hometown landmarks
a map of my memory and longing; a map of my own becoming
The local theatre that put on Peter Pan, during which I had my first lil kiss. I’d had a crush on him for all of first grade and by the time we went on that field trip, having held on to our spots in line next to each other the whole way so that we’d eventually be seated next to each other for the play, I didn’t even care that his breath smelled like onions. I was just happy to touch lips in a quick, bird-like peck and then hold hands the whole way back to school.
The side street off Beale where I had my first real kiss. I was in the eigth grade and he in the ninth, which was scandalous enough for me to feel like I was edging out of my youth and into the real, sexy, adult world [lol, ok kid].
The spot off near the Mud Island visitor’s center where I’d sometimes go to yell at the Mississippi River, hoping they could hear me at the bottom.
The palateria where Janeth took me to try fresa con crema and elote for the first time in the 11th grade. She changed my life with the sweet strawberries and her sweeter friendship. When Tr*mp was first elected in our senior year, she went from being the naturally smartest kid in our class on her way to hopefully any college of her pick, to spending the year worried about DACA apps and her family’s situation. That spring she didn’t end up announceingthat she’d be going off anywhere for school, and by Fall I’d lost touch with her altogether. None of my friends had heard from her, and her social media accounts showed no recent activity. I pass by that palateria anytime I travel between my mom’s and my longest friend’s mom’s houses, wondering where she is and if she’s okay. I send up a little prayer for you every time, Janeth.
The historic school building at the tip of Orange Mound where I spent seven years of my life. Every single day from ages 10 to 17 I was there, including extra hours of volleyball and softball practice, after-school tutoring, student council meetings, Saturday School, orchestra rehearsals, and homecoming games. A place can be your whole world for half your life and then suddenly those years are farther behind you than you ever thought possible. One day you notice your world has grown bigger, or you finally feel less small in it, or maybe both.
Memphis Central High School, another nationally registered historic building, where I took the ACT the morning after I found out my dad died. My mom didn’t question how I could still go take some dumb standardized test after such life-altering news, and I think this kicked off the pattern of my grief screaming at me on the inside in a way that no one else could see or hear, much less support. I scored a 28/35, one of the highest in my school, then cried in the arms of my then best friend/quasi-lover after. His mom picked me up from the test site in her minivan and dropped us off at the mall, where we were chased out by security two hours later for making out in the empty theater. It was terrifying and electrifying being chased out—I had never been kicked out of a public place before—and it felt good to feel something other than the overwhelming pain just under the surface, raw as a fresh cut. It was such a minuscule moment of teenage whimsy and yet I’ve been chasing that momentary high ever since—the feeling of possibility that might be found on the other side of truly reckless abandon, of saying fuck everything I’ve ever been and ever known and ever strived to be, of following my body’s urges instead of my brain’s deliberations for once. Since then, any time I’m particularly wrecked by grief, I toy with the idea of stepping weightlessly off the deep end but am reminded that the risk of potential consequences are higher now than it was as a teen. Or maybe not, maybe there’s no greater risk than being a Black teen out in the burbs of Cordova sullying their precious shopping mall with my teary-eyed lust.
Frayser, the neighborhood I grew up in between a couple of different houses, the last of which burned down along with all of the mementos of my childhood. This was just a couple months before my dad died, and I’d only had stable housing a couple weeks when I got the call while in my new bedroom that he was gone. I lost everything I knew and loved in 2014 and 2015 and have been desperate to develop new evidence that I’ve existed since then, even as it feels like existing is all I’m doing some years.
The hill in Smokey City atop which sits my maternal grandmother’s home. The house my mom and her siblings grew up in, that all us kids grew up in—not just Sunday dinners, as most of her grandkids lived with her at some point or another. The house where I had my first sip of coffee at eight years old; where I picked and cleaned probably a thousand bunches of greens and beans for my grandma over the years; where I believe my granddaddy’s spirit still rests and where I still consider to be an ancestral home. Whenever I’m in town, I detour Norf just to pass by the house and say hello to those old bones.
