South Provo Prophet

Guest post: Mail-in ballots preserve voter rights

In 2012, I landed an interesting temp job: Elections Clerk at the Utah County Elections office on Provo Center Street. I learned how to calibrate voting machines, update voter file information, and generally how the sausage of Utah County elections is made. I was particularly proud of using my mission language skills to translate the voter registration document into Spanish. But I learned one lesson in particular that has always stayed with me, and has become even more relevant recently:

Mail-in ballots are the best way to vote.

This is immediately obvious to anyone who’s worked in elections. With mail-in ballots, there is no need to maintain old voting machines or transport the clunkers to myriad polling places around the county (or at least, not nearly so many). Having fewer polling places saves time and taxpayer money because it requires fewer poll workers and elections staff, and the ballots are easier to count—and recount, if necessary. Utah voting machines did leave a paper trail, unlike some other states’ equipment, but it was on receipt paper that faded over time and could be fouled by an errant fingernail. Mail-in ballots marked with pen have no such problems. They’re also bigger, and therefore harder to lose (or maliciously dispose of.) When my co-workers and I were hand counting ballots that for various reasons couldn’t be read by the machine, it was easy to stack them up in neat piles by whichever race we were counting at the time. The winner was immediately obvious by the size of the stack.

Those are just the benefits to the election staff. The benefits to the voter are even greater.

Instead of having to make hasty, oftentimes less-informed decisions in the voting booth, voters have time to research the candidates and ballot measures at their own pace. Instead of having to drive somewhere and possibly wait in a long line, the filled-out ballots can be dropped into a mailbox (or a drop box)—no stamp required.

Overall, mail-in voting increases voter participation by making it easier and more convenient to vote—not just for one group or political party, but across the board. It gives everyone a better chance to cast informed votes.

On the security side, mail-in ballots are the most secure voting method we humans have ever figured out. They’re not perfect—nothing is—but their very nature makes them harder to commit fraud with, and Utah’s procedures fortify them even more. In our internet-connected world, voting machines are vulnerable to nefarious infiltration, but paper ballots can’t be hacked. Even if one of the machines in the elections office were compromised (which would be very hard to do because they’re not connected to the internet), mail-in ballots are easily hand-countable. Utah also keeps them around for several years just in case a problem is discovered after the fact.

I had the opportunity to tour the Utah County Elections Office earlier this year. The changes they’ve made since I worked there are incredible. The machine that removes the ballots from their signed envelopes is lightning fast, preserving the privacy of each ballot. But before ballots even arrive there, the signature on every single envelope is scanned and compared to the voter signature on file. Any signature that gets flagged as different is sent to a real human being for further comparison. This, by the way, is the very same security feature that we used in 2012 for our in-person voting. Every voter that year, when they showed their ID, had to sign the precinct book. It was that signature, not the ID, that was compared to the records on file. The fact of the matter is that IDs can be easier to fake than signatures. In any case, identification and citizenship have already been established when voters register. Doing it again at the polling place is redundant and unnecessary. All we need to do is confirm that the individual is the previously registered voter on file. The signature does that equally well, whether in person or by mail.

Last, but by no means least, is the issue of accessibility. Mail-in voting is far easier for the elderly, persons with disabilities, and people who might not feel safe or comfortable (for various reasons) at a traditional polling place. All these people have the same right to make their voice heard in our democracy as everyone else. Mail-in voting enables them to exercise that right.

Unfortunately, we are in a time and place where Utah’s fabulously successful and safe elections system is under attack. Extremist candidates are spreading disinformation about our elections system, and some are proposing to send us back to the system I worked in 2012. We cannot allow them to push us backwards.

—Daniel Craig Friend

Daniel Craig Friend, photo provided by Mr. Friend

Daniel Craig Friend has lived in Provo for twelve years. He graduated from BYU with a degree in English language and editing in 2012. Friend is a devoted husband and father. His young daughters, Sophie and Christina, motivated his decision to enter the race for a seat on Utah’s House of Representatives in order to improve education, legislate for clean air and water, and offer residents more opportunities to strengthen and support their families. In the interest of voter rights, he is supporting a write-in vote for Candace Jacobson as Utah County Clerk—the official who oversees county elections. Jacobsen is the single candidate who defends the mail-in voting system. Friend promises to defend mail-in voting on Utah’s Capitol Hill. Election Day is November 8th. Polls open at 7 a.m., and close at 8 p.m. at the following locations: the Elections Office, 100 East Center Street; Provo City Library, 550 North University Ave; and Provo Towne Center Mall, 1200 Towne Center Blvd. In-person early voting runs October 25th through November 4th at 100 East Center Street. Mail-in ballots will be received until November 1st. Residents who haven’t received a mail-in ballot should contact the Utah County Clerk at (801) 851-8124 or elections@utahcounty.gov.

Clothing Drive for Provo’s Homeless

Temperatures have dropped and people on the street are cold. Next week, Oct. 31st thru Nov. 5th, South Provo Prophet is sponsoring a clothing drive, specifically requesting new and gently used coats, gloves, and scarves. Clothing items may be dropped off at Food & Care Coalition, SPP’s office (DM for address), or, if drop-off is impossible due to disability/lack of transportation, SPP will pick up donations from Utah Valley private residents on November 1st (DM to arrange time.) F&CC will distribute the clothing to the homeless based on need, and, at present, the need is substantial. SPP hopes to gather as many items as possible.

Please spread the word.

#foodandcarecoalition #clothethehomeless #provocity #provoservice #southprovoprophet

Laura Ruiz-Ortega: Ode to Provo City

Ode to Provo City
(Provo you make me weep)

Have you ever felt tied up, unable
to breathe comfortably?
This city makes me feel that way,
Todos los dias
How dare you make my skin a curse?
Sin considerar me persona,
How dare you offer me a golden
goblet?
Al borrar mi cultura,
Have you seen our elders, braid
stories
in their long jet black hair? Yet you
shut them away.
Disfranzas mentiras usando
inocencia pura, y vendes
“Salvación” barata.
Provo, you said our language
doesn’t fit your budget?
Nos borras sin escucharnos
I have dreamed of the day I leave
this judgment.
No, no soy victima,
I simply refuse to put on your
blindfold.
¿Que dices?
Other “Latins” say different, they
love Provo!
¡Que bien!
Maybe they don’t have a choice but
to drink from your goblet to
survive.
Provo espero no verte de nuevo.
and that you empire falls one day,
Porque a mis hijos no los tocará tu
mancha.

