Update: This is not printed in the March edition of the Noise. Chuck, our editor was deathly ill during editing and had to cut several pages. I’m cool with it. Here is your usual unedited sneak peak. The March issue of The Noise should hit the streets at the end of February.The aftermath of a local squabble over which arts-oriented newspaper truly supports locality in Flagstaff has left many citizens “a buzz” with conversation surrounding the topic. Although the issue has largely resulted in attempts to demean and discredit each side through name-calling and reputation gauging (and I’ll admit, I centered myself on the front lines as well), I have been thinking about the issue of locality from a larger perspective.
The sun hasn’t been up for more than an hour or two. I’m currently sitting at Macy’s, drinking coffee on an empty stomach, waiting for a friend to show up. In an attempt, therefore, to drown out the screams coming from my digestive system, I’ve started really thinking about how we, as a culture, understand a few simple questions regarding where we live: What does it mean to support locality? Who or what has the credibility or the right to define what supporting locality entails? I think, maybe, the most important question is: what does it mean to live here? I’m thinking that maybe these questions are too deep to intelligently explore before the morning embrace of caffeine fully sets in, but I’ve already posed these questions and I have another half an hour before my friend shows.
I’m sitting too close to the door and the frequency of chills coming from that direction tells me that the morning coffee rush is officially underway. It’s one of those cold, but sunny mornings; you know, the kind of morning when you dread the frost layered on the seat of your bicycle, and you’re not sure if you should wear a jacket or not because you know when the sun is high in the sky you’re going to wish you didn’t have it with you. It seems on this particular morning, most people have opted to wear the jacket. They’ll be sorry later.
The population of Flagstaff is a very strange brew. In a postmodern age combined with an unprecedented model of divisive politics, the walls that separate us from each other are only getting stronger. As I look around the coffee shop, I see a couple forest service guys covered in dirt and five o’clock shadows, several students with headphones plugged into laptops, and a group of dreaded men and women sitting together. They’re either talking about a recent hike they just did or one they’re planning. I can’t tell. There are some rock and roll kids eating pastries on the table in front of me. Then there are the business types, who don’t sit down. They walk directly from the cash register, past me, out the door to their cars left running on the side of the street. There is a homeless man (I can only presume he’s homeless and I don’t have to tell you that he’s Native American) sitting on one of the benches across the street. Some people acknowledge him, most don’t.
The sun has just cleared the buildings and, as I stare out the window and across the street, the cars and bikes seem to blur together as they race down Beaver St. I shut my laptop, grab a notebook, and start talking to people about how they support the local flavor that Flagstaff has to offer and how important they feel this support is. It might be my location, but no matter how many different ways I frame this question, everyone seems to think I’m only talking about supporting local businesses. One person, a girl from the group I’ve deemed “the dready table,” makes the connection to local music. She asked if I was from the paper that bad mouthed one of her favorite local bands, Gravy. I said, “as long as you have absolutely no follow-up questions, no… no I’m not.” Needless to say I moved on. The morning is ripening, but I certainly haven’t had enough coffee to fuel my involvement in that kind of confrontation. I wasn’t looking for that kind of conversation anyway. None of this was really helping. I was looking for something that goes much deeper than consumer or musical allegiances, but I wasn’t sure what it was.
I noticed an older guy sitting alone, drinking tea, hunched over the Daily Sun. I walked up to him thinking, ah, here is a levelheaded man who, because he is old of course, will give me the kind of insight I’m looking for. It turns out I was right.
I told him who I was and that I wanted to write a short essay on how our culture understand locality. I said I was interested in getting citizens perspectives on what it’s like to live here, what it means to them, and how they can best support all things “local.” He said that I shouldn’t be asking him that. Immediately I thought he was giving me that senior citizen “I can’t relate to you youngsters” bit, but then he went on to say that I wouldn’t get a solid answer from anyone in this place. I said, “what do you mean? I’ve been talking to people all morning and everyone seems to genuinely care about supporting locality in Flagstaff in different ways.” He sipped his tea and folded his newspaper. “No doubt people care about supporting local businesses and the things they enjoy about this town,” he said, “but if you want to know what it means to live here,” he went on, emphasizing the word “here” by stomping his foot and pointing to the ground, “none of us can help you because we don’t really live here.” I told him that I didn’t understand. He said if I want to know what it is like to live here, on stolen indigenous land covered by millions of acres of ponderosa pine, aspens and wild black walnut trees, that I should go into the woods and talk to squirrels, woodpeckers, mule deer, and elk about what it means to live here, because they have to know in order to survive. “They live here, we don’t,” he smiled as he noticed my understanding. Hand’s down, this guy is my hero.
