Uncategorized – Page 2 – Marianne Hales

Salmon in a Small Town: Payson’s Annual Traffic Jam

Payson has been putting on its Salmon Supper since 1954 and in all those years they never learned how to handle a crowd. This is so popular that groups get bussed in (if you are on such a bus you can get in line an hour earlier than the unwashed masses) but they have doggedly stuck with the one-long-line protocol for feeding the masses.

The line went up and around an entire large city block and took nearly two hours from start to salmon. The wait was exacerbated by large groups of people cutting the line every few minutes. There was no provision for line control or indication of who should go where. When I asked someone in line if this was the line for ticket holders or for those wishing to purchase tickets she just shrugged and said “it’s the everything line.” In fact, we didn’t see an event worker until an hour and a half into the wait when someone walked around asking people if they already had tickets. So, presumably, one could wait an hour and a half in line before finding out they were in the wrong line (don’t worry, we had bought our tickets online).

Actually, pre-purchase of the tickets is the only thing that kept us in line. I had heard how amazing the Payson Salmon Supper was but as I stood there, one bead of sweat tripping down my spine, I realized that all of these glowing reports came from people who live in a landlocked state, people who may never have even seen the ocean, much less eaten transcendent salmon. If I hadn’t already been $16/head into this crazy idea I would have cut my losses then and there. But I was in too deep.

I sent the elderly and the young children to a bench in the park and my oldest child and I started the long, hot walk to dinner. It wasn’t the worst line I’ve ever been in, really. There was only one brief encounter with a cigarette smoker who felt that walking a few steps away from the line (up wind) was sufficient to keep us all from smoking his cigarette with him (don’t worry, I complained on Facebook; he somehow heard my subliminal chastisement and put it out). After an hour we got some cloud cover and a gentle breeze (helpful for those who wished to enjoy their neighbor’s cigarette smoke).

At the three quarters mark we were close enough to hear the announcer’s punny salmon jokes and see the rest of our group on their chosen bench (somehow in those two hours they never thought to snag a seat at the tables). When we finally finally finally made it to the ticket taker and the folks handing out food I knew for sure I was in Utah because every single one of them (who had surely had a much longer day than I had) was unfailingly friendly and cheerful.

When my daughter hesitated about getting the coleslaw the guy said, “You’ve been in line for a really long time. You’re gonna want the coleslaw.” Thank you, Coleslaw Man, for acknowledging our pain! Another worker (I believe she was the Potato Lady), upon hearing that my daughter read an entire novel in line, told us about the Payson Library’s great summer reading programs. I was resignedly irritated when we entered the actual, active, food-on-a-plate line but when we emerged with almost more food than two people could carry (we really should have recalled our bench people when we got to the plates) I was downright chipper.

I wanted to hug all of my fellow line-waiters. We made it! I didn’t dare indulge in hoping for this moment when we slogged through our shared trauma but now we are free. We are free and we have ridiculously large slabs of salmon! And corn! And cookies! And rolls! And coleslaw! We have coleslaw! We gathered our bench sitters, found a spot at the tables, and vacuumed up the food like the ravenous fools that we were.

Was it good? Yes. Was our judgment colored by the fact that we were at the weeping stage of hunger? Yes. Will we ever go again? No. Friends, the next time I spend $71 on dinner someone else is going to carry it to the table. The next time I devote four hours to acquiring food (Payson is a bit of a drive for us) it’s going to be because we are lingering over dessert and entranced by the sparkling conversation of our fellow diners. And the next time I crave transcendent salmon? I’m going to go on a road trip and not stop until we hit a coastal city. But if I feel like spending an evening with kind-hearted, generous folks I’ll just stay here in Utah (but I’ll eat before we get to the park).

**This article first appeared in the Southern Utah Independent on September 16, 2017: Salmon in a Small Town: Payson’s Annual Traffic Jam

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Hating thy neighbor

I wrote my column a week or so ago and was typing it up for my deadline, but every word I typed seemed frivolous in light of what happened in Charlottesville, Virginia recently. I typed up that sentence, and it sat on my computer like that for several days as I went back-to-school shopping and got paint brushes for a project in the basement. I went kayaking with my nieces, nephew, and children. The whole thing went in and out of my consciousness because it is horrifying but distant and my skin is about one shade darker than albino. I live in a majority white state that votes Republican. That picture of the rally (the one with the ridiculous tiki torches) contains people who look like people I know. One in particular could be the twin of a man I know only peripherally, and I have to admit that after the shock of having neighbors who voted for our current president, I found myself thinking that if that happened to actually be this man, I knew I wouldn’t be surprised.