Twenty years ago, Latina poet, Laura Ruiz-Ortega immigrated from Mexico City to southeast Los Angeles. Her father, a biochemist, migrated after facing financial strain following the 1994 NAFTA agreement. He established residence and sent for his wife, a nurse, and their three daughters. Ruiz-Ortega, their eldest, was thirteen at the time.

“At first it was exciting,” she says. As her own sons, 8 and 10, approach their teens, she is reflecting on immigration’s radical transition. “When I came to the United States I was just starting my teens. It was tough because I had relationships in Mexico. My friends and I all went to the same school, and I’d known them for years. Migrating meant I lost those friendships.”

At the time, Ruiz-Ortega only spoke Spanish. Finding her place in the social structure of LA, paired with a language barrier proved a significant challenge.

“It was funny,” she says. “I was able to be friends with the Philipions at school, but not the Latinos because they have a different culture than Mexicans do. It was hard.”

In 2006, upon graduating from high school, Ruiz-Ortega moved to Utah Valley.

“My family had just converted to Mormonism a year before. The following year I came for Brigham Young University’s SOAR program. There was a promise that BYU would accept me at the time, and then, they didn’t. At first they told me it was because of my ACT scores, but when I contacted the counselor, he said that they wouldnt let me in because I’m undocumented. He said the school couldn’t give me scholarships because I didn’t have my [imigration number].”

The story was picked up by the Salt Lake Tribune and NPR.

“It was discouraging, like climbing a slippery slide. I couldn’t go to school, couldn’t work anywhere; I couldn’t do anything. I tried to go back to California on my own, but my family is traditionally Mexican and overprotective. It hindered me, and I stayed.”

Eventually, she was able to establish herself as a student at BYU studying Spanish translation, but she still felt stuck.

At 23, she served as an interpreter for a combined English/Spanish/ASL ward in Provo, where she met her now ex-husband. They dated for a while, but Ruiz-Ortega dreamed of serving a mission.

“I really wanted to go,” she says, but upon approaching her bishop and stake president about the opportunity she was shut down. “They both told me no, that marrying my ex was probably my only chance, and that I wasn’t going to get another one in life. They told me I should just stick with him.”

She says that her marriage sparked the beginning of her doubts.

”I started learning more about the church; Brigham Young’s racism, and the massacre of the Native Americans in Utah. I knew the church had a racist history. I had read about the Lamanites [in the Book of Mormon], and the curse of the dark skin, and at the beginning I accepted everything. I was young, and I figured that was just how it was.”

Over the next four years she became more outspoken about her concerns. ”I realized the church was really racist. I didn’t feel welcome, kind of like a non-member, and I wasn’t going to have my kids grow up in a place like this. I started questioning my leaders and my parents about the church’s beliefs [regarding faith], and nobody would answer me. They’d say, “Oh, that’s deep doctrine. You don’t have enough faith.””

In 2010, SB 1070 was enacted in Arizona. The legislation allowed state law enforcement to request proof of legal immigration during routine traffic stops. This law specifically targeted Latinos, or anyone officers deemed “suspicious.” Without papers, naturalized or not, a person could be charged with a misdemeanor. Those found guilty of lack of citizenship were subject to deportation.

Local politicians sought to adopt a similar Show Me Your Papers law in Utah, and leadership of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints issued a statement of neutrality on the matter.

“I realized this was not a church that cares about me or my family,” says Ruiz-Ortega. “I started going to protests, speaking out at the church. I was asking members to help, and again they told me I didn’t have enough faith. I was really naive, I guess. I’d thought, well, the scriptures say you’re supposed to love your neighbors no matter what. But it looks like they don’t.”

Then during the 2017 Utah congressional race, Ruiz-Ortega was confronted by an anti-immigration Facebook post on John Curtis’ campaign page. She went to the media. The campaign took down the post, claiming it was mistakenly released by a member of its staff.

“I met with Curtis a couple of times after that with other activists, but he was never happy that we were calling him out on it.”

Today, she continues to face racism in Provo.

“I used to clean houses as a way of earning income. Last year, I found a copy of “The Church and the Negro,” sitting out on the living room coffee table at one of the houses. I thought the church had discarded it. I couldn’t figure out why this family still had it—and on their coffee table.”

The problem extends to city leadership, Ruiz-Ortega says. She and fellow activists approached the city council to voice their concerns about the lack of support for non-English speakers, saying that the city failed to host events and programs offered in other languages.

”It’s not just Spanish. We have many other language speakers in Provo,” she says. The activists were told the city would do more to support its non-English speakers, but nothing changed.

“Immigration is happening,” she says. “I feel immigrants coming into Provo could add to the city. We’re not a threat.” She says she wishes that more members of the Church would realize that their own ancestors came to Utah as immigrants. “Provo ignores the fact that there’s a race problem. They hide behind the concept that everyone’s a child of God, and they don’t want to take responsibility for it.”

She would like to tell Provo residents to be more tolerant, talk to their neighbors, and just be kind.

One of her recent poems was a finalist for the 2022 Long Story Short Award sponsored by the creative writing publication, Short Édition. In the work, she takes on the themes of immigration and language acquisition in a new country.

“Of Unexpected Contortions in Foreign Lands”

