Insight

Feature

I think of Appalachia every day.

The way when you wake up at sunrise, you find your head in the clouds, literally. High up in the mountains the fog is so thick you can barely make out the expression on your neighbor’s face. I was 15 the first time I found myself there. Somewhere in the middle of Kentucky, my heart breaks for the fact that I can’t remember that quaint little town’s name. We slept on the floor of an elementary school, showered in makeshift huts right beside the playground. Showering didn’t quite seem to matter, however, because with that kind of humidity, you were always wet. And hot.

Over the summer of 2017, my university required the entire freshman class to read J.D. Vance’s Hillbilly Elegy. The book is toted as an “international bestseller”, telling the stories of class decline in the Appalachian region. To many Americans, the United States is viewed as “the greatest country in the world”. I think Hillbilly Elegywas able to shatter that for many. To my surprise, today, November 11th, 2020 is the release date of the Hillbilly Elegymovie. It seemed that my incoming freshman class at the University of Denver in2 017 despised the book, leaving me to wonder how well the film will do.

I find myself in an odd space. I am a 21-year-old lesbian. I am all things progressive. I have recently come to the conclusion that there is nothing more for me to learn from old, straight, white men– I have already heard their stories. To put it simply, their stories were the only stories I heard throughout my K-12 education. It was not until I got to college that I was introduced to literature of Black women, films by young immigrants, and most critical to my identity, the stories of other queer folks. So, when it comes to the story and struggles of, once again, a straight white man, I roll my eyes in disgust. And perhaps rightfully so—might the stories of the Black and queer folks in the same situation hold a unique perspective, tell stories of struggle much deeper than that of Mr. Vance? Despite all my qualms, I am in love with this story.

In the summer of 2017, I held my university issued copy of Hillbilly Elegy as I drove in a big white van down to Appalachia for what may have been the last time. I had never read a book that told stories of places I had been. Though I despise mission trips now, I was on one. I was traveling with my church to help rebuild the houses—no– trailer homes of the Appalachian residents. I was traveling to meet, stay with and “serve” the same people Vance detailed in his book.

I remember everything about the first man whose home I helped renovate in 2014. His name was Benny. He was an old, frail man. His hands shook while he rolled his tobacco cigarettes. His skeleton like figure was evidence of the cancer eating him away from the inside out. I remember everything about his home, too. A new front porch built by the mission group the week there before us. A kitchen and living room combination, one bedroom just large enough to fit one full sized bed, and a bathroom the size of an average public restroom stall. The house smelled like piss. His two dogs were allowed to relieve themselves freely as he no longer had the energy to let them out. He chatted with us all day while we worked on his home. I adored him, his stories of growing up in the forest, battling through a meth addiction, feeling proud of his children for finding jobs out of their rundown town, despite the fact he despised them for leaving him to rot. I doubt he is alive today.

The following year there was Beulah, the sweetest woman I have ever met. She had three children, one biological daughter, and two foster children of her brothers. She was given custody after her brother’s meth addiction spiraled out of control. The baby of the bunch, and prized only boy, was two years old. His age left me surprised as the toddler acted like an infant. Beulah explained he was behind developmentally because, quite literally, he was fed Mountain Dew out of a bottle for the first year of his life. I think of him often.

On one particularly brutal day of work, I found myself wondering off into the woods of the family’s back yard on a break. Out in the woods, they had their three dogs chained up. I would often walk to them to relieve my own stress. The repetitive work that construction demands can become somewhat meditative, leaving me to mull over the meanings of my life. I was struggling with my faith, I was falling in love with my straight best friend who was working on the house only a few yards away from me, I felt isolated in my feelings and identity. And then, out there in the woods, I turned my head to see that little boy extending out a large branch towards me. He was ushering me to follow him, so I did. He gave me what I assumed was a tour of their expansive yard. He showed me the bugs, some kittens who lived under the foundation of their home. He didn’t say a word to me. Yet, he was the first person I processed all of those heavy feelings with. Today, I often think about the political beliefs he is being raised with that would teach him to hate me, yet, the uninhibited kindness of his childhood was exactly what I needed to begin accept the person I am.

