THE RIGHT PLACE

Dear Spike:

Our Mormon friends would argue that it was a matter of divine inspiration. I'm in no position to say they're wrong, though I've got another theory.

The Day was July 24, 1847. The Mormon leader Brigham Young had just crossed over the Wasatch Mountain range with his band of religious refugees. Looking out over the desert that would become Salt Lake City, Young said, "this is the right place."

The place where Young's party rested when he made the decision to make this place his church's Zion is just a few miles up the road from our home. And until I stood there — and in lieu of any better explanation — I was willing to go with the "divine inspiration" theory.

But from that spot, what you see is miles and miles of desert — followed by another range of rugged mountains. I think Young — who was sick with Rocky Mountain spotted fever and unable to even walk for himself — had simply had enough. And so this was the place.

One hundred and sixty-two years later, the state of Utah still pauses each July 24 to celebrate Pioneer Day (or, as it was once called, The Day of Deliverance) — a day that is met with greater revelry and far greater reverence than the day that marks our nation's independence, three weeks earlier.

There are festivals and fireworks and a parade so grand that thousands of people camp out the previous night to ensure a spot along the miles-long route.

This was all quite difficult for us to understand when we moved here. And even today your mother and I still marvel at the spectacle. Each year on Pioneer's Eve, we ride the parade route on my motorcycle in order to better appreciate the throngs of people sleeping in tents and lounging on blow-up mattresses. And we shake our heads in wonder.

The next morning, scores of church-sponsored parade floats, all celebrating the virtues of the pioneers (though conspicuously disregarding the role that polygamy played in the founding of this state) roll right by our home. Bands play. Soldiers march. Missionaries strut in their starched white shirts and ties. And Brigham Young's most recent successor — at the moment a curmudgeonly looking guy named Thomas Monson — gets a standing ovation as his convertible rolls down the road with the Latter-day version of the Secret Service jogging alongside.

It's all so easy to mock. And we do.

But there's also a lesson to be learned from Young, his polygamous tribe and the worldwide religious movement it spawned.

Young's followers could have noted — just as easily as I did when I first stood at the mouth of what has come to be known as Emigration Canyon — the dubiousness of their leader's choice of the Salt Lake Valley as their new home. Instead they built a city – one of the most beautiful in this nation.

However they got here, they were here. And they made due.

We could spend each July 24 decrying the ridiculous spectacle and the farcical way it came into existence. Instead we celebrate. We gather our friends for mimosas and bloody marys. Your mother cooks up some Jell-O.* And after a few belts we saunter down to watch the parade and cheer the Saints as they go Marchin'.

However we got here, we're here. And we make due.

Life doesn't always makes sense. And whether that's divine inspiration or dumb luck, it doesn't really matter.

No matter how you got here, you're here. So make due.

Love,
dad

* The official desert of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

OH HOLY HECK

Dear Spike:

I couldn't help but sigh when your social security card came in the mail, a few weeks after you were born. The nine digits on that baby will follow you around for the rest of your life, giving employers, insurers, creditors, educators and the government a way to keep tabs on you.  

The idea that Big Brother already had you on his grid was depressing enough. But it was those first three numbers were especially depressing. Most folks don't know it, but that prefix is code for the state in which you were born. 

And so, no matter where you go, what you do or what place you ultimately come to think of as your home, you will always be a...

... sigh ... 

... Utahn.

Your mother and I came to Salt Lake City thinking it was a good stepping stone to somewhere else. A rest stop on the road of life. We figured we'd spend a few years here en route to another place — probably a bigger town on the west coast. 

Portland would have been nice. Seattle too. San Francisco or San Diego, oh yeah.

We'd leave Los Angeles to your Aunt Kelly, but anywhere else would have been swell.

But we found a nice home here, right across the street from one of the coolest city parks in the country. We found some good friends, too. We grew to love the mountains and got used to the sweltering summers. The winters? I hardly even notice the cold anymore. And every time it snows, I glance up at the canyons, do a little fist pump, and check our bank account to see if there's enough in there for a lift ticket. 

When you came along, we did some thinking about the issue and recognized that this wouldn't be too bad a place to raise a kid.

The clincher came when your mother got hired at the elementary school a few blocks away. It wasn't just the proximity. She'd found a place where she was making a difference — a place where like-minded people were teaching their guts out and where it really mattered that they were.

