Spring 2003

FrontiersSpring03Final.indd 1 5/2/2003, 11:43:49 AM


Jeff for the inspiration; Tony for the laughs; Maitu

Regina, for your unwavering love that sees me through;

all friends-you know who you are- for the much

needed support. Nicole for your great effort; Jedd for

your patience; Cary for your advise; Kristin, Mary,

Ashley, Jeff, Bob, Jared, Lotus, Josh, and Joel, and all

the magnifi cently gifted writers, photographers and

staff of Frontiers and Student Publications whose dedi-

cation made this magazine achievable. Thank you so

very much!

Much love to you-now and always!

Copyright 2003 by Frontiers and Student PUblications. All rights reserved. The opinions expressed in tis magazine are solely those of its contributors and editors and do not necessarily refl ect the opinions of the administration or staff of the University of Wyoming.

The wind endlessly gusted and perpetually howled on those momentous mid-March days of Spring 2003. With record-setting snowfall totals in the Rocky Mountains, the snow ceaselessly came down- hard and fast. It covered every inch of the vastness of the Wyoming country that there was to make out in the never-ending white haze. It appeared as if it would never stop. But the wind’s wrath fi nally subsided to a breeze that lifted gemstone snow off the ground, and the blizzard was transformed into a gently falling snow. Little by little, the seem-ingly infi nite silence was broken by the laughter of children at play in the white snow. And movement punctured the stillness of the days.

Life returned….As I began the toil of excavating my car out of the six feet drifts of snow, I could not

disregard the reverberating resemblance of the past few days to the life we live. “Life deals with us in this exact way,” I refl ected. Every now and then like the howling wind, the clamor of life is so loud that we can barely hear our own thoughts. And lately, like the white haze the storm brings with it, fear and terror have clouded our days. And just like the snow buries everything, we get buried in absolute turmoil and everything seems so hopeless, we’d all much rather ran away from the cause of our despair. But hard as it might be, we dig out. A common bond that binds us all-the human race-is our inherent fervor to endure.

Life is without a doubt diffi cult. But if we are aware of this fact, be prepared to confront it with the resilient and invincible human spirit, we can resign ourselves to realizing that even the longest storms in due course die down. After that, it is no longer diffi cult to be alive and truly live life.

May the incredible homecoming of Life never cease to overwhelm you!





Encampment, Wyoming -just from the name, it’s easy to tell that this little village lies in somewhat isola-tion. The world of fi ve hundred people provides a safe haven for child-rearing. Families experience the ups and downs of life, children go to school, and each person has unique experiences on the ranch, in the Sierra Madre Mountains, or in Kuntzman’s Cash Store; and the world of Encampment goes on, much of the time without regard for what lies outside its borders. Growing up in this small town of Caucasian Ameri-cans left me with wonderful family memories, tradi-tions, and a strong sense of identity as a part of them. Nevertheless, I remained naïve to much of what the rest of the world had to offer. Despite occasional attention to presidential elections, the Gulf War, and American involvement in Israel and Bosnia, a deep understanding of different cultures and other nations’ affairs escaped me. Not until entering the University of Wyoming did I

begin to acquire a sense of the value of the world outside Encampment, Wyoming, especially the world outside American borders. My identity as an English-speaking, white, Protestant female from small-town Wyoming typifi es many Wyomingites. However, the benefi t of being an International Studies and Russian student has been the opportunity to experience a bit more of the human race. Coming into contact with people for whom identity lies in a much different collection of characteristics has given me a glimpse of the need for the rest of the world. Even in Laramie, there is the possibility of inter-acting with people from all over the world, including Russians, Ukrainians, Belorussians, Turkmen, Azeris, Indians, Nepalese, Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Taiwan-ese, Nigerians, French, Germans, Bolivians, Brazilians, to name a few. The University of Wyoming is home to a fairly large international community, one that easily


escapes the attention of American students. However, similar to the general world condition, the activities of this group combine with the rest of the groups to affect the lives of everyone. What’s more is that there is an overabundance of things to be learned from the unique ethnicities and cultures of the world. Without reducing the value of individual and cultural uniqueness, people can learn from one another. Although I appreciate my identity as a white female from Wyoming, I have found unexpected enhancement of the richest value in my ac-quaintances and friendships with people from the rest of the world. Some of the lessons that I have learned from my own personal acquaintances may demonstrate best that there may really be a need for the rest of the world, even in Wyoming.

