, perhaps, or maybe a cousin. Someone you love just because they are blood.
The way I feel about my hometown, my “relationship” with it, is practically the same as I have with my father. My dad loves me because I’m his daughter. I love him because he’s my dad. And because someone has to. He’s a moody, rigid and ill-tempered person, who operates, emotionally, on a five-year old’s level. It pains me to say that I’m much the same way; the difference is, I know it. I own it.
There are moments we walk in the brightest sunlight, when all points converge in a manner sublime. Then there are times when the moon and the stars refuse to align, and those moments haunt you the rest of your life.
In Memphis, in a time, teenage boys of errant ways were sent to Tall Trees, a juvenile facility known around town as a turbulent place. My cousin Tony spent some time there. In 1984, I was twenty years old; Tony, I believe, was twenty-six, and had more or less settled down by then. But Memphis was what it always was, and a new murder made all the headlines that year.
In the spring my Aunt Rae, Tony’s mother, was shot and killed, her body left in the thick, green brush that thrives in our climate. My dad and I went to the house right away. Herman, my uncle, Rae’s husband, was there. Connie, my cousin, Tony’s sister, was too, and Tony, of course. The TV was on. An old console model. It smelled of lemons from furniture polish.
This is Action News Five, the anchorman said. I stood beside Tony. The last time he and I stood that close we were kids, and I forget why but he socked my arm, hard. On the screen two men wheeled a gurney away, and I heard the anchorman say my aunt’s name.
The room was cold. Tony’s face was contorted with pain. I reached out to hug him. He pushed me away.
The living room carpet had an art nouveau pattern. Flowing lines, and flowers and plants. I studied it for what seemed like a very long time. I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t hurt. I was ashamed, which is far, far worse. Shame hides in your hair. It sleeps in your clothes. It clings to you like cigarette smoke.
I wasn’t entitled to make such a gesture. I hadn’t seen Tony for a decade, at least, but above and beyond and aside from all that, his mother was dead; my little feelings could simply be damned.
Recently, a friend of mine called with his own sad news. He had been to the doctor. Test results said testicular cancer; the prognosis was good, but the treatment required many months of chemo.
I hung up the phone. My dad was there and I told him the news. He reached out to hug me. I pushed him away. And I could smell the furniture polish. I could see the console TV. The flowers and swirls in the living room carpet, and I could see what Tony saw then. Good intentions held out like a canapé tray.
My dad stared at me, uncomprehendingly. Why can’t I comfort you, he asked, and I wanted to say, because you are not entitled, is why. I love you the way I love Memphis, is why.
I answered his question with silence instead. I told him nothing and then looked away. He asked me for water but I gave him ice, and I hoped it would haunt him the rest of his life.