I think the sweetest people you’ll meet in America live in Iowa. Everyone we met went over and beyond in the helpful department. My Airbnb host was one of the best. These ladies we met on a trail offered maps and gave their best picks for must-sees in the area. Even the Secretary of State saw my dad and I (In our awesome Kentucky tee shirts) and took time out of his day to give us a personal tour of the capitol building! The neighbors in the hoity-toity neighborhood where we stayed were just as welcoming and friendly as you could imagine. I think they’d give the shirt off their back if they felt you could use it. Every. Single. One. A solitary stick-in-the-mud could not be found.
Which is completely counter to my introduction to Iowa which was in the form of my high school musical, The Music Man. If you recall previous posts where I mention my Idaho Beau…well, when he too was in the Music Man back in the day so when we were gallivanting around Europe we’d both break out into song and choreography from our respective productions. Needless to say, this musical runs deep within the both of us. Iowa Stubborn is the first song showcasing the entire cast. The defining part of the song states:
“We can be as cold as our falling thermometers in December If you ask about our weather in July. And we’re gosh darn stubborn We could stand touchin’ noses For a week at a time And never see eye-to-eye. But what the heck, you’re welcome, Join us at the picnic. You can eat your fill Of all the food you bring yourself. You really ought to give Iowa a try. Provided you are contrary.”
That is literally the only context I had of the state prior to visiting. My flight got in first thing in the morning. I got to my host’s house and took a nap while I waited for my dad to drive in from Kentucky. Dad shows up, dressed just like me in his Kentucky blue. I didn’t even know my dad had already been to Des Moines before so the typical tourist stops (botanical garden, etc, etc) was a low priority for him. So, the first order of business was off to the state capitol. I did some pinteresting and the law library looked like a place of wonder. We had to get it in before it closed that day Friday since it closes down during the weekend. We were on our self-guided tour when we visited the Secretary of State’s office. First, an intern started talking about the room but then the ever charming SoS, Paul Pate, greeted us and took over giving the history of the ceremonial office and the tour of the archives. We talked Kentucky basketball and barbeque before headed out of his office to see the Senate.
I like this picture because we look the same size. Dad is standing two steps below.
Dad and I were surprised at how everyone welcomed us in to their offices and what appeared to be minimal security. As Secretary Pate explained, It’s the people’s capitol so they can’t make it so secure it is hard to access. I enjoyed learning the history of the building, it’s fire, it’s upgrades through moderation. Although I know plenty exist throughout the country, this was the first state building I’d ever been to without a confederate monument. In fact, they had a statue of fellow Kentuckian, Abraham Lincoln and his son, Tad who died as a pre-schooler.
The law Library was the grand final of the State Capitol visit. I don’t know why I didn’t take to the choreography that is still ingrained in my memory from my high school musical. I’m already a bibliophile and library connoisseur, but being in the gorgeous space took me back to twirling about on stage in the pink gingham dress my grandma made for me to a classmate singing, “I love you madly, madly Madam Librarian, Marina!”
I love you madly, madly Madam Librarian!
Just know, the entire sound track of the Music Man was on continuous reply in my mind as I explored the city. In fact, seeing the Wells Fargo Arena made me want to bust out into cheesy, elbows swinging, choreography “It could be curtains or dishes or a double boiler or it could be…”And the chores responds “Yes your right it really could be..something special! just for me!”
Riverside
It’s not so easy to convince your friends to go to Iowa. “It’s fly over territory” one said. But my proposing the idea to my dad, who retired just two weeks earlier wasn’t a hard sell. Especially knowing he’s a trekie and Riverside, Iowa is the future birthplace of Captain James Kirk.
We got on the road and headed to Riverside to see the future birthplace of Captain Kirk. I went from riverside, California which is on all sorts of America’s best places to live lists, to Riverside, Iowa…which has a population of 1000 and no stop lights. I’m pretty sure they started boasting their tie to Star Trek in order to get some business because I just don’t see any other reason anyone would be drawn to the town.
As soon as you get to riverside, you are welcomed with a Star Trek theme. The city welcome sign has a space craft designed on it. as you enter the town there’s a replica of the Voyager and a museum. Pictures of star Trek crew members are displayed on street signs.
Finding this site was a challenge. I put the address in on my GPS. It took us right to a hair salon. We turned around and stopped at a gas station to ask directions. Not a soul in the gas station knew what we were talking about and pointed us to a monument of non-fictional U.S. Military warriors across the street instead of the Captain James Kirk sign. If this is your town’s theme and tourist draw, I’m going to need the gas station attendants to know where, on this one street town, the “monument” is located. What we learned from google is the “monument’ was actually behind the hair salon.
Dad came prepared with his space uniform.
And that was it. We turned around and made the two-hour journey back to Des Moines. Des Moines boasts a great mix of diversity and a great place for politics. Because of the Iowa caucus, there’s no telling who you’ll run in to because everyone goes through Iowa. And it was nice to be in a place where it actually felt and looked like football season instead of sweltering in SoCal. We just so happened to be there the weekend Everyone was geared up for the Cy-Hawk state rivalry. We left the state and made our way to Nebraska.
Bridges Of Madison County
The interstate goes from one end of Iowa to the other. Driving it, on the way to Omaha, we passed by signs pointing to the John Wayne Museum. I’d seen this Museum on Pintrest but didn’t know where the town was in relation to Des Moines. In fact, all I knew was a list of Iowa towns from the musical, but not where they were on the map. So, dad and I decided a detour was in order. Dad likes to get up extra early so we got to the museum way before it opened and we just had too much to accomplish to wait around for it to open. We did explore what we could of the Duke’s hometown.
On the way out of town we took the trail pointing to a covered bridge. At the bridge we met two traveling friends from Dubuque (like in the song). They jabbered about as if we were long-time friends. They were enamored with all the sights they’d seen and passed along their tourist maps. It was only then that we became aware that we were Madison County of movie fame. There was a trail of covered bridges to see, plus a stone tower, and one room school house. So, why not!
I‘m not going to lie. I came to Montana with visions of cowboy grandeur. I imagined being the star of my own country song. I’m talking about a good 1990s-style country song, not these of today where, for some reason, women always tend to be barefoot. When did this become a thing guys are in to? Back in my day it was snake skin boots made by Calvin Klain, now it’s naked feet. Anyway, I envisioned all the dreamy imagery evoked from songs like the Dixie Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces” and “Cowboy Take Me Away.” I’d be standing in a blue sundress and boots spinning around in a field of golden grain as a camera pans around from above in slow motion. I’d frolic around a mountain covered in flowers a la the opening scenes of Little House on the Prairie. I imagined splashing in a creek with friends. “Fishing in the Dark” by the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, Should’ve Been a Cowboy, Garth Brook’s Rodeo, Sarah Evans’ Born to Fly and really, who wouldn’t want to be the girl in a chevy truck when it happens to get tuck on a back road with her sweetie after hearing Taylor Swift reminisce about it? All of these songs absolutely romanticized my vision of The West and I wanted to capture it all in picture. I mean, how could I even think Montana could even live up to my high expectations?
I’ve said it over and over, there’s no shortage of things to do on a ranch. Most of these activities…like worming sheep, don’t quite lend themselves to mimicking images from a country video. And while a lot of those things to do are labor-intensive — wake up early to make sure all the animals have breakfast…300 sheep, tons of cattle, horses, chickens, the pin of injured or sick animals, the dogs and puppies, and the adorable orphaned calves — there’s still fun to be had.
I asked a French Engineering student spending a summer abroad on the ranch why she chose Montana of all places in America to choose. She responded that Montana is the horse capitol. Being a Kentucky girl, I almost lost my wit hearing this. And so I responded like any Kentuckian would respond. Which she accurately replied, “If I wanted to ride English, I could have stayed in France.” And that’s true. While I know there’s plenty of western horseback riding going on in Kentucky, I’ve only been around English so, from my perspective, Kentucky is more English-riding centered. The raising of horses is different, mostly because of the terrain and weather. There’s a relationship between Montana and Kentucky in the horse industry. I learned that the majority of Kentucky derby winners are bred out of Montana. Anyway, for this Kentucky girl, it was just a dream to spend a week riding. You gotta recognize the privilege when work is disguised as fun.
The People and Animals
Videos of puppies and little kids can easily waste a way a day. Same thing happens in real life when you’ve got an energetic, pre-schooler and a litter of puppies on the ranch. This little cutie, never the shy one, came right up to me and introduced himself and the adults around him (that I’d already met) and led me by the hand to his pack of puppies. I couldn’t think of a better way to spend a few hours of an afternoon than with little fella and his buddies. Spending time talking with the many, interesting people the ranch attracts is plenty fun enough.
He asked me to take a photo and replied, “That turned out nice didn’t it?” Such a doll.
Rodeos
Before going to Montana I had a girl talk over calzones with one of my favorite Texans, about my excitement about the western lifestyle and living on an Ranch. She was already an expert and broke down cowboy culture. Now, when I think of equestrian events, my first frame of reference is the Kentucky derby, which is the social highlight of spring. It is the culmination of weeks of shopping for the perfect sundress and finding accenting but comfortable heels, and hours of searching for the perfect head topper. Fashion isn’t the focus for most at Rodeos. In fact, there’s a special name for girls who are focused on the fashion. Buckle Bunny. These are the girls that are a little bit too gussied up to be going just to watch a guy get knocked around on a bull or bronco. So those fully ingrained in this culture travel to the big shows and they follow the rodeo, town to town and get to know the riders at after parties. I never considered there were rodeo groupies. I guess if there are cyber groupies, then there can certainly be groupies for the cowboys too. Rodeos make for great people watching once you know the characters. And here’s where Garth’s Rodeo and Toby’s Should’ve Been a Cowboy came to life.
As luck would have it, Arabella and I made friends with two local charmers who volunteered (or got volun-told…I’m not sure which is more accurate) to take us to the rodeo in Cody, Wyoming. No one who really knows Rodeos gets over-excited about the Cody, Wyoming Rodeo. As one of my local hosts explained, “Nothing that happens every night is special.” Cody is for the tourist. Not the cowboys. Rodeos tend to only be worth a pro’s time if they payout handsomely for a win. However, Cody is a great starter rodeo for first time riders and first time viewers.
In rodeo, you’ve got several events. There’s tie-down roping, team roping, steer wrestling, saddle bronc riding, bareback bronc riding, bull riding and barrel racing. Barrel Racing and maybe team roping are the only events I could envision me actually doing. In addition to the timed events, there’s plenty of other forms of entertainment. The MCs at Cody were comedians. Made me shake my head with how pitiful their jokes were…they sounded like two dad’s who think they are so funny but the boys were were with were cracking up. I just rolled my eyes and shook my head. There was a guy dressed like a cow dancing that got me to break my baring and the way the rodeo got the crowd involved was pretty entertaining.
After the rodeo we hit the town. Sheridan Ave in Cody reminds me of Broadway in Nashville, without the population. We started at the Silver Dollar Saloon in the Irma Hotel. The Irma is a historical hotel named after Buffalo Bill’s daughter. Just being in it you can imagine the cowboys and ladies in red velvet of the Old West. We moved on after a a drink (and after we witnessed a middle aged couple forget they were in public) to the Silver Dollar down the road and across the street. This place had a younger atmosphere and pool tables. We played (and trash talked) until the bar closed. It was a fun, comfortable, crowd-free time out on the town.
The next morning after loading up on giant pancakes at a cafe on Sheridan Ave we hit up the Cody Museum and got a history lesson on the Old West, Buffalo Bill, a seriously expansive arsenal of historic riffles, and regional Native American history. Then we went window shopping. All the cowboy gear has something like a 100 percent tourist mark up.
I loved these boots! On the left we have $15K boots (with a sign that says do not touch. Yea right, I’m touching) and on the right $2K. They belong to the wife of the boot maker. Collection plate/ Go-Fund Me link coming soon.
We returned to our Montana ranch taking the Chief Joseph Scenic Highway (Wyoming Highway 296). This winding highwayfollows the route taken by Chief Joseph as he led the Nez Perce Indian out of Yellowstone toward Canada during the 1877 U.S. Cavalry attack. He and his surviving warriors ended up being “deported” by William T. Sherman from his nation to Kansas where he died. This is stuff I never learned in school. The views on the route are breathtaking but the winding roads do have the tendency to create motion sickness in small cars. Careful! The route added about 45 minutes to our time and passed through a few ski resort towns (like Red Lodge) that would be idea for stopping for the night if needed.
