We Suffered a Hate Attack in Memphis, Tennessee
By Vicente Morin Aguado
HAVANA TIMES – Everything was going well before, everything continued well afterward, yet what marked the afternoon was an unusual hate attack, shielded by the sheer impunity of someone who knows that any complaint would be useless because they could not be identified. This, accompanied by the fear that stems from the lack of explanation in the face of damage inflicted without even the faintest logical cause-and-effect relationship between the victims and the perpetrator.
We had just left the National Civil Rights Museum, located in the old Lorraine Motel, in Memphis, the city by the Mississippi River from my adolescent dreams, sharing adventures with Tom and Huck, led by the hand of Mark Twain.
We had parked our guerrilla-style Honda Civic, a veteran of many thousands of miles, on the side of the building from whose balcony Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. was shot. I was accompanied on this trip by an African American friend, who prefers to remain anonymous. Her invaluable company helped with communication, given my limited listening skills in English—especially the particular way African Americans speak, who are numerous in this city by the wide river, the backbone of the United States.
The museum displays through graphics and photos a synthesis of the horrors of slavery, combined with irrefutable evidence of the extraordinary contribution of enslaved Africans to the economic development of the United States. However, I did not leave entirely satisfied; as a museum, it should display much more than the scant material evidence currently on view. Additionally, I missed seeing a combined exhibition on the extraordinary cultural contribution of African Americans, who in large part, thanks to leaders like Martin Luther King, have been woven into the identity of this great country.
In a rush, snapping photos, with my friend—an expert driver—at the wheel, the little sedan started off smoothly, but not 50 meters had passed when the flawless purr of the Japanese engine was interrupted by an unpleasant clap, clap, indicating something wrong with the tires. We looked at each other in fear. I managed to catch the words parking and tires from her mouth until luck brought us to a free parking spot.
Upon getting out, it was evident that the right rear tire was deflated. A quick glance revealed it had been slashed—the cut was long, fine, made with a sharp instrument along the tire’s sidewall. It wasn’t a regular puncture, usually affecting the tread; it was a malicious knife cut.
“Do you have a spare tire and jack?” she asked. “Yes,” I replied, as we pulled the essential tools from the trunk under the rain. There was no time for lamenting because, across the aptly named Riverside Avenue, a boat was waiting for us.
We pushed aside useless complaints, convinced that the malicious attacker would not ruin our afternoon if that had been their purpose. Still guided by my now-apologetic companion, we boarded the splendid Island Queen cruise, ready to spend an hour and a half sailing on the Mississippi.
We passed under the impressive bridges spanning more than a mile across the river’s waters, which here show a powerful current—astonishing to my eyes, as Cuba’s largest river, the Cauto, suddenly seemed like a mere stream in comparison. I counted five viaducts in half an hour of downstream navigation before the boat slowly turned back, and ahead we spotted a striking replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza, a gift that Memphis’ inhabitants gave themselves in 1897 to celebrate Tennessee’s centennial as a state of the Union.
Suddenly, I reached the highlight of my trip when Tina Turner, one of my eternal loves, greeted us by singing Proud Mary, the song she made her own in an unmatched performance—especially after divorcing an abusive husband who prevented her from fully being herself, the Great Lady of Rock.
To my surprise, the Island Queen, like its namesake Proud Mary, has a paddlewheel at its stern, moving to the rhythm of the chorus rolling on the river. The song also reminded me that I too had to wash dishes in this country, though not in Memphis. I’ll never forget the mountain of dishes that passed through my hands during two weeks, in the midst of COVID, working without a permit, earning the essential dollars to pay my share of the rent with two fellow countrymen.
Even so, it was impossible to shake off the unease caused by the hate attack we had suffered. The spare tire is a slim wheel, designed for reaching a nearby service center, not at all suitable for the busy highways of a modern city. It was unthinkable to drive the 200 miles back to Nashville on it.
As the arrival to port trumpet sounded, my fingers moved from the camera to Google’s search bar, looking for a nearby place to urgently replace the tires—both rear ones by necessity, since now it would be crucial to balance the car’s handling with matching tires for maximum safety at highway speeds.
Among many options, a Firestone station was still offering services late on a Saturday afternoon, but we had to hurry, as there were only thirty minutes left until closing when we hit land.
Two hours later, after agreeing on where to go eat, we emerged victorious, though $350 poorer, heading straight to the hotel and then to a delicious barbecue seasoned by African American chefs who turn meat into pure delight. Once again, I confirmed that white Americans don’t know how to cook—or, to put it more gently, most of them lack the soul and flavor of authentic cuisine.
The rain intensified but eased by dawn. At sunrise, we set out on the return trip, with my friend adamant about not letting me drive so I could share our common passion for music—something that runs in her family, with ties to the iconic Dionne Warwick.
We left behind Graceland, whose visit I had to cancel because of the unexpected expense. I’m not saying visiting Elvis’s mansion-museum is expensive, but financial discipline is a harsh master in this country of my latest shipwreck.
Under a cool, cloudy but drizzle-free sky, we sped past, once again, the billboard indicating the turnoff to the house where Tina Turner was born, amid the whiteness of cotton fields.
I can’t stop wondering about the senselessness of that tire slash—my car was properly parked next to a site that preserves the legacy of a man who was assassinated, perhaps because he never encouraged an act of hatred in his life.
I’ve come to suppose, though not with much conviction, that maybe it is this uncomfortable legacy for some people that is the only possible explanation for the bad experience we endured in Memphis.