My tongue clumsily crashes against the cathedral ceilings of my palate,
It helplessly tries to pick up the broken mirror,
the one she was holding when she tripped
yes, she tripped with the pencil between my front teeth,
the one the teacher suggested I…
“Place this between your teeth,
push your tongue away from the pencil now say r-r-r-rose”
my tongue refuses, she kicks and screams
“¡No quiero, me quieres romper la espalda carajo!”
(I don’t want to, you want break my back, fuck!)
I feel terrible, she has only known Spanish from birth,
and now at thirteen years old, I am throwing her
into contortions we both never imagined
we had to learn fast to be understood in this…country
but it just happened! One day I left my friends,
the house with the tall windows, the cats,
the stray dogs I fed every morning,
and we headed North.
You see one day I was trying to read out loud,
“De biutiful bitch” my class roared with laughter,
She shyly hid in a corner,
blushing from failing to perform the new contortions
of these new lands…she face-planted before them,
“you say beach long e not bitch with the short i”
my poor friend can’t relax, and keeps tripping
in my mouth, I try to hold her hand but it I useless,
she is trying but she keeps accidentally insulting
Hemingway with her Mexican accent.
But through the years,
and the many tears we got better,
just like the guitarist and their calloused hands
we too, had bruised knees, bloody knuckles
and a self-esteem on the mend,
a very sturdy golden scar in its hands
showed the world how
we became magicians,
how we made colors our of gray,
how we became chameleons:
in French, Farsi, Mandarin Chinese,
Tagalog, Korean, and even Arabic.
We broke out of our cast,
the one that fear placed us on
and dared to write
“get better!” on the dirty bandages
after we threw it away
we found our calling,
we connected doctors to their patients,
lawyers to their clients
children to their grandparents,
and book authors to their audiences.
She…healed me in unknown winds,
and together we sit in this room with you
sharing our story and asking you
to love the tripping accents,
those trying to fit a mold that wasn’t created
for their incomparable beauty.
When they speak and sound different,
be very kind for one wrong move
can have their souls hiding in the torment
of unnecessary shame and pain,
what you say friend?
Will you be kind to the stranger whose accent is a vulnerable map inviting you to the warmth of their home country?

Laura Ruiz-Ortega, photo by The Prophet.

Winter’s Tale: a National Coming Out Day narrative

Winter Pool is a gentle 27-year-old non-binary person with a huge heart. They love high fantasy, be it in books, video games, or TV shows. Their long list of likes includes: the “Red Wall” novels, Magic the Gathering, “The Truman Show,” “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,” “Rugrats,” “Bob’s Burgers,” “Stranger Things,” and “The Good Place.” They consider “Twin Peaks” their favorite comfort show. “As in rewatching, not comedy,” they clarified. “Even the second season where David Lynch leaves and it gets really weird. There was a chunk of time where I really thought I was going to write and direct movies. When I was young I was always told I could be an astronaut or the president, and I was like—what about a movie director? That should be pretty easy.” They’ve since learned it’s a little more difficult than 19-yr-old Winter thought. In recent months they’ve considered becoming a teacher or a veterinarian. Beachhouse is their all-time favorite band. They highly recommend people check out the album “Once, Twice, Melody.” Their favorite color is orange. Winter recently shared their story with SPP, and it is with great honor that the Prophet is able to feature their narrative as today’s National Coming Out Day post.

I had one of those slow coming outs, where it’s slowly over time. First, you tell one person, and then another person. It depended on where I was. Then, I wasn’t sure who I’d told, and I’d ask, “Do you know?” And they say, “Yeah, I definitely know.” It was over years.

I’ve lived in Provo three different times. I originally came to Provo in 2015 with my biological brother. He wanted someone to move here with him when he went to BYU, and I said, “I can do that. I’m up for change.” I wasn’t going to the Y, just living in BYU housing—the Village and Brownstone—and going to Institute in my free time. It was cheap rent. My brother and I were each other’s anchors, but he was heavy into the Mormon culture, and I could tell it wasn’t for me.

I don’t know that I was even out to myself yet at the time. I was raised with the terminology “gay” and “lesbian,” but I didn’t know there was “trans” and “bisexual.” It was so much more complex, and at the time I was still learning. I knew that I wasn’t straight, but I didn’t realize it was coming more from my gender identity rather than my sexual identity. I feel like I’ve got that straightened out now that I have the support. At the time I knew I was queer and that was it. I thought I was more bisexual because I liked guys as much as I liked girls, but I realize now I’m more on the ace spectrum. So it flipped. My orientation is asexual, but not aromatic. And in romantic relationships I’m into non-binary people. When I meet someone I can usually tell if they’ve got that enby vibe. I like that.

As far as my gender identity, I put it all together when I watched a TV show with a trans character, and I started going down the rabbit hole—“This makes sense!” For a while I thought I was a trans woman. I didn’t know non-binary was a thing, and then I met someone who was enby. That opened up a path. Before I thought I had imposter syndrome identifying as a trans woman, and I realized, no, I’m outside of the binary. I lean much more on the feminine side and I’m comfortable with feminine references, for lack of a better term. At the end of the day I would definitely say I’m nonbinary, and I figured that out about three years ago.

I lived at Brownstone and met N—. She was still going to the Y, and I was going to Institute. I heard a debate going on; something like women getting the priesthood or gay rights.When you’re in Provo on a certain side of a debate you can be isolated because of the culture. I sat down, just to see what was going on while N— was talking to someone. Later, she asked me if I wanted to go for a walk, and we figured out that we were both trans. What are the odds? We became close friends afterwards.

The third time I came to Provo on “vacation” with my biological family, and they didn’t take me back with them. It was the day after the fourth of July in 2018. That Saturday. It’s burned in my head; I won’t forget. I slept in a bit, and they decided to leave me here. I think my biological dad hadn’t wanted me to be living with them for a while. There were a lot of signs there. So I woke up to a missed call and a text, “We’re leaving, and because you didn’t answer.” They left me with $10, a pair of shoes, and a couple of books. I was pretty set. I didn’t know what to do. I tried going back to sleep, because I didn’t want to be awake for this. But I couldn’t; my heart was pounding, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I texted N— and said, “I don’t know if you know anyone, but…” There were people in BYU housing that offered to let me sleep on the couch in the place where I used to live. I felt weird because I remembered when I lived there before, roommates complained when that happened. I didn’t want to be doing that. N— said she knew somewhere that I could stay here while I figured things out. She picked up me and my little backpack, and I moved in with the Pools. We got to be close to each other, and now I live here.

Since then, I still have a hard time going on vacations. I just went to Cedar City to see a couple of plays with a friend and the whole time my brain was “What’s going to happen? What’s going to happen?” I tend to have bad luck with vacations. One time I ended up in a psych ward, another time I ended up going back to Arizona, and there’s this one where I got left. I don’t like fireworks to begin with. I don’t have trauma with loud noises specifically, but I have trauma with unexpected things happening, so when they go off I’m all, “Oh, Jesus!” And then I’m okay. I don’t know what I think is wrong, but my brain thinks there’s something wrong, and then I realize it’s all good. We’re okay.

