When I wake up in the morning, I check to make sure the pouf doesn’t show. I watch my language so I don’t say “ruhf” or “crick.” I care so much that you don’t know where I’m from, I am changing my identity.
I have been ridiculed into changing my appearance and actions so my Utah roots stay hidden. I have been made fun of by crazy, ethnocentric Californians and jealous Texans and I am sick of it.
If you don’t like my culture — too bad.
Most of you outsiders think big families and funeral potatoes are oddities. When I interviewed people about Utah culture, they smiled real big and eagerly told me their opinions.
People from across the country knew what I meant when I asked about Utah culture. They mentioned the same things: Jell-O, drivers and hairstyles.
There is more to Utah than Latter-day Saints in a bubble.
No one told me his or her favorite things about Utah. No one told me about skiing on the greatest snow on earth or biking in red-rock canyons.
In my English 311 class, none of my classmates wanted their opinions on record, but they didn’t mind sharing them with the class, engaging in a heated discussion about Utah drivers.
I like my culture, and if I want fruit in my Jell-O, I will.
|
HELPFUL LINKS
