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MEMPHIS, y’all

Hand-in-hand, we strolled down Front Street, the Memphis sky as blue as the air was crisp. At the new bakery, I ordered lox and bagel, cafe au lait, and, for Tom, a breakfast sandwich with drip coffee. The small bakery space was almost empty, quiet, until we stepped back to wait on our order, and the people poured in. At 9:30 on a Friday morning, the people kept coming. Black, white, Black and white, kids, and one lolling-headed puppy. The couple were trying to give the puppy away. I think they might have found a taker.

Outside at the cafe tables, a man yakked with a woman visiting from San Fransisco. She was in town for the Blues and Civil Rights. She’d done B. B. King’s nightclub on Beale Street and the National Civil Rights Museum. The guy gave her suggestions for other free activities. “You could walk across the river,” he said, and I wondered if she, not knowing about the pedestrian bridge, thought, yeah, if you’re Jesus.

A car pulled up and the family in it piled out to speak to others seated at the tables. One of the girls was named Evangeline. That’s our pup’s name. We shared this with her. “Is it a family name?” I asked, and her mom said no, her dad picked it. I said, “Because it’s a beautiful name.” She beamed. Tom and I were the only old people in sight.

The woman from San Fransisco said, “Everyone here is so friendly.” “We love our city,” the guy replied.

This is Memphis, y’all. The city that ignorant people call a hell hole. Who snap at us, “Why would you have a place in Memphis?” Who rudely say, “I understand it’s gotten pretty bad there.” As if our worst traits define any one of us.

We love our city. You would, too, if you knew what you were talking about.

Memphis

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