Straddling Two Worlds

by Emily

When I decided to come to Utah for college, it was a big deal. A lot of people thought I was throwing my academic future away by not attending school on the East Coast, or at least the West Coast. No one listened when I explained how prestigious the BYU professors were, or how competitive admissions were. (The average GPA of incoming freshmen is currently above a 3.8). Other New Hampshire friends worried I’d be sucked into the whirling eddy that is Utah patriarchal culture, or that I’d come back with straight, blond hair and a face full of make up. And in all honesty, their fears weren’t unfounded.

My older sister, a natural blond with wavy hair and poor eye sight, came back from her first semester at BYU with a straightening iron, contacts, and a slew of Mary Kay products. She already liked country music, but now she loved it more than ever, ecstatic to have finally found a place where it was cool. She embraced the area’s mild winters, early springs, and gaping mountains, while I saw Utah as a desert devoid of the trees, plants, and water I loved.

Perhaps I too would have liked Utah if I hadn’t arrived during a hostile election season. Or if I’d been in love with George W., like ninety percent of the students I encountered. Whatever the reason, I saw everything about Utah through an outside lens. The people seemed backwards, the culture archaic, and even BYU seemed intellectually impoverished.

It’s hard to say when my perspective changed, but today I feel like a sheepish anthropologist who only realizes she’s been looking down on the local culture after spending years in its midst. We all know how important it is to keep an open mind and control our culture shock when we travel to another country, but I forgot everything I’d learned about fighting ethnocentrism, the first time a history TA said I’d be voting for the devil if I voted for Kerry.

So you see, I might as well be leaving the country when I fly between New Hampshire and Utah. You can tell the difference as soon as you step on a plane. Flights connecting to Utah are filled with young families, most of the women and children blond. All the teen and tween girls wear make up, and most of them have straightened hair. Also, everyone is smiling and friendly, to the point that it almost makes you sick. The women are especially friendly, speaking to you in these breathy, high-pitched voices, as if it would be rude for them to speak in a deeper voice, for even a second.

Flights connecting to New Hampshire or Massachusetts, however, are filled with people who are either talkative and down to earth, or deliberately quiet as they keep to themselves. The women aren’t as skinny, blond, and make-uped; the men are less likely to wear business suits; and most of the adults drink coffee. And it goes without say that everyone wears Red Sox paraphernalia. When you step into the airport, it gets even better: everyone walks fast, New England accents are everywhere, and there isn’t a Yankees cap in sight.

But the real differences between New Hampshire and Utah show up in cultural values. At the liberal New Hampshire high school I attended, we learned about socialism as a beautiful and progressive economic system. In Utah, socialism is nearly synonymous with communism, which is synonymous with evil incarnate. Also, Fox New is scripture, Global Warming is a crock, Michael Moore is an anti-Christ, and Sarah Palin is a gift from Heaven. Oh, and feminists have destroyed The Family. After several months of Utahisms, I’m always anxious to return to New Hampshire, where nobody calls me a flaming liberal or makes fun of me for “dropping ‘r’s where they go, and adding them where they don’t."

And yet, after a few weeks in New Hampshire, I start missing Utah. I miss people who think my religious beliefs are normal. I miss the slightly warmer weather and the much-shorter winters. I miss the dull red canyon leaves, even though they don't compare to New England foliage. I miss how urban Provo is, compared to my tiny home town in NH. I miss hanging out with friends who never want to drink, and I miss being the one roommate who actually knew where babies came from before she was sixteen.

I miss being surrounded by friends who enjoy hanging out… sober. I miss my BYU-Liberal friends who, like me, are actually moderate. I miss renting a private bedroom in a nice apartment, for $295/ month during the school year and $175/month during the summer, including utilities. I miss tulips blooming in February, and snow so light and fluffy that you sweep it off the porch instead of shoveling. I miss grocery stores that refuse to sell alcohol but offer 25 different flavors of hot cocoa. I even miss being the one to explain why it’s offensive when someone compares homosexuality to a mental illness.

Sometimes I even miss the mountains.

No Mentions of Thomas Wolfe

By Erica

I'm home for the holidays.

It's funny. In the past five and a half years, I've lived in two different cities in two different countries. No matter how well I've blended in- often, quite successfully- I've identified to all askers that I'm from New Hampshire. I'm a New Hampshirite, a New England girl, where when we wear flannel and hiking boots no one's sexuality gets referenced. Where we know the difference between a snowstorm and a blizzard (hint: one comes with high winds). Where losing power for a week is a part of life and where growing your own produce in the summer is pretty common. Where there's hardly a spring, just six weeks of mud and lilacs. This place is the backbone of my cultural identity.

I promised in the title of this post that I wouldn't mention a certain author, or the book he wrote that has become over-referenced. But I'd be lying if I said it wasn't on my mind. It's on my mind every time I come home- back to New Hampshire, that is- especially when I'm only home for a brief period of time. Since I finished my undergrad, most of my visits home have been brief.

As I write this, I'm sitting at a desk in my bedroom that we bought unfinished when I was fourteen and that I varnished myself. The chair is purple, with purple tuelle dangling off the seat, because when I claimed this room as MY ROOM when I was nine I decorated it in a purple ballet theme. The bed behind me is the same one I've slept in, in various arrangements, since I was three, and this house has belonged to my family since it was built in 1984. This place is more my home than any other on the planet. I say this even though I've paid rent on three different apartments and refer to my current one as "home" in many contexts. Even though believing this New Hampshire house to be my true home means that I'm never really at home in the places I'm living.

Truth be told, the area I grew up in has felt less and less home-like as the years go by and I spend less time here. Every time I go to run an errand my mom asks if I remember how to get to my destination. There are new chain stores popping up in my tiny little town, a fact which I find frustrating and inappropriate. I keep expecting amenities that are common in cities but rare in small towns- just the other night, I spent half an hour wandering around in Portsmouth trying to remember where its two ATMs are located. And most of my high school friends are only here briefly, able to meet up once or maybe twice but mostly preoccupied with family time. All the fantasies I've had about moving back here and finding it as I left it in 2004- which I know are ridiculous- are slowly eroding as time goes on. Each time, something is different, and increasingly, coming home has felt like traveling to a strange location.

At the same time, though, for these two weeks that I'm here, certain things do feel familiar and good. My sister and I will be playing flute music for the Christmas Eve Masses as usual, arranged by the same choir director as always, and the Bagelry still makes the best bagels I've ever tasted- even compared to those in New York City. The woods we live in are as thick and wild as ever, the birds in our yard competing with the squirrels for the birdseed we put out for them, and it's still silent and peaceful at night. It makes it harder to think about the fact that Nick and I have started renting a beautiful apartment in Niederkirchen, Germany, and when I move I'll start making that our new home-away-from-home. Next year, I don't know if we'll have the time or money to come home for Christmas- which would be the first Christmas I've ever had away from my family. The thought of needing to feel enough at home in Germany to celebrate Christmas- for me, a holiday about home and community and family- makes me sad and more than a little anxious about taking yet another step away from New Hampshire.

In the meantime, though, I'm home. I've braved a snowstorm and horrible travel to get here, and it's worth it because now I'm with my family, in our home, in my evolving little town. Today- these two weeks, really- all of the changes and strange-ness-es of my hometown aren't important and don't affect the fact that, everything else aside, this is where I belong for now. Readers, I hope that wherever you find yourselves for this holiday season- however you celebrate it, if you choose to do so- you're lucky enough to be with the people and/or the places that make you feel at home. And I hope that, wherever your travels take you, you're always able to find your way back to that place or those people.