My home-life prior to coming out was really strict. We couldn’t go outside on Sundays and we couldn’t watch movies above a PG movie until we got Clearplay, where you go through and set it as cut out “fuck” or “shit”. My biological dad would go through and put all the settings on high. I remember The Avengers coming out in theaters. There was a midnight showing and I asked, “Can I please go out and watch with my friends?” They said no. It wasn’t because it was on a school night and I couldn’t be out late; it was because it was PG-13 that I couldn’t see it. It was so embarrassing. I was a junior in high school. I had to tell people it was too late.

I came from a very stereotypical Mormon family. Eight kids. My youngest sibling is seven now, so there’s a twenty-four year difference between all of us. That’s one of the hardest parts of not having ties with my bio family anymore. It’s complicated. I have siblings who are adults that I talk to, and there’s one that I don’t. But the younger ones—I love them so much and I miss them. I have a strong connection with all of them, but I refuse to talk to my biological parents. I haven’t seen any of the little kids since they left me in Provo. I chat with my little brother on Instagram. He and I weren’t very close growing up. I think it’s typical sibling stuff. We were at the age where he would want to join me and come and do what my friends were doing. I always thought he was going to tattletale on me, so I told him he couldn’t hang out with me and my friends. I’m afraid I might have been mean to him in that sense, but now we keep in touch. He’s an active Mormon, but he’s an exception. I think he’s a good example of where Mormonism could go. You know, where it’s not problematic for you to own up to your history of homophobia, transphobia, racism; where you don’t have to strive to be better than others, just accept that others don’t have the same life decisions as you. He’s like, “I make these choices. You make those choices.” He doesn’t need to be mean about any of it, or use our relationship against me. He’s what a truly good Mormon could be.

When I was seventeen, a junior in high school, I was sexually assaulted. The whole school knew about it, and people took sides. The friends of my abuser were the non-Mormon kids, and then there were the Mormons at school. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe me; it was that they like the idea of me repenting for doing a “gay” thing—even though I was assaulted. It went to court, and the trial lasted for several months. My bishop was actually really cool about it. He set me up with a therapist, and said, “You don’t have to tell me anything. I know in worthiness interviews sexual stuff will come up and that’s something we generally talk about, but I want you to know this isn’t about worthiness.” He was how you’d want a bishop to be in that situation, and I really appreciated that.

At school, the Mormon kids saw it more as a repentance story than something they sympathize or empathize with. Cody, my assailant, was a family friend. Almost no one was allowed to sleep at our house, but they let him stay over repeatedly. There was a huge amount of trust given to him. I didn’t tell my parents when he assaulted me, but I was friends with Cody’s older brother. He called and told my mom. He said, “I wasn’t there. I can’t speak to this because it didn’t happen to me, but Cody did this.” Cody was outside on the trampoline playing with kids when the call happened, and my mom didn’t know what to do with it. My parents asked if I wanted to take legal action. I remember not wanting to, but they were concerned Cody might do it again, and they didn’t want it on their conscience. So I reported. If I’d never said anything, high school would have been so much easier. Those last two years were rough. My abuser was sentenced to jail for six months, but he was released after three months and placed on a registered sex offender list for six months to a year. There are different levels of sex offenders. At a certain level, the person stays on the list permanently. For others, it drops off after couple of years unless they repeat abuse, so Cody isn’t a registered sex offender anymore. I found out my older biological brother was still friends with him on Facebook years after the case. I don’t know if my brother believed me, or if he was giving this person a pass to redemption. But I sometimes looked at my abuser’s Facebook page, and every year he would post: “X number of years ago I was sitting in jail” with a frowny face. People would respond, “wow.” So he uses my assault as a point of sympathy. It makes me feel gross.

A few years later, I was trying to come out as trans to some friends who weren’t quite accepting. There were a hundred emotions that came up that seemed to come from a hundred different places, whether it was trauma or concerns about my future. It was all just bubbling up. I was staying with my biological parents, and one night I was like, I’m done. I told my biological mom so she took me to the hospital. I was there for two weeks while we tried to figure stuff out. I joke about it. What I realized was I’m fucked up; I need therapy. But it is a good place for people to tell you that.

I came out to my biological dad while I was in the hospital. When I was assaulted he was a strong advocate for me, and one of the more surprising supporters. He wasn’t known for being supportive of us. He was usually someone who would tell us what was wrong with us, but he was there for me and I was cool with that. The case had been a big thing. I was in between junior and senior years in high school. Everyone at school knew because it went to court. There were people who believed me and people who didn’t. Cody’s mom showed up banging and screaming at our door. It was a couple of intense, shitty years, and my dad had been very supportive. When he found out, he didn’t take me out for ice cream, but he took me to Orange Julius—very cliche. He said, “I’m here for the Blizzard.” He asked if I wanted to talk about it, and I really didn’t know what to say. We’d never done this before and it almost felt like a trap. But when I was in the hospital and came out to them as trans, he took that support back. He asked, “What does that mean about that situation? So you were okay with it?” I don’t think he believes me anymore that I was assaulted. He was misogynist about it, “So you’re a trans woman.” He thought I was assaulted because we were both “guys.” He thought there was no way I’d want that because we were both guys. “So you’re a woman now. So you did lie about it.” He told me that I was the product of Satan’s whisperings. It sounded like something Gordon B. Hinkley would say. That’s some Mormon stuff right there. My nurse was excited to know how it would go, so I told her, and she said, “Sounds like it went pretty bad.” My brain was stuck in the concept of the biological family. I remember thinking, “What do I do to change their minds? I have to do whatever I can to fix this, and try to get us all on a good page.” Since then, I’ve learned that’s not the case. I don’t have to stick with them. My nurse said, “I don’t think you should see them again.” And I thought, “Why? That’s not going to help with rebuilding this bridge with my bio family.” I went back to live with them for eight months to a year. They got me to cut my hair and I was only allowed to wear “guy” clothes. I was back to what I would wear in high school: athletic shorts and a t-shirt. I don’t have any sense of style with guys clothes—not that I do with feminine clothes either. But I have an interest in women’s clothes, where with guys’ clothes I think I don’t care as long as it’s comfortable—loose waist bands and whatnot. In the hospital I had this dream where I’d come out and we’re all cool with it even though they’re Mormon. They’d call me their daughter, since I was identifying as a trans woman. I told my bio mom about that dream, and she said, “Oh yeah, that’s not going to happen. I’m sorry, but that can’t happen.” And I thought, “But I dreamed it!” She said, “No, you can’t do that at home. What would we tell the kids?” I said, “I can tell them if you want. I can handle it for you. I can discuss this.” She said, “It would be uncomfortable.”

