My Blog

Too Perfect

Mon, 21 Sep 2009 16:46:18 -0600

Last Sunday I attended mass at the cathedral. Both the weather and the walk along South Temple were beautiful. There was a hint of autumn crispness in the air and the shadows had begun to assume the length and angle that is associated with fall.

I arrived five minutes before services began and took my place in the eastern transept. I was sitting alone and distraction free, so it was easy to let my attention rest on the family sitting in front of me.

The man and wife were an attractive couple in their mid thirties. He was anglo with brown hair and a trim build. She was stylishly if conservatively dressed, quite thin, and with black hair and a dark complexion. Their three children could have been manufactured at Disneyland. The boy and his two sisters ranged from a toddler to about five years old. They were all cute, neatly groomed and well behaved.

As the service progressed, what I noticed most about them was how they related to one another. The children were quiet, but demonstrably affectionate, especially toward their mother. The husband also treated his wife with special tenderness, at one point bridging an arm over their youngest child and placing his hand on her far shoulder.

I was touched by this scene of familial affection, but also a bit jealous. Here I was, a single ex-husband living in estrangement from my own family, and here was this other family... a model of warm and caring perfection. The gap between who they were, and who I was, couldn't have been more marked.

As time went on the husband placed his hand on his wife's cheek and then he stroked her hair. One little girl put her head lovingly in her mother's lap. The boy sitting furthest away leaned forward, looked over to his mother and smiled.

Now my envy began to verge toward resentment. This scene was not only too perfect, it was too much. Watching from behind I began to be suspicious of their motives. Were they simply hoping to draw attention to their own wholesomeness?. Was it all for effect? I wondered, If they were not in church, would they ask us all to witness this same level of care and affection?

I was doubtful.

At that point, the husband looked over to his wife and pointed to the tip of his nose. She began to turn her head in his direction and I saw that her nose was running. He was signaling to her that she needed to use a tissue. My first unworthy thought was, "Good, here finally is something real, something humbling; something to mitigate all the perfection we've been forced to witness."

Then, as her head turned more fully in her husband's direction, I saw that tears were streaming down her cheek. Obviously, she was saddened by something unknown to me - something outside this moment, and outside this church. All the tenderness and care, from both her husband and children, were meant to comfort some unseen grief. The hugs, the smiles, the caressing were all forms of consolation.

Their care was not exaggerated, it was marvelously appropriate. And I felt like a fool.

Exactly What Are We Remembering?

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 19:52:06 -0600

Today I took a long walk in the direction of downtown. About midway I passed by a tall apartment building, and in front of that building was a cluster of American flags and a large sign picturing the head of an eagle. The eagle looked imperious, vigilant and more than a little predatory. (If I'd been a squirrel, I'd been busy looking for a hole.) Next to the eagle were the words "Remember 9/11" written in bold imperative letters.

Signs like that were common in the few years following that horrible day in 2001. But now some years have passed since I've seen a similar sign, and it caused me to reflect for a moment. Perhaps from the distance of almost ten years it’s now easier to look at such a sign and speculate as to its meaning. Of course, back when the wound was fresh few of us reflected. Fewer still asked questions.

On a superficial level the sign's message is clear. We're being told to remember 9/11. However, the more important questions are why, and for what purpose?

Are we being asked to remember so that we can forgive? Are we being asked to remember so that we can better understand why 9/11 happened? Are we being asked to remember so that we can avoid whatever mistakes we might have made that contributed to this disaster?

Good arguments could be made to support any of these reasons, but all of us know that none of them motivated the placement of that sign. Despite whatever justifications might be used to explain it, the sign simply tells us to hold on to our sense of grievance, anger and retribution. (And perhaps a quick prayer for the widows and orphans might also be nice.)

"Remember 9/11" has the same meaning as "Remember the Alamo," "Remember the Maine," and "Remember Pearl Harbor." It's simply an appeal to blind patriotism and martial spirit wrapped up in a motto to which no one can take exception. It's a sort of code that bills itself as something virtuous, while underneath the real message is a good deal more complicated.