And then I watched HBO’s Vice News episode “Charlottesville: Race and Terror” and words like “horrifying” seemed too frivolous to use in response to what happened this past weekend. The episode had a reporter (Elle Reeve) interviewing and shadowing a white nationalist leader (Christopher Cantwell) before, during, and after the rally and the events surrounding the rally. First, we see the chanting, which will ring in my nightmares forever: “Whose streets? Our streets! Whose streets? Our streets!” or alternately “You will not replace us” and “Jews will not replace us.” So much anger was wrapped up in that mob of people who individually could probably very easily overpower me physically. We rely upon the decency of others so much in our everyday lives. We forget how vulnerable each of us is to people who decide not to be decent. It was terrifying to watch these men chant, even from the safe position of thousands of miles away behind a computer screen. And I’m white, so they’d have to talk to me before they realized they hated me enough to kill me. Yes, kill me. That is not hyperbole. That is just about a direct quote.

Christopher Cantwell not only vehemently denounces any small suggestion that he is a nonviolent protestor, he lays out the weapons he was personally wearing, and it covers the bedspread. Oh yeah, and then he says that the next rally will be even better because more people will die. I don’t make a habit of watching videos of white supremacists speaking, so a good portion of my time watching this video was trying to wrap my head around how people could come to these conclusions. Because these aren’t historical figures. These are people who live in my country. These are people who live in my state. These are people who live in my neighborhood (ok, I still can’t believe that one. It’s too horrible). Or, apparently, I live in their country, their state, their neighborhood. I walk on their streets. And I can think like them and be like them (in ways that are so intrinsic to my personhood that I can’t actually change them) or die. How is this not considered terrorism? Isn’t that the logic of a terrorist?

And then there is the footage of the counter-protesters, including the horrifying (there’s that word again, and it’s too small to even convey a small part of the depth of the horror) footage of a car speeding into a crowd of people (which Cantwell calls a self-defense move on the part of the driver). I understand the need to be physically there, to send a message, to be more than just a website (especially when one of the white supremacists saw the small numbers of counter-protesters as evidence that their point of view is a minority viewpoint), but I don’t see how anything is accomplished by sitting there with both hands flipping off the speaker or yelling swear words. It was one force of hate meeting another force of hate. When one of the counter-protesters mirrored the language of the angry, chanting marchers by saying that it was wrong that the rally was permitted to come to his city because “this is my city” I wanted to say “Wait. This is not a question of whose country it is. This is his country; this is your country; this is my country. And we all have to live with each other.”

We are never going to magically solve all of our disagreements. What we must do, though, is learn how to disagree. This means not chalking up domestic terrorist language, actions, and perspectives to “First Amendment rights.” If people are rallying while armed to the teeth and saying quite clearly that they mean to do harm to another human being, then that is no longer a rally. That is a mob. That is not protest. That is war. We cannot just yell at them and tell them to go home. They are home. We are all home. We cannot just say that we find their viewpoint repugnant. We must also let them know that their means of expressing disagreement is not acceptable in a civilized country. And we must do this by showing them how people disagree without bashing heads in and without the completely useless phrase “f— you.” This rally should never have been able to obtain permits. People with weapons should have been detained or turned away from gathering points. People threatening harm should not be allowed to foment the masses. And it darn well shouldn’t take days for the leader of the country to denounce domestic terrorism.

I am still trying to wrap my head around how people who live in this country can come to all the conclusions that my fellow human beings express. But the biggest disconnect for me is the idea that we can’t all live together and so one segment of the population feels emboldened to kill another segment of the population, that it’s either one group or the other that controls everything, that one group is replacing another group. I know you are more than hate speech and violence. I know you have families. I know you have hopes and dreams that are not centered on this movement. I know you are more three dimensional than I see on the news. I know this because I’m a human being too. I have a family. I have hopes and dreams. I am three dimensional. Engage with me like a human being, engage with all of the other human beings who call this country home in a way that does not deny their humanity, and we can find a way to all sit down at the bounteous table that is the United States of America.