The next summer held a couple with two children. Though the parents were white, and so was their daughter, their son was Black. He was the only Black person I ever saw in my four summers in Appalachia. They didn’t mention his race a single time. There was never an acknowledgement toward the fact that he was perhaps adopted or from a different mother or father. It was hard to distinguish if this was an act of fierce acceptance of their child or a shame so deep that left race unspeakable. Their trailer did tout a confederate flag, after all. Nearly all the homes did.

During this trip, I proved useless for construction work. We had too many hands on deck, leaving many of us to get creative with ways to spend our time. So I spent my week playing with this young Black boy and chatting with his mother. Only two conversations remain with me. The first, with the mother. She spent nearly an hour explaining to me how to be submissive to my husband and how to make a good wife. She brought out her Bible, pages bookmarked to explain to me how Jesus would want me to serve my husband. Though I am a fierce feminist with no intention to marry a man, I smiled and engaged with her. I didn’t know what else to do. All I was there for was the human connection, anyway. The other conversation was at the very end of the week as the mother had to pry the little boy off of me as he begged me not to leave. He didn’t stop crying as our big white van rolled away.

And that’s the fucked-up part of mission trips. You go build these relationships with people who are hurting and then you promptly abandon them. You allow a bunch of teenagers to build a front porch from scratch and then don’t check in to make sure you have actually improved their home and well-being. You put in a week’s worth of work and get to leave feeling all warm and fuzzy, knowing you did something good in Jesus’s name.  J. D. Vance will tell you that, despite these silly mission trips and “the work of God”, the lives of Appalachians are not, in fact, improving. Survival comes down to getting out or die trying.

With all this in mind, I still hold dearly to the fact that every person I have ever met there adores Appalachia. Nothing compares growing up in the mountains, free-range chickens and free-range children wandering one of the most gorgeous places on Earth. When that fog rolls in and the sun shines its first morning light, the world looks like it’s on fire. To this day those sunrises are the closest I have come to God.

It is estimated that 3 million people visit Appalachia each year. Not for these sweet people in run down trailer homes, but to hike the Appalachian trail. As I constantly surround myself by outdoor adventurers, I have found that a handful of my friends and colleges share the dream of traveling East to hike the longest known footpath in the world. I believe it’s ironic that these privileged, liberal, white hikers will travel halfway across the country to experience this marvel and not think twice about the people who live there. My friends are not the poor, white, working class, the ex-miners, the Trump lovers of Appalachia. In many ways, they are quite the opposite. Yet, this Appalachian culture has no weight on their decision to travel there. The Appalachian trail seems uniquely positioned for its tourists with its culture contributing zero percent of the draw, leaving the whole hundred to the landscape itself.

And my god are those mountains gorgeous. I understand why my peers long to travel there with no desire to interact with the residents who hate nearly everything we are. Yet, I have fallen deeply in love with so many of those folks. It has been years since I have been to Appalachia and I still don’t have a clue of what to make of this. We are a country so deeply divided, with liberals raised with pure bred golden retrievers and republicans raised on Mountain Dew. However, I suppose the reverse is probably true as well. How will the hikers of the Appalachian trail and the residence of Appalachia find common ground that is not solely geological? Once again, I am clueless, but I hope we do.

Feature

Disclaimer: This feature is based on a trip before the Covid-19 Pandemic.

European sailors observed the sport of surfing for the first time in 1769, but historians believe the art of wave-catching dates back to ancient Polynesia. Duke Kahanamoku, a legendary surfer, introduced the sport to the world during the twentieth century and now surfers can be spotted catching waves all over the world. Somehow or another, the sport traveled up to Canada and the hamlet of Tofino became the country’s only surf town. Today, Tofino is a hotspot for North American surfers with a climate that doesn’t always feel that way.

I learned about Tofino while living in British Colombia and I knew I had to check the place out before leaving Canada. I didn’t know how to surf at the time, truth be told I still don’t, but that didn’t stop me from planning a very impulsive trip. Friends joined in, I called in sick, and before we knew it we left the mountains and headed for the beaches.