In the past four years my involvement in the queer community is mostly with people who need QueerMeals. Most people come for food, social reasons, or a safe space to be rather than being at home or BYU housing. I try to get them what they need, hang out with them, and give them that space. I like taking care of people. I like the idea of helping the sick, and people who need stuff. I like being there for them. I like getting to know people, but I also get really anxious about it—it’s a double edged sword with me. But when a new person comes over and I can say, “Hi! I don’t know you. But do you want water?” I really like that. So I’m glad I have the opportunity to do that here at the Pool’s.

Guest post: For the land, the water, the people—Fight!

PSL River Cleanup participants, Photo by The Prophet

Saturday, September 24th, members of the Party for Socialism and Liberation and the Provo community rallied together to study the history of Provo River and Utah Lake, and engage in the effort to remove harmful waste from the water and its surrounding riverbed. Through this action we not only raised awareness of the history of the Timpanogos water system, we were also able to connect more deeply with our environment in order to make a direct change.

The struggle to preserve the Provo River and Utah Lake is alive and well. Last year, the Utah legislature passed H.B. 240, giving control of any dredging of Utah Lake to the Division of Forestry, Fire and State Lands. The Division ruled the proposed dredging and paving of Utah Lake unconstitutional; a major victory for those working to preserve and protect the lake and its diverse ecosystem.

Despite this, the work is not over. Developers aim to convert the lake into unaffordable housing for the sake of profit, and the ongoing reinvention of their plans threatens to irreparably damage the lake. We must unite and continue fighting for the health of the lake and the river and lake, as this precious water is crucial for the sustainability of life in Utah County and its surrounding area.

Under a people-centered socialist system, teams of trained, environmentally-conscious workers might be deployed to clean the rivers of the waste toxic to life in our valley. These teams, paired with a comprehensive plan for preventing further pollution, would ameliorate the health of our water, and forward the desperately needed process of lake restoration and environmental justice.

Members of the Party for Socialism and Liberation in Provo vow to continue investing our labor and dedication to this important cause. We invite any members of the community interested in getting involved to reach out to us. Follow us on Facebook or Instagram @pslprovo, or sign up online at pslweb.org/join to join us in the struggle.

—Jacob Sparks

Jacob Sparks leads a PSL study group about the history of Provo River

Members of the PSL and Provo community clean up the river at Alligator Park

A small fraction of the trash removed from the water and the riverbed

Trash collected from the Provo River by PSL

Life Running over Rocks: PSL to host Provo River cleanup

The Party for Socialism and Liberation is sponsoring its biannual Provo River Cleanup on Saturday, September 24th at 11 a.m. Participants are asked to meet at Alligator Park, 3899-3615, Boat Harbor Dr. Volunteers are encouraged to wear shoes and clothes that can get muddy, and water gear if available. A short discussion/study group about the river will proceed the activity. Pizza and refreshment will also be provided.

The Ute nation called the river Timpanoquint, or “water running over rocks.” White settlers changed the name to Provo, after trapper Etienne Provost, for whom the city of Provo is also named.

“The Provo River is central to life in Utah Valley,” says Jacob Sparks, a member of Provo’s PSL chapter. The party is concerned with restoring ecological life to the valley as it was prior to colonization, and keeping the river clean is paramount to meeting that goal.

Provo River originates in the west Uinta Mountains and drains southwest into Utah Lake, providing high quality water to 600,000 living in its watershed. One acre-foot is a unit of volume equal to 326,000 gallons, and Provo city alone utilizes some 30,000 acre-feet of water annually. The Provo River also supplements domestic supply to Salt Lake City, Orem, Pleasant Grove, Lindon, American Fork, and Lehi, and irrigates approximately 48,156 acres of farmland in Utah, Salt Lake, and Wasatch Counties.

The PSL is involved in the struggle for ecological justice, which directly affects the health and wellbeing of the community. Protecting Provo River and its diverse ecosystem is central to that cause.

“When the river is destroyed, it is oppressed and people of color who are primarily affected,” says Sparks. He further explains that ecological justice entails a respect for the land and water necessary to sustain and reproduce life. The Provo River supports not only the residents of Utah Valley, but also its abundant flora and fauna.

Local scientists, legislators, and the general public are involved in the discussion and development of effective river restoration projects. One of the major areas of concern is pollutants, and the need for trash removal. In 2021, local volunteers removed over six tons of garbage from the river waterway, but the problem of pollution and dumping is ongoing. PSL is just one of many environmentally conscious groups which host cleanups along the Provo River Parkway; a 15-mile trail spanning from Utah Lake to Vivian Park in Provo Canyon.

“We sponsor cleanups so often because we want to take a direct approach. Instead of just talking about river improvements, we’re doing it,” Sparks says.

Kaylee Wilkinson, also of PSL, believes that general awareness of the destructive nature of capitalism and its exploitation of natural resources will empower the people of Provo to develop more effective restoration strategies.

“We believe it is possible for working class people to make a direct change,” she says.

Provo River near Alligator Park, photo by The Prophet

Genuine: the poetry of single-mother, Mary Walker

Mary Walker has an infectious laugh and a natural talent for putting people at ease. She is a 29-year-old single mother living in South Provo with a dog, a cat, and her two young daughters—Summer, 3, and EJ, 5. She grew up, the daughter of a white father and a Filipino mother, in what she calls the “bad” part of Detroit, before moving to Hawaii, where she earned a bachelor’s degree in biology from BYU-Hawaii. While attending the university she met the man she called her husband for seven years. Their marriage ended two years ago after she took out a restraining order against her ex to protect herself from further harm. Although Mary grew up LDS, she says she no longer identifies as Mormon, and that along with her 20-year-old naivety, cultural pressure for women to marry young, and the importance placed on finding a confident priesthood leader for a husband led to her abusive marriage. She often finds herself wondering how the past ten years of her life have been real, and she admits she spends a lot of her time dissociating from the traumatic stress. Although she is currently applying to in-state and out-of-state, PA programs, she is pretty happy being a mom to girls, living in a “cozy” basement apartment, and working as a restorative nurse’s aide. She says one of her best qualities is her skills at time-management, and enjoys spending her free time doing therapeutic creative projects, “turning anything into something beautiful.” Because she doesn’t have much family support, she’s created a community for herself amid other single moms. As for future relationships she says, “From here on out I’ve decided to listen to my intuition, because it always seems to be right. Alarmingly right. I still do—I just want to be in love. I still want the fairytale. But I’m done looking for men with avoidant attachment styles. I’m strong enough to be alone if I have to.” Mary uses writing as a way to cope with the periodic depression that often accompanies single-motherhood, and she recently shared her work at Speak For Yourself, a once-a-month creative writing open mic sponsored by Provo Poetry and Enliten Bakery.