**Previously published in the Southern Utah Independent on August 19, 2017 as This is Not How Civilized People Disagree

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An Argument for Steel Straws

My sister and I are part of an elite club called the Nature Wasters. We earned that title by not being as extreme in our environmentalism as our children (the Nature Savers). It’s hard to match elementary students in their zeal for saving the planet because it is coupled with a flagrant disregard for practicality. My sister and I, while sympathetic, could not quite bring ourselves to cut out all consumables, fossil fuels, and other Nature-Wasting items (despite the constant reminders about how our egregious use of paper towels was bringing about the extinction of tree frogs in Zambia). But you can’t live with Nature Savers for years on end without becoming more and more of a tree hugger.

This is how the Great Steel Straw Project began.

My sister sent me a link to a video about plastic waste and asked, joking, if we should show it to the Nature Savers. No! Oh my goodness, no. I take enough flack for paper goods. I do not need the children policing my plastics. But it nagged at me. The image of all of those plastic straws — discarded and forgotten but as pristinely undecomposed as they are in a store — was haunting. Every time I threw away a straw, I saw it floating toward the miles-wide ocean garbage floats that the Nature Savers tell me have developed over the years. So, to the delight of my daughters, I bought a set of steel straws and endeavored to give up plastic straws.

It’s harder than it should be. First, you have to remember to put them in the car, not just the first time but every time you wash them. We had them at least a week before we used them because we wouldn’t remember about them until we encountered a Straw Situation. Then we would have to remember we had them in the car. The children are committed enough to leave a restaurant to retrieve the steel straws. I am not.

Another hiccup is the two-window drive through. You can clearly tell window No. 1 that you don’t want straws, but window No. 2 will put them in the bag just in case. Or you may not catch them in time and the straw will already be in the drink. At this point, the girls wanted me to pull out the plastic straw and use the steel straw. I don’t think they quite believed me when I said it would be a useless gesture.

The biggest problem, though, is that we use so darn many straws. Four straws for three people isn’t nearly enough, even with our loose hygiene standards. One trip to 5 Guys with sodas and milkshakes left us wishing we had bought a second set.

We haven’t cut out plastic straws entirely (sometimes they are just so much more expedient) but even cutting out half of what we use is more than I thought we would be doing. I never realized how many straws I actually use in the course of a month until I stopped using them. This is a tiny drop in the ocean of plastic waste. I recognize that, too. Some might even call it a useless gesture. But it is a small thing that I can actually do that reminds me of a larger goal: to waste less. Not what you would expect to hear from an avowed Nature Waster, I know. And I’ve always said that if the choice is between my sanity and the planet, it’s got to be my sanity. But if even I can find a way to save the planet now and again, maybe you can, too. The Nature Savers will thank you.

*Originally published in the Southern Utah Independent on April 23, 2017: An Argument for Steel Straws

Everyday Sexism, Uncategorized

I am Definitely Not Sexist (or Racist or Homophobic)

“Give me some credit,” he said to me, at least three times, after he told me several stories meant to establish his cred as Definitely Not Sexist. An older man, he has been quite open about his vote for the current President so he’s a little touchy about such things in the politically and socially liberal community of writers we are both a part of. “Don’t worry,” he seemed to say, “I’m not a product of my generation.”

I knew as soon as I read Nora Ephron’s 1996 Wellesley graduation speech at the open mic we both frequent that this conversation would be coming. It’s what happens when you engage otherwise thoughtful men about gender issues. International Women’s Day was that week as well so I actually had several conversations in that vein. The one that stuck out to me occurred when a 20-something woman wondered on social media about why there was an International Women’s Day. What about men? Aren’t they also great? Wasn’t this oppressive to them? (Quick answer to that last question: NO).

Several women answered, reflexively, that every day is men’s day (one supplied the actual date of International Men’s Day) and a 20-something man took exception to that. “Give me some credit,” he seemed to say. “I am Definitely Not Sexist.” And because he was Definitely Not Sexist, he didn’t seem to see how he shut down the conversation with the patronizing comment “I love you too much to argue with you” or how inflammatory it was to assert that not only were women as privileged as men, some women were more privileged than men.

Another woman pointed out that this 20-something guy was a good guy and meant well (and didn’t he have a point about how men and women should be treated equally?). The problem with this response, though, is that his status as a good guy who meant well was not being challenged (neither was our shared understanding of the value of equality). There is a feeling that if you are ever uninformed, misinformed, or insensitive that you are Definitely Sexist (irredeemably so). It’s that crazy logic that leads people to scramble to establish themselves as Definitely Not Sexist. People (and issues) are not so very tidy, though. I know this because I am Definitely Not Racist and Definitely Not Homophobic.

