Seriously, guys. I’ve had it up to here with this.
Okay, before we begin, I’d like to make you imagine something. (I’d say close your eyes, but then you wouldn’t be able to read this, so keep them open.)
Imagine that your beloved friend is finally coming for their very first visit at your house. You’re so excited for them to see the place that shaped who you are as a person: where all your memories were made, the things you love, all of it. You finally get to share it with them!
Then imagine that they walk in, wrinkle their nose, and go, “Ew. My house is nothing like this. This place sucks.”
Your heart sinks. All they do is point out every little crack in your house’s walls, every stain on the carpet. Their house is way better, they assure you. How anyone could live in this hovel, they have no idea.
You see how much that sucks? You see how wildly rude that is? Now imagine that this scenario is what keeps happening to me with out-of-state folks and Utah. They move here for college, for family, whatever. And for whatever reason, they also come prepared to burn Utah at the stake.
So, today I just want to take a moment to talk about why I love this state.
And, as an added bonus to prove that there’s no reason to be nasty about it, I’m going to do this without hating on a single other place in the world.
The Nature
I don’t ever want to hear anything against Utah’s nature. All of my memories are set against a backdrop of soaring mountains that are snow-covered guardians of the valley in the winter, blazing orange and red beacons in the fall, bright green towers in the summer, and a colorful mix of all in the spring. I don’t want to hear anything against the perfect clashing of desert and mountain, with cacti and pine trees and tumbleweeds and maples.
The fact that you can look up while driving down the highway and see red-tailed hawks circling lazily on updrafts of warm air. Bald eagles that come swooping through the mouth of the canyon. The ospreys, the peregrine falcons, the crows and ravens, the robins, the bright yellow tanagers, the wild turkeys, the pheasants, the troops of quail that come sprinting through my backyard. The three baby owls who nested there, or the massive adult owl that could be seen somberly watching me walk to school every morning. Our very own little biblical miracle in the seagulls that hop about in the parking lots.
The deer! The mother deer who came and gave birth to her babies in my backyard three springs in a row, and left them there to get their bearings while she went and found food. The timid fawn who came up and ate a half-rotted pear out of my brother’s hand while he was cleaning them up. The bucks who battled for dominance outside my bedroom window. The herds of deer, sometimes more than 30 strong, who come prancing through the neighborhood as if they own the place. (They do, of course.)
The moose who drink out of the river next to the walking trail, the Elk who can be seen walking up on the foothills in the deep winter, the antelope near the reservoir, the mountain goats who traverse Mount Timpanogos with their kids. The herd of fluffy dark cows who feed and water at that same trail up the canyon, politely watching passerby.
The swarms of bats who come swooping out after dark to eat up all of the pests and chitter amongst each other, and then roost on porch roofs and in the trees come daytime. The raccoons who sprint along the back fence when they think you aren’t watching. The coyotes out in the scrub brush. I don’t want to hear anything against the Junebugs — watermelon beetles — or against the choir of crickets that rise and fall with the heat in the summertime, or even against the tarantulas and jumping spiders. The garter snake who lives in our front yard’s crumbling concrete stairs, or the rattlesnakes that must be avoided if you bike early enough in the morning.
I can’t imagine anyone bold enough to hate the cascade of orange in the fall that lights the entire canyon up. Anyone stupid enough to hate the waterfalls pouring down the twisted, majestic sides of the mountains that were prehistoric ocean beds. The way that the light filters through the leaves in my backyard and how they rustle when the breeze blows through, and the mushrooms that push themselves up through the lawn. The rocks filled with fossils, the ground littered in petrified snail shells, the stripes that tell the history of millions of years raised above your head and on their way to heaven. The whistling the wind makes in the winter when it’s blowing snow around the house and against the window.
The way that tumbleweeds rattle their way across the road in the summertime, the thunderstorms that split the sky and pour hot rain down on everything. The way you can run barefoot all the way down to the high school down the hill and splash around in the flooded soccer field. The wintertime slip-and-slide of the icy streets, the puffs of fluff that drift off of the cottonwood trees in the spring.
The white-hot reflection of Utah Lake that always manages to look like a metallic stripe on your vision when the sun hits it, no matter where you are in the valley. The gradually-reddening rocks as you get further south, with their hoodoos and arches and grand views that are straight out of a sci-fi novel. The way that the clouds pour down the mountains like thick gravy during storms, or make the mountains disappear completely and let you hover in a void of pure white.
