From the Editor-in-Chief

For decades, I made New Year resolutions. Spend less. Save more. Go to the gym. Lose 15 pounds.

None of it ever happened.

In the last few years, that list has shimmied down to one: Be kind. The older I get, the less impressed I am with anything but kindness.

Sadly, I care about it more in a world where it happens less and less.

I grew up in St. Louis under the proverbial crystal bell jar. I had warm and loving parents; my sister, brother, and I wanted for nothing; we lived in a lovely house in University City; we went to great schools, and we all made wonderful friends—several we still consider our nearest and dearest.

Christy Marshall, Sophisticated Living St. Louis Editor-in-Chief

But there were hairline cracks in the glass. Hate crept in. When I was six, my father hired a couple from Mississippi to take care of our farm. Sam and Leler Scurlock. You could not find finer people. Period. They were simply the best — in every way. But they were also the first Black Americans to move into our patch of Jefferson County. The reaction was horrific. Feces left in our mailbox. Threats. Hateful telephone calls interspersed with obscenities. I remember once when my brother, Jay, and I answered the phone. I stood next to him sharing the receiver but not really understanding what was being shouted. But I felt the hate when I heard it. Jay, then about 9, gathered all his nerve and timidly admonished the man spewing the venom. Then he hung up.

I couldn’t fathom what being ostracized for simply being who you are was until years later. After college, I moved to London thinking I had a job when, without a work visa in my name, it suddenly vanished. I had to pivot quickly and find another. I became an au pair in a tiny town outside of Glasgow. It was idyllic except for the fact that I was a Protestant and the family who hired me was Catholic. They didn’t care but everyone else in the town certainly did. The line was drawn. It wasn’t Northern Ireland but it felt an awful lot like it. The village’s priest had to hire a Protestant housekeeper because the local store wouldn’t sell him food. One day walking home, I encountered a small band of lads who threw rocks at me at the same time they loudly damned me as a “Proddy dog.”

Of course, while it was stunning, it was nothing, absolutely nothing, in comparison to what others have suffered.

I grew up in a world where manners were paramount; speaking back to an adult forbidden; where you did your best to stick to the script your parents handed you practically at birth.

Today, the rules have changed. People sass back and are cruel. Really cruel. We see it every day. Everywhere. 24/7. We live now in a world when public figures mock people with disabilities. Where people call each other names … on national tv. Where all kinds of racism runs rampant. Where danger dominates and where kindness is scarce. Far. Too. Scarce.

Our world has evolved into a perilous place. The new circuit attorney, Gabe Gore, assured me that he feels no fear living and working in downtown St. Louis. Maybe not. But the week after that interview, a person was murdered in an apartment on Wydown in Clayton. There was a carjacking in Ladue. Maybe Mr. Gore doesn’t feel fear in the city because nowhere is safe anymore. We live in a nation where there are 120 guns for every 100 Americans and in a state that eschews federal firearms mandates. It’s terrifying.

So I’ve decided that my resolution for 2024 is to fight for the underdog, help the vulnerable, advocate for sanity—and against haters.

To do the right thing.

And, above all else and without exception, to be kind.

Christy Marshall

EditorSTL@slmag.net