In the Ghetto

Elvira and I were standing in line at our pharmacy the other week. This is not an unusual occurrence, unfortunately. The staff there and I are on a first-name basis--we ask about each other's families, share recipes, compliment new hairstyles--you get the picture. The pharmacist was on the phone to some pharmacy staff member at a different location who wasn't familiar with our part of the world. She said, "I don't know about where you live, but here in Provo we have a definite ghetto. Our store is right in the heart of the ghetto, and you wouldn't believe the things I've seen here."

Wow. I've driven past Cabrini-Green in Chicago (fast), seen the Robert Taylor Homes on the South Side, and walked dozens of times through gang and prostitute infested areas on the way to our friends' home on Chicago's North Side. I had no idea that all this time in Happy Valley I was living in the ghetto, being exposed to who knows what! I'm sure that to someone who hasn't lived in more "colorful" areas, Provo's West Side can look a little rough around the edges. Yes, there is gang activity, yes there are homeless people and panhandlers. But I've never had bullets whizzing over my head like Sweetie did while building a fence at Judi & Albert's house. And I've never seen syringes on the ground like I saw nearly daily walking down Sheridan Road, Clark Street, or in the park. When it rains in Chicago, the streets smell like a mixture of urine, oil, and cigarette smoke. Here it just smells like rain.

I've been reading a book called "Almost French" by an Australian woman who falls in love with a Frenchman and moves to Paris. She recalls her long period of adjustment to the French way of life and the way they interact with each other and outsiders. I've always been fascinated by France and have imagined myself living there any number of times, so of course the book is fun to read. But I identify with it so much because no matter how long I live in Utah, which is coming up on 25 years now, I will never be a Utahn. I still find it a very foreign place to me, even though I grew up LDS. I don't speak the "secret code" that Utah Mormons seem to speak, virtually all of my friends are expats like me, and I still have no idea why people put Ranch dressing on everything, including pizza. I pronounce my t's in kitten, mitten, and mountain which automatically flags me as a transplant. It took me years to appreciate the mountains here and not feel like I was imprisoned by them, though lets be honest, I really am. I've lived in so many interesting and sometimes difficult situations, but I've never encountered the fear and distrust of "the outside world" like I have here in Utah. Anything on the other side of Denver is considered "back East". There is a real feeling of "them" vs. "us" here.

I guess it's just a matter of perspective. Lucky girl that her idea of a ghetto is 500 W. Center in Provo and that she doesn't know what a real one looks like. Not that I do, either. I just laid down on the seat while Sweetie drove really fast through them. If bullets were going to fly, he has much better reflexes than I do.