Every year when 9/11 comes around my heart stops for a moment. But signs like this do nothing to alleviate the horror, or give any meaning to such a terrible sacrifice.

Into The Night

Mon, 14 Sep 2009 10:32:51 -0600

A few nights ago BYU's football team beat #3 ranked Oklahoma by 14 to 13. It was a thrilling victory.

I'm not a BYU fan, in fact I graduated from the University of Utah so I live under a perpetual obligation to hate BYU. However, I work with a good friend who, through no fault of his own, is equally obliged to support BYU. Therefore, I took special interest in the contest and allowed my friend to keep me apprised of its progress until our store closed at 7:00 PM.

The doors were locked just as half-time was about to begin. So I decided to stop by a sports bar, have dinner, and watch the end of the contest. The place I visited was "Batters Up." It's located downtown and near Salt Lake's minor league ball park. It has a decent tap and good food. The game was close until the very end, and in spite of myself I got caught up in the enthusiasm for BYU. It was a contagious excitement that afflicted the entire crowd, most of which would normally have gravitated toward the University of Utah.

The game ended in victory just as I quaffed my last beer and swallowed my last nacho. I walked out into the parking lot, sat on my scooter and enjoyed the cool night air. My mood was upbeat and hanging in the sky was a harvest moon that was large, liquid and cream colored. It was a particularly pleasant moment, and it was easy to sit there and postpone my ride home.

Finally, I pulled the scooter to vertical and reached down to turn the ignition. Just then a woman passing by on the sidewalk stopped to say, "Nice motorcycle."

"Well, actually it's a scooter,” I said, “but thanks."

"You know, I've never had a ride on a scooter."

She was a woman close to fifty and her manner was positive and candid. So, in the context of the moment her thinly disguised request deserved consideration. I said, "Jump on, there's no time like the present."

With some apologies for her "old bones" she found the rear foot rest and swung her leg over the back seat. Then off we went traveling north on State Street.

We shared some abbreviated small talk, or about as much you'd expect between two strangers on a scooter. However, for the most part the experience was entirely about the ride. The night was perfect and when we reached the top of capitol hill the view was exquisite. Laid out before us were that full moon, the Rockies, a vast carpet of city lights and a well-lit cluster of skyscrapers that constitute Salt Lake's city center.

If you could choose one time and one place to have your only scooter ride, that night and that place would probably be it.

On the way back she spoke about her job at a fast food restaurant. She asked me what I did for a living, and I told her. Like me, it seemed that her spirits were elevated by the brief and pleasant experience we had just enjoyed together. Within a few moments we were closing in on the parking lot where the ride had started, and where I intended to drop her off and wish her well.

It was at that moment that she asked me if I was a police officer.

I made the quick assumption that this conversation was going in an unpleasant direction. And indeed it was. I answered that "No," I was not a policeman, and then I waited for the expected proposition. It came, and along with it a sense that I'd been foolish, or gullible, or both, and the entire episode wasn't as pure and blameless as I had hoped.

As we pulled to a stop I searched for a response that would disguise my disappointment, and avoid a tone that was judgmental. Maybe part of that effort was for her, but most of it was my own desire to retrieve something good from an experience that a few moments before had seemed so perfect.

What I said I don't rightly remember. But whatever it was, it seemed to have the desired effect. She got off the scooter quite clear about what was not going to happen, yet seemingly without rancor or offense. Though perhaps in her line of work taking offense is not an easy thing to do.

Right then, if either of us felt diminished by what had just happened, it seemed to be me. She began to walk away and I simply sat there feeling foolish and deflated. Had I been stupid to believe that the ride up capitol hill had also mattered to her? Was I blind to the fact that the pure moment, the marvelous view, the perfect night, and the full moon had counted only for me? Was the joy of that earlier moment entirely my own invention?

No sooner had that series of thoughts crossed my mind than she stopped. Without a word she turned around, walked back in my direction, and then planted a kiss on the top of my bald head. That done she smiled, turned back around and disappeared into the night.

