In my closet hangs a black sweatshirt, slightly worn and stretched, with the words “Memphis Music, Beale St., USA” splayed across its front. It’s a simple hooded pull-over, an article of clothing only meant to be worn in the chilly mornings of fall or the warmer days of winter. But even in the summer, when most consider sweatshirts completely useless and unnecessary, I feel the need to take mine out. Most of the time, I find myself content with just running my fingers across the raised letters of “Beale St.,” but in certain circumstances when I just need to escape, I pull it over my head, close my eyes, and let my mind wander. In these moments I revel in the bittersweet feeling of sadness and joy, entrapment and escape and let it wash over me in a wave of nostalgia. Because to me, this sweatshirt isn’t just to keep me protected from the wind and rain; it’s also to remind me that even though there will always be moments of despair and anguish, there will also always be places like Beale Street.

When I was a junior in high school, the days when sweatshirts were really just sweatshirts, my high school marching band was planning a trip to Memphis, Tennessee, to participate in the annual Liberty Bowl Marching Competition. We were to leave two days after Christmas, and arrive back home in the early morning of New Year’s Day. I was relatively looking forward to the four days, and it was the first and only time I could ever remember wishing that Christmas would hurry up and end.

My parents seemed to be thinking along the same lines. Only one day after Christmas, they announced their divorce. The tree and stockings were still out as my father sat us down and explained his decision to terminate his 23 years of marriage with my mother. My younger sister cried shamelessly in my mother arms, while my older sister screamed insults at our father through angry tears of resentment. My twin sister got up and immediately left to the sanctity of the bedroom we shared, leaving me with nowhere to go. I sat there in shocked silence, not knowing what to do or how to even begin to cope. I never thought my parents would get an Unmentionable, and now I was faced with not only the thought of it but the actual act.

In the emotional turmoil, I completely forgot all about the band trip, so when my mother tentatively mentioned that she was not going to be able to help chaperone (she thought maybe she could smooth things over with my father), a new thought penetrated my cloud of despair. I was leaving tomorrow. I could forget all about it.

And I did. It was easier than I ever hoped it could be, because in Memphis, nothing mattered but the competition. For four days and three nights, my parents weren’t getting the Unmentionable. I busied myself with practice sessions, warm-ups, pep talks and encouraging lectures, as well as fun and laughter, so there could be no room for negative thoughts. As I celebrated with my fellow band members and friends over our victory at the Liberty Bowl Marching Competition and parade, I was not worrying about how I would choose which parent to live with. As I visited the Rock n’ Soul Museum and watched a rodeo, I was not wondering how my mother would live without my father’s income. And as I wandered about Beale Street with my twin sister, we did not discuss the Unmentionable, but enjoyed each other’s company and laughed along with our friends.

There is no better place to forget than Beale Street. With its dozens of pubs, restaurants, and shops, bursting with blues and jazz, you can easily lose yourself and your problems. I had never heard of Beale Street until I was in Memphis, and looking back, I can’t imagine how I couldn’t have. Beale Street is the heart and soul of Memphis: it is what makes the city alive! There were street musicians on every corner, strumming their guitars or bellowing out through wind instruments the music of the Gods--music that literally fed the soul. People were everywhere: laughing, talking, singing, dancing. The air was crackling with excitement and sound, and every shop had bright colors, neon signs and spotlights that drowned out the ever-present night sky. The only experience that was better than winning the Liberty Bowl competition was simply walking down the cobblestone streets of that beautiful cultural hotspot.

The only downside to the night that I was visiting Beale Street was the weather. The previous day was a tolerable 50 °F, but for some reason, it was miserably cold that night. There was a drizzling, misty rain that felt like small icicles on my bare skin, and I was shivering from head to toe. I remember coming out of the steamy diner I ate at, feeling the rain stab my flushed face, and asking where the nearest shop was. I had about fifty dollars in my pocket, and I needed something to shield me from the dismal weather. We entered the first shop we saw, and I bought a considerably cheap hoodie, walked out, and pulled it over my head. It smelled like smoke and rain, just like the air around me, and it was comfortable and warm.

With the hoodie on, the rest of the night was a relaxing venture filled with fun and excitement. We met some incredible musicians, and I even bought some cheap novelty items for my parents: a travel coffee mug for my father and a picture frame for my mother. It was the first time I thought about either of them during the trip, but in my mind they were still together, a unified thought. Because on Beale Street, everything was right in the world.

After we got back to the hotel, and as I got ready to go to bed, I stuffed the sweatshirt into my suitcase and forgot about it.

When I returned home in the first hours of 2011, I found out that my father had moved out while we were gone and my mother was in a state of overwhelming grief. As the Unmentionable became Inescapable, my delusion of happiness shattered. I unpacked that morning, guilty that I was not yet able to face my mother and was looking for any excuse to escape to the solitude of my bedroom.

I felt it before I saw it. The sweatshirt was balled up, and as I shook it out, the smoky smell of Beale Street engulfed me. Before I knew what I was doing, I pressed my face into the soft fabric, inhaling with all my might the air of Beale Street, trapped in its fibers. The smell transported me back to only a few days earlier, where it was drizzling icy rain and I was in another world, a world where my parents were still married and the Unmentionable was Inconceivable. I put it on that night, curled into a ball, and fell asleep with the smoky rainy smell billowing around me. That night, I dreamt of Beale Street.

In the months that followed, I slowly learned to deal with my parents’ divorce. I got used to going over to my dad’s every weekend and shopping frugally with my mother. Once I learned that divorce wasn’t the worst thing that could happen, I was able to begin the healing process. Looking back, the post-Christmas declaration was somewhat cruel, but the escape to Memphis was perfectly coordinated, and I’m not sure how I would have been able to deal with the situation if I hadn’t had the opportunity to take a step back and breathe. Memphis, Beale Street, and the sweatshirt let me do that.

The day after I arrived back home, I washed the sweatshirt along with my other clothes. To my horror, I found that I erased the most obvious trace of Beale Street away. To me, the smell of that smoky, icy rain was a much more connectable representation of Beale Street than even the words that spelled out its origins on the front of the sweatshirt. That fresh, laundered smell was slightly off-putting, as it didn’t mix well with the sweatshirt or where it came from. But even though the sweatshirt’s smell faded, its warmth and comfort never did. When I see it hanging in my closet, even after all the washes, it still brings me back to Memphis, Tennessee. The fond memories mix with bitter recollections as I remember the escape, as well as what I escaped from. And even when the weather outside is warm and sunny, or I’m having a bad day and need some comfort, I can put it on, close my eyes, and see the brilliance of Beale Street.

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