Just charming views. We had to keep stopping so I could take pictures.
Fun on the Ranch
Sure, I didn’t have to travel all the way to Montana to play and climb on hay bales but, hey, it’s been a while. Whether it’s climbing on hay, sitting on straw in the barn having conversations about dreams, adventures, and life, or spotting the wild life while outdoors, playing in the country is fun. I think I had so much fun doing regular mundane, country things because it reminded me of home so much.
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). The Wyoming section is 47 miles in length and requires a minimum drive time of one hour. – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). The Wyoming section is 47 miles in length and requires a minimum drive time of one hour. – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
The Beartooth Scenic Byway is accessible from the south via the Chief Joseph Scenic Byway (State Hwy. 120). – See more at: https://www.wyomingtourism.org/things-to-do/detail/The-Beartooth-Highway-An-All-American-Road/7932#sthash.xuWpa3cT.dpuf
Hunting Montana is a hunter’s paradise. White tail deer just frolicked on front lawns like no big deal. I don’t think there was a single day of the week that I didn’t see an elk. I just kept thinking, my dad would love this place. I love the wild life here. You saw just about every American animal (except alligators) just wild and free. Now, it was not hunting season in August but it seems like the Game Warden takes their job pretty seriously up here. The game warden sets up decoy deer trying to catch poachers in a sting. I’ve been around hunters all my life in Kentucky and just have never heard of anyone ever encountering something like that.
Elk on the side of the Road. They make high pitched trumpet sounds not expected for a beast of this size.
Night Life
As one native said while she was trying to give me directions, the bars are the landmarks. Absarokee has a population of 1,200. That is not to say the night life is a bust. 5 Spot Bar was my first introduction to Absarokee nightlife and thus became my instant fave. When you are the new girl in a one stoplight town, everyone in the bar comes to introduce themselves to you and try to figure out why on Earth you chose to stop in their town. Kinda made me wonder what it would be like to go to a bar in my own hometown considering I’d never lived that since I’ve been 21.
Just across the street is a bar geared toward an older crowd called Chrome. Then at the edge of town is Legends with a dance floor and Karaoke and swings on the covered porch. It’s the place to go with a sweetheart and to hear stories about Jesus and Alcohol. Only deal is this bar is on the edge of town and there are no Taxis so a quality designated driver is a must.
Fun on the River
If a town is lucky enough to have river flowing through it, it’s residents are lucky to have built-in entertainment. We toyed with the idea of spending the weekend whitewater rafting or just casually rafting down the Stillwater River but considering my aversion to cold, we decided against. Instead, we went fly fishing. For something like $30 purchased at a gas station at the edge of town, I got my two-day fishing license.
Now, I’d done my share of fishing before. Just cast the line and wait. Heck, you can put a bell on the line, walk away and do something else and still catch a channel cat. There’s not much to it. In fly fishing, that i not the case. You have so many variables to negotiate. Now, for the first time, I could see how fishing is a sport. My line kept getting caught up. I got frustrated. After the sun and the temperature dropped I caught my one little mini fish, I quit.
That’s not to say I didn’t have a blast. I was laughing at Ty for falling in the water and loving the chivalry of being piggy backed across the river. Oh, and the other pair catching seven fish before I even got my gosh dang line in the water which at the time was not fun but looking back, was quite comical. Every other minute we’d hear, “Caught one” across the way.
I couldn’t capture all the fun I had with the local gentleman and my new international friend on camera to document for the blog. One, for fear I’d drop my camera in the river. And reason number two, and most important, the best times can’t be documented. I couldn’t stop the laughs and jokes and focus on fishing to go run, get a camera and focus on the posing for what I’d pretend were candid shots. I couldn’t focus on documenting the moment, I had to be present and just enjoy the moment that I’ll make into a memory.
It was as I looked at the silhouettes on the river in front of the pink setting sun that I realized it. I had been in the middle of my own country song all week. Pulling up to the ranch in my Ram meeting a boisterous fella roping sheep, road trips to rodeos, trash talking and joking while playing pool, playing on the river, and the conversations and laughs at small town bars are the stuff old school country songs are made of. Two charming, western gentlemen hosting two out-of-state girls chaperoned by two water lovin’ dogs enjoying the final days of summer together. Just right out of a country song.
I was really board and unimpressed with Montana. It was miles and miles of golden fields. And while beautiful, they got old after 30 miles. While driving north, I even sent a group text to my friends on day two of my visit saying I would not be coming back to visit Montana. Dixie Chicks’ “Wide Open Spaces” kept playing over and over in my head. This is where they were talking about. I was so bored! Montana was just a colder, bigger Kansas (not happenin).
I’d traveled through all timezones in the past two days and the jet lag caught up with me. I was exhausted before the sun came down. After my experience sleeping in my car at Antelope Canyon and Bryce National Park, I thought nothing about climbing into the back seat of my truck at Glacier National Park for the night.
Golden fields on both sides of a gravel highway for miles on end!
The next morning I journeyed from West glacier to east Glacier. However, the park was on fire in many places and the smoke destroyed the visibility. I’m sure here were mountains behind the think white fog but I couldn’t see much anything.
Make sure to bring your passport. For no particular reason, you might want to cross the boarder into Canada. Might as well, you’re already there if you’re at Glacier national park. I didn’t bring mine and those Canadians didn’t just let me waltz into their country. Boo. They did allow me to take this selfie and import the Mt Dew I bought at the little shop across the border.
Also, make sure to bring fall layers. Even in August, it’s colder than the heart of an assclown who breakups with a girl by changing the name in his facebook relationship status.
I drove from glacier hitting up all the major towns on the way. Did you know there are only three Best Buys in the entire state gigantic of Montana? I needed one for my camera battery charger. Had to go all the way to Billings to get it. Anyway, along the way I kept being delayed by free grazing live stock. First thing I thought was to ind the farmers and alert them that their cows were out like I’d do back home. But then, there were no houses in sight. That’s just how they do in Montana. Cows have freedom to roam. Make sure you are driving the speed limit. These cows come out of nowhere.
Finally getting to see the American Buffalo!
After a day of driving then stopping in Big Timber for then night (really friendly sweet folks at River City End), I made it to the ranch in Absarokee. Then the boredom just vanished. When you are on a ranch, you never have a shortage of things to do.
Not a Dude Ranch Agro-Tourism is being coming the newest trend in travel. I explained the concept to a friend who said he already knew all about it from an episode of, The Office. It’s basically activity-based tourism to experience agricultural life first hand. As some of the locals explained, I basically came on vacation to do the type of chores that they grew up dreading. I guess it did kind of have the Tom Sawyer feel to it… just like paying to white-wash a fence.
Now, when I made booked the trip with Montana Bunkhouses, Karen, the organizer, wanted to make sure I knew what I was getting into. She organizes hands-on ranching, experience vacations for a community of twenty Montana cattle ranching families. Karen basically served as my Montana travel agency telling me how much time to spend in the different national parks and which ranch will serve my goals.
She emphasized this wasn’t a Dude Ranch. Dude Ranches, as she explained, was the Disney land version of ranching. Although it is a great experience, it is all entertainment focused. A working ranch is authentic to real life on a ranch without the fanfare, glitz, and Hollywood, romanticized glamour of a Dude Ranch. On a working ranch, you are going to get dirty. After explaining some of the experiences I could expect, I had to assured her that I was a southern country girl and totally fine getting dirty. Besides, I wanted to see the difference between Montana ranches and Kentucky farms.
I’ll be honest. I was a bit in shell shock when I first arrived on the ranch. The folks were already in the mists of worming sheep. Let me tell you a thing or two about worming sheep. First you have to catch them. Which takes team work and athleticism. You may think you caught one, then it keeps running off with you on his back. I don’t think there’s much of a special technique to do it. Just grab one by the wool. If you have cowboy skills, you may be able to rope one. While forcing medicine in his mouth, it is also a good time to trim the poop off his bottom. You see, balls of poop collect in their wool which will eventually attract maggots to their tails. So two must wrangle and hold while the third brave soul clips the poop balls off. That way, you can tell who has been medicated by who has a clean bottom. Doing this for 300 sheep takes the better part of a day. There is no way to do this without getting dirty. Sheep sh!t is also a challenge to get out of jeans. Don’t wear your best.
If you have ever seen the cute film “Babe” from back in the day, I now can attest that sheep are definitely stupid, just as they said in the movie. They just run about in packs tripping over stuff making a bunch of noise, getting their heads stuck in fences. I’m not all that impressed with them. They are kinda boring creatures.
The chores on the ranch change by the season. In the spring, the calves and lambs are born. They need help during delivery, vaccines, and weening. In the summer it’s important to maintain the health of the animals. Bringing the cattle home is a highlight of the fall happens globally except in Montana, it’s without all the fests as in the Alps. Then there’s fence fixing and overall maintenance and management. Of course, daily the all the animals on the farm need to be fed.first thing in the morning and then as the sun goes down. Chickens, horses, cows, sheep, and goats can be quite the undertaking. My favorite chore was feeding the adorable orphaned calves. Then there was a this attention hog of a goat. He couldn’t stand for the calves to have more attention than him and he forced my hand to rub on him. He was such a sweetie, I obliged. He reminded me of my dog back home.
Now country girls and cow girls are not synonymous, however, with a little work a country girl can make a graceful transition into a cowgirl. Scarlett O’Hara was a country girl. Annie Oakley is a cowgirl. Being a cowgirl is a workout in itself.
Should’ve Been A Cowboy
On one occasion, we rode up into the mountains to look for lost cows. The cows had come down from the pastures in the mountains but not all of them came home. That’s when I realized I have never ridden a horse with a purpose before. Any other time it was purely entertainment…like on a boring trail or in an arena. Here, I was doing some real cowboy stuff. There is more to cowboying than the 1791 Supply Co. swagger. It’s a lot of physical, time consuming work. We had to ride because there was no other way to get up into the altitude. You couldn’t four-wheel it, couldn’t drive it, and definitely couldn’t walk it. We drove bout an hour to the trail head of a national forest. Tiny, the man of the ranch who wasn’t at all tiny, gave me a quick safety briefing. “If Lorena sees a bear, just turn her around real quick away from the bear.” Record scratch…and pause…ummm…a bear!? What is happening? What have I gotten myself into! I had not even considered there were bears in the region. Apparently, a horse has the tendency to panic, buck the rider off, and keep going at the sight of a bear. We took a small band of real cowboys, and aggro-tourists up into the mountains then separated into two smaller groups in different directions off the trails looking for the lost cows. At this point, the lyrics to Toby Keith’s “Should’ve Been a Cowboy” play over and over in my mind. My horse was awesome. She responded well to commands. My partner’s horse, on the other hand, had some anxiety attacks attacks going on. While it was a good horse for working with cows, it wasn’t the best for riding also steep rugged terrain. Well, the temperature dropped in the mountains and the rain began and honestly…cowboying stopped being fun. Rain or shine, the work of a cowboy must get done.
Ranch vs. Farms
Just as there are different jobs in the medical community, or in the defense community, there are different jobs in the agriculture community and the differences between ranchers and farmers end to get muddled. I arrived on the ranch thinking perhaps it was just a regional vocabulary difference, but no, the functions are entirely different. Ranchers raise cattle or sheep. Just two animals. Ranches tend to be out west where the soil is unsuitable for crop-growing. Farms have a variety of fruit and vegetable crops and pigs, poultry, dairy cattle. As a child, I climbed and used my imagination on farm machinery. Noticeably missing from the ranch was all the machines. There were no harvesters, balers, tractors tucked away in farm storage buildings. Ranchers use horses to do a lot of their work, or pack mules to carry loads into the mountains, or 4-wheelers. On a ranch you may have several Ranchers’ livestock may free-grazing with other ranchers’ which is why branding your livestock is more prevalent than on farms. Farms use tagging (and perhaps also branding). Farmers divide their operation up by fields or paddocks, ranchers by pastures. Fields tend to be smaller than pastures and geographically closer together. Like when we on the search for cattle that never came home, we were an hour away from the house. Ranchers wear cowboy hats while they work. Farmers wear baseball caps while working and may whip out a cowboy hat when they go dancing. So, when you’re at the dinner table blessing the hands that made your family’s meal possible, you are blessing the hands of a farmer for your grains, dairy, fruits and veggies, and a rancher for your lamb and beef!