People from countries of the former Soviet Union and Westerners have been in little contact over the past fi fty years. However, since the end of the Cold War

more opportunities exist for interaction. My friendship with several individuals has enriched my life, and I could stand to learn from them. I have found that Russians (and people from the former USSR) exhibit the habit of thinking about everything with an attachment to its philosophical and consequential meaning. In this way, they pay attention to the true intention and meaning that lies behind actions in both interpersonal relations and nation-to-nation dealings. Their curiosity gets the best of them, and they cannot help but investigate the signifi -cance of the rest of the world and the current affairs that affect it. They are also willing to explore the questions of existence and metaphysics that will eventually be faced in both the fate of countries and individuals. These abilities enable people to have a deeper understanding of themselves, their beliefs, and others. Honesty and loyalty are traits that Russians hold dear. One needs not wonder their opinions nor doubt their commitment to their friends. This makes for rela-tionships in which people are free to speak truths about themselves and others without the fear of rejection, while learning at the same time. Instead of remaining in a dis-tant, superfi cial “bond”, one can experience true closeness within the frame of an honesty-based relationship. With closeness also comes the ability to enjoy good times to an even fuller degree. A Russian friend is one that will help you grow, encourage you, and give you the opportunity to discover others. The “depth of the Russian soul” is a new experience, and a valuable one at that.

Generosity- I will never be able to equal the amount of generosity that my Korean friends have shown to me. The constant willingness of these people to give to close friends, and acquaintances alike, almost exhausts their own spirit. Any time a friend is in need of help, be it cooking for company, changing a fl at tire, babysitting, or consoling, a Korean is willing to give of their own time and energy to help in whatever way they can. In the American world, where one’s individualism is often stressed to the point of selfi shness, it is refreshing to know someone who thinks of others before him/herself. In considering the generosity and “collectivity” of Koreans, I have been able to learn better the art of bearing others’ interests in mind. With generosity in relationships, comes a truer attachment to one another and the ability to care for one another. To give of one’s self is a most valuable resource, one that must be used if the world’s situation will be improved.

Something that has struck me is the ability of my Japanese acquaintances to work hard without complaint. Not only do they spend endless hours in the process of their work, they also don’t presume that their hard work


has earned them a position any higher than another person. To witness effort and persistence such as that in Japanese people is inspiring in itself. However, what is even more amazing is the humility that goes along with it. Again, I have learned a lesson from outside American borders. Working hard with persistence and humility leads to more satisfaction with one’s own accomplishments and more ability to enjoy the achievements of others. Complaint results in the inability to enjoy one’s work. Pride results in a myriad of problems, including jealousy, the failure to appreciate the work of associates, wasted time and energy, and an end product that probably would have been better if arrogance had not entered the picture at all. This doesn’t solely apply to interpersonal relationships. If hard work and humility could be integrated more into the entire international community, wouldn’t countries have less to fear and more to gain from one another?

Quietness of spirit is a distinctive characteristic of the Nepalese woman that I know. Although her intelligence is unquestioned, and her ability to express her opinion is quite in tact, this woman posses the ability to listen. Her openness allows for the chance to understand others and learn from them. If her mouth were continually spouting her own opinions and her own problems, she would not have the chance to experience those around as fully as she does. This characteristic may also be helpful in a society of individualists who sometimes think themselves self-suf-fi cient. Listening allows for learning something that one might not already know. The world situation could be improved by a few more listeners, who seek to understand other countries and their concerns. My experience with the rest of the world has taught me valuable lessons, many more than I could name here.

