Neon & Noise

On the one side, there're debutante balls and cotillions for the well bred, young ladies and gentlemen from elite and wealthy backgrounds - very plantation-ish and genteel - and on the other there's the neon and noise of a downtown Saturday night on the riverfront.

The weather is agreeably warm and the stars, artificial and otherwise, are out.  Flying elephants soar in wild circles, carnies hawk their games of skill, the smell of popcorn and cotton candy is everywhere, and a red and blue and yellow neon ferris wheel twirls merrily.  The midway is clatteringly and chatteringly bright with enormous stuffed animals hanging from every booth.  Festival goers try their hand at everything - a pyramid of milk bottles, ducks in a shooting gallery, bingo.  You can buy beer or soda, foot longs or caramel apples. You can ride the screeching roller coaster, brave the tilt-a-whirl (CHILDREN UNDER 5 MUST BE ACCOMPANIED BY AN ADULT!!! - now there's an optimistic sign) or creep through the haunted tower, menacingly aglow with alien-like green light.  The adults look tired, the carnies are hoarse, the children are wide eyed and the night is young.

I make my way through the crowd to the surprisingly well lit stage, find a secure corner, and unpack my camera gear.  The young man about to perform is something of a prodigy in our little town - still too young to play in bars, he's been on the music scene since before he was even a teenager - a sweet faced boy with good manners, the stage presence of an experienced and seasoned artist, and a love of music that absolutely shines through every chord and every lyric.  He waves at me, mouths Thank you for coming, and gives me a huge grin.  His mother gives me a hug and offers me a chair while his daddy efficiently goes about the business of setting up sound equipment.  I've always liked these people - they're a close knit and loving family - long on encouragement and support.   They understand family.  They appreciate music.  They respect dreams.

All along the makeshift midway, other families drift from ride to ride, booth to booth, some with children trailing after them like the tail on a kite.  There are lovestruck couples hand in hand, a wandering juggler and a fire eater.  And there are gangs of teenagers - mostly black, loud, scantily dressed, obnoxious - and speaking in a language that sounds only vaguely like English.  They travel in packs, shouting crude remarks and obscenities at each other, body slamming anyone who gets in their way.  Security guards watch them from a distance, now and again pulling one or two aside for a quiet chat.  Earlier in the day I was at the Makers Fair where the crowd was almost exclusively white and I'm struck by the difference in the atmosphere.  No one likes to talk about the underlying racism in this city but it's here and it's undeniable, I can see it on the faces in the crowd and I'm just as sure the same thing is on mine.  The arts and crafts street fairs with their wind chimes and home grown preserves and hair ribbons are one thing - here, at night on the midway, among the pulled pork sandwiches and corn dogs, it's quite another.  Trash is trash, I remind myself, and it comes equally in black and white, but the truth is that I wasn't uncomfortable at the Makers Fair and here I'm all too aware of my color and I feel just the slightest bit of unease.  I feel outnumbered, alone, a tiny bit apprehensive, and a little ashamed of what I'm feeling.  

Somewhere between the pageantry of the black tie traditions and the raucous neon and noise, there's a kind of middle ground where, I think, most of us live and for the most part, get along.  At least I hope so.