I’m not always aware of my privilege as a white, middle class, straight, cisgender woman and sometimes (ok, pretty much all the time) when someone points out some of these things I get defensive (even if I don’t always voice it). I am, generally speaking, a thoughtful person. I’m empathetic and fair. I work for equality. Anyone who knows me could affirm that. Except my ex-husband. Don’t ask him. So why do I get defensive? Because for most people in the universe I am one dimensional. I am “poetry lady” or that funny post or the church organist or the person who never ever ever volunteers to be Room Mom.

There are people out there who know me (and judge me) based on one experience or type of experience. That’s what our technological bonanza has done—our field has broadened but we don’t have the time/energy/brain power to know everyone we come into contact with as a multi-dimensional, nuanced human being. So a sexist action becomes a sexist person and the response invariably is “Hey wait! I am Definitely Not Sexist!” That response just shuts down the conversation, though.

We have to create spaces where we understand and love each other, where the basic understanding is that we are not sexist/racist/homophobic but that we do need to understand each other better and improve our behavior and language. This is a two-sided initiative. We need to stop jumping right to Definitely Not Sexist mode and thus miss out on valuable information. And we also need to stop talking about our issues and people who disagree with us in one dimensional ways. I will admit that “every day is men’s day” was probably not the most helpful retort if my goal was to have a multi-dimensional discussion that actually makes a difference in the struggle for equality. I will also admit that that was not my goal at the time. It’s incredible that, over 20 years later, Nora Ephron’s speech about not being complacent about women’s issues is still timely. Twenty years after I was a 20-something who needed to hear that message there are 20-somethings who mistake their privileged position as universal, who feel that because our struggle looks a little different from our mothers’ struggle that it isn’t a struggle at all.

I didn’t have to quit my job when I became pregnant but I did have a job offer rescinded once when a man applied (because he had a family to provide for, of course, and I was just a single woman). Sound like something out of 1959? That was 1999. And though it’s more likely they wouldn’t say it outright in 2017, don’t you doubt that this sort of thing goes on today (here in Utah for sure). The truth is, dear 20-somethings, that there is still no gender parity in pay, productions, and publications. And, even more basic than that, when men come up against a romantic encounter gone wrong they fear for their egos but women fear for their lives. Looking at a world filled with facts like that and still thinking that women’s issues are fixed because you are more enlightened than your father is like pretending it isn’t raining because you are standing under an umbrella.

But back to International Women’s Day, which has been around since 1911. How come it gets more ink than International Men’s Day, which was created in 1999 (presumably by people who are Definitely Not Sexist)? When you are culturally dominant you don’t need extra effort to bring attention to your issues. It’s redundant. Last year the Springville Library had a bingo card style reading program to encourage people to branch out and try books they might otherwise overlook. There were squares labeled “read a sci-fi novel” or “read a book by a local author” and then, because they’re Definitely Not Sexist, there was a square labeled “read a book by a man.” Since you can’t spit in any direction in a library without hitting a book by a man, this gets nobody out of their comfort zone. This diversifies nothing. Maybe put that one in the center square, ok? That’s why International Men’s Day isn’t so terribly different from every other day and why International Women’s Day doesn’t oppress men. If all things were equal then we wouldn’t need to be reminded of all the ways things aren’t equal. And I have tons of man-loving cred, folks, so you can believe me on this one. I am Definitely Not Sexist.

**This was originally published in the Southern Utah Independent on March 25, 2017: I am Definitely Not Sexist (or Racist or Homophobic)

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Meet the Muslims in Utah

Last summer a single dad friend of mine reported that his daughter, who is African American, asked him why they didn’t see very many other dads and other “brown kids” at the park. It’s a fair question (though I have to say that most folks wouldn’t object to hanging out with this white mom on a regular basis). Sometimes in this sugar cookie of a state we blonde-haired blue-eyed white people only ever see other blonde-haired blue-eyed white people in the course of our day so if you want to have diversity in your life you need to actively seek it out. It was in this spirit that I took my children to Meet the Muslims in Utah at the Utah Islamic Center in Sandy.

The Utah Islamic Center has opened their doors for visitors in a monthly open house for some time now but a surge in interest in the event caused them to open their doors to visitors every Friday in February and also some Sundays. That’s how I ended up finding out about the opportunity: a friend of mine responded to the Facebook event made by the Islamic Center. My sister and I took our kids (five between us) in the hope that knowing about the Muslims in Utah would give them greater understanding about their community and greater perspective on world events. What actually happened was even better than that.

