A Feeling of Loss: A Community at Odds

I’m sitting in my apartment, writing and listening to the sound of cars and loud-speaking pedestrians. My office door opens to a small landing. The spring breeze accepts this invitation and cools my sweaty legs as they rest beneath my desk. And on that breeze wafts the smell of burning wood from the restaurant across the street. Occasionally it carries with it the smell of cheap, but delicious Chinese food from another nearby establishment.

My cocktail sweats. It’s only spring, but the heat in my apartment is enough to cause condensation on a cold glass. The valley is green. And if I watch the mountains from my kitchen window, I swear I can see spring creeping into the hills and hollers.

The dogwood tree outside blooms, but the buds are quickly being replaced by tender green leaves. The sidewalks near my home are littered in whirligigs fallen from Maple trees. And dogwood petals fill the yard next to my apartment, quickly drying beneath the sun.

I can hear the ice cream truck coming from a mile away; without fail it plays a tinny, childlike version of Greensleeves. But I enjoy it nonetheless. It’s spring in East Tennessee. And I can say with all honesty that the only thing more beautiful are the mountains in autumn.

Two blocks away, downtown bustles. Men are spending their disability checks at the local pool hall. Punks are enjoying PBR, Miller Lite, and other such beer at The Hideaway. Hipsters, college students, and everyone in between are listening to live music at The Willow Tree. And cocktails are being ordered and poured at Tipton Street, Main St., and Holy Taco.

Ten years ago, downtown was nothing more than a clumsy collection of defunct store fronts and drunkards. And over this past decade, I’ve had the honor of watching as this quickly dilapidating city center transformed into a vibrant community of entrepreneurs, artists, families, and friends. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I fit in.

The culmination (or perhaps the springboard) of this budding community is the Blue Plum Festival. Once a year, beneath the already hot June sun, we come together as a city and as community to celebrate our rich bluegrass heritage. What was once only one stage and one street, has grown to encompass the entire downtown area. Though the beer is somewhat expensive (wristband + $5/beer), the festival is free to anyone and everyone.

80,000 people swarm to downtown Johnson City, music-hungry and excited to support local businesses. Fathers bring their daughters. Mothers bring their sons. We meet our friends at our favorite bars. Married couples get drunk and dance with each other in the street. And teenagers carry water bottles filled with clear vodka, enjoying the pleasure of a cheeky transgression. Everyone is happy and everyone is together.

At least we were until this year. What was once free to the community is now prohibitively expensive for the students, artists, and low-income people who live here. And I am one of these people, suddenly cut off from my community and cut off from the biggest celebration of what it means to be from the hills of East Tennessee.

Change is good. Change is often necessary. But this is my city and I love it. This is my community and I finally feel like I belong. And this is our festival and I don’t want to lose it.

But this year, I am losing part of my community, because I can’t afford to attend. And even as I write this, my eyes water. The Blue Plum Festival means the world to me, to my friends, to local starving artists, and to the hardworking citizens of this city. And suddenly so many of us feel left out, excluded, and forgotten. Or worse, simply ignored.

As a city, we’ve come a long way in 10 years. I just hope in the next 10 years, we can grow and bring the whole community with us.