Who needs the rest of the world? I do, Wyoming does, and the United States does, if the world condition is to be pleasant or improved or even livable for its inhabitants. With the increasing co-existence of different cultures in a single community (such as the University of Wyoming) and the rising interconnectedness of the world, learning lessons from diversity can be a most valuable resource. Not only can individuals seek to mature in their own lives, but they can learn how to relate to those that may soon be their neighbors. Understanding one another is the fi rst step to avoid confl ict, and listening to one another doesn’t hurt either. Although each one of us can appreciate our own unique identities, unexpected enrichment results from exchange with the rest of the world, enrichment that can be most valuable and enjoyable.



join his vivid memories at his pace, not rushed, not too slow. He’s shared them before, but you won’t hear one twice. Oftentimes you laugh. Sometimes you want to cry. Mostly, you laugh till you cry.Joe Vitale--UW Class of ’63--played offensive guard, line-backer, and kicker on Cowboy football teams between ‘59 and ’63. After UW, Joe returned to Michigan to coach. He led Muskegon’s high school to an undefeated state football championship. Then he moved to the commu-nity center in his Monroe neighborhood. “It was during the civil rights movement; that was an experience in itself. Then I was brought into city hall to take over the parks and recreation department.” He retired from city hall and returned to Laramie in 1986 as UW’s assistant athletic director and head of the Cowboy Joe Club. After a break, Joe went to work for himself: owner of Vitale’s Italian Cowboy restaurant. Now, fade back for a pass through Joe’s refl ections on football, family, and food. Joe’s Monroe, Michigan, high school coach in 1959 told Joe to send a tape to Wyoming’s Bob Devaney. Dev-aney gave Joe a full scholarship. “In our freshman class there was 116 freshmen on some sort of football retainer. Seven of us played four years and graduated.”Arizona came here to play. My Dad was in town, and it was homecoming. That’s the only game my Dad had an opportunity to see me play college football. They had some all-American guard, Brent Schnieder, or something like that. I just went over to their locker room, you know, and asked to see the guy. His teammates went to get him. When he walked up to me, I shook my fi nger

in his face and said, “I OWN YOU.” We won that game pretty handily, and I made their all-opponent team! Coach Devaney shared a lecture with Joe for barging into Arizona’s locker room. Joe’s plea, “But, coach, I just wanted his autograph,” failed.Devaney made his freshmen and sophomores attend study hall. Joe’d been a National Honor Student in high school, class president three consecutive years, captain of his baseball and football teams, and he’d lived up to his parents’ high standards. He told Devaney study hall was for dummies. The coach asked how many college classes he’d taken. Joe said, “None,” and landed in study hall. Devaney agreed to free him if he didn’t get any “down slips,” grades less than a “C.” Joe broke study hall’s shackles at the midterm of his fi rst semester! We had a team in ’61 that probably was as good as any team they’ve had here, including the Sugar Bowl team. Eight out of 10 teams we played, at the time we played them, were ranked in the top 20. Kansas had fi ve all-Americans: John Hadle, Curtis McClinton, Burt Cohn, couple’a linemen. They were ranked number one in the nation. We tied ‘em 6-6. We were a 35-10 underdog. Following week we played Utah State: Merlin Olsen, Clark Miller, Jim Turner. They had three all-Americans. They were the biggest team in the country, and we tied them 6-6. We played North Carolina State with Roman Gabriel. We beat ‘em. We went to Arizona a three-touchdown favorite. We’d turned down the Sun Bowl before going to Arizona; we thought if we win we’ll get a bigger bowl. We lost and didn’t get any bowl. Then Devaney went to Nebraska, and that’s the rest of that story! Joe copped multiple honors his senior year: Cow-boy’s MVP, all-Conference, and United Press Internation-al’s Honorable Mention all-American.


Everything was centered around our dinner table. It’s how we grew up. Sunday was a big family day; it would not be unusual to have anywhere from 20 to 50 people. My Grandma and my Ma, and from two to three Aunts, on Mondays would convene in my Grandmother’s basement. An old cast iron stove and the big kettles, and they’d make sauce and they’d make homemade pastas for the week, for all the families. You can imagine fi ve women speaking all in Ital-ian, all at the same time. It’d sound like they were mad at each other. And that’s when I learned young in life that kids are supposed to keep their nose out of adult business, ‘cause I’d ask my Ma, “Is everybody mad at everybody Ma, why is everybody screamin’”? She’d slap me and say, “You know nothing, don’t understand, and you know you kids shouldn’t be involved when adults are talking.” I don’t know how they understood each other, but they did. That’s kinda how my fi rst experience was with food. Joe’s Mom, Madeline Bellino, was born in Monroe. Her parents emigrated from Calabria, in Italy’s toe. Joe’s Dad, Rosolino, was from Cinisi, a small Sicilian town near Palermo. At 14, in 1925 Rosolino’s Mom sent him to the states. My Dad was incorrigible. She couldn’t handle him, my Grandmother couldn’t, so she shipped him to Detroit where a couple of his cousins were supposed to look after him. That didn’t work either ‘cause they couldn’t handle him, and he grew up in the streets of Detroit. So in the family, there was never any sympathy. I’d never come home crying about anything, ‘cause, you know, he gave you love and support and a kick in the butt when you needed it, and it kept you on the straight