I don’t want to hear anyone say that this state isn’t beautiful, because I’ve seen it.
The People
It’s not how it looks that bothers me, your friend who spits upon your house says. It’s the people. The culture. (When they’re really being rude, the words “lack of” float in the air, unsaid)
I know. I know, I know, I know. You see some stupid people running about, with flags that promise hatred and stickers that assert their beliefs. I will tell you a secret: that is not a Utah exclusive. You can find people like that anywhere. You know who else you can find in Utah?
My neighbors across the street, who never hesitated to open their doors when we needed it, to care for us without ever expecting anything in return. Our neighbor who came over to give Henry shots in his stomach every night when Dad wasn’t home to do it. Neighbors who helped shovel our driveway when we were snowed in behind two feet of dense ice and slush.
Well, that’s different. They know you.
How about the stranger who ran up behind me to tell me that my backpack was unzipped and my folder had fallen out? How about the man holding up his laptop case on the frontrunner against the sun to shield a woman and her baby down the aisle from the glare? How about the women who rolled down their windows to shout that June was the cutest dog in the world as they drove past?
How about the summers of the librarians going out of their way to find every book on my list as a kid, the teacher who took her lunch break to help me with math when I was tearfully struggling and lagging behind my peers? How about the older queer folks who helped guide my cousins and I to the right train stop for our very first pride festival? How about them?
Did you know that my best friend all throughout growing up and I are probably at completely opposite ends of the political spectrum? Did you know that I say “probably” because it never factored into our friendship and never will?
How can I hate any state that harbors El Salvador, the best Salvadorian restaurant ever, staffed by abuelitas who gave my siblings and I hugs and kisses and praised our stilted, awkward spanish since we were little kids? How can I hate the murals that splash over the buildings of downtown Provo? How can I hate the vibrant architecture and alleged hauntings of Salt Lake? How can I possibly hate the cleanest and safest buses and trains I’ve ever been on in my life?
The self-aware laughter at the soda shops everywhere (our addiction industry is our best quality!) and the fact that they’re totally right, giant crazy drinks rule. Lagoon with its awful, spine-breaking rides that are older than old. The wetlands and wildlife reserves that are teeming with life because everyone cares for it and doesn’t want to see it go.
My Memories
Blistering feet on the road and hopping into the soft grass of the yards, the janky carnival rides of Strawberry Days and a million other festivals. The hot air balloons that launch up and drift over the valley. Staring out over that same valley and watching fireworks explode against the silhouette of bats eating their fill of mosquitos. Watching the street lights and neighborhoods light up as it gets dark.
The magic of falltime, with a suburban halloween paradise straight out of an 80’s movie, complete with pumpkins and decorations and kids in costumes going door to door. The cornfields and mazes, grown on actual farms. The fat, full moon rising up over the mountains and lighting up everything around it with a moon dog so bright it’s practically a halo.
Winter being white and quiet, and the odd feeling of being out late at night without a sound in the world and all of the light reflecting off the snow, bright as daytime and yet so dark. The flakes drifting from the puddles of light in the street lamps. Even when it’s not snowy, watching the most vibrant sunsets of your life set the valley on fire and then vanish with goosebumps up your spine at the stillness of it all.
Springtime bursting with blossoms and life, and every wildflower you can imagine splitting through the cold ground and the sun pouring over everything. Spending time in the backyard with my siblings as the air turns warmer and we can run around without my lungs hurting quite so badly.
Driving down the highway and passing Fear Factory, always so afraid of the mural on the side as a kid. The spires of the tiny defiant city of Salt Lake — yes we’re a capitol, deal with it, everyone! — that rise up. The paragliders floating over the mines. Thanksgiving Point putting animatronic dinosaurs into their gorgeous botanical gardens.
Listen to me now:
I know. I know that Utah is not perfect. I know there are problems and I know that it can be far too easy to spot them from a distance and tally them up in your mind. I know it can be easy to turn those tallies into prison bars, and feel as though you’re trapped in some hellish land you can’t wait to leave.
But guess what?
I love it here.
And it’s going to take a lot more than some weak complaints from people who refuse to get to know this place for me to stop loving it.
I leave you with these:
Photographic evidence of my lovely home, and a song that I feel captures the energy quite well.
Also, just as a quick PS: I don’t know what you’re trying to do when you act like Utah is a scummy place populated by scummy people, but mostly it just bums everyone out.
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