The first house I knew, also in Frayser, the one where I was raised for the first eight years of my life, the house where I first learned fear and the shapes it could take.
The baseball field where I developed my first real crush. I’d go home from camp and daydream about those muscles and that fast pitch. I slipped into a weird feverish state for a few days that summer, slipping in and out of a deep sleep and only waking for a couple sips of gatorade here and there—scaring the shit out of my sister. I ended up recovering without a hospital visit—my fever broke and I was back to camp a couple days later, but I guess I learned then that want can feel like fire in the body.
The softball field where I broke my nose in the eighth grade. I played sports all through middle and high school and, despite not being very good, was a captain in both softball and volleyball by my senior year. My coaches never bothered sugar coating anything and made it clear that I was picked for my maturity and leadership [i.e. anxious kiss-assery, probably] more than for my skill on the court/field. But I loved trying and loved getting slightly better and failing upward. And I was heartbroken when my catcher’s toss found my face instead of my mitt when I took my eyes off her just before she returned my wild throw, benching me for the rest of the season. Going into corrective surgery—I’m still not quite sure what they did in there without making a single incision, even after spooking me by saying they might need to borrow some cartilage from my rib—I remember how scared I was that I’d reveal my heart to my mother while under anesthesia [luckily all I did was shoot ‘lasers’ at my brother with the heart monitor attached to my finger, cracking my mother up and loosening the tension in her shoulders from worrying about her youngest’s first surgery]. And I was heartbroken when finally, after three years of letting me try my very best, my softball coach finally replaced me as pitcher with someone more consistent than I could ever be. I think my fear of being forgotten or replaced started way before this, but it’s fun to blame it on old Coach Brown.
The park where I ran my first mile. I’ve always hated running, my body truly seeming to reject the form of motion in its entirety. But like everyone else in 2020, I needed a way to move my body and get fresh air and not lose my mind while doing work and school from my teenhood bedroom. Week after week, I rotated between a nature preserve out in Cordova and a tucked-off park not far from my mom’s house, alternating between jogging and walking until finally I jogged the whole mile—hills and all—without stopping. I’d never felt so accomplished in my life, and thank both Dua Lipa’s Future Nostalgia and Chloe x Halle’s Ungodly Hour for helping me push past my limits, just a little bit. To this day, I’ve only run a two-miler once and have never even attempted anything more than that. I hated every second of it, but I was trying to keep up with my marathoner girlfriend. My body truly still hates running, my lungs and heart never seem to be able to catch up and sports bras make my chest hurt as if my heart is fighting for more room to beat and I’m choosing spandex instead. But it was nice to discover that I could work out the anxiety, fear, anger, and angst in my body through pushing pavement, and that I could manage hard things running on spite and FOMO alone. The runners really seem to enjoy this shit, but I don’t.
The cemetery where my dad and his mom are buried about 500 feet apart from each other. Both graves are unmarked as of right now because tombstones are ridiculously expensive. Despite being their youngest child and grandchild, I feel they never will get stones unless I do it myself. Not to be dramatic, but I lie awake at night worrying about if they’re resting peacefully without a marker to show where they lay, to ensure those visiting the historic cemetery know exactly whose bloodline they tread on, that it’s not just dead confederate veterans buried there but regular degular, loving, loved Black folks too. If I had to guess, maybe grandma’s dirt is still fresh from her burial in October—unseeded, not yet covered in grass and wildflowers and weeds, not yet settled in. I’m afraid of leaving this year without her.
My uncle’s house where I’ve stayed, sometimes alone, a couple times since he passed at the top of the year. Technically in Mississippi and not Memphis, it marks the southernmost border of the map of my upbringing. There are so many empty homes littering this map now, homes previously filled with the sounds of my small world as it grew larger with each passing year and mile traveled from home. I’m losing my grip on what makes a place home when the people, my first answer and most obvious answer, go.
<3, you always seem to find words that for emotions I can't describe myself.
Thank you for bringing us on this journey map w you.