and narrow path. We didn’t have television, we didn’t have a fancy car, we didn’t have any material things. It’s funny, my Dad’s philosophy. He said, “I have six sons, it’s their responsibility to take care of their mother, and it’s their mother’s responsibility to take care of me.” So, we always used to tell my Dad, “You can take the Sicilian out of Sicily, but you couldn’t take Sicily out of the Sicilian.” “What do you understand? You kids,” he’d say. ‘course he was chaperoned with my Ma. It was pretty strict back in those days. Dad died four months before their 62nd anniversary, so they were together a long time. Joe is the second son. He remembers working in his Dad’s garden, a plot as big as the main dining room in the restaurant. “People came from all over to see my Dad’s garden.” He had a fi g tree, and he had grafted three trees onto one so you could pick apricots, plums, and peaches from the same tree. The man who cut Rosolino’s hair for 60 years would go to the house, cut his hair, and, afterward, fi ll a wooden box with fruits and vegetables for his payment. Joe married and had two boys, Joseph and Frank. Their mother died when they were six and three.

And, so my parents basically raised them. I was a bach-elor father for over 12 years before I met Nancy and we got married. So they’ve had some good supervision. And they learned. Nancy teaches 7th grade English at Laramie Junior High School. She attended the University of Detroit and bartending school. She worked her way through college as a bartender. Joseph, the elder, works for Ford Motor Company in Monroe, lives in his Grandmother’s house, and has the only grandchild, 5-year-old Victoria. Frank lives in Laramie. He too remembers big family meals growing up. Talking about Grandma, Frank recalls, “She’d get up at fi ve o’clock in the morning and start cooking. By nine, you’d wake up and the house smelled so good you couldn’t wait till one or two to start eating. I’d get yelled at for dipping in the sauce.” His eyes twinkle, he chuckles: reminds you of Joe. Frank learned: “We’d stand in the kitchen and she’d explain how to do things. I’ve watched her make everything from the sauces to cookies and homemade bread.”So food has always been the focal point of our life and our family. When someone goes out to eat, it should be a fun experience. They’re going out to relax to get away from whatever they’ve had all day, or get out of the house, or just spend some time together, so it should be a festive experience. Thanks to those big family meals, Joe learned to cook. In college, he and his roommates shared respon-sibilities; Joe’s was cooking. As head of the Cowboy Joe Club, he cooked as a fund raiser. “I’d bid out dinners at home for 10 people and I’d go to their home and cook it, so kind of enjoyed that and I got a taste of the restaurant