This ranch is pretty dynamic in a business aspect. In addition to raising and selling livestock, providing ranch vacations, the farm also offers trail rides and fishing trips under the business name, Paintbrush Adventures. Of course, this is just part of a day’s work. Even getting dozens of horses settled and ready for rides is a bit of work but it’s always fun when work disguises it’s self as play.
The Montana Bunkhouse website states that visitors come as guests but leave as friends and that is certainly true. Even just for I week, The leaders said I was a part of their lives and I agree, I was treated like family. I made friends that I know I’ll always have a connection.
Using BuzzFeed’s 29 Surreal Places in America You Need to Visit Before You Die as my American travel bucket list, I started researching the spectacular sights in my area. One of the features, Zion National Park, was a short day trip drive away from my home.
So, with a weekend as my timeline, I packed up me and my roommate, Memphis, and headed up the road toward Utah. For those who have never met Memphis, he adores me. He’s kinda like a clingy boyfriend who wants to be loved on non-stop, all the time. ALL THE TIME. NON-STOP. I reserved a room at the pet-friendly La Qinta Inn Resort about three miles from the park entrance. After the long drive, I just wanted to sit in bed and watch TV until I knocked out from exhaustion. He wanted his belly rubbed all night! Then he got all this energy and decided to jump from bed to bed like a little kid in a hotel. After some compromising on both our parts, sleep found us. The next morning, in little kid fashion, I woke up to Memphis walking in my back ready to go before 7 am on a Saturday. After convincing him to hit the snooze button, I headed out of the lodge for the complimentary breakfast provided by the hotel, and had my breath taken away as soon as I stepped outside my door.
First thing I saw when I stepped outside my hotel room.
In my travel journal, I wrote:
You know when you leave your concrete jungle and drive all night in the dark, just you and the GPSs, and you can’t really see all that’s changed right in front of you….that same experience after driving in southern Germany in pitch blackness all night and go straight to bed once you get to your hotel….then you wake up, go outside in the sunrise and you find yourself surrounded by the astounding beauty of the Alps for the first time…I just got that feeling again this morning.
I just couldn’t believe how beautiful this place in America was. I couldn’t believe it’s been here all along and I was just now discovering it for myself. In the dark, I missed how the landscape changed around me. This was literary the same breathtaking beauty I’d experienced while road tripping with my mom and niece along the German-Swiss boarder in pitch darkness unaware of all the beauty that surrounded me until morning.
Memphis and I loaded up the car and drove three miles to sit in the longest line outside the gate. At 0900, I was already behind the early bird curve to get into the park. I flashed my park pass (which is a free annual pass if you are a Federal Government worker) and got informed by the gate staff that there is only one trail in the whole 229 square mile park that Memphis was allowed to travel. I was initially disgruntled that my only option with my companion was the Pa’rus Trail. Turns out, that was one heck of a trail. It’s about two miles in length following the river, and gorgeous views at every turn. I was surrounded by beauty all around. Again, I was overwhelmed with disbelief that this wonderland is still part of my country. I had a hard time grasping that this place, so drastically different from where I grew up is still part of the same nation.
Beautiful Trail for dogs
While on the trail, I met an upper middle-aged couple taking pictures with their big fancy cameras. Turns out they were from Connecticut.
“We’re not tourists,” the husband said. “We’ve lived here for seven years and we still come on weekends to take a picture. There’s just so much to see at different times of day and year,” he said. And I believed it. The walk out on the trail was vastly different from the walk back. I couldn’t stop taking pictures!
This weekend I realized this was the most amount of time I’ve ever spent, non-stop with my roommate. I got Memphis from the side of the road when he was a tiny two month old (the Vet’s estimation). He was abandoned with ribs showing. Then I went off to some summer training. My parents took care of him while I finished out college then for my first job out of college. Then When I went overseas. So I finally got him full-time when I moved to SoCal…seven years later. I got to see all his weird habits. Smell every smell he produced (never knew I had a gassy dog). I learned he is incredibly protective. He wasn’t really cool with men approaching me but would run up to women just sitting on park benches minding their own business and sit in their laps like he belonged there (they welcomed him). I learned he is just as adventurous and athletic as me. If I said, let’s go climb that mountain, he be down. If and when I said, let’s swim this river. He was game. Miles and miles we explored and was always ready to follow me down the rabbit hole. I told my mom, who kept Memphis for me for years as I traveled, that her baby got to be a dog this weekend. No lounging in the house being a pampered pouch, this little Kentucky dog was out exploring America.
I got a little saddle time in too. On the other side of the park (opposite the Springdale Gate) I discovered a charming ranch and had to stop to check it out. At Zion Mountain Ranch, three girls with my name (rarity) went horseback riding. While saddled up we talked about the things that tend to bring strangers together: travel, food, adventures, and guys. One girl was from the same SoCal area I live in now. She visited Zion a year ago, fell in love with the area, and moved there. She grew up on horses and got a job at the ranch, went to college nearby, and found a Utah cowboy to love. I asked her take on Utah men vice California ones, because for a southern girl, California guys were like nothing I’d come across before. Fellas who cut their own grass, and maintain their own cars, and do handy work around the house seemed to be rare in SoCal according to the native and me, the newbie. Traditional courtship is harder to find in SoCal than Utah apparently. This region of Utah is considered the high desert and snows mercilessly in the winter. As a Cali girl, her first winter was unbarable. So she, being of similar spirit as me, planned to spend next winter in Thailand with her beau. I love that idea…avoid the winter!
The ranch had a spring of new arrivals. Three mares came up mysteriously pregnant. One mare just dropped a foal without showing any signs of pregnancy. In fact, she’d been ridden pretty long earlier that day and no one was none the wiser until a baby just fell out of her like no big deal. Well eventually, the stealthy stallion was caught in the act. He got castrated. But he sired four new foals before being caught. Watching the new-borns keeping up with their mamas as they sprinted across the ranch was a sight to see.
It was on this ranch that I finally got to see Buffalo! I was disappointed I never saw them while driving across the plains on my Cross-Country Road trip. Zion Mountain Ranch is a buffalo preserve and hundreds of buffalo roam freely here. Kinda like big cows. Not as exciting as I’d hoped. But one of the girls got to have a cowboy-esqu adventure when buffalo left the preserve and it took three folks on horses to corral them back into their safe zone. Apparently, a sole rider on a horse can scare an adolescent buffalo back to the preserve. And older, adult male is not phased by a horse and might actually try to take one on. With the quaint cabins at the ranch, coupled by the beauty of the park and outdoor adventure opportunity, I couldn’t help but the think how absolutely romantic this area had the potential to be (Honeymoon spot!).
So many diverse people from all over the world come to visit the ranch mostly wanting the ultimate cowboy experience. I was regaled with funny, heart warming, amusing tales of some of the visitors to the park the guide had encountered.
If you get a chance, try this beer. FYI: In Utah, you are not allowed to have alcohol without food to go with it.
While the three of us rode our horses we discussed the Utah stereotypes. The first thing a lot of Americans think of when they consider Utah is Mormonism and possibly polygamy. On this trip I learned polygamy is not accepted by Latter Day Saints. Polygamist may call themselves Mormon, but Mormons don’t accept them as Mormon, Kinda like Baptists don’t claim Westboro Baptists. You can usually tell the polygamist by their uniform of formless pastel-colored dresses reaching down to the ground and Rapunzel-like tresses. They tend to live in more remote areas and not common all over Utah. A walk around the local Wal-Mart will be the most likely place for this cultural tourism (in fact, Wal-Mart seems to be the place for sub-culture tourism wherever you are).
Me at Bryce Canyon
Some 70 percent or so of Utah is preserved as a public state or national park. In addition to Zion, there’s Arches National Park, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Canyonlands, Moab, Red Fleet, Monument Valley and more. Each park vastly different from the other. I don’t get a lot of that back home in the south. A state park in Kentucky is almost indistinguishable from a state park in Alabama (with the exception of Mammoth Cave National Park). It’s a shame that the narrative of this state is centered around this counter-culture when the glory of Utah is its geo-diversity should be highlighted. Sure, the prevalence of Later Day Saint churches does stand out more than other states, but Utah is a big, beautiful, diverse state. Utah has so much more to offer than that one minute, unique aspect. And I guess that’s the same for people. A person can be as amazing as Utah but have one negative aspect or make one mistake and that’s the part people will emphasize the most.
This trip was mesmerizing. I got to share it with my favorite roommate and made new friends. This region instantly captured my heart and now is my American favorite. I cannot wait to visit Southern Utah again.
How could I see the Eiffel Tower, Great Wall of China, the bell tower of Big Ben, the Berlin Wall, Neuschwanstein Castle, hiked the Himalayas, skied the Alps, visit the Grand Mosque before I ever saw the Golden Gate Bridge, Chrysler Building, Apollo Theater, and Grand Canyon in my own country?! I talked to a German colleague who listed all the great sights of America he’d seen and I hadn’t seen a single one. Likewise, although he’d seen the wonders of the United States, he hadn’t seen wonders of his own homeland.So, in my quest to see all 50 states,I’m headed off to Wyoming and Montana! Yellowstone is just one of those places I’ve always wanted to go since childhood. And, because my most adventurous friends are either starting their school years, deploying, or otherwise, pre-obligated, I’m traveling the Great North West alone. Which is what prompted this post.
If something should happen to me as a result of Traveling While Black, please know…
That I am well aware that there is no guilt or shame in this world that God’s grace won’t cover. Christ was already crucified for anything I could have possibly done, so there’s no need to crucify myself. Plus, I have plenty of awesome friends and family that will talk me off a ledge and help me regain perspective. Know, that I am not part of that 1% or so of black women who would ever commit suicide.
I have too much to accomplish and only a few years of this life to do it in. There’s that Pulitzer Prize winning novel I’ve yet to pen. There’s a story waiting to be written that will capture the experiences of those who are often overlooked in literature that will be a NY Times best seller, just waiting for me to write. I have Caldecott Medals, Newberry Awards, and Coretta Scott King Awards to achieve.
I have too many travel adventures on the books that I’m looking forward to. I have nine more states to visit before I can blog about my favorite places in America! I’m knocking out two on this trip, and plan to see the rest before schools in California start at the end of September. I’m looking forward to my rendezvous with my fellow freedom-defending cousins in Spain for New Year’s to see that Monkey Jesus painting that one of my friends described as “a finger painted self-portrait of Curious George!”
This is hilarious!
I’m finally spring-breaking in Peru with my favorite travel pals! Then there’s Puerto Rico next summer. This is my super Spanish year! I am going to buckle down and finally read the Spanish version of Don Quixote that’s been sitting on my shelf next to my Spanish text book from college (darn UK Spanish department decided to change books and I couldn’t sell it back to the book store!). Plus there’s way too much of this world I haven’t seen and experienced. I need to see Taylor Swift in Singapore or South Africa. I need to honeymoon in the Maldives and spend bachelorette vacation in the Seychelles. My niece and I need to take pictures with the giant tortoises in the Galapagos Islands. I haven’t held a Koala in Australia yet. I need a Parisian address at some point. My great-grandma live to be 94. Her daughter is currently 90 so I do not think it’s too much of a stretch to think I should make it to 97. Even so, I’ve only got a limited time to be super active and hit up all seven continents. I’m not going to take myself out of the game before reaching my goal.
I look forward to all the amazing things I can do this school year. One year down as a professor and, after spending the summer with other professors at other universities I have new ideas on how to accomplish bigger goals. But first, I’m going to have to toughen up. I can’t lower standards so folks can reach it. I can’t feel sorry for students as much (i.e. aw, you slept through my final…I’ll give up my break so you can take it). I’m nixing the mass amounts of extra-credit I give. Last year, I made it rain EC points. Like 40 points worth and kiddos still didn’t get As! The students that already had the 117% in the class were the ones who took on the optional essay while the 79.5% students did nothing to reach the next letter grade. Students who don’t show up to my mid-term and final will get no sympathy from me anymore. I am not grading essays over my spring break because college students turn their work in late. I have to watch these scholars blossom and be there at their graduation…fighting back tears of pride.