There is something uniquely fun about traveling long distances without a car. It forces you to engage with the world around you and rely on your problem-solving skills to acquire transportation. With this at heart, my travel companion, Daisy, and I used a smartphone to download a ride-share application to which we hired a ride to Horseshoe Bay. Ok, we kind of wimped out on that one. Coming off our culturally rich car ride, we purchased two tickets for the ferry bound for Vancouver Island. To Daisy’s dismay, I decided to use the remaining ten minutes before the ferry departed to grab a coffee from Tim Hortons across the street. In my opinion, traveling in Canada is not done properly without a visit to the country’s famous coffee chain. I don’t think Daisy shared this sentiment as I quite literally was the last person to get on the boat.

The ferry, which runs daily, is enormous. Three levels of passenger decks sit overhead a massive hanger where cars and trucks await to drive again on solid land. The trip takes about an hour and we spent the entirety of it on the top deck, looking for whales. Whales are spotted often by Vancouverites and an hour-long journey on the Pacific Ocean seemed to be our best bet to catch a glimpse of these sea mammals.  Sadly, no whales felt like breaching that day.

View from the top deck of the Ferry

At around 4 pm, we docked at the small port city of Nanaimo and made our way to the hostel. Nanaimo is a hard-working city that has its fair share of quirks and family-owned shops. We spent our evening at the waterfront, continuing our search for whales.

The next morning, we planned to make our way to Tofino. With our backpacks on, we walked straight to the nearest rental car service and forked over some cash. There is something uniquely fun about traveling long distances with a car. You have the freedom to go anywhere and do anything that you please. On this particular three-hour drive from Nanaimo to Tofino, we did just that.

We found ourselves stopping every thirty minutes or so to experience the beauty that Vancouver Island has to offer. Waterfalls and streams run alongside the highway, beckoning us to pull over and explore. Massive Douglas Fir trees surround the road, as Vancouver Island is part of the Pacific Coast Forest, the densest forest in the world. We had to make a stop at The Cathedral Grove, a provincial park with trees measuring as tall as 240 feet.

Me standing inside a Douglas Fir Tree

It took us more than three hours to get to Tofino, but the drive had turned out to be the best part of the adventure thus far. We stopped in the nearby town of Ucluelet and reunited with some old friends who decided to move there for the summer. Ucluelet is a gorgeous town situated right on the shoreline. The housing is sparse, so our friends would spend the entire summer living out of their tent. We could understand why, like many others, our friends sacrificed their comfort to live in such a breathtaking place.

View of the Ocean in Ucluelet

Following in their footsteps, we set up camp right on a beach in Tofino. I highly recommend staying at Bella Pacifica campground for an amazing experience. A trip to the local brewery quickly put us to bed and we dozed off to the thought of riding big waves.

On par with being in a rainforest, the clouds above Tofino sent us some freezing rain in the morning. I began to question how we were going to stay warm in the water. The surf pros had a solution that came in the form of 5mm thick wetsuits with hoods and booties. Covered head to toe in thick neoprene, Daisy and I carried our surfboards down to Cox Bay. Before heading into the waves, Daisy tried to give me a few pointers on the beach. I practiced “popping up” onto my board while lying on the sand. It was definitely going to be a challenge in the water.

It seemed like I was the only person on the beach who did not know how to surf. The cold water helps discourage the crowd of eager tourists. I was shocked to learn that the winter season in Tofino brings the best waves, a phenomenon that benefits those most committed to the sport. Eager to join the ranks of wave riding individuals, I made my way into the water. I immediately forgot everything Daisy taught me as I got blasted by saltwater. I would be lying if I wasn’t cold or in pain, but the beauty of the whole experience made me forget about all those things. For three hours I practiced standing on the board. The training I did with Daisy on the sand began to come back to me and on the final wave of the day, I stood up!

Retiring back to the campsite after a long day of surfing, I couldn’t have been happier with my decision to embark on this impulsive trip. The beauty of Canada is incomparable and being able to experience it with friends far from home is beyond special. I didn’t do much planning for this adventure but it sure had plans in store for me and my friends. I think that is the best way to travel. Your trip to Tofino may look and sound a lot different than mine, but I can assure you it will come with some gorgeous views and unforgettable surprises.

And, hopefully, you’ll spot some whales for me and Daisy.