I couldn’t stop thinking about that conversation all day. Now I’m back on my computer after a long walk around the neighborhood with my dog. As I watch the setting sun turn the peaks a vibrant pink, I thought back, wondering why this man’s attempt to shift my perspective on locality had such a big impact on me. If he would have talked to me about the invasion of Starbucks or the affect of the new Super Wal-Mart on the local economy, I think this column would have been easier to write. While out on our walk, my dog and I sauntered past a very large subdivision that is just breaking ground near my house. The fifty-five acre plot is riddled with holes, brand new roads, and trees marked for deletion with stakes and spray paint. I wondered if the invading backhoes and chainsaws upset my nonhuman neighbors in the same way that the possibility of a downtown Starbucks or the closing of Gopher Sounds is upsetting to Flagstaff residents. I knew right away that I couldn’t even compare the two. There is an obvious distinction between the ongoing destruction of one’s community and simply allowing one’s community to become generic with hegemonic logos.
This brought me back to the topic at hand. I think the question I’m really trying to get to the bottom of here is, what is “home?” Our idea of what home is, it seems, is a reflection of what we value. Conflicts arise when these perceptions of home clash in unpredictable ways. As the cultural and socio-economic divisions of Flagstaff continue to palpitate in intensity, the less likely we will be able to come to a consensus in terms of our expectations of “home.” Further, because Flagstaff draws a lot of visitors with preconceived notions of what this town is all about, there are many sectors that seem to do everything they can to accommodate those fantasies.
I think citizens need to ask themselves if their idea of home is truly reflective of the reality in which we actually live or if that perception is merely a projection of desire fueled by stereotypes and fantasies. Do you walk past the homeless man and pretend he doesn’t exist or do you acknowledge his presence and include him in your experience of living here?
I think most residents, at least those who read this paper, would agree that the rising tide of corporate entities invading our town is degrading any sense of community we once had. While driving down Milton, it’s obvious that we’ve reached a point where there is very little that separates us from any other town or city and I think a lot of the bickering about supporting locality is a result of this corporate colonization. Stores are closing left and right downtown because of rising rent costs thanks to greedy landlords who will sell this town out in a heartbeat if we let them.
I’m thinking again of that large construction site in my neighborhood. There is another, very obvious distinction that needs to be drawn as I consider the systematic dismantling of that natural community verses the invasion of corporations into ours. The nonhuman animals don’t have a choice; like a microcosm of corporate expansion, our culture will take until there is nothing left. We have more power than we are willing to exercise. If we don’t want the character and sense of community sucked out of us by an onslaught of corporate vampires, there is no reason why we should be complacent when they move in.
I heard Starbucks is trying to set up shop downtown. If Flagstaff has any self-respect and dignity left, I don’t see how this could possibly happen. We live in an age of pre-emptive war. If we woke up tomorrow with the news that we bombed North Korea or Iran or whoever the enemy du jour is, we would all be full of anger and embarrassment, but none of us would necessarily be surprised. Starbucks has developed a similar axiom and considering the way Flagstaff is moving, if we woke up tomorrow and there was a Starbucks next to Late For the Train, we would all be full of anger and embarrassment, but nobody can say they’d be surprised. Our downtown is the heart of Flagstaff’s character, and character comes from the spirit of authenticity. Small towns thrive on the idea that they’ve got something no other town has…. and we’re losing it. Name one college town, for example, that doesn’t have one independent record store?
It is true, none of us may really live “here” (as I stomp my foot on the ground), but if we are going maintain, at the very least, the illusion of a thriving community, we should be exercising some concern over who is moving here and what kind of affect this has on our home.