I have a lot of personal, professional, and educational goals and prospects. I need to get published…scholarly work and fiction. I need to get more proficient at some languages. Maybe I need to get published in one of those languages! I need to be able to clear a 4 foot jump on a thoroughbred. I want to play T. Swift’s “Our song” on banjo. I’m still waiting to hear back from my dream university. I want to design, build and live in a mini mansion. I still have til October to get myself in bikini competition champion condition (probably shouldn’t have had that Oreo frappe this morning)!
Everyone who knows me knows I’m not about to tap out of this life without the opportunity to wear a legendary, alencon lace-trimmed, three-quarter length sleeve, scalloped, boat neck gown. I’ll stand in the same little Baptist church in Kentucky where my grandma, mom, and I all were baptized and where both my dad and granddad received God’s favor in finding my mom and grandma. I’m like little Amy in Little Women when she says, “I don’t want to die. I’ve never even been kissed. I’ve waited my whole to be kissed, and what if I miss it?” Well, I’ve waited my whole life to be the “good thing” that someone finds and I wouldn’t end my life and miss it.
While I’m still on the fence on if I’m going to just spoil everyone else’s kids around me or make the life-long commitment to being underappreciated and sleep deprived, I still have the vision of standing up on a packed alter with generations of family and friends passing an infant down the line of supporters to his daddy who’ll lift the baby to the Lord while the pastor dedicates the child. It’ll be just as Hannah did for Sam and the congregation’s hands will lifted all promising to help raise him up. If not for my own, then surely I’ll have the opportunity to play a part in this important role for a friend’s child.
And if I do decided to become a mama (‘cus as a woman in an industrialized, modern, kinda democratic country, I get to choose motherhood…and yes…getting laid and becoming a mother are two separate decisions…and yes, I went political there) I’m not half doing it. I’m going to attempt to field the starting lineup of the UK basketball team. I mean really, lots of women are mothers but a select few get courtside seats in Rupp. Even if I fall shy of that goal, if I can get my whole family together in church come Sunday morning I’d call it a win. I’m going to filling up a whole pew with mini gentlemen looking way too cute with fresh haircuts and dressed in little suspenders, vests, argyle, corduroy, and saddle shoes. When the pastor says “turn in your Bibles…” they’ll flip through the Baptist Hymnal and point to the words, pretending to read along because they are too little to know the difference. And they’ll sit between me, who’s got baby girl #1 in my lap, and their daddy whose got baby girl # 2 in one hand and my heart in the other (yep, extra cheesy, you’ll live). Both baby girls dressed in too much lace and too many ribbons and ruffles and with adorable white patent leather shoes. And I’ll wear a big ol’ church hat that blocks the view of everyone behind me (they too, will live).
The stuff I dream up tends to happen. I envisioned living in a flat in Europe and traveling every weekend and that vision was accomplished. I envisioned being a leader and that was accomplished. Like Elle in Legally Blond when she impulsively decides to go to Harvard law…stuff somehow has a way of happening when I commit to a decision.
I wouldn’t commit suicide and I’m not disrespectful.
I want to make it apparently obvious that I am not suicidal. Even so, there’s a trend of blaming the deceased for their murder. Don’t even consider that something I did lead to my demise. There’s a quote that’s gone viral that states, “telling black people to be respectful so they don’t get killed is like telling women what to wear so they don’t get raped.” It shouldn’t matter regardless, but please know, I am respectful anyway. I grew up with old school, southern, military, non nonsense parents. I got this general respect and respect for authority thing on lock. I’ve slipped up and called my fitness trainer “sir” once when he told me go lift something, it’s just what you do. I’m a responsible drinker and since I’m traveling alone, there will be no drinks on this trip). No drugs have ever entered this body. I don’t smoke. I don’t curse. My BFF, Megan, was once interviewed as a reference for me, and let me know she thought it was important to note that as a grown woman I still used words like, “hind-end, behind, and bottom” in place of using the word “butt” because I think it’s a bit too crass. Last school year, I accidentally deleted and entire document and my expletive of choice was a “Dog gone it!” through grit teeth. My boss, who is awesome but has been known to drop an f-bombs or two teased, “I heard you almost cuss in there.” I might roll and eye which is my body’s natural reflex to BS. It would take a lot of focus to control it and sometimes the eye roll slips. But if I’m cursing, I am under extreme duress.
I’m more cautious than usual while alone. I don’t go out on the town alone. I am planning to hit up a rodeo. Hopefully that will be a safe environment for solo women of color. Hopefully I won’t get called names or have stuff thrown on me. I’m not confrontational, my impulse would be to flee a dangerous situation rather than confront it. Grabbing an officer’s gun wouldn’t be my go-to move when in distress although I’d like to imagine myself doing a Charlie’s Angel/Kill Bill-style round house kick if one was pointed in my face but realistically that’s unlikely. If anything I’d probably in shock I’m not being treated like a lady. I follow reasonable instructions of officers but getting out of a vehicle for no reason is going to put me in serious distress because I’d fear getting raped.
If I end up in jail over some nonsense like Sandra Bland, I won’t fret paying bail. I can’t imagine I wouldn’t be able to handle it by a credit card swipe or a phone call to mom & pops. Even so, I’d go Friendship 9 with it and let tax payers of the nation keep on paying my salary while I’m hanging out in jail saving money by having the tax payers of the town cover my meals and lodging. Racism and pride are expensive, but I shouldn’t be the one footing the bill for someone else’s issues.
I think that should cover the usual gamete of ways murder victims of color are usually blamed for their death. Unless I get surprised with a new, creative murder justification.
Oh, the self-defense clause? I’m the same size I’ve been since I was 12 years old. I am the size of a 12-year-old girl. When Target has cute or cheaper stuff in the little girl’s section, I’m on it. Girls size 12/14. I’m 5 foot 4.25 inches tall 120 pounds (prob closer to 125 but those extra pounds don’t matter). I’m known to smile way too much…even in formations. If someone is threatened or intimidated by me something is wrong with them. I’m not coordinated enough to dribble and run at the same time, I’m probably not coordinated enough to cause you much harm. No one at airports, parking lots, restaurants, sidewalks, malls, etc seem intimidated because they always seem to find me and have weird, awkward, or inappropriate convos with me and to tell me too much about their personal life. And “thug music”? No. The only music I’m taking with me is all 5 Deluxe editions of T.Swizzle (on CDs). I might sing to her a little loudly but If asked politely, I’m likely to accommodate requests to turn her down. Then again she did make that song, “Thug Story” so she might count as thug music. I can’t stop watching Luke Bryan sing with Jason Durelo. I wear that video out! Too cute! But Jason is a man of color so listening to his music might fall under listening to thug music and be used to justify my death. Other than that, I’ll be listening to whatever comes on Montana radio which I’ll guess isn’t too diverse. Hope they play Drake, who is the half white, Canadian boy version of Taylor (Running through the six with my woes is the equivalent of a Twentytwo, that “you suck right now” song is a “We are never ever ever getting back together.” I’ll talk about that later…provided I survive).
Use these pics as evidence. This is not a girl you needed self-defense from? A friend recently described me as a “sexy goof.” Not threatening.
If I do die before my parents, I want an epic homecoming. Make it southern, make it military, and make is quintessentially OUR FAMILY. Dave, I appoint you to ensure my mama does not give me a tacky funeral. Just because I’m dead, doesn’t mean I’m classless.
No tacky traditional funeral flowers. Think pink peonies. Two big arrangements of them flanking a white casket (or you can turn my body into a diamond…that’s a thing nowadays). For the love of Jesus, proof read the heck out of the program. If my mom is too distraught to utilize that English degree of give it to my boss, nothing gets past him.
Have a cappella Gospel Choir feeling the spirit with a lively “I’ll Fly Away” and “Soon and Very Soon.”
Sing, “His Eye is on the Sparrow” in the style of Mahalia. Have my sister sing, “Going up Yonder” and know I’ll be in Heaven shouting hallelujah just a little bit too loudly.
It would be awesome to have all three leaders: Reverend Bishop from First Baptist Elizabethtown, Reverend Aiken from First Baptist Bracktown, and Pastor Huntley from True Divine Baptist in Montgomery (he’ll be entertaining). Yes, open up the doors for salvation and if the spirit dictates, allow the opportunity for baptism, right there at a funeral. You never know when the next time someone will enter the church or if they’ll make it to next Sunday. Yes, this will be a long church session.
And yes, I want my non-Christian friends to be right there on the pews too. And I want them to feel welcome and at home. No awkward, hateful, mean, rude condemnation in the preaching. I do not approve. But if they still don’t feel comfortable even being there, be sure they know where to meet for the after party. Make it like a tailgate, barbeque style. With amazing food. Dad will handle the brisket, Karla will take care of the Mac and Cheese (this is a joke…have a backup ready). Shawn will handle the beans. Maybe a fish fry too. And let there be bourbon (and responsibility). Use my wedding fund to make sure I have a fantastic funeral (I was going to use the word “killer” in place of good here…but…probably not the best choice).
I want to be wearing that black & white A-symmetrical dress that I wore to Cathy’s wedding at my wake. But do not bury that dress, it’s much too pretty for it. Instead, give it to my baby sister cus she’ll probably be just as cute in it as me. Probably just give her all my clothes since she’s forever wanting to wear them anyway.
All the Single Ladies! Pair this dress with yellow wedges and purse. All three are in my closet.
Bury me in my cadet blues uniform (Not my good Captain one). It’s still in the back of my closet. Give my good uniform to my grandma to keep with the uniforms of all the other military members of my family. She could have a museum with all the different uniforms. If a wardrobe change is too much trouble just put me in whatever Kentucky Blue sundress no one wants. Lord knows I have way too many anyway. Or buy this one specifically for my funeral. Dad always said don’t go out and buy another suit for him if he dies, just use one that he already has…I don’t have that rule. Everyone should dress like they are going to a UK football game. Forget depressing black (unless you have a smokin’ LBD you want to get some use out of…but you’ll be in church and probably shouldn’t). Wear sundresses or seersucker and sports coats. Dress like you’re going to Derby. Don’t mourn. Celebrate my spiritual ascent.
Lastly, the only way I’d want to be buried in my hometown is if I got to stay in the veterans section of the cemetery with my mom and dad having reserved spots nearby. If not, send me to E-town, next to my great-grandma. Or just turn me into a diamond. Fire the volleys and carry on. I think that should cover it.
Last bits of odds and ins
Such a sweetie! Love my roomie
Someone will need to get my dog, Memphis, back to Kentucky. There’s money in the bank to pay for that. Use the rest of the cash in the bank to send some high school students from Daviess County, Hardin County and Montgomery off to Paris and/or Stuttgart for the summer. Mom, hand select ones that remind you of me. Make ’em write an essay, profess their love of history, culture, and travel; let them be in band, run, dance, take part in theater and prove their countless hours of community service. Pay for their study abroad tuition. I vote out of state HBCU (or of course, Kentucky) for Baby Belle and Baby Beau to go to school. Dan, sanitize my electronics for parent consumption before handing them over to my mom. Dad, I have an unused United Ticket. It’s yours, you’ll have to call. If media is involved, make sure they use the profile pic of me in my UK tee —That’s a crowd favorite. Or the pic of me, my mom, and Elizabeth in our uniforms at Liz’s Academy Commissioning. Or of my mama crying at my promotion. Don’t use my official AF photo. It’s out of date and my hair was curled too tight that day.
*Please consider the state of our union when I feel more compelled to write funeral arrangement plans before I go to Montana and Wyoming than I did before deploying.
If anyone wants to express outrage, for the love of God, do not ask, “What would Martin Luther King do?” MLK, Jr. is dead because he tried to be a Switzerland in America and that does not work. Instead, ask what great American Warriors, General William T. Sherman, General James Mattis, and the honorable Malcolm X do. Kumbaya is not the American way. It’s not even English and ‘Muricans hate it when folks don’t speak English. I’m one of the many Americans get all hoo-rah’ed up over Toby Keith’s analysis of the American way. Putting some boots in some arses gets stuff done.