We had a hard time finding the mosque because it was tucked into a corner of strip mall with nothing to call attention to it beyond an ordinary looking sign that could just as easily have read “CarpetsPlus.” They share an entrance and a grey, Berber carpeted hallway with a couple of other fairly ordinary looking office spaces and don’t even approach what you might imagine a mosque would look like until you are in the sanctuary itself. Unfortunately, because of this we ended up being late and missing the 7:30 prayer (still kicking myself over that!). When we arrived (and removed our shoes), we slipped into an open space on the carpet in the main area of worship with about 90 other people, including a fair amount of children.

I had thought that the entire event was more of an open house format so I began to get nervous when an hour passed and we were still listening to presentations from the Iman and other members of the mosque. I found them fascinating, but I’ve been to enough LDS stake conferences with my children to know what their limits are as far as listening to adults talk about serious things. It’s a pretty low threshold. I imagined that any minute they would start running circles around the sanctuary, much to the horror of our hosts and the mothers of all of the children currently sitting quietly upright on three sides of me. My children were starting to get a little lounge-y as it got later and later in the evening and I questioned the wisdom of what I was attempting. Perhaps the Muslims in Utah wouldn’t be so excited that I had brought along my wiggly LDS kids to disrupt their event!

We ended up staying at least another hour past the speakers, though, because we got caught up talking one-on-one with the members of the mosque. The children busied themselves with looking at the pictures on the wall, reading literature on Islam, interacting with the other children in attendance, and eating all the sweets they could get their hands on. I cautiously approached a woman wearing both a scarf on her head and a veil over her face. The woman who had talked about women’s issues and Islam during the presentation had encouraged us to approach women wearing hijab during the refreshments portion of the evening to talk with them about their personal reasons for choosing to do so and I knew that in regular life I may not have another opportunity. I especially knew that I would not feel comfortable approaching a woman wearing such an extreme form of hijab not due to fear but because nothing says “stay away” as much as covering everything but your eyes.

The woman, whose name she taught me how to pronounce but which I have no idea how to spell, was vivacious and bubbly—not at all what you would imagine from a woman conservative enough to cover her face almost entirely on a regular basis. She was passionate about her choice to wear hijab but said that the reasons were so personal and intimate that she didn’t want to be one of the presenters even though her husband encouraged her to do so. She said she did not grow up in a very strict, religious household but had a religious awakening in college and began to cover her hair in the hijab as a way to find more religious focus. When just covering her hair did not give her entirely the focus she wanted, she started covering her face too. She doesn’t wear it all the time (she understands some may find it intimidating) but she did note that when she was dating her husband he never saw her face until they were engaged. We had a great conversation about her experience wearing the hijab and the experience of non-Muslims encountering Muslims in Utah. First and foremost, my concern would be to not make such a woman feel uncomfortable. Since I was not familiar with the religious context of veiling the face, I would hesitate to approach simply because I wouldn’t want to offend. I assured her that as an LDS woman, I felt empathy with the struggles that Muslims in Utah might face. We certainly have our own history of the general population misunderstanding and demonizing our religion.

We also had a lovely chat with an older man named Sam, who explained more about the mosque (all 150 of the children meet in that same sanctuary in different corners for their religious instruction! Imagine holding all Sunday School classes in the gym of the church) and told us about his experience immigrating to the U.S. I was in and out of this conversation as I was tracking my youngest in her circular path through the crowd, balancing books on her head. Yes, seriously. Books on her head. Eventually we parted, wishing we could stay longer. I asked my children what they thought of the evening and they were similarly engaged, citing things in even the more presentational (read: traditionally boring for kids) part of the evening. We talked all the way home in the car about what we had learned and what our impressions were.

As I thought about it, I realized that beyond gaining a greater understanding for Islam and for Muslims in Utah the event was also an opportunity to strengthen community ties and stand up with a potentially vulnerable group in our country. The members of the mosque were very genuinely happy we were there and we were very genuinely happy to be there. They wanted to be part of us and we wanted to be part of them. Rather than being separate groups with different cultural practices, we were all Utahns seeking to spread love and understanding. It made me feel really good to be able to do something proactive to show my support for Muslims in Utah and it was extremely gratifying to have those positive feelings reflected back. The evening was full of hope. While negative aspects of the national conversation about Muslims were acknowledged, the underlying assumption was that we were here because we all wanted to have a positive relationship. No one was guarded. No one was angry. It was just lovely. It was exactly as the world should be.

Originally published in the Southern Utah Independent on February 25, 2017: Meet the Muslims in Utah