business.” A friend of mine come along and said, “How would you like to have a prime piece of property on Grand Avenue for Vitale’s Fasta Pasta? Kind of a catering, take-out thing.” Joe bought the gas station near War Memorial Stadium and leased it back to its operator. “The old Laramie Inn asked me if they could buy my name and my recipes. I said the only way you can do that is if I go with ‘em”! Joe’s restaurant in the Inn did well for two years. “I was disappointed in their lack of commitment to upgrading facilities and cleanliness, and so I pulled outta there. I didn’t want our name to get ruined by people that just aren’t responsible.” I was doing nothing for a while. Had a retirement coming in, had some income from the gas station, my wife was working. Just took a break. Had too much time on my hands. Woke up one day and told my wife I think I’m going to build a restaurant. She started crying.Joe studied Laramie’s Italian restaurant history. “There’s been a couple. Some last longer than others. I said well jeez, you know, maybe we ought to do a little bit more than catering and take out. Maybe we could have some dining facilities.” So Joe built Vitale’s Italian Cowboy. “It was a gas station. The letters fi t perfect on the sign that used to say ‘Texaco’.” While Joe was planning, he called Frank and ask him to help. When Frank attended UW, he’d studied music. To earn spending money, he worked at Georgio’s, an Italian restaurant, now Ken’s Toyota. UW didn’t offer jazz, so after two years Frank moved to Boston’s Berkley School of Music. He started as a busboy at Boston’s busiest T.G.I.Friday’s and worked his way up to in-store trainer. Frank’s modesty peeks through his words: “Did that for almost four years. So, when my Dad called and said he was starting a restaurant, I thought it’d be a good fi t, because I knew a little bit about it.” He’s quite the administrator, quite the cook. He’s had some good training, got a great background. He paid attention to Grandma and Grandpa a lot more than I thought. After Joe’s glowing summary, Frank humbly described his duties. “I pretty much do several different things,” Frank offered. Joe laughed in the background and injected, “He does all of it! All of the above.” Joe unlocked Frank’s shyness a little: “I hire and train the servers, work with the new cooks, and do our dinner specials for the weekends, and the menus, bookwork, all kinds of stuff; just about all of it.” Joe heartily agreed!Frank’s thoughts about why Laramie’s better than Boston fl owed easily. “Oh, jeez, it’s great working with my Dad. Not havin’ to worry about walking girls to their cars at night because they might get mugged for their tips. Those are really big plusses. The other thing is, I worked right downtown in the heart of the city of 4 or 5 million people, so being in a small community is really nice.”

Walk in. The log-fi red pizza oven’s scent greets you. As Joe walks you by the kitchen, your nose notices the sauces Frank’s Grandma yelled at him for sampling. You’ll pass a painting of Joe above the old wine press. Western memorabilia hangs on the south wall. Joe’s of-fi ce is the table closest to the kitchen. Pine wainscot and high-back benches, game trophies, and muted TVs tuned to sports make it homey. If you’d rather get fancy, there’s a formal dining room. Voices, silverware lightly clinking on dishes, soft 50s-60s Rock ’n’ Roll. Your taste buds will be sated soon: the tastes are, well, better than the scents! Joe uses his Mom’s hand-written recipes. “We have a family here. On Fridays and Saturdays Nancy watches the bar, I’m taking care of the front of the house, and Frank’s taking care of the kitchen. So we have a hands-on operation. We do it ourselves.” Vitale’s has one other full-time employee, Mike Silva. “Mike’s like family: helps with supervision and overseeing some of the cooks.” Mike fuels the pizza oven to maintain its 600˚. He rolls pizza and calzone dough, adds ingredients, and tends his masterpieces near the fl aming logs. Joe says knowing how to cook in the wood-burner, one of four in Wyoming, is more art than skill. Mike’s a master artist!“So that family concept, we do the things that we learned how to do at home. We’re just a simple family provid-ing family recipes.” Frank adds, “Dad makes our meat sauces, our marinara, and our house soup--Brodo, Italian wedding soup--probably the best soup in town. It’s what we were weaned on.” Frank makes the Alfredo sauce and says it’s simple. Joe’s as dedicated to authentic methods and products as to family recipes. We cook our stuff to order. We don’t have a micro-wave and we don’t have a deep fryer. It’s baked or sautéed or steamed or cooked in the oven. We buy an Italian-grade pasta. As long as it’s 100 percent durum semolina fl our it’s good quality pasta. We don’t use egg noodles. But, what’s an Italian Cowboy? Joe’s had the res-taurant seven years, yet guests still ask. He tells them, “I played football at the university, we were called the Cow-boys, and being Italian, so--the Italian Cowboy.” The sign out front and the menu portray a caricature of Joe. His holster packs a pepper mill and bread sticks; he carries


pizza in one hand, steak in the other. “We got a guy to draw that thing up, an Italian Cowboy. It’s catchy.” The theme invites all manner of guests. Notice the rugged horse collar hung near the chaps and cowboy hat. A young fella’ sauntered in one evening and asked, “Will you swap me a meal for my horse collar”? Joe, having no idea what the kid’s collar was worth, agreed. A server poured the kid’s drink; a cook rustled his grub. As the barterer ate what appeared to be his fi rst meal in a long spell, Joe ambled over to his offi ce and began writing. Before the ‘poke got away, Joe made sure he’d gotten that night’s meal and vouchers for a couple more.Joe greets, seats, and circulates among his guests. He’ll sit at your table, share his stories, and listen to yours. He’s always “on,” and it’s not put on. He eases newcomers’ fears about eating at an Italian restaurant in Laramie, Wyoming. Joe’s jovial at his work, but get him started on cleanliness and he’ll turn passionately serious.