My Favorite Color is Blue, the Cycle of Abuse

Blue is my favorite color.
Oh, like the ocean or sky or twinkle in
your lover’s eyes, they ask?
No, as I laugh.

Like my skin!
You see, black is too harsh,
and yellow looks like jaundice,
but blue means soon-to-be promises

of kiss ups, of makeups, of tears drying and
no more crying…
Secrets that I keep for the one I want to keep.
You see, blue is my favorite color.

Coparenting

… a special place in hell found on earth…

I fall short in everything I do these days.
I fall short at my job.
I fall short as a friend.
I fall short at school.
I fall short as a sister.
I fall short at church.
And lastly, I fall short as a mother.
However you are trying to do everything.
You are trying to play all roles in the “family proclamation.”
I am the main physical provider, the nurturer and the protector.
I have to remind myself to breathe.
Raising children with a person who is not your partner,
who is not your friend,
who is not an ally,
and who you continually battle can get pretty exhausting.
You are legally connected to what feels like the enemy,
having to do the part in adult life you were once excited about,
all you dreamed about.
They surely do not train you in church,
girls camp, school, college or home—
how to go about this.
It’s the hardest thing I am learning
to navigate while trying to balance and do
everything above.
Simply raising children with a spouse united can be
draining, and even in those circumstances one can have
emotional bursts from time to time.
But imagine doing it now with someone who doesn’t care,
It’s “not their problem” you have to figure it out
on your “parent-time”—which is 65% of the time.
There’s no reassurance that someone recognizes
your best efforts. At this point efforts
aren’t good enough. You’ve got to make it happen. Period.
And there is no hug at the end of the day to let you know
it’s all worth it (not that I got one before).

Some Dirty Laundry

Sitting with the only companionship
of the sounds of air filters in the room—
Buzzing. Humming. Tranced.
Lost in thoughts.

Then fixated on one thought, idea, memory
—replaying in your mind over and over again
until it doesn’t hurt as much.
Repeat.

When should I have believed him? He told me,
showed me countless times that he didn’t care.
My mistake was giving him the benefit
of the doubt and making excuses for his behavior.

So many thoughts on the past, present, and future.
Questions concerning all the how, when, timeline,
where, what’ll take, but
promises to ask no more “why?”

So many sacrifices left unrecognized and unappreciated.
Reading books to understand the situation.
Very insightful.
I’ve learned to pick apart my personality

due to psychosocial behavior analysis.
My attachment styles, my habits, certain mistakes
that have a tendency of coming up again and again.
My favorite mistake.

All the layers.
But it doesn’t matter because you know whatever that had driven you
to this point of time
and to him, you still loved and it was more

than you had ever given to anyone before,
and it was challenged and you are somewhat proud of it.
I’ve watched too many frustrating romantic dramas
where the boy or girl

don’t plainly communicate what they want.
In divorce, at least from what I’ve experienced,
You lay all your cards on the table.
You are at your most vulnerable.

Especially when it’s you begging to keep fighting
for the marriage. Earnestly telling
how much they mean to you, spending a life together,
high and lows, how much being a family means to you.

And the scary part is when you see all their cards too
out on the table, and you’re not there.
You haven’t been there.
You try to reach out towards the light, enlisting God,

friends, family members on both sides to help
until half of these people are now awkward acquaintances.
Sacred acts shared between man and woman only in holy matrimony…
I prided myself on virtue and chastity for so long

“A child, a child shivers in the cold,”
I hear those lyrics and tune from that well known Christmas song
and think of the blessing God bestows to a couple in “holy” matrimony
and I sit here confused… repeat.

Raynbow Collective’s Back to School Pride night promises to be a real drag

As Raynbow Collective gears up for Saturday’s BYU Back to School Pride night, Provo is suddenly in the national spotlight again. Planned festivities at Kiwanis Park include LGBTQ speakers, a Pride march, live touring bands, vendors and food trucks, but the highlight of the evening is a “family friendly” drag show at 6 p.m.

The celebration is gaining attention across the nation as anti-LGBT sentiments surrounding the drag show have cropped up on social media. Opponents of this form of entertainment are speaking up on numerous websites, including Twitter, Instagram, Reddit, and on YouTube channels.

Additionally, queer BYU students are experiencing intensifying pushback from the predominantly Latter-Day Saint community. On Thursday, Raynbow Collective’s executive director, Maddison Tenney released a video on Instagram speaking to the removal of the event’s signs around town. The RC staff spent long hours putting up the posters, “It makes me really sad that people take opportunities to be kind, and choose violence instead,” said Tenney.

On Provo Forward, a community Facebook page, residents objecting to the drag show shared their opinions. “I love Provo. I love its people. And I love these people. But this is wrong,” posted AnneMarie Pensabene. She argues that accepting the queer community in Provo needn’t include accepting how BYU LGBT students celebrate their identities. She paraphrased a scripture from 1 Corinthians 13:4-8, “Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always hopes, always perseveres.” Pensabene expressed concern that the show will be performed in a public park with children present, and several other residents agreed.

Roni Jo Draper, a BYU professor in theDavid O. McKay School of Education responded.

“Public parks are for the public,” wrote Draper. “Drag performers and people who want to watch their performances are all members of the public. They have the right to use public spaces. Suggesting that they don’t because they are dangerous or deviant is dehumanizing. It is suggesting that they don’t or shouldn’t have the right to public spaces.”

She went on, “You can say it’s inappropriate for your children based on how you want to do your family. But saying it’s inappropriate for all children is not your call.”

BYU faculty member, Kersti Spjut replied to the post. “Like any performance or media, drag shows vary in the degree to which their language and subject matter is appropriate for different ages. The “family friendly” description here functions similarly to a G or PG rating, because drag is not inherently adult content.” She further argued that a G-rated drag show in a public park doesn’t go against laws of public decency or media regulations.