Some think I’m over reacting. I sure hope so. But Tamir Rice’s life was taken in 2 seconds for being a child. Taylor Swift pens songs about being in love at 15, but fifteen-year-old Andre Green was killed last weekend along with 12 others…just in one weekend. I recall, Matthew Shepard was killed in Wyoming because of the hate in someone’s heart. I identified so much with Sandy Bland, when I read about her I though, dang, she sounds like me. Then my sister texted saying the same woman reminded her of me. And maybe that’s what it will take, is for the majority of America to see themselves in the victims. I mean, I get how it’s hard for most Americans to see themselves in a black, teen from the hood of some town no one has ever heard of. I get it. That teen is in the “out group.” He’s an “other” for many. But for me, in him I see my future son, my future husband, my dad, my friends, and my family members. When the media kept emphasizing a black teen’s 6’4″ height (and omitted that the police who killed him was just as tall) I couldn’t help but to think of my dad who is also 6’4″. I thought of my curly-haired dimple toddler nephew whose daddy and granddaddy are both 6’4″ and he probably will be as well. And simply because of his height and skin color, someone will forget that he was once our family’s pre-mature baby boy and be afraid of him.Hopefully, with as vivid a life as I’ve lived, if something should happen to me, there will be something about me that others can identify with and think, dang, that sounds like me and we ought to put a stop to shoot now, ask questions later of Americans. There is an art and strategy to protest. But the best protest would be one that would impact enough centers of gravity that would incapacitate the will and capability to take a life. Some have suggested that if I fear attack, just don’t go. But if I don’t go a get to experience the beauty of my own country, the hateful people of the world win by keeping me from experiencing all that life has to offer.
*typed on an iPhone don’t be too critical of editing.
**Since identifying oneself anyway you see fit is the thing to do now, I self-identify as the fiancé of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. If something should happen to me, please refer to me as such.
Oh Dwayne, What’s that you say? You want to smell my cooking, first thing in the morning, for the rest of your life? Not a problem.
I got a taste of the southern Utah and had to go back! With This BuzzFeed article as my inspiration, I decided to get active for my Memorial Day. I plotted my course to see it all in 4 days:
Grand Canyon National park Antelope Canyon Horseshoe Bend Bryce Canyon National Park Zion National park
I spent Friday night after work in Vegas where my co-worker was having an epic co-ed bachelor/bachelorette party in Vegas. I learned that I am much to old to be trying to keep up with recent college grads. It was a Friday night, I’d put in a full week’s worth of work and just drove three hours. I was ready to chill. they were ready to wild out. Standing in long lines while my stilettos pained my feet was not of interest to me tonight. I was also training for a fitness competition and couldn’t consume alcohol or carbs. So I kept it low-key, and turned in relatively early for a night in Las Vegas. I started my day as everyone else was going to bed and continued my journey. I had national parks to see!
The same co-worker, a recent college grad, once spoke enthusiastically about wanting to have Spring Break party trips to Lake Havasu. I’d never heard of the place. Being a southern girl my initial thoughts were why would you go to a lake in the middle of the desert to spring break on a lake when there’s Panama City Beach, Destin, Myrtle Beach, or Hilton Head? But apparently for West Coast Kids, Lake Havasu is the place to spend a week-long break from school. Well, I passed the lake on my way to the grand Canyon. I was traveling solo and this wasn’t on the itinerary but after watching groups of friends zip around on jet skis I could certainly envision spring break memories here. Why on Earth was I just now being introduced to this desert paradise?
Grand Canyon. About six hours later I finally made it to the Canyon of Canyons! Have you ever been to a place that reminds you of a song? Well, The whole time John Michael Montgomery’s “Ain’t Got Nuthin on Us” played in my mind as the sound track of this adventure.
Yes, the Grand Canyon was a sight to see. But I’d already seen Zion Canyon and quite frankly, although smaller, I found it more beautiful. That could also be partly to the low visibility and drizzly conditions I found the Grand Canyon. It was chilly and wet and smelled like donkey doo the whole walk.
Going all the way down to the bottom of the Canyon is a 20-mile, round trip and requires overnight camping, training, and planning. I did an 8 hour round-trip walk down the canyon using the Angel Trail. Clearly, this is an all day adventure. I think anyone with a strategy can handle the trip but it is strenuous even for the physically fit. You need to be well-researched and prepared. On this hike you are battling altitude, the elements, hunger (no vending machines on the trail) dehydration, and boredom! So hike smart. The trip down is faster than the trip up (of course) but be sure if you are planning an 8 hour trip you account for breaks and the harder journey back up. This is not a four hours down four hours back up kind of trip. It’s more like three hours down, five hours up.
The views were awe inspiring. I was just surrounded by greatness.
The views were captivating
And very serene and peaceful
After this eventful, physically straining, long day, I hoped in my car and continued the ride toward Horseshoe bend. It was pretty late once I made it to Page, AZ. Prior to leaving a did a google search for hotels here and not a darn one showed vacancies. Not being one to let a little detail like lodging derail my adventure I came anyway to try my luck at cancellations. I did some calling around (thank goodness for a smart phone) to no avail. I asked the lady at the gas station for names of near-by cities with hotels. she said, this was it. There was nothing between flag staff and Zion but Page, AZ. But she directed me to with Wal-Mart parking lot. She said everyone keep coming in and asking for advice on lodging options but the town is small and there just aren’t hotels. But they were building more to accommodate the tourist flow. But the Wal-Mart just across the street seemed ot be the overflow favorite. Sure enough, midnight in Wal-Mart was poppin’ with everyone there buying pillows, blankets, and all that other good stuff. So, I did the same. The back parking lot was a makeshift camp ground. Actual RV camping vehicles were interspersed with cars and trucks lodging tourists like me. Being 4 foot, 4 1/4 inches tall does have its benefits. I found the backseat of my sedan comfortable and it wasn’t long before I was knocked out. It rained that night.
I woke up like this! In the back seat of my Japanese car.
I woke up to a nearly empty parking lot at dawn’s first light. Droves of Wal-Mart campers were making the trek across the parking lot, toiletry bag in hand, inside the super store to use the restroom. It was quite the sight to see. Everyone brushing their teeth and straightening up in the public bathroom.
Horseshoe Bend
I made it to Horseshoe bend down the street from the Wal-mart before 6 am and before all the crowds. Entrance to this natural wonder is free. It’s a walk up a steep hill plus a bout 3/4 of a mile walk to the bend.It’s quiet and peaceful on the Colorado River in the morning. Plenty of time and space to take pictures. It also has the potential to be very dangerous as there are no natural fall prevention features so if you’re with children, stay vigilant.
Antelope Canyon
Now the cool part of Antelope Canyon is Navajo Nation Park. Not a U.S. National park. So your annual park pass will not get you access. You’ll have to pay separately and plan ahead (four months) and get a reservation to see the cool sights like the wave. With your National Park pass you still get to see the gorgeous northern Arizona/Southern Utah views.
This is the cool part. You can learn more at discoverAmerica.com and more info at http://utah.com/the-wave
Other gorgeous views of The Utah-Arizona boarder!
I took a boat ride through the Northern part of Antelope Canyon. The boat tours offered an introduction to all the Navajo history you never learned in school. The Navajos here had a successful resistance against the U.S. Army who was sent on a mission to round up all the American in the area. The Navajos had to be invisible. That meant, no noise, no fires, no cooking. Many of them camped out right at the top of ridges like the ones in the pictures while the army cruised the Colorado River by boat.
Now, I will admit, I am not a Native American History guru by any means. All I ever learned in school was there was this Indian removal act of 1830 then The Trail of Tears. Then Indians went practically extinct, the end. It was really sad but a necessary evil for Manifest Destiny. Cus “Murica! That was high school. Even as a history major in undergrad, I was able to graduate without the acknowledgment of American Indians. In my graduate work, one of my cross-cultural professors was a blue-eyed, pale-skin Indian. The Absolutely True Diary of a Part Time Indian was part of our reading list.
Although the views were beautiful on their own, photo editing works wonders.
There is an amazing stories of resilience and warrior spirit that is at the very heart of all that it means to be American in Native American history, and I find it a shame that it isn’t taught more in our schools. Even with the resistance a majority of Navajos still were captured and had to endure 13 miles a day at gunpoint during the event termed as “The Long Walk.” It’s a collective, historical trauma that unites Navajos with a common history as well as connect the Navajo’s Long walk with the Trail of Tears of the Cherokee, Seminole, Chickasaw, Choctaw and Muskogee.
The whole region is just a collection of interesting, natural beauty to see. I took the opportunity for an improve photoshoot in sandstone. I had visions of a high fashion photo shoot of models voguing on the sandstone in stilettos with wind blowing their impractical flowy gowns with striking, peacockesque make-up. But, since I don’t have the skill or resources, I got me, barefoot in a tee shirt and Capri pants.
Since I got up at the crack of dawn, I packed a lot in. I’d been on a boat cruise, seen the hanging garden (a little bit of a letdown…it’s just leaves growing on a rock wall), went on walks, splashed by the river. By noon, I’d seen and done all the highlights of the area. I took some time to rest and relax. do a little reflection, writing, reading, and picnicking.
After lunch, I revisited horseshoe bend under different lighting (and a higher tourist population). I started wrapping up to get on the road and travel onward before I got too tired and the roads got dark. The weather changed quickly. In fact, in the span of the day, it went from cold enough to sear long sleeves and a vest to sweating in short sleeves, then it poured down rain out of nowhere, to cold again.
After the rain on the way out of Arizona and into Utah.
I think I look a bit off here, but hey, I camped in the backseat of m y car.
Bryce Canyon
I continued the journey north, skipping Zion Canyon and heading straight to Bryce Canyon. I saved money on lodging in favor of camping out in my car again int he national park. That way, I’d skip the line and be able to start my day in the park.
Just an hour north
Bryce Canyon distinguishes itself from the others with it’s natural amphitheaters and hoodoos which I never learned about during geography class. I mean, I remember mesas, plateaus, mountains, and what not but hoodoo was a new one for me. But they are quite interesting to see. The temperature was significantly cooler as I hiked in higher altitudes.
I love Bryce Canyon because it is so distinctively different from the other four nearby canyons nearby and yet equal in beauty and charm. That’s similar to the discovery I made while living in Germany. In Germany, perfect blue skies are hard to come by. You learn to embrace the grey skies just as the blue and realize that beautiful days come during the rain, fog, and snow as well. Just like people. It seems like with the relatively new, American body positivity movement that America has had the epiphany that beauty can exist in different, even contrasting forms. You can have a group of women with different skin colors, hair lengths and textures, body shapes and sizes and all of them still be beautiful just like land forms. We are surrounded by beauty regardless if we are in canyons or suburbia or the big city whether or not we chose to see the beauty is up to us as individuals. It doesn’t have to be a competition. It’s okay to love all the canyons equally for different reasons. The Grand Canyon is humbling with it’s massive size and reminds me of that there are forces greater than one’s self out there. The same force that carved the canyon also designed the wonder of horseshoe bend. The history of Antelope Canyons is a reminder of strength and resilience.
I topped off my canyoneering weekend with a trip to Zion. Since I’d already spent some time here, I could relax more than explore. I took the opportunity to stretch out my muscles after sleeping in my car and taking on some hard hikes, I really needed a massage but stretch helped too.
It was an exhausting, physically challenging long weekend. I got comfortable sleeping without fancy accommodations, learned to appreciate and recognize beauty in differences more, had my breath taken away by the Grand Canyon, and did some killer hiking, climbing and overall canyoneering.
“There is no, ‘yea but…’ response to this article. Only an ‘Ah-ha’ or ‘Dang, that’s messed up.’ This author has a history education. The entire piece is quotable.”
Then I selected two of the most paradigm-shifting quotes from the article discussing America’s history with violent protests.
The responses to the post were very emotional and continued for days after. Although the very second paragraph of the article discouraged the lecturing by white people on, “the proper response to police brutality, economic devastation, and perpetual marginality, having ourselves rarely been the targets of any of these,” individuals still felt inclined. They told me that the proper response to the constant threat of violence is to be more understanding of the perpetrators, more loving, non-violent, and by “living the Bible.” That way, gradually, after some generations, the senseless killings of blacks in our country would end. I liken that advice to child-free individuals spouting parenting advice. Such people do not have the necessary credentials of lived experience to give advice. People verbally assaulted me rather than the article. They twisted my words and attempted to smear my character. In fact, during their assault, the article was scarcely even referenced. The most peculiar personal attack came from a fellow service member whom I attended professional military education. He stated:
“And I’m astonished that someone who so strongly feels this country is systemically racist would willingly serve on its behalf in uniform.”