It doesn’t cost any more to be clean and there’s no alternative! If you aren’t committed to having a clean kitchen, and a clean restaurant, and clean bathrooms, and providing a clean environment for your customers, you shouldn’t be in the food business! We had 100 on our last health inspection. That’s a commitment to our customers. His business sense lingers as he talks about kitchen and wait staffs and customer service. “When we’re really busy, they’re on their toes. The ones we have are good kids. They’re our ambassadors. Most of them are stu-dents.” Servers go through formal training and they have to pass Frank’s written test. They learn details, including ingredients in every dish. If you want to know what’s in chicken Parmesan, they’ll tell you! Joe sounded a bit like a drill sergeant as he reeled off examples of wait staff chores: “Keep the tables neat, keep the glasses full, com-municate with your customer, let ‘em know where their dinners are.” Frank revealed his biggest employee challenge: “Keepin’ ‘em busy when we’re not”! Jenny Jenkins, a UW accounting major, has worked at Vitale’s the longest. “Joe makes it a family atmosphere. Italian food is fun. I get to meet a lot of really nice people.” The restaurant was busy the night Jenny shared her thoughts. She’d answer a question as she darted by to refi ll water glasses, take orders at nearby tables, bus tables, or deliver a bill. Jenny’s dedicated to providing customers great service. Dedication is also a main ingredient in Joe Vitale’s makeup.I’m here 7:30 till 9:00, then I’m gone for about an hour and a half, running errands and having coffee with a few guys, and then I’m back here by 10:30 till noon. And then I go to lunch. I’m back here at one o’clock until closing. It’s a 12, 14-hour day, six days a week.It’s Joe’s business. He does whatever it takes to get it right, even amid another’s crisis. Laramie’s Catholic priest called Joe in a panic. The church staff planned to take 90 kids on a fi eld trip. Parents had dropped them at the church. Weather interfered, the highway department closed the roads, and the staff was stuck in Laramie with their troop. Father Roger called to ask Joe if he could provide dinner--in an hour. “Well, Father, I have a loaf of bread and a few fi sh.” Within the hour, Joe delivered enough pasta, sauce, bread, and salad to feed the kids!Frank’s down here, he does maybe a 50-hour week, but can’t burn him out. He’s too young to get beat up in this business. He’ll have plenty of time. He’s very capable. Hopefully, kinda built this for him to take over some day. For now, Joe will work long days, include staff in his fam-ily, greet guests at the door and make them feel like fam-ily, make soup and sauces, and tell stories. We’re better, the rest of us, to know The Italian Cowboy. He provides great food, service, and environment, and he thrives on our enjoyment. He takes us out of our lives and lets us live his in brief, delicious chunks.


I’ve never believed in ghosts. Growing up in rural Indiana, I was hundreds of miles away from the nearest ghost town. I couldn’t tell you of a single building in my town that was haunted. In sixth grade, we contacted a spirit with the Ouji board. I was a believer until my friend convinced me she had been moving the pointer to scare us. In college, the only ghosts on our small campus were the laid-off local drunks at the bar every afternoon. Even the blinking lights and fl ashing alarm clocks on the third fl oor of my sorority house were chalked up to the pranksters at the frat next door. The only spirit that resides among us Hoosiers is Bobby Knight’s. In my

twenty-odd years in the Midwest, this was the extent of my paranormal encounters. I blame it on the humidity, but apparitions just don’t seem to like it there. And if they do, we just don’t talk about them. Wyoming, on the other hand, is a hotbed for ghost-ly encounters. Disregarding the typical western ghost towns that dot the state, there is still an abundance of hauntings. That’s right-hauntings. Ghosts call even the tiniest of towns in Wyoming home. They live in hotels, hospitals, bars, even Yellowstone. They spook Wyoming-ites everywhere from the Cheyenne to Medicine Bow, from the windy plains to the mountains and in between.



