Memphis 2006. Great expectations. I’d hadn’t lived in the south for over fifty years.  The city certainly had its attractions--Elvis Presley’s Graceland, Beale Street blues joints, the Orpheum Opera house, a triple A baseball team, Memphis in May International BBQ competitions, a very reputable zoo, and the famous Peabody Hotel with its parading ducks to name a view. 

I came to know the work of Laurie Anderson at the Hirschhorn Museum in DC. One piece in this major show titled Weather, is The Story about the Story written in bright white words on a massive black wall. The starkness and simplicity of it made me stop browsing and read it all.

Breathless. They overwhelmed my mind as we carried dozens of bags each holding 250 boxes, each box representing a person killed in the U.S. by gun violence. I stood before the panels representing 200,000 people killed in the last three years.

I was one — starting in first grade as a Brownie and hanging-in until I graduated from high school as a Senior. In the early years, I was enthusiastic because my friends were in the troop. However, as I entered hgh school, many friends left. I missed them, hated the uniforms, and felt geeky for staying, but Mom was my troop leader. To avoid confrontation, I stayed. Why?