Indian Groceries Sold Here

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 11:31:32 -0600

On 4th South and 9th East there's a convenience store that's been there for decades. When I was a student at the University of Utah, well over thirty years ago, it was a "7-11." Since then it has passed out of corporate ownership and become a family owned enterprise. Still, its mission of selling milk, eggs and bread hasn't changed much. There are a million just like it all over the country.

However, in the front window of this particular store is a sign that reads "Indian Groceries Sold Here."

For a moment I'd like to discuss my initial reaction to that sign.

When I was growing up in Utah there was a small native american population in the Salt Lake valley. Most Ute Indians lived in the southeastern part of the state, but even in Salt Lake the tribe had a slender and stable population. My guess is that American Indians must have numbered less then one or two percent of the total metro area, but still, if someone made reference to "an Indian" you made an automatic assumption. They were talking about an American Indian, and probably a Ute Indian.

Decades of living out of state caused me to make that same assumption when I first saw this "Indian Groceries" sign. Unconsciously, my assumption was reinforced by another sign in that same window offering support for the University of Utah Utes... complete with arrows and feathers.

A list of my initial reactions would include...

* Isn't that nice, Ute Indians have a place to buy Indian food
It's great to see a store owned and operated by Ute Indians
The Ute population must have thrived if a downtown store can cater to Indian preferences
Interesting, this Indian business displays the Ute team logo. Years ago many Indians thought a sports team using their tribal name was pejorative and condescending

A few months later I actually visited the store and I learned what you've probably already guessed. The "Indians" who owned this store were from India, and the food they were selling was long on curry and short on corn. When I was growing up "East Indians," as we called them then, were hardly even a factor. Obviously, today that all has changed.

It's wonderful that Salt Lake now has an east Indian community. They're good hard-working people, and God knows that the Utah of my youth badly needed diversity.

However, a part of me wishes that my first ill-informed impression could have been true. It would be nice to have returned to a Salt Lake were native Americans now prospered and had become a growing and well integrated part of our population. Unfortunately, whatever promise there might have been thirty years ago - or even a hundred years ago - that this could someday happen has gone unfulfilled.

And I wonder, for kids growing up here today, are the "Utes" primarily an athletic team, and secondly an historical curiosity?

And as for the Indians they are most likely to know, would all of them be Moslem or Hindu?

Antelope Island

Tue, 8 Sep 2009 16:28:17 -0600

On Sunday I visited Antelope Island. It’s the largest island in the Great Salt Lake and is 42 square miles in size. Antelope Island is only a few miles from the eastern shore of the lake and perhaps fifteen miles from the border of Salt Lake City. However, it seems like it’s a thousand miles from civilization. For the most part it is barren and treeless with harsh rocky features that provoke interest and curiosity, but are profoundly uninviting. In short, it’s a great place to visit (maybe once), but who would want to live there?

But people did live there at one time. After the Mormons entered the Salt Lake Valley the church appropriated it as grazing land for horses and cattle. A small ranch house and a few other buildings were established near a spring and a few hardy souls were charged with attending to the animal herds. After a decade the church relinquished its operations and turned it over to someone named Fielding Garr who in turn passed it along to a man named Stringham, and after Stringham it wound up in the hands of a series of corporations.

From the arrival of Brigham Young, and for the next hundred and twenty-five years a small cadre of people tended to the work of ranching on the island. It must have been a lonely and solitary existence. Until the 1950’s they were without electricity or telephone, and mail was a very occasional thing.

My original supposition was that the inhabitants must have been almost entirely male, and of the independent laconic type popular in cowboy legend. For stretches of time that may have been true, but it wasn’t always true. When Stringham owned grazing rights on the island his primary occupation was running a butcher shop in Salt Lake City.

However, Mr. Stringham was polygamous and he had many wives to attend to. One of those wives, probably his original wife, remained with him in Salt Lake City. The three other subsidiary wives were left on the island to run the ranch and tend to the needs of their children.

Imagine what life on the island must have been like for those women. All married to the same distant man and living on an island that seemed as far away as Mars, and in some ways even resembled Mars. How did they all get along? What would have occupied their hearts and minds? How did they reconcile themselves to that kind of life?

It’s hard to even guess.