Me, Daisy, and some friends enjoying the evening on the beach

 

How To

Pulling up to that small patch of open land in the middle of the forest can be riveting. You open the car door to the smells of damp Earth, evergreen, perhaps even remnants of a campfire. The sun sparkles through the trees and you think “this is what they mean by the great outdoors”. You may even begin to wonder why you don’t camp more often, until you remember– we have to set up that darned tent.

Setting up a tent can be frustrating. Whether it is your first time spending the night outdoors, you’re introducing your kids to the wilderness, or you are hoping to avoid a fight on that romantic outdoor getaway, we have all the tips to setting a tent without tearing your spirts down.

Woman takes a deep breath in the outdoors to relax
Take a deep breath. Credit: The New York Times
  1. Take a Deep Breath

Look around, remember where you are. Perhaps you are here to reconnect with nature and relax, or are maybe getting a good nights rest before a pack day of oudoor adventures. Either way, this tent is your home for the night. Setting it up can be a headache, but with your goals in mind, the process an go smoothly. Take a deep breath of mountain air and get ready to roll.

Little kid picks up sticks at the campsite
Gather sticks for the fire. Credit: GetOutWithTheKids.com
  1. Delegate

Before even toughing the tent, it might be a good idea to assign roles to everyone in your camping party. Tents rarely require more than two people to assemble so there is no need to over complicate it. If you have little ones running around or extra friends along for the ride, suggest they collect sticks around the campsite to start a fire later or have them unload the car to distract them. Now that it is just you and a partner, or if you are taking on this task solo, you can focus in on what needs to get done.

The items to build a tent include poles and tarp are laid out.
Items for tent assembly laid out. Credit: FreshAirJunky.com
  1. Locate all Items Needed for Tent Assembly

Tents typically include a ground mat, the tent itself, tent poles, a rain tarp, steaks, and instructions. Locate each of these items and lay them out in an easy to access location so you don’t have to scramble for them when you need them. Laying them out beforehand can help eliminate stress when each item needs to go into the tent.

Woman prepares to put a rain tarp over her tent
Putting on the rain tarp. Credit: NC State Parks on YouTube
  1. Get Down to Building

This is where those instructions will come in handy. Read them over once and then keep them nearby for reference. Generally, assembling a tent will involve setting down the ground mat, laying down the tent, inserting the tent polls, attaching the rain tarp, and securing the tent with steaks. However, each tent is unique and may have its own specific requirements. Remember, it is okay to rely on instructions or even a how-to site like WikiHow’s How to Set Up a Tent (With Pictures). When frustration arises, check back in with your instructions to get the job done.

From the inside of the tent you see out into the mountains with a gorgeous sunset.
Relax in your newly set up tent! Credit: Self.com
  1. Celebrate Your Accomplishment

For many of us, setting up a tent is no simple feat. Whether the process went smoothly or had some bumps along the way, don’t forget to pat yourself on the back. If you set the tent up with a partner, thank them for their work. Now that the worst of it is over, you can sit back, roast some marshmallows, and crack open a beer by the fire. Relax, you’re camping now!

Personal

December 1, 2018

8 hours and 20 minutes until Vienna. I’ve never been on an airplane where they say everything in Dutch before English. I laugh at my own shallow view of the world.

I am sipping on a new drink called Almdudler, flirting with my flight attendant. I suspect we both may be gay; this flirting is not the type to take you home but rather a friendship that bonds over an unspoken truth. He asks me my age and I stumble over saying I am 19. “It’s an international flight dear, you can drink here”, he laughs at me, dances off and brings me a glass of red wine. He teaches me to say thank you, I stutter “dank-a-sha”. We laugh more, this time I feel light and bubbly, not so afraid of my platonic lover.

I step off the airplane and into Grace’s arms. We are both exhausted. Now, from Vienna, my best friend and I will travel down to the end of the Earth—Cape Town. A five-hour layover breezes by.

On flight number two I blink in and out of sleep. In this foreign place people gather in the cabin, drinks in hand, laughing in languages I can’t quite make out. As I move down the aisle, strangers smile and greet me as I stumble to explain I only speak English. They switch over in seconds like its second nature. They are happy to speak in any tongue. I question my own identity, how am I surrounded by all these humans who hold so much knowledge? What limits have been placed on me from the place I call home?