Then later,
“And I renew my astonishment that you would serve a country whose people, by and large, you believe to be all subconsciously racist, regardless of the words in their Constitution.*”
The service member ended his monologue by saying the only racism he sees is from people pointing out racism like me (insert thinking emoji on how that works).
Being a historian, I’m mindful of General Custer’s lesson on wise battle picking. However, with the odds weighed, I figure it’s worth the effort to address because I find it strange such a statement would be made by an educated military officer. Perhaps other military members have the same view. For the sake of their black troops, they need some cross-cultural awareness. I believe a thorough, unsanitized history education would solve many of our nation’s problems. So, in homage to the nearing Memorial Day holiday, I’d like to offer some Black American Military history.
You’d be hard-pressed to find a black military service member who does not believe America has a systemic problem with racism. To suggest that people not serve their country because they are aware of systemic racism exists in their country illustrates the exact sort of naiveté discussed in the article. It also demonstrates a lack of history. It shouldn’t be too astonishing that a black American would serve their country and still recognize the country’s struggles with racism. Considering we have examples of black Americans fighting for liberty since at least 1754, during a time of race-based slavery, it is safe to say each black warfighter knew racism existed. Are people being taught that heralded Generals Benjamin O. Davis Jr. and Benjamin O. Davis, Sr. were without beliefs that systemic racism? Do people think James Webster Smith, Henry O. Flipper, Carl Brashear, Robert Smalls, Alix Pasquet, Martin Delany, Charles McGee, Isaac Woodward, and Lee Archer didn’t recognize the systemic racism of America? Do we believe the Tuskegee Airmen, Buffalo Soldiers, or the first black Marines (who are just now being acknowledged) were aloof to the presence of endemic racism?
Two Airmen representing WWII and Operation Enduring Freedom. Picture circa 2009.
If any military person needs to look at any of these names up to know who they are, you are exemplifying systemic racism in military history education. If you can name more Confederate soldiers than historical American black soldiers, you are evidence that prejudice and racial bias exists in one of the most common facets of American life, education. If you don’t recognize any of the names I mentioned and choose to continue to be ignorant of the contributions they made to America’s freedom, that is the biggest misfortune. You don’t know, and you don’t want to know. That’s the root of the problem.
Revolutionary War Minuteman, Lemuel Haynes wrote, “Liberty is equally as precious to a black man, as it is to a white one, and bondage as equally as intolerable to the one as it is to the other.”
He shared similar views as me on racism and military service, yet when King George dared tax America, he soldiered up. I think it goes without saying that every black soldier during the Civil War “strongly feels this country is systemically racist” so we won’t delve into that war, but let’s learn the stories of black vets during the 20th century.
World War I
The song, “How Ya Gonna Keep Em Down on the Farm After They’ve seen Paris” describes Black soldiers returning home from WWI. Through their experiences in France, where no one told them where they couldn’t go and what they couldn’t do, Black American soldiers began to recognize how oppressive life in America was. This is an experience still felt by Black American military members today when they are stationed abroad and return home to America.
The year after WWI, the KKK grew and more, “than seventy Black Americans were lynched during the first year following the war, some of them were returned soldiers still in uniform.” You can find stories of black soldiers returning home from war, readying to hug their parents only to find out they had one parent left because their one of their parents had been lynched while they were fighting a war against tyranny. With all of this direct contact with racial oppression of previous black service members, somehow modern-day service members believe that the belief in the existence of systemic racism and military service are mutually exclusive?http://www.americansc.org.uk/Online/Woodland.htm
George Dorsey, a decorated Bronze Star veteran, was lynched in Monroe, Georgia with his wife and another black couple.
World War II
During the Second World War, black soldiers strove for the Double V—victory at home and abroad; Democracy at home and overseas. Victory in America seemed to be a greater struggle than success against the Nazis. Countless black veterans were lynched, castrated, dismembered, and burned alive post-WWII. The United States Military or government did nothing to support their black veterans. They came back, too hoo-rah’ed up, too proud to be American. Their fellow countrymen reminded them that they did not regard black people as fellow Americans. Without provocation, racist white Americans gouged out the eyes of twenty-seven-year-old black WWII vet, Sergeant Isaac Woodward, in Georgia while still in his Class As.
Roy Wright, one of the Scottsboro Boys, was 12-years-old when Alabama’s criminal justice system accused and convicted him of raping a white girl. Even though 1931 DNA evidence easily proved otherwise, he narrowly escaped the death sentence that the rest of his peers received. Even after this racial injustice he still volunteered to serve in the Army.
My grandparents circa 1942. Coming home from Ft Knox at the end of the duty day, my grandpa was stopped and told to get away from that “white woman” by an ignorant fool who couldn’t tell his wife wasn’t white. They couldn’t sit together at the movies. He still served.
Thirty-year Congressman Charles Diggs was subjected to Jim Crow treatment while attending the trial of Emmett Till’s murderers. Based on his position as the founding chairman of the Congressional Black Caucus and his leadership the boycott of President Nixon’s State of the Union address after Nixon refused to meet and discuss relevant issues of black American people, it’s safe to say Congressman Diggs was well aware of America’s problem with institutional racism. Yet, he still served in the army during World War II.
Aaron Henry was born in Jim Crow-reigning, Dublin, Mississippi in 1922. After enlisting in the Army and serving overseas, Henry realized the racism he endured in his hometown was not normal! When Henry came home, he learned veteran’s benefits, like being poll tax-exempt, didn’t apply to black veterans. Bigots chained him to a garbage truck and led through the streets of Clarksdale, MS. with legal impunity. Best believe he believed this veteran knew racism existed.
Sammy Younge, Jr. volunteered to serve in the Navy right after high school. After his discharge, he enrolled at Tuskegee Institute as a Poli-sci major and got involved in SNCC and was on Pettus Bridge when Alabama police attacked on Bloody Sunday. Suffice that enough to say that Younge was a firm believer in the institutional racism of America. He was murdered in 1966 for using a white bathroom in Tuskeegee, Alabama.
Louis Allen served during World War II and was harassed by the KKK after witnessing them murder another man. When he reached out to his government (FBI) for help, the FBI alerted the police/KKK, assisting the plot to have him shot in the head twice on his own property with a shotgun. Silas Hunt, the first black student to integrate the University of Arkansas and the first-ever admitted to a professional program ever in the south, was a Battle of the Bulge Purple Heart vet. He didn’t go through life without dealing with racism.
Lyman T. Johnson, who integrated the University of Kentucky six years before Brown challenged the Topeka’s Board of Ed, was a WWII Navy Officer. Because he enlisted with more education than the white officers appointed over him, he commissioned as an officer, but it was made clear that the Navy would refuse to promote and that his unit wouldn’t be making any more black ensigns. Pretty sure he received the message was loud and clear that racial inequality was at play.
A Tuskegee Airman I once met while I served Alabama made history more relatable when encouraging me to remember he wasn’t always old. He was once a young, 20-something-year-old pilot, with the same hopes, dreams, and confidence of young pilots today. He explained how he and his fellow airmen strutted around Fort Knox Kentucky in their flight jackets. However, when it came time to ride the bus home, he was in the back. When it came time to grab lunch, he had to go around back from grab and go. Heck, Tuskegee was a research project of the Army War College to try to prove blacks were unfit to fly. Talk about systemic racism. Even so, black folks volunteered to be part of the experiment by the hundreds.
Tuskegee Airmen signing my gear summer 2008.
For Memorial Day 2013, I had the privilege of visiting Épinal American Cemetery in France. Since the cemetery was without tourists, I got a very personal tour by the caretaker. He told the story of a black gold-star mother of a WWII soldier visiting her son’s gravesite. She waited until all the white gold-star mothers were directed to their child’s plot before asking, “Where is the colored cemetery? Or the colored section.” When the groundskeeper told her that they don’t do colored cemeteries, all soldiers are buried next to their comrades in arms, she was so overwhelmed that her son received the same honor in death as everyone else.
Is it any surprise that a soldier, whose mother expected that racism would still exist even in death, and a soldier who couldn’t fight a war in an integrated unit, would have the illusion that his country was without institutional racism? You could place a safe bet that her son was aware of the institutional racism in his country.
This Airman lived, fought, and died in a segregated unit but buried in an integrated cemetery. Another black airman’s gold star mother came to visit her son’s grave and was surprised her son was not relegated to an unkempt corner of the cemetery but honored with the dignity he deserved. (Photo from Épinal, France)
Thurgood Marshall was nearly lynched when he attempted to represent black war vets during the Columbia, Tennessee Race Riots that all started when a black Navy man told a white man it was not acceptable to threaten his mother. You best believe all those vets and Marshall believed there was something gravely wrong with their homeland and they still served.
Jewish-American warrior served under General George Patton, a known anti-semantic bigot (Photo from Normandy).
Mom and pops checking out General Patton’s grave at Luxembourg American Cemetery.
Korean War
The military employed racism toward Koreans during the Korean War as war propaganda to motivate white American troops to be ruthless toward the enemy. Black forces, acutely aware of anti-black racism, and not motivated to fight, lost faith in their leadership. Anti-black racism in the Korean War led to a lack of confidence and respect between black troops and white commanders. It led to failed missions and failed units. Military education and training often sanitize the story of Chappie James. “He experienced racism first hand” is as detailed as the military is will to get. Then military history education spins it as an example of, “you too can work your way out of racism just like Chappie James.” The thing is, black people have always been hard workers, but has never stopped racism.
Vietnam
Although Vietnam was America’s first racially integrated conflict, the war was rife with racial strife. Troops still experienced segregated quarters and units. Black soldiers identified more with the oppression of the Vietcong than America’s championing of democracy abroad. Although black men and women made up 11% of the US population at the time and 9% of the military community, they made up 50% of front line infantry, in June 1969, 41% of recruits, and 20% of the war deaths. Forty percent of black soldiers returned home with PTSD compared to 20% of white soldiers. Coincidence? With the draft, black panthers were put in situations where they needed to depend on Klansmen as battle buddies, often with disastrous outcomes.
Jimmy Lee Jackson served his country in Vietnam —before the draft (volunteered)…then went on to serve his country in the battle for civil rights. While demonstrating his desire to utilize his constitutional rights to vote by walking in circles around the Selma courthouse, police started beating his 80+-year-old grandpa (the state of Alabama didn’t record the births of black folks back then, so we’re not sure of the grandfather’s exact age) and mother with clubs. Jimmy led his family to safety, but a bigot shot him in the stomach with his frail grandpa and mother as witnesses. While the 26-years-old clung life in the hospital for the rest of the week, Alabama police served him an arrest warrant. He lost that battle and his grandparents buried in the old slave cemetery beside his dad. You best believe a young black man from rural Alabama knew first-hand institutional racism existed more than anyone else in the country. He still volunteered to serve his country.
White Vietnam War soldiers refused to allow black soldiers in their jeeps. Race riots broke out on Navy ships. White soldiers could wave their confederate flags (and no, it wasn’t to preserve their heritage) but a black soldier had to remove a “black is beautiful” poster. Senior officers ignored white soldiers with “F*ck the war” sentiments. However, senior officers punished black soldiers with the same sentiments whereas enforcement of standards of dress and grooming overlooked white troops with long, hippie-like, surfer-style hair. Army barbers couldn’t or wouldn’t cut black hair, yet the slightest appearance of an afro sent them to jail. Having to see, “I’d rather kill a nigger than a gook” graffiti in barracks and stalls made it challenging to differentiate enemy from countrymen. The Vietcong were quick to detect and exploit the racial weakness within the US forces with psychological operations using authentic images of US police n officers beating black civil rights workers back home to weaken morale. That happened. MLK, Jr. challenged LBJ that he could send troops to Vietnam but not to Alabama and that was a shared concept across black America. Still, all those back Americans performed their duty.
