Loving Our Limitations

I'm as interested as the next guy in civic improvements, and Jack Neely's recent suggestions for bringing class to the Dogwood Arts Festival ["April in Knoxville," Vol. 8, No. 11] were generally useful and imaginative. Still, it seems to me that saying any Knoxville undertaking is too tacky is like complaining that the Empire State Building is too tall.

Like all the people Jack tried to interview who wouldn't go on the record bad-mouthing the festival, I also hesitate to enter into a discussion of Knoxville's limitations. I'm not worried that I'll step on people's toes but just that I'll be misunderstood. You see, I like Knoxville, limitations and all. In fact, Knoxville's "limitations" are exactly what I like about her. If this is a town of modest achievements, I say, "Right on." At one time modesty was widely regarded as a virtue. I think Knoxville makes an art form of modesty, takes lack of pretension to a higher level, and if in the process she exhibits tackiness, ugliness, even bad taste—well, as Lenin said, you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs.

I'm not from Knoxville originally. I've lived in places like New York and San Francisco, where large segments of the population nurse the illusion that they are sitting in the cockpit of the universe and that, like Mickey Mouse in "The Sorcerer's Apprentice," they're directing the motions of the planets and stars.

Knoxville, on the other hand, is the capital of Appalachia. This is a region that has historically suffered chronic failure, bitter poverty, and the ridicule of the rest of the nation. The only president from East Tennessee fell into the job by accident, was impeached, and nearly thrown from office. The World's Fair was a bust and the organizers went to jail. Chris Whittle built a grand palace to house his publishing empire, and the empire collapsed three years later.

Even in areas where things go right, like Tennessee football, they seldom go right enough. This is what Knoxville cares most about, and where her frustration is greatest. Year after year it's been Alabama, and after Alabama Florida, spoiling that perfect season. The Vols finish number nine in the national polls, maybe number seven, possibly number six, but never ever number one. Knoxville was born to be laughed at by Steve Spurrier.

And what does that do to the town's psyche? There are some pretty terrible effects, I suspect, for those people who think winning is all there is. People who believe they can run the universe tend to leave here and move to New York or California, as Jack Neely's "Secret History" repeatedly shows. But for people who believe in living with what life hands you, in making adjustments, in compromise, in making do, in getting by, in modest fun, this is your town. If you want perfection in Knoxville, you learn to set football aside and study women's basketball.

As for the knickknacks and greasy treats displayed on Market Square at dogwood time, they seem to me a perfect outgrowth of the artifacts displayed in John Rice Irwin's barn at the Museum of Appalachia. I think the Dogwood Arts Festival is true to the soul of Knoxville. If the festival drew the musicians that Irwin brings to his homecomings each year, I'd be a lot happier with it. But I in no way expect this town to look like Asheville every April. Asheville is artsy because it's a summer community for Northeastern millionaires, and that's what they like to see. When I feel like seeing that stuff, Asheville is close enough for me to get to. When I want to play Faust, I can hop on an airplane, fly to New York, and pump adrenaline through my body.

But Knoxville is where I choose to live. Knoxville is not just my home, it's my hideout. All the speed freaks out there "making a difference" in America don't even think about Knoxville, let alone come here. And that leaves me free to get on with my life.

John Yates
Knoxville