Last summer, I was in Alicante, Spain for the Fiesta Sant Joan. The city thundered with fireworks and the sky lit up electric and divine. The tops of buildings exploded in light across the night sky as I ran through narrow streets curving upward toward the Mercado. I'd pause and look up as fire fell from above. Hyperbolic? Yes. But the emotions inside me brought on by this brilliant display were intense and nothing short of true euphoria. I have been chasing this feeling like a junky. This year I went to two separate fourth of July festivities in hopes of bomb like detonations and streaks of reds, green, blue, purple, pink, and white across the Memphis night. The Bartlett fireworks on July 3rd were delayed due to technical difficulties and I finally gave up and left only for them to start as I drove away. This made me determined to brave the sweltering crowds of downtown Memphis on the fourth.
All seemed well as I sat on top of the South Bluffs watching the sun set over the river. In my early twenties, I wrote crazy tragic tales of a young woman overdosing in her front seat on the banks of the Mississippi, Hank Williams (Senior, of course) cooing his soul sick ditties through the car's speakers, and she would think of her dad as she drifted off never to return and the last thing she heard while leaving this earth was the sizzle of the sun setting in the river. Man, I am over dramatic! I say all this to show I have an obsession with the river at dusk. This night felt special to me. Rain began to fall and we all held the blankets we had been sitting on over our heads until it past. As the sun faded, more and more bodies gathered on the South Bluff. The Beale Street Landing was closed down by the police after a kid shot off fireworks inside causing a stampede out of the building and into the streets. I watched all this safely from the bluffs. Then another stampede from down below came swarming up to the Bluffs and cries of "Someone's been shot" and "He's got a gun." A group of young men, maybe twenty of them, chased one young man. I'm sorry, I mean boys. Thirteen to fifteen year olds. I saw the butt of guns sticking from waistlines of children. I cried. I hid behind my boyfriend and three big men. The police came and chased them away, down alleys and around corners. A thirteen year old had been shot at the bottom of the bluffs at Riverside and Beale. He survived and was last listed in non critical condition. My friend, her husband, and her son were there. They saw the shooter. They watched him and his companions jog away with calm expressions on their faces. An eighteen year old's picture was released by the media, he had been arrested in conjunction with the shooting. Juveniles were arrested, too, but the media cannot legally release their photos.
The show went on. Policemen mounted on horses stood off to my right, policemen on bicycles rode through the crowd, and policemen on foot shined flashlights and asked people to clear the walkway. Then the sky exploded with lights. We all cooed and were in awe. My friend's one year old saw his first fireworks. Afterwards, we made our way back to our cars in groups for safety. In Alicante, I walked home at three in the morning by myself, completely safe. The children didn't have guns. The pops echoing through the alleys were firecrackers not gunshots.
So what does this have to do with writing? I have been trying to get involved with various organizations around town to no avail. I emailed my sister about all the violence at the fireworks and how heavy my heart was, especially by the hateful comments of bourgeoisie white people in this city all worried about property taxes instead of these young ones' futures--and yes, the eighteen year old is still a young one. She mentioned the arts saving lives and how impoverished neighborhoods do not have access to the arts. She knows this from experience. She helped found a prison playwright program called Voices Inside/Out. Here is a link to the program which includes details of the program, projects by the program, and letters from the inmates and how it saved their lives inside prison as well as when they got out-- http://northpointplays.com/. I pondered what can I do to help my city. I am a writer. Literacy Mid South has a program called Write Memphis. This programs helps children from all over the city, including those rough areas, by helping them write creatively. I sent an email asking to volunteer. I hope to hear back soon. If not, I will contact them again. I must do something to help the children of this city. I hope all of you will do something, too.
Links to writing programs for children or the homeless
http://doorofhopememphis.org/
http://www.writememphis.org/WriteMemphis/Home.html
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