Universities After being repeatedly rejected, 19-year-old, Hamilton Holmes finally registered for classes at the University of Georgia to chants of “2-4-6-8 we don’t want to integrate” and of course, the predictable racial epitaphs. UGA’s admission staff went on to interrogate Charlayne Hunter, an 18-year-old who integrated UGA with Holmes, about any illegitimate children she might have if she had ever been a prostitute, the STD history of her family, and all the speeding tickets of her family before they would admit her to the school. None of these questions were asked of white students or had any bearing on her academic capabilities. The University of Georgia suspended the two black students after the white student body engaged in a hate-filled race riot outside their dorm. After integrating the 175-year-old University of Georgia, Hamilton Holmes went on to integrate Emery Medical. Even after all the strife that his countrymen put him through on his quest to higher education, and although he had a distinguished medical career, Hamilton decided to serve his country as an Army Doc (starting his career off as a Major).
After serving in the Air Force for nearly a decade, James Meredith applied to Ol’ Miss. With his stellar academic credentials from Jackson State, he was accepted, based on merit. That is until Ol’ Miss became aware of his brown skin. Even after almost a decade of “separate but equal” policy change, the policy of Ol’ Miss remained the same. It took 500 US Marshalls, the US Army, and the US border patrol for James Meredith to register for classes. James Meredith led the “March Against Fear.” As he walked from Memphis to Jackson, racists shot him on the second day of the march. It’s no doubt with the race riots that ensued after he started school and his shooting left no doubt in his mind that his country had a culture of racism, and yet, he still made the decision to serve.
Donald Sampson was a First Lieutenant in the Army throughout WWII, attended Temple University School of Law after the war, and dedicated the rest of his life to leading educational integration in South Carolina. He was a leader in the Army, leader in multiple civic organizations in his community, and active in his church.
James L. Solomon, who integrated the University of South Carolina in 1963, also served in the United States Air Force. Suffice the experience of having to integrate a university, proves he was aware of systemic racism.
Medgar Evers was part of the supply convoy of D-Day+1. He survived Nazi Germany but couldn’t escape Jim Crow, Mississippi. He knew America had institutional racism and still served in the military without benefits. Born on a plantation in the Mississippi Delta, Amzie More worked alongside Aaron Henry and Medgar Evers. His work in securing the freedoms for the black Americans that came after him indicates that he was not clueless to the race relations in the U.S. Still served in the United States Army.
Muhammad Ali took jail over war. Other, affluent (white) Americans took Switzerland or Canada. Ali was not offered a special duty to entertain troops like Elvis.
21st Century
IF you ask service members today their dealings with racism within the service branches you are going to get stories for days. A report recently just came out about how the Air Force hides documents to conceal its consistent racism toward black Airmen, and it surprised no one. IT only validated our experiences.
During the Hurricane Katrina rescue efforts, some white Mississippians and Louisianians preferred to suffer on their rooftops than to be rescued by black National Guard heroes. But that’s not a story that often gets told. After returning home from a year deployment, I had my Fourth Amendment denied with a 2.5-hour-long stop-and-search for “looking suspicious” while driving to my new duty assignment. I couldn’t help but think how black Enduring Freedom troops share a common history of racism as every other Black American troop returning home from war. When I found out one of my troop’s mom stopped sending cookies while we deployed because she found out his boss was Black and subordinates were Latino, it didn’t even surprise me (or disappoint me…she didn’t like brown people or brown sugar, and it showed in her baking). Even now, I fear for myself, my friends, and my future husband when being sent to a diversity deprived town in the US on military duty more than by terrorists while deployed.
I vowed to support and defend the Constitution of America against those who want to betray it. I believe in the principals of the Constitution so much that I believe ALL Americans should experience the freedoms guaranteed by each article. I never vowed to deny my American experiences or the experiences of others. Desiring liberty for all Americans is only natural for someone who pledges to support and defend the constitution.
Denying institutional racism exists is like denying wind exists or denying your own mother exists. You see it and feel it every day so denying it is just a weird thing to do. To deny racism exists is to deny my life-long American experience. Neither are prerequisites to military service. Acknowledging the damaging effects racism has on American society does not preclude military service. Because I can recognize that everyone has a different American experience makes me better able to identify with those I lead. Officers who dismiss the prevalence of institutionalized racism have never listened to their experiences of their troops or peers. They haven’t asked. They aren’t curious. They don’t care. Pity the troop who follows a leader who refuses to acknowledge their different experiences.
This is the beach from the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan. Astonishingly, a source of so much destruction could be renewed. June 6, 1944, the beach was covered in blood as men watched their best friends die. On June 6, 2012, the beach was covered in love while a mother-daughter due of Air Force officers enjoyed a French picnic.
Some people have the character that dictates that they must be treated a certain way before they are willing to help. It must be perplexing as to why someone would prepare to answer their nation’s call when that nation doesn’t reciprocate that call. However, stepping up, even without reciprocity is the very embodiment of selfless service. It’s asking what can I do for my nation rather than what has my government done for me. If that were the question Black Americans asked before serving, this nation would have fallen to the French and Indians in 1755 and the British in 1775.
However, if a person’s character demonstrates grace, has the heart to serve, the belief one can affect change and have an “ask what you can do for your country” mentality, then you serve despite the current conditions. Surely every American has something they don’t like about their country. They know America has space for improvement. However, no one says that if another believes so strongly in immigration issues, they shouldn’t be a service member. No one dare tells another American that if they feel so strongly reproductive rights, education reform, gay rights, recreational marijuana, then they shouldn’t serve, or maybe they should leave America. Constant critique of America is where improvement begins.
What a peculiar thing to say. I find it perplexing that one would be astonished that someone who recognizes and opposes systematic racism still chooses to serve in uniform.
Chaplain George Prioleau, during the Spanish American War, noted, “The men are anxious to go. The country will then hear and know of their bravery. The American Negro is always ready and willing to take up arms to fight and lay down his life in defense of his country’s honor.”
So why would black Americans, who experience institutional racism daily, be so willing to do such a thing as answer their nation’s call during a time of war, my comrade asks? The answer to the question is the same today, as it was during Chaplain Prioleau’s day—Because we are American! That’s what Americans do! It has become a cultural trait to uphold the blessings of liberty. To hold America accountable to its principals.
Bluntly cut trees to symbolize lives cut short by war. These trees are at Normandy, but you see the same style in American Cemeteries across Europe.
Service members are leaders, and getting involved and leading change is what they do. Individuals like Jimmy Lee Jackson, Sammy Younge Jr., Medgar Evers, and George Dorsey championed the ideals of freedom at home and abroad and gave the ultimate sacrifice for it. They experienced the same beliefs and struggles as the Black service members before them and after them. This isn’t obscure history. All it takes is an interest in the American experience. People lead and serve, not because life has been one giant crystal escalator, but because they believe in the ideals of America and have the hope that they can affect change from within and make life better. And then they do.
This Memorial Day, in addition to comrades who fell on foreign battlefields, I’ll be memorializing the freedom defenders, the heroes, and the leaders who survived Nazi Germany but became casualties of Jim Crow in their American hometowns. The battle for the blessings of liberty in America is the most enduring battle, and it is a privilege to continue the charge.
Medgar Evers didn’t have to be drafted. He volunteered to service during Vietnam only to be gunned down in his dry way in front of his family by a white supremacist. His body rests in Arlington.
* Please note, I never said all Americans are subconsciously racist as accused in a FB spat. Someone was telling me what he thought I believed rather than listening to learn.
I knew I wanted to go to Hawaii but didn’t know where to start. Or how to pick. So I started with some on-line research. Of course, Lonely Planet is your one stop travel shop. It’s Hawaiian page broke down what type of experience you can expect to have on each island. I looked through pages on Pintrest for inspiration then I leaned on friends. I sent pics to one friend who attended university there and still lived in Hawaii. “I want to see this lushness” I told her. She assured me I could see the lushness on any island and basically gave me the same rundown that Lonely Planet did. I reached out to a friend who recently moved from my dreamland of Stuttgart to yet another paradise, Stuttgart. And then to a few friends who lived in Hawaii for years. I got the same response from them all, no matter the island, I was sure to enjoy.
I chose Molokai for a few reasons: (1) All the hotels on Maui were booked and I few other options. (2) I read that Molokai was the most Hawaiian of All beaches. It’s Hawaii’s least populated Island and largely untouched by tourism. Seriously, the hotels a minimal and you almost have to have a host. Everyone on the island knows each other. Donald, my taxi driver, asked who’s home I was staying. I gave a first name. He gave me his phone to dial the number and her name popped up, already saved in his phone. When I talked about my travels to Maui natives, just a 30 minute propeller plane ride away, “I’ve never been to Molokai,” was the common reaction. Even my friends who grew up in Hawaii asked, “Why Molokai, no one ever goes there.” That was both the question and the answer to my selection of this small island.
You cannot take your car on the ferry. I asked and got told with disgust I cant take my car on the ferry. How dare I not know this? Well you can take your car on the Dauphin Island Ferry. It would make sense for folks who commute from Maui to Molokai to be able to do the same. But no. You can’t. So I had to leave my rental on Maui. Molokai was 100% booked out of rentals for two months. No worries. The locals give rides. And that’s how I got around. Hitch hiking. Fo Free!
Hitch-hiking is the way to get around on the island. Just start walking on the road, people pull over and offer you a lift…well, at least the locals do. You can always tell who is local and who is a tourist by how they drive. The tourists drive like they’re on the Autobahn and don’t stop and pick up walkers!
Then of course, there’s always taxis. But from the dock to my beach house and then from the beach house to the air port I lost $60 each trip. But I got plenty of perspective and history. I love talking to taxi drivers. They always seem to have tales and they know the island and the people. There’s also a white Equal Opportunity van that comes along here and there to move people along for free as well. It’s the only public transformation on the island and not dependable if you have somewhere you need to be.
A bit of Molokai History
A young priest named Father Damien traveled to the island’s remote Kalaupapa Peninsula in 1873 to care for leprosy patients. After 16 years of caring for the quarantined people, he contracted the disease and died. He is America’s first saint. Today the spectacular peninsula is a national park and a visit is one of Hawaii’s top adventures. He has two churches. I saw the smaller one (above). The Medical field is what draws young professionals to the island. It has a small hospital with about 15 beds or so. When I told folks on Maui I was living on Molokai, they automatically assumed I was a nurse.
I fell in love with my beach house the moment I arrived. My home was perfect, charming, and quaint. It could easily sleep eight people in beds. It’s the perfect spot for a family vacation. The back yard is huge! I will be bringing family and friends back to this spot. Unlike the beaches of Cancun, all the beaches of Hawaii belong to the people, thus all beaches are free and open for all to use. A walk along the shore of my back yard at sunset was one of my favorite walks.
Molokai reminds me of a tropical version of the small country town where I grew up in Kentucky. It’s rural. It features one long stretch of slow, curvy, two-lane road. Drivers have to watch out for deer in the road. Everyone knows everyone. There’s even a sandy beach on the river in my hometown. This seemed like the kind of place that would make a young teen restless and count down the days to leave, only to realize later that home is heaven and come back to stay.
The one store between my beach house for the week and the harbor reminded me of the Doodlebugs, the convenient store in the woods near my home back in Kentucky. If you didn’t stock up ahead of time, you have to go there and pay high prices for basics. It’s a local hang-out and has a take-away window. So I bought some over-priced bottles of water, beer-garita, soda and snacks for one person to the tune of $50.
Back on Maui, the beaches were packed with paddle boarders, kite surfers, snorkelers, families and picnickers. The desolate beaches on Hawaii’s least populated island was perfect for private photo shoots without random tourists photobombing! I wish I was more talented with a camera because there was so much beauty surrounding me to try to capture.
Photos: (1) Rocky cliffs that line the country road. (2) My back yard at sunset (3) See the white mass in the middle of the blue sea? It’s a whale!
Getting to Molokai from Maui, I suggest you take the ferry one way and a flight the other. Both are totally different experiences. Winter is whale spotting season in Hawaii. So the ferry ride over in the morning allowed us to see whales at eye-level in addition to the coast lines of Maui and Lanai waking up for the morning. The flight back to Maui allowed these fantastic views.