And yeah, the five-minute bike ride was nice, too. Suddenly, neither of us had a commute. You can't put a price on that. 

I like this place. I like our life here. And if we end up staying here for the rest of our lives, I wouldn't be sad about it. 

But for whatever reason, I've resisted calling myself a Utahn. Maybe it's just that the word is so funny. Maybe it's that, for whatever reason, I've long held onto the very Californian idea that being from California makes you so much cooler than being from anywhere else. And maybe it's that, for whatever reason, I really came to feel like an Oregonian during the six years I lived there — a period in which I found my calling and found your mother. (And yes, I love the rain. I love, love, love, love, love the rain.)

Or maybe it's that, for most of my life, Utah was little more than an endless plain of salt, a stinky lake, a boring desert, a place so desolate that, after being run out of every other town on the continent, a sect of religious fundamentalists managed to form its own polygamous nation without anyone really noticing or caring, because — hey — it was only Utah.

 

So for all the effort this state has put into re-marketing itself — and it is true, absolutely true, that Utah has "the greatest snow on Earth" — I just couldn't bring myself to call myself a Utahn. 

But you? You were ... 

... are ... 

... forever will be ...

... oh holy heck ...

... fer goodness sake ... 

... gol' dang't fetch ...

... a Utahn. 

At least, that's what your social security card says. I resolved, however, to raise you up like the west-coaster I know you really are.

But there's nature... 

... and there's nurture ...

... and then there is everything else.

And today you reminded me that no matter how hard your mother and I try, there will be parts of this place that will seep into your veins, that will course through your body and that will, alas, confirm that three-digit prefix is accurate. 

It was no small slap in the face that all you did, to make me realize all of that, was to repeat something I said. 

We were at the dinner table and your mother passed me a napkin.

"Thanks," I said, wiping the corner of my mouth. " 'preciate it."

" 'preciate it!" you repeated. 

I dropped the napkin and stared at you.

" 'preciate it!" you said again. " 'preciate it!"

I shook my head. Your mother laughed hysterically. And you just beamed. 

We're Utahns.

Fine.

But if you ever so much as think of cheering for BYU, you'll be out on the street faster than you can say "Provo." 

Love,

dad

OF THE SAINTS

Dear Spike:

We had some friends over, yesterday morning, for our annual Pioneer Day Parade-watching party.

Here's how it works: We gather some friends together, fill a bunch plastic cups with Mimosas and Bloody Marys, then walk a half-block over to the north entrance of Liberty Park, which also happens to be the end of the parade route. There's just something wacky and fun about the combination of friends, alcohol and a parade marking a state holiday that completely belies the idea that there is ANY such thing as a separation between church and state in Utah.

(Pioneer Day marks the day that Brigham Young led a group of Mormon settlers into the Salt Lake Valley on July 24, 1847. In Utah it rates a bigger parade and fireworks show than Independence Day.)

Barring any sudden and unexpected revelations bringing our family into the fold of this state's Mormon faithful, you're going to be raised as a Gentile in these parts. At the best you'll be considered an outsider. At the worst you'll be called a sinner.

Your mother and I try to meet the unique challenges of living in this state with a grain of salt and a dose of humor. When some of our Mormon friends gave our phone number to the church, (which promptly dispatched a team of missionaries to the case of our eternal salvation,) we handed their info over to the Jehovah's Witnesses. Fair is fair, after all.

You'll figure out your own way to deal with being a religious minority. But here's what I don't want you to do: I don't want you to hate.

Growing up in California, several of my best friends were Mormon. To me, they were no different than my friends who were Catholic, Buddhist or Muslim. They simply worshipped a bit different than my family did.

Here things are a bit different. Being Mormon is not just religious — it's cultural. And like anywhere else where there is a predominant culture, sometimes those in charge have a hard time being nice to those who aren't. That shouldn't be considered a reflection of their religion, which is founded on the same principals of peace, tolerance and human decency as most other religions.

Fact is, I wouldn't be ashamed if you wanted to convert. We all find our way in different ways.

You wouldn't get to come to the annual drunken Parade-watching party, of course, but we'd cheer for you as you marched in the parade with the rest of the Saints.

Love,
dad