I fade in and out and wake up to the bluest pool. The fog is rolling in over Table Mountain, palm trees line the sky. Night owls don’t often see 6am, but jet lag has shown me a little travelers magic.

Hours later I trudge up that same mountain from my morning view. My group speeds ahead of me, even Grace has left me far behind. I didn’t realize I was so out of shape, though I try to tell myself it’s okay. I’ve come here to reconnect with myself, to rediscover who I am. So perhaps a trek up a mountain alone will be good for my head.

As I reach the peak I scan across the hazy ocean and gawk at the city scape. How foolish us Americans are, categorizing Africa as one massive impoverished desert. Despite poverty, Cape Town is one of the most developed and cherished cities in the world. I silently confront my ignorance once again.

A top of the mountain we sit for a lecture, today we are focusing on wealth inequality. A question is posed: is it ethical to drive a Bugatti, one of the most expensive vehicles on the market, flying down a freeway that passes by tin homes where people have nearly nothing? I rephrase the question in sorts: is it ethical for us to spend thousands flying across the country, dressed in our Patagonia and Lululemon, only to walk down the streets to “study” the lives of those who have less than us?

As the week passes by, this question circles through my head. I am in this space, speaking to people who have lived through the Apartheid, a horror I have only learned about through textbooks. During my wine tasting the South African man cautions us, “please, don’t worry about our problems, we are going about healing just fine. We don’t need your American meddling, or so you call it, ‘help’.” South Africa’s world class and exceptionally inexpensive wine is a direct result of the aftermath of the Apartheid. I enjoy this drink with ease at the hands of someone else’s suffering, yet, these people don’t want my help. This is the death of my American Ego. My sip that follows is much larger.

On this plane ride home, my feet feel heavy. Grace carries her bag like its weightless, I am uncertain she carries the same lessons home as me. I think, this trip has been about me entirely, and also, not at all. 18 hours till I’m home and I am starting to feel small. It was my first time out of the country, and I feel ignorant, but I guess not so ignorant anymore. I wonder what it means to call the United States home. I wonder how I’ll walk off this airplane and live my life knowing that after all, we are were not all that.

Personal

Now that it’s fall, passers by will often see me in my favorite green pullover with “Teton Valley, Idaho” written on it underneath a drawing of Idaho’s mountain-scape. Every once in a while I have someone stop me to tell me they’ve been camping, hiking, or biking there.

My grandpa grew up in Teton Valley, as did much of my extended family. In an effort to remain close to each other, we have an annual family reunion, camping for a weekend in the valley. Traditions we have include horseback riding, hiking, jewelry making, and taking the kids to the creek to watch them try and cross and eventually fall in. I remember on my first reunion, I ran out of socks in two days because I’d gotten all of them wet. On the last night, we have a raffle to give away prize items that range from Teton merchandise to family-made blankets, necklaces and paintings. That’s where I got my pullover from.

But the most incredible experience I’ve had there was a couple years ago. Teton Valley happened to be in the center of a lunar eclipse. For a brief moment the entire world in front of me was bathed in a tangerine twilight. Cameras couldn’t capture it properly. The redness of the mountain, the warmth bouncing off each needle of pine. The campfire sent a bright red hue onto the kid’s faces, as they held still in wonder for the first time in that whole weekend. I saw a gleam in the eye of Aunt Doris, who objected to being wheeled out of her trailer that evening, but was finally convinced the cold would be worth it. A tear rolled down my cheek when I looked next to me at my mother’s water-welled eyes, and wide grin. She’s the one that convinced everyone it would be worth coming to watch this feat of nature. The eclipse was the moment that the biggest space nerd of the family’s dreams came true.

The lunar eclipse’s center will not be in the United States again for a long time. It feels almost like fate that the valley which holds so much of my family history became the epicenter of this breathtaking event.

The pandemic has meant that I could not hear that creek skip over stones, horses clop up the trail, or the campfire crackling under moonlight this year. It’s meant that I couldn’t pick huckleberries in the valley and blend them into milkshakes or savor their unique tang. But I’ll look forward to the next time I see my aunties knitting blankets outside their trailers, while their kids roast marshmallows. Teton Valley will always have more memories with my family to unlock, and more places to fill in my heart.

