There is a sensory experience associated with the dull roar of a city, a sort of essence to world class cities, and I have found, in my time here, that Atlanta is no different in that regard. In Europe the feeling is ancient and heavily potent in the atmosphere of the place. I would wager that is, in large part, due to their age. Atlanta isn’t like the European centers of culture, it’s young, still taking its metaphorical first awkward tottering steps towards true cultural identity.
I know you may be saying “But Conner, in a city with so much history one would think there would be a well established identity would already be on the scene,” to that I say well done dear reader, however, but 54% of the population (even more in the past) couldn’t vote until 2 generations ago, and furthermore only gained the same basic rights of expression as their white counterparts before 60ish years ago; in other words, very much still in living memory. Black Atlantans were pushed to the fringes of a society which was primarily white. That means there is some catching up to do. Just like any other city, Atlanta is in the midst of an identity crisis of sorts, trying to balance advancing technology, and cultural growth, against old fashioned historical roots; it just so happens that those roots happen to be whitewashed in Atlanta’s case.
I say all that to say this. I’m of the mindset that perspective is the single greatest thing a person can eek out of the uncomfortable trudge of life, and Atlanta has no shortage. On a day to day basis I see $60,000 parked next to the public restrooms dotting the edges of Hurt park, built by the city in response to the dozens of homeless men and women who call Atlanta “home.” In the same day I have seen a woman marching with fist held high, tears streaming down her face, as she moved silently with a Black Lives Matter protest, juxtaposed against a group of westboro-esque protesters equipped with signs, slurs, and god’s solemn retribution.
It’s obviously not perfect, but I believe that the imperfections which are reflecting out from just under the surface, are nothing more than than the seismic shiftings of Atlanta, ushering in a new, bizarre fantastical age which is made of equal parts whimsy, and grime.
As I said before the African American Majority is heavily present in the streets of modern Atlanta, and as an outside observer, I continue to be mesmerized by so much diversity existing so beautifully together. Feeling the various pulses and vibrations which each creation both living and otherwise sing to is an intoxicating experience. Perfect swelling harmony forming a sort of frantic concerto, which, resolves into the cool Georgia breeze with traces of ethereal trumpet, only to be dribbled with on the hot asphalt, while killer mike bumps in the background. This city is alive, breathing and grinding its gears ceaselessly. Perpetuating its own evolution. And we are the blood in its veins.