Frontiers SPRING 03 015

Cheyenne is home to four haunted buildings. The Francis E. Warren Air Force Base, built in the late 1800’s, is host to numerous supernatural events. The spirits of cavalry soldiers walk around at night. Ghostly activities occur in the dormitories, and the spirits have a fondness for assaulting the female security-team members. At the Plains Hotel, several ghosts have caused doors to open and close inexplicably. Some guests have even reported being strangled by their bed sheets. At least two ghosts call the Atlas Theatre home, and the bell tower at St. Mark’s Episcopal Church is haunted by a man who was killed during the construction of it. An impressive number of hauntings for a city with little over 50,000 residents. Casper, Wyoming’s second-largest city, houses almost as many apparitions. A student who died there in the 1940’s haunts the Natrona County High School auditorium. Her ghost has been heard laughing, has been spotted on the balcony, and has been known to lock doors. She is also held responsible for the mysterious chair in the front row, which, no matter how many times it is replaced, always remains down. At the local Wonder Bar, a cleaning lady spotted a ghost coming down the stairs. Strange noises have been heard- and not just because of the booze. Not to be outdone, Casper’s The Ivy House Inn Bed and Breakfast is home to two spirits, a man who sets off car alarms and a woman, the former owner, who wanders from room to room. There are cold spots throughout the house, items have inexplicably moved, and pictures have been taken with vortices in the background. Cody’s Irma Hotel has experienced similar paranor-mal occurrences. Irma, Buffalo Bill’s Daughter, has been spotted roaming the halls on the second fl oor dressed in white. Also seen is the spirit of an 1800’s soldier, still dressed in his uniform. At the nearby Coe Medical Center, two nuns have been sighted fl oating through the hallways. And Cody’s Cedar Mountain, where people have been lost in the caves and never found, is a notori-ous home for spirits. My favorite Wyoming ghost hangout is Sheridan’s The Historic Sheridan Inn. “Miss Kate” who worked at the Inn until her death, has been known to startle guests, fl icker the lights, and rock in her rocking chair. This old inn also houses the spirit of a little girl and Buffalo Bill’s son-in-law. At the nearby Sheridan Inn, an old maid still lives among her possessions and, like Kate, rocks in her rocking chair. Sheridan has also reported ghostly inhabitants at the public cemetery and the local Kendrick Mansion. However, if any Wyoming town deserves to be called haunted, it’s Rawlins. The most well known hot spot for ghostly activity is the Old Wyoming State Peni-tentiary. Tourist and employees alike have reported ap-paritions, strange voices, cold drafts, and hostile presence, particularly by the showers. Also in Rawlins, numerous ghosts haunt the Ferris Mansion, now a local Bed and Breakfast. The inexplicable electrical malfunctions and strange sounds are attributed to Cecil, the youngest Fer-ris boy. His apparition has been spotted, along with a

woman in a fl owing nightgown, near the kitchen of the mansion. Last but not least, Rawlins Middle School is also home to hauntings. The school, built near an old Indian burial ground, has reported sightings both inside its halls and through the surrounding neighborhood. Despite the daunting list of big-city ghosts, small towns in the state are home to an enviable number of spirits as well. Just northwest of Laramie on Highway 287, Medicine Bow is home to a haunted hotel. At the virtually abandoned Virginian Hotel, you can still hear strains of ghostly music. That is, if you’re not to busy shivering from the inexplicable cold spots that plague the Virginian. Quite a spectacular event, especially for a town with less th an 300 residents. Impressive, but certainly not unique when com-pared to a small Wyoming town with two haunted hotels. Lusk, east of Casper by the Nebraska border, is home to 1,500 people. The 19th Century Silvercliff Motel is abandoned by guests, but still inhabited by spirits. Visi-tors get an eerie vibe, and can feel a presence when they enter it, much like at the nearby The Yellow Motel. The Yellow, originally a brothel in the 19th and 20th centu-ries, is host to strange voices and fl ickering lights. The safest bet for a good night’s sleep might be to bypass Lusk altogether. Hotels aren’t the only town dwellings for Wyoming haunters. Small high schools are also popular stomp-ing grounds for local spirits. At the Rocky Mountain High School in Byron, population 600, a ghost has been spotted near the location of the old library. Not to be outdone, Burns, a city half the size, also has a resident ghost. In the Burns High School library, the spirits are responsible for shaking and knocking pictures off the walls and books of the shelves. All the more reason for local student to not hit the books. Closer to home, hauntings are just as abundant. Between tiny Encampment, population 450, and the ghost town of Battle is an area known as Slaughter-house Gulch. A miner, killed in an explosion, was left without a proper burial. As early as 1918, campers re-ported seeing the man wandering through the woods. His footsteps left no sound, and he was oblivious to the people nearby. On other occasions, the “Ghost of Slaughterhouse Gulch” has been seen wandering among the horses, which spooked and reared when the ghost was nearby. Even Laramie has a haunted build-ing. The Laramie Civic Center, which was originally built on a graveyard in the 1800’s, has ghosts that are known to turn on radios, cause phones to ring, and open windows. Sound like hoaxes? That’s beside the point. What really matters is that throughout Wyoming are people who truly believe they’ve seen local ghosts. And there’s a lot of them-both ghosts and believers. After an inexplicable pen incident in my dorm room, even this reluctant Hoosier soul is starting to wonder. So next time your window unexpectedly fl ies open, think twice about blaming it on that blistering wind. It might just be your local Wyoming ghost, no matter where you are in this wild, wonderful, haunted state.