Drag shows involve a performance where the artists—“kings” and “queens”—impersonate men or women, pushing the boundaries of gender presentation while lip-syncing and dancing on stage. Historically, drag can be traced back to 16th century England and China. Since women were prohibited from performing in the theater, men donned feminine attire and performed female roles on stage. Drag continued to be popular for nearly 500 years until 1933 when Hollywood imposed a code of ethics which sought to eliminate drag in film by classifying gender-bending performance as perversion. However, drag shows continued on stage, and rose to popularity in 1920s Harlem. Drag “Balls” featured gays and lesbians in extravagant performances which brought together the LGBT community. These social events gained in popularity, and by the 70s these balls were held across the United States. While originally held in secret and primarily attended by people of color, drag shows are now a familiar form of entertainment for all, regardless of race or sexual orientation. In the media, the documentary Paris is Burning and the television show RuPaul’s Drag Race have broadened interest in the art form.

Drag queens slated to perform at Back to School Pride issued a statement on RC’s Instagram page.

“Drag is far more than ‘a man in a dress’. It’s an art form, an avenue for self discovery and expression. It’s for everyone, no matter your gender identity. It’s a celebration of the Queer community and the diversity within it. Our drag will speak for itself, regardless of the name we go by.”

Reported threats of violence made to Provo City prompted RC to team up with Provo Police Department to ensure the safety of students, performers, and participating residents should there be counter protestors demonstrating at the event. The RC is also asking for donations to provide increased security.

“We want to encourage people to get the word out about Back to School Pride night,” said Tenney. “We want it to be loving and fun, and everyone’s invited.”

Back to School Pride flyer, by Raynbow Collective

Chalking the Block: an interview with former BYU students on being queer at a church school

This weekend, Brigham Young University’s queer students are celebrating Pride. The celebration is spearheaded by Raynbow Collective, a Provo non-profit organization that focuses on creating and identifying safe spaces for LGBTQ+ students, faculty, and staff at the LDS church school. The collective invited allies and queer studentsto chalk the sidewalks just outside of campus as part of the festivities.

Sisters Mari (she/her) and Faith (she/they) spoke to The Prophet about their coming out journey. Both are former BYU students who identify as pansexual

Tell me what it’s like going to an LDS Church school as an LGBTQ person.

Mari: I didn’t know I was queer going into my freshman year. I suppressed a lot of things for a while, probably because it was a kind of defense mechanism. Being at BYU was an isolating experience. I grew up close to my family. Coming to Provo in the fall of 2020 was the first time I’d lived away from home. Since I’m pretty introverted I didn’t make a lot of friends right away, and I felt really really alone. I ended up spending a lot of time in my head, and when you do that you eventually figure yourself out pretty well. I made the decision to transfer from BYU about a month and a half after I’d started classes. I had a lot of anxiety about the honor code because they are very strict rules that have major consequences if you mess up, I didn’t break the honor code, but it got to the point where I couldn’t function. I decided that for the sake of having a successful education and better mental health that I couldn’t go to BYU anymore, and once I gave myself that permission it allowed me to think more about who I am. I felt less restricted. Even though I was still going to BYU, knowing that I was transferring in the fall helped me feel safe enough coming out to my high old high school friends. As soon as I thought it to myself—I’m not straight— told them. I came out to my siblings a few days later. It felt like a weight had been lifted off of my shoulders and an entire world opened up for me. After I’d spent a year in isolation feeling completely alone, I felt like coming out gave me community. I had a better sense of who I was as a person.

Faith: My experience is pretty similar to Mari’s. I lived with my husband in Guatemala. A lot of the time I was there it was really isolating. I loved being in Guatemala, but I couldn’t leave the house on my own. This gave me a lot of time alone, thinking and questioning everything I’ve ever thought about myself. I started talking about the things I’d been thinking about the church and about myself with my husband. When I came back [to the states] for Thanksgiving I was on the plane listening to a podcast, and I suddenly realized—I wasn’t straight. I had all these memories come flooding back, and it was intense. I hadn’t even analyzed myself well enough to understand that I was queer. While I was out here I came out to Mari because by that time she was out, and I knew she would understand. She was the person I was closest to. From there I was trying to understand my spirituality, and ended up leaving the LDS Church and moving home. My ex-husband was a good person, but he had a lot of different ideas than I do. I understand though, because for a long time I dealt with internalized homophobia. When you grow up in a culture that teaches you to hate people for being a certain way it’s hard to break out of that mindset.

You’re both attending different schools now. Tell me why it’s important to you to be involved with BYU Pride.

Mari: For me the work at BYU is very important because I know how isolating it can be for queer student. My hope is that the school will change it’s policy so that it’s safe for LGBTQ people, and that BYU would provide more resources for queer people. For instance, a safe housing project to match queer students with queer-friendly housing. Things like that are pretty basic services at most universities; it’s the standard.

Faith: I’ve been involved in queer activism in Provo since the beginning of the summer. I wish that someday we can work together with a common goal to love everyone, and accept people for who they are and who they’ve always been.

Non-binary pansexual former BYU student, Faith, phot by The Prophet

Housing a Community: Marianne Hales shares her tale of a quilting club

All good family’s (houses)
are (not)
похож
MaryAnn Taylor

The story of the Little House Quilting Club (LHQC) is a bittersweet work of art patchworked together with painstaking love. In addition to quilting, Marianne Hales is single-parenting two kids, Emily Laura and Micah, caring for her aging parents, teaching college courses, and courageously battling Multiple Sclerosis. It seems unimaginable that she finds the time for anything else, but creativity seems to pour from her veins. She explains that, aside from monthly massages, and half an hour of mindful meditation each morning, textile art is her self-care. Over the past thirteen years, Marianne has designed and completed seven quilts. She’s set up a felt-covered idea board in her sewing room that serves as her canvas from which each quilt germinates.

“It takes time to let the ideas percolate,” she explained. “It can take me years to finish a quilt because I just do it a little at a time. If I sat down and did it full-time I could do it very quickly, but I need to think about how I want it to be; then I’ll draw it out, erase, draw it out and erase. It can easily take up to six months to come up with a finished design. I’ve easily been working on these two latest quilts for five years. And when I finish something, I’m planning ahead for what I’m going to do next.”