Personal

I thought and understood that I would leave Denver someday because I had no plans to stay in the U.S. after college, and I wanted to return to China. But I never thought it would come so suddenly. It took less than a week when I received the charter flight email from the embassy to the time I packed my bags and headed home. I didn’t say goodbye to Denver, and even on the way to the airport, I told myself that my departure was only temporary and that I would come back.

I love Denver in the fall, watching the leaves turn yellow little by little. It’s an unexplainable feeling, but the mood gets better somehow. In the fall, I like to drive around Denver with my friends and enjoy the scenery. Denver is the most beautiful place in autumn. Maybe it’s because the city I live in China has a shortfall, so I am overly fond of autumn. I also love our campus, I love all the flowers and trees, and I love DU after the snow. I love the city of Denver so much.

Since I left my hometown at the age of 18, Denver has helped me grow up a lot. Denver made me a more independent girl, leaving my parents’ protective wings and relying on myself for everything. I can say that after going abroad is to make the world by myself. Everything depends on me. I took a lot of detours and shed a lot of tears. But looking back now, I am confident and proud of my achievements. I used to feel that I was not good enough in every aspect, but now I think I am unique and beautiful both in appearance and soul. I have to admit that I grew up under my parents’ protective wings in China, who protected me so well that I was never wronged. But coming to Denver, where I live in a more culturally diverse place, I have become more and more able to appreciate myself and others and embrace anyone’s differences. Even less likely to judge someone for being different from myself. I have also been able to understand and embrace people I don’t like because of their experiences. I grew up in a family environment that success means a happy family, a successful career, money, cars, and a house. Still, over the years, I’ve realized that everyone’s definition of success is different. So life is much happier with less comparison.

Thanks to my parents’ ability to let me out to see the outside world. Every country has its own different cultures, and there is a big difference between American and Chinese cultures. Because of the cultural differences, living in Denver for so many years has significantly broadened my horizons, truly experienced multiculturalism, practiced the ability to think independently, and cultivated the mindset to face victory and defeat openly. It has also helped me to understand human nature and society more comprehensively. This is an experience that I cannot imitate or taste in China.

Denver gave me my first little house of my own, my first car of my own, and taught me many things to understand. I have unique feelings for Denver, and I know that it will be hard for me to return to this city as soon as I leave Denver, so let’s keep these thoughts in my heart. Denver, we are destined to meet again. I love Denver, my second hometown.

 

Travelogue

The Chicago skyline appears behind the wing of an airplane
Downtown Chicago from above. Credit: Pin.it/1TDUhMg

I get Dunkin Donuts every time I go to the airport. I don’t think this is romantic, nor is it beneficial to my health, but tradition is tradition, so I grab my coffee once again.

In March, I sat alone on a near-empty plane to visit my mother. Masks on. I wasn’t quite allowed to travel then. I was terrified of it, actually. When I stepped off the plane into my mother’s silver Kia, I kept my mask on. We both used hand sanitizer. Walking through the doors of my childhood home, I stripped down and emptied the contents of my suitcase straight into the washing machine. To say I had no idea what would lie ahead in this Corona would be an understatement.

Its September now, and again, I sit on an airplane. It’s not so empty this time, yet this pandemic plagued world seems worse. On this airplane back in March, I knew who I was. I knew what I had to do. Six months later and I have done it. I came out. Now I am coming home, again. My dad is getting married, mid pandemic, matching masks and all, so he is sending me across the country. Normally I might be upset about his irresponsibility, bringing his 70-year-old parents into the world of illness and vulnerability simply to celebrate himself (selfish), however; I need my family now more than ever, so I will let it be (selfish of me, too).