One this island, there are no restaurant chains. No big resorts. Not a lot of action. No cell service in most parts. It’s just a quiet, peaceful place to play in Hawaii. Just relax and let Molokai guide you.
It’s My birthday! This is it, the big 3-0! Saturn has made a full rotation around the sun. I’ve lived in four different decades (but only completely through two).
What does turning 30 Mean? I suppose thirty should magically transform me into an accomplished, sophisticated, worldly woman. Something is supposed to happen when a woman turns thirty but I’m just not sure what. According to pop culture, thirty is something to fear or avoid. I should continue to pretend to be eternally 28. If you stagnate at 29 then everyone knows you are really delaying thirty but 28 is still young enough to be lovable, fun, and flirty.According to popular culture, thirty is a doomsday that should be met with sorrow, tears, and an existential crisis. I’m supposed to have a psychological breakdown questioning “what I am doing with my life?” or dire predictions that I’ll die old and alone (and with cats that will eat me when I die and no one notices). Thirty is when you magically become old, boring, and busted. Thirty is for people born in the 70s…or at least it used to be…like half a decade ago! How did I get here so quickly?In search of some sort of philosophical approach to the ripe age of thirty, I turned to the trusty ol’ internet . When you Google “turning 30” the articles that appear are mostly women freaking out over this age in particular. Actually, if you Google sites about turning any age, you’ll get plenty of articles but once you hit 27, the articles seem more of an Armageddon about the pending age 30 in the not so distant future. Then, once you turn thirty you get the “oh so much older and wiser” articles like “Thirty Lessons Learned” or “Thirty Things You Should do Before Thirty.” Clearly, something is supposed to happen when you turn 30. Something big.
My beach house for a week in Molokai, Hawaii
I decided to spend my final days of my 20s in the American paradise that is Hawaii. A milestone this major should be I will meet this big something in a major way. It was after my tropical vacation that I defined thirty for myself.
I never wanted to leave this place.
I spent my 30th birthday doing exactly what I wanted as opposed to what other people thought I ought to do. There was no compromising or considering what others wanted. There wasn’t doing something I didn’t want to do just to be agreeable. I’m thinking my family has finally got the hint that I’m pretty much going to do whatever I want and scare tactics have little effect on my travel plans. Unlike my in younger 20s, time or money didn’t limit my celebration plans. I no longer have the schedule, hassle and pressures of school. I have a job that I enjoy, pays the bills, and also allows for a little fun. I have great co-workers, and live in place where it doesn’t snow! My job doesn’t define me. It’s a cool, interesting part of me, but not who I am. All the dreams and plans I made 20 years ago and thought would take a lifetime to accomplish, I’ve done…except for running a marathon in Antarctica….I haven’t done that yet. I have all I need and I’m confident the few things I want but don’t have I’ll get within the next decade. And really, I just wanted to chill, relax, and reflect.
In my twenties I looked into the future with worry. Fear motivated many of my actions. What if I can’t afford college motivated me to go with the college that offered the most scholarship money, rather than the best fit. Fear of losing my scholarship motivated academic concentration changes, what if I can’t find a way to get paid post-graduation lead to career decisions. Fear of failure, of destitution, fear of being alone only leads to settling and destroy the current moment. At 30, I’ve made the conscious decision to make the best of the present moment and remove myself from moments that drain my soul.
In my 20s I’ve seen a lot of ugly, mean, and horrible. And now I can better appreciate and recognize the wonderful when I get to experience it. And I am so grateful for the wonderful now. In the past year I have come to appreciate my peaceful, exciting life just as it is and want for nothing more. Not because I’m throwing in the towel and giving up, but because I realize all I have and all I’ve done and I am impressed with my blessings. I’m liberated from people, thoughts, and habits that have imprisoned me and have more motivation to guard and protect myself against outside forces that attempt to steal my peace. I’m over living my life to other conflicting, confining rules that you can never win without breaking another.
I’m fulfilled with now. I am at peace. Now is better than I imagined for myself 10 years ago. Different, but better. I am in Paradise. In life. Right now. That’s what my 30 means.
Each New Year I try to come up with a theme for the year. In the past I’ve used ideas like “resolve”, “eliminate”, and “pony up” to help guide my decisions. This past January, I never really came up with a word or theme. After spending a week in the tropic sun, I decided “Live in Paradise” would be my theme for the year. Make an intentional effort to guard and protect my personal paradise. I have so much to be thankful for and it has taken thirty years for me to focus on all I have more than all I don’t have. And maybe I should have gained this perspective sooner, but I certainly feel more liberated by having it now.
Looks like a postcard, but really my sunset view!
I asked friends who had already reached this milestone or quickly approaching it what thirty meant to them. Some are expecting babies this year. Some were new mommies. Some were planning weddings others, like me where planning their next trip. Everyone seemed to enjoy where they were in life. No nervous breakdowns. No worry, fears, or regrets. They were just thirty. No more. No less. And that is paradise.
View from the house I’d love to own in Molokai
Molokai by six passenger plane
I can’t get over how beautiful my country is and I’m grateful that I get to see it.
In January, I tossed around some travel ideas in my mind of how I should spend an extended President’s Day weekend. Where should I go? More San Francisco? Mount Zion National Park? Grand Canyon? San Diego? Mexico? What should I do? Half of the country was under snow and ice, which limited my travel options.
After throwing some ideas out to my young, energetic colleague, he nominated Hawaii as a consideration. “Yea! You could totally do Hawaii in a long weekend!” he said. So with his input and two weeks until President’s Day, I made the decision to just go. I bought my plane ticket ($407 from LAX). Now, I was committed.
Only thing, was after buying a plane ticket I learned that dang near every hotel on Maui was booked. Seriously, there were only three open hotels on Maui and the cheapest advertised for $500+ a day.
OK, time for Plan B. Vacation Rentals! With my luck, most vacation rentals on three websites were completely booked too. What the heck! Then I realized…it was also Valentine’s Day and Maui is the romantic honeymoon island. I’d already bought a ticket, darn it, I’m going! I might have to take my own tent, but I was going. I even saw a listing for a $400 a night teepee on the beach. With each “sold out” response to my vacation rental inquiry, I started thinking this might be my most viable option.
I got desperate lucky and scored a three bedroom beach house in Molokai. Although it was much larger than what I needed and pricier than what I intended, it put me in business. I had travel to and accommodations. I was good to go…for the most part Molokai only has Alamo rental cars and surprise, surprise (in my Gomer Pyle voice), it was sold out, along with the other local rental car companies. Taxis it will be. Sure, with earlier planning, I could have gone for cheaper. Oh well. I was going.
What a beautiful Valentine’s Day gift to myself. What a great way to avoid all photos of flowers and dinners and “We’re engaged!” announcements on Facebook. This was a trip to satisfy my goal of visiting all 50 states. It would be a beautiful way to spend a long weekend. It would be the most romantic Valentine’s Day…the one spent in paradise with myself. Realizing this made me start to question why I hadn’t taken myself on romantic get-a-ways before. Why don’t I treat myself the way I’d love to be treated by a sweetheart one day? My goodness, I’ll be setting the bar pretty high.
The week after Valentine’s Day/President’s Day is also the week before my birthday, and this birthday would be a major milestone. This trip would be an early and epic birthday gift to myself.
Being pelted by tropic rain
The remoteness of Molokai is what makes it both an ideal paradise and a headache. When I touched down at noon, I had six hours to play on Maui before my ferry departed from Maui and went to Molokai. So I rented a car for an absurd price (most compact rental cars anywhere else on Earth go for $30 a day. Mine went for $400…more expensive than the E-Klasse Benz I cruised around the streets of Germany). I explored the island. Then it poured down rain. Not a Montgomery Thunderstorm-type rain but a nice healthy down pour that would allow crops to grow. Well, this little rain destroyed my plans! The Ferry was cancelled understandable because the seas and some boat-tossing, scary looking waves. But then, the small propeller planes over to Molokai also got cancelled! Access to this island is contingent on weather!
I am stranded on Maui!
But I guess there could be worse places.
Well I guess there could be worse places to be stranded. On Facebook I posted my fun pics of me having a good time. Meanwhile I was spending a lot of energy testing my ingenuity trying to adapt to this change of plans.
A tour guide calls out to me trying to sell me excursion packages. I explain I’m not interested in tours, I need a hotel! Lisa, the guide, asks, “Do you believe in God?” I tell her I do. So she says “Well Ok. It’s going to be fine. Don’t worry. You need to get some aloha Spirit and have faith everything will work out.”
Of course, as a tour guide, she has hookups on hotels. Calls are made by the tour guide. Meanwhile, an old buddy of mine who recently moved away from Hawaii commented on my pics saying if I needed anything…well, as a matter of fact I do. Only thing is, all his buddies were away for the weekend. All the hotels that the tour guide had connections with were…surprise surprise booked! One hotel even made a reservation for me but when I got there, said it was full. LTW, the sweet tour guide at Kampali Beach Club, took pity on me and offered the sofa of her home. She had a full house with a husband and two little ones (who were fast asleep by the time we arrived) and still offered me a place. I could stretch out, use in-door plumbing, it was out of the rain and just perfect.
Morning after the storm
The next morning I woke up before daylight and got a little stir crazy. I thanked my hosts on my cute travel stationery, as any Southern belle would, and left a box of Krispy Kreams. I attributed my luck to finding a place to stay to be traveling solo. Had I been in a group or even with another may not have been offered a place to sleep just because it is harder to hosts bigger groups. Perhaps if I had a buddy or romantic partner there with me, sleeping in a jeep on a Hawaiian coast could have been wildly romantic or at least an epically funny story. But my stranded alone story had a happy ending and I made a new friend. I decided since I was already in Maui, and the next ferry didn’t leave out until that evening, I might as well travel the renowned Road to Hana.
On the backside of the island
Maui was different after the rain. Yesterday’s cloudy skies concealed the mountains. The curvy road was a photographer’s dream. So much beauty surrounded me from every angle that I just didn’t have the skills to capture it all. By 10 am I was running out of battery on all my devices!
As the roads twist and turned the land scape changed. I was just overwhelmed with the gorgeous, lush vegetation.
I couldn’t help but to wonder what was God thinking when She created both Hawaii and Qatar. And which one was created first? How vastly different these lands were and beautiful in different ways but made by the same creator. Watching the sun rise as I traveled along the cliffs of winding mountains of the tropical coast I knew my stranded situation had to be divinely orchestrated. My plan was to miss this adventure and hang out solely on Molokai. Had my plan worked out, I would have missed the glory of Maui. Maui wasn’t finished with me yet. It wanted a chance to win my heart as well. This was just another example of how God’s plan is better than my own, a lesson I’ve been learning for the past year. This event was just another reminder not to freak out. Chill. Everything will work itself out, usually better than expected. Just because things don’t go as you plan doesn’t make the whole plan bad. Catch that Aloha Spirit, you are in paradise!
Six hours later I was back in Lanai where I started. The way people talked about the Road to Hana, I thought it would be treacherous. “I survived the Road to Hana” signs lined the walls of all the tourist shops. It was nothing more than a scenic, curvy, back road like the one I grew up on. However, the travelers had terrible driving etiquette. Time after time I had head on, face to face stand offs with cars. Ummm… hello, you just passed a spot you could pull over on; the next spot I can pull over is half a mile behind me. Your move.
Yes, this place is real!
If you’re taking the Road to Hana you’ll need plenty of batteries and car chargers for your cameras and phones, a full take of gas, and a spare tire just in case. If you’re really adventurous, try biking the curvy hills…actually you should probably be a professional biker. If I were to come back to Maui with a partner I might actually plan for a night on the beach in the back of a jeep. I’d have someone else drive the Road to Hana so I could write about everything I saw and thought.
In all my years of living in the country, I’ve never seen a rooster in a tree
I told the shuttle driver about my journey around the island. “Wow, that’s brave,” he said. “I don’t; even do that and I’m from here.” Had I gotten a flat tire or in a wreck in the back parts of Maui, I would have been out of luck and on my own. Apparently, where the gravel starts is where your rental car contract is voided and you they are supposed to tell you at checkout. They didn’t.
My Maui adventure, as unexpected as it was, turned out to be beautiful and amazing and peaceful. I’m glad my plans fell through which opened doors to new opportunities! I guess that goes the same for life!