Hence, the eight-year development of her LHQC quilt (which Marianne considers a textile chapbook, or small book of poems), and its journey toward completion.

“I met Chelsi Linderman in 2010, when we both adjuncted at Dixie State College. Her husband, Trevor, had been diagnosed with brain cancer in his teens, and given a prognosis of ten to fifteen years.”

Four years later, both Marianne and Chelsi had moved to Springville, Utah. In December 2014, after six years in remission, Trevor’s cancer returned. Chelsi, in need of community, reached out to a number of women she considered friends, and they organized a club.

“In the beginning there were ten to twelve of us. We swapped fabric, and began working off the same house block pattern to make individual quilts,” said Marianne.

It soon became apparent that Trevor was in the last stage of his illness, and the club rallied around Chelsi. They met monthly to share brunch and their love for textile art. A few of the women each pieced an individual house block for a second quilt to commemorate Trevor’s life. He died in May 2015. Marianne and her new friends continued to support Chelsi through the following year until the club ended in spring of 2016.

As the women parted, Marianne penned a poem in homage to their sisterhood.

Marianne Hales’ sewing machine, photo by The Prophet

Little House Quilting Club

We swapped fabric and stories
over french toast casserole,
once a month for about a year:
pieces of a star that only met
at one point, strangers
trying to bind up the grief
of one little house with scraps
and thread from our own.

Paper piecing is an act of faith
counter-intuitive seams fold
into the expected unexpected
with centimeters of stitches
filling ten rows across
and ten rows down;
ninety blocks later it’s still
a surprise when it works
(and when it doesn’t).

Funny how different
blocks can be made
from the same patterns,
two walls, one door, one
window, one roof, two
chimneys, anonymous
little houses painting
the same shape of lives
in endless color combinations.

No hint of the ordinary sorrow
underneath, uniform
batting adding dimension
to grief that doesn’t follow
a template: lean in, move
on, get out of bed or don’t—
ninety months later it’s still
a surprise when it knocks
you down (and when it doesn’t).

The club faded away after
the long-anticipated funeral
changed the pattern
of daily life, but never
did disband: this quilt
was finished and others
were waiting. There will always
be another kitchen, another
brunch, another stitch.

“We began as strangers,” said Marianne. “And we were brought together by the quilt. Even after the club ended we remained close.”

In 2017, Marianne started a third quilt, smaller than the others, but built on the same house-block pattern as the previous two made by the club. She stitched her poem in five individual blocks, and began piecing together tiny houses from the fabric originally swapped by members of the club. Marianne’s ideas for the LHQC quilt came together as the world was met with Covid-19, and she penned a second poem:

Pandemic Epiphragm, Spring 2020

When you go outside
at the same time as your neighbor
nod to acknowledge

your common humanity and pretend
your box kingdom
is self-contained and self-sustaining

not one in a row of square foot human gardens
connected at the seam and color-coordinated
walls and carpets and windows that see

the sun high and low and gone
grass that must be wrangled
two bright green rocking chairs

with pink flamingo cushions
sidewalk cracks painted with weeds
your neighbor’s daughter’s boyfriend’s

walk around the block, spend the days
calming your panic
move from the back yard to the front

with the sun, close your eyes
for a few minutes when the sky is navy
push down the dread of light blue

you have your box Kingdom.

A snail has crawled up
the foundation and closed
its opening with a mucus epiphragm

Quilt block by Marianne Hales, photo by The Prophet

Marianne, inspired to draw her people together, reached out to her community of writers—Provo Poetry. She sent out a call for poems about quilting, and Steven Duncan, of SFYS open mic and Rock Canyon Poets, responded with memories of a childhood he spent hiding under quilting frames:

We splayed under the canopy of
fabric hectares rolling wide and warm,
a blanket fort under construction.

Grammie’s voice was a sprinkler
we loved to run through in summer
over and over, and overhead

her stitching brought together
the endless scraps and gathered folds
with every single piece of us.

Marianne stitched his poem into yet another block, and then carefully adorned it with a tiny pieced quilt stretched across an embroidered frame. She took up the task of needle-and-threading her way through her homage to the club, and their recipe for the monthly brunch.

Here’s What’s Cooking: French Toast Casserole

From the kitchen of Mr. Food.com and Debbie Hong
14-16 slices hearty white bread
(about 10 cups of 1 inch cubes)
1 (8 ounce) pkg cream cheese
8 large eggs 1 ½ cups milk
2 ½ cups half-and-half ½ cup maple syrup
1 teasp vanilla 2 tablespoons confectioner’s sugar
Coat a 9×13 baking dish with cooking spray
Place bread cubes in baking dish Beat cream
cheese until smooth. Add eggs, beating after each
addition. Add milk, half-and-half, maple syrup,
and vanilla. Mix until smooth. Pour cream cheese
mixture on top of bread cubes. Cover and chill
for at least two hours, or as long as over night.
Preheat oven to 375°. Let dish stand at room
temp for 20 minutes. Bake 45-60 minutes or until
set. Sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar.

This, her fourth and final quilt, accompanies the third, and serves as a poetic story describing the comradery and purpose behind Chelsi’s club. The quilt tells the story of Marianne’s love for her community and her devoted service to the people she houses in her heart. It is nothing less than a work of art. Upon their completion, Marianne enters each of her quilts in the annual show sponsored by Springville Museum of Art, and then passes them on as gifts to friends and family members.

Marianne Hales is a poet, essayist, and playwright living in Springville, Utah. She has been published in Dialogue: a Journal of Mormon Thought, Segullah, The Hong Kong Review, Helicon West, and Rocky Mountain Runners. Her plays have been produced across the U.S., and adapted for film. She teaches at both Brigham Young University and Western Governors University. In 2015, she co-founded Provo Poetry, a non-profit dedicated to bringing poetry into the community at large in unusual ways. That same year she spearheaded Speak for Yourself, a weekly creative writing open mic, which, since the pandemic, meets face-to-face at Enliten Bakery once a month. Marianne is a member of the Rock Canyon Poets, a longtime fan and contributor to the MoLitBlitz, and a member of the inaugural cohort of the MoLitLab’s book mentorship program. Additionally, she is Head Curator for the Plein Air Word Gallery; a rotating display of laminated poetry on the fence outside of her house. She is presently revisiting her early diaries, reading them aloud to her kids so as to illustrate that she, too, was also once a hormonal teen.