When the plane descents into Chicago, I either listen to Lake Short Drive by Aliotta Haynes Jeremiah, or a lesser known Lake Michigan by Rogue Wave. I love being from a place that people write songs about. It only strengthens my air travel traditions. If you’re lucky, you’ll have chosen the correct side of the airplane, the one that lines up perfectly with the landing pattern, flashing the gorgeous Chicago skyline alongside Lake Michigan. I almost like the city better from above than below. From the sky she is all beauty. I can sit alone in my airplane row and enjoy all my dreamy misconceptions of who the city really is. On the ground I walk through an airport filled with Black Lives Matter masks and maskless folks in MAGA hats. I wonder how all these people can exist in this space. I wonder how a city has fostered such a sense of division. I wonder how the value of Black lives could somehow make American less great in the eyes of some. The answers to these questions go back generations, but people still refuse to know them. My stepbrother picks me up from the airport. His hat totes an American flag, one blue stripe. He scoffs at my Black Lives Matter mask. My dad tells me I am being too political with my clothing choices, yet there is no comment for my stepbrothers. That’s the thing about being from a place people write songs about– you think it’s all wonder, big bustling city, a cultural hub. These illusions hide the truth of the reality for those who live there. One of the most segregated cities in the country, thriving police brutality, and wealthy white folks who insist this is all fine.

Driving home down Cicero, I look at a building draped in Trump flags with a homeless man begging out front. As someone who came out three days ago, I find the division in this space to be overwhelming. In Denver, I feel safe, pride flags line shops and street corners. Back home, I am faced with the reality that my rights as a queer woman are on the line. I am struck with the realization that unless you are a white, cis, heterosexual, able-bodied, wealthy man, traveling can be overwhelmingly political. To the point where it is threatening. This is the place where my best friend got beat up for coming out as transgender, this is the place where a girl had her hijab ripped off at school because Trump was elected, this is the place where a swastika was painted on my high school parking lot during the Black Lives Matter protests, after all.

Sitting at my dad’s rehearsal dinner, my family members ask me if I will be coming home after graduation. Chicago absolutely is home to stunning scenery, infamous foods, iconic sports teams. It is without a doubt culturally rich. Yet I always say no. This space does not feel safe to me. Despite the fact that this is my hometown, I am no longer certain of the degree in which I am welcome here. The handling of a global pandemic, a civil rights movement, a life-threatening election– 2020 has unveiled many of Chicago’s shortcomings. Perhaps it is not quite the tourist’s dream location.

As I prepare to board my plane back to Denver, I sip my Dunkin Donuts coffee under my mask. I am still uncertain if this is appropriate pandemic behavior. I am truly uncertain about nearly every aspect of traveling in 2020. Yet here I am. This time, I will listen to Rocky Mountain High by John Denver when my plane begins to land as I contemplate the meaning of traveling to a new place in the midst of what the world looks like today.

Review

Evergreen Lake

My boyfriend grew up in Evergreen, and had been dying to get me up there and show me around. I finally made the time.

I had no idea what to expect. The only context I had were pictures of breathtaking, bright amber aspens he sent me last fall, saying he “passed by them on an afternoon walk”. I was completely dumbfounded. I thought he might have been pulling my leg. No way could he take these gallery worthy photos just because he decided to go on a walk…

Visiting myself proved me wrong.

Everything up in Evergreen looks like that. Editorial pictures right before your eyes. From the local bars that are built right into the mountain, to the mansions gracefully sitting atop hillsides, to the vast plains of tall grass. I saw three deer, a mom and two babies, just driving around a small peak. It was the closest I’ve ever been to a wild animal in my life. I saw a bald eagle in person for the first time, dive for a fish in the lake.

Evergreen makes for a very easy and inexpensive day trip from Denver. By highways it takes about 30 minutes to reach, but I recommend taking your time and finding the scenic routes, so you can find places to pause and take in the mountain air. In town there are plenty of locally owned boutiques, cafés, art galleries and novelty shops to browse, and live music from the patio by the dam to listen to while you do. I’m partial to the rocks and minerals house at the edge of downtown. There’s a very unique other-worldly mural on its side; you can’t miss it.

It was so easy to be present with my boyfriend in this environment. Watching people go by, I felt we were all in the same boat; we were all there for a moment free of trouble. To paint, shop, fish, walk, bike, run, hike— to relax. I felt as if the weight of my worries was being carried away by the summer breeze. I was truly at peace.

I can’t wait to go back again.

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