The spring semester is fi nally coming to a close and that can only mean one thing; we are almost at the end of another academic year. There is a certain buzz about the campus that makes it seem like there is a light at the end of this long, dark tunnel. You come back to campus saying to yourself “I am going to class this semester, no more sloughing off like the fall semester.” Then after the fi rst week of classes you decide missing one class can’t hurt you that much. “What can they possibly teach during one day of class?” That day slowly turns into two days; then Friday comes up. “Do they actually expect you to go to school on Friday?” And the one day turns into one whole week. Soon, you are telling yourself, “I only really have to show up on test days and to turn in some homework.” Shortly after that, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Then the semester truly begins. Not that you are going to be showing up for class everyday now; that would be too easy. Instead you are going to start deciding which excuses you will be using for which classes. The wheels start to turn and you start thinking to yourself, “How many times has grandma died this year? Have I used that excuse with this professor before?” You conclude, “No, of course I haven’t since the semester just started.” Don’t deny it; I bet that is the thought process going through everyone’s mind at some point. It may happen at different times throughout the semester (like right after spring break) but it does eventu-ally happen. Excuses. This is actually a very important and thorough process. No. wait; it’s not a process; it’s an art form. Yet, some people insist on making a mockery of the whole process. Most people go in to see the professor and say they were sick and need to make up the test. COME ON! Have some originality; you’re giving us a bad name. One guy went to his professor and said his wife was pregnant and he was going to miss the test. Funny, she was due on the same day of the test, but it was not a bad excuse. The topper was he told the professor he would bring in part of the umbilical chord if it was needed as proof. Let’s see a professor, other than a science profes-sor, call that bluff. He asked that his name be withheld, I suppose incase that excuse is needed again. He got extra time to study and we all got a future excuse to put in the memory bank. (Warning: Let’s not all use it at the same time.) I am a senior now and have heard some excuses that will make even me applaud. This isn’t one of them. My sister Kim, who has graduated now and is in no danger of facing detrimental consequences, once called a professor before her exam and told him that she had appendicitis (in reality sleeping off a hangover and fi ghting off the dry heaves). The excuse was not that great. In all honesty I was kind of embarrassed that she used it. The funny part was that her professor called the hospital looking for her

to make sure she was alright because appendicitis can be very serious and it certainly means more than missing just a test. BUSTED! It was a clear case of not planning out her excuses, and underestimating her professor, and unfortunately making a joke out of the family name. I have never been so ashamed of her. (Hint: know the background of your professor) Some excuses just never get old. You are all probably familiar with the dead relative excuse. How could you not be- it’s a classic! This is a good excuse for getting a whole week off of school (good for those weeks fi lled with tests.) My friend used that excuse once; I’ll call him Steve, because that was his name. The policy of his school was to bring some stationary from the funeral home where the deceased is being put to rest. (They stopped just short of the ‘Seinfeld’ episode where George needed a copy of a death certifi cate to get a discount on the airfare.) The part I applaud and forever will is that he drove ten hours to get some stationary from a funeral home that would justify being gone a week. Sure he had to go to a funeral of someone he didn’t know but it was worth it. All he had to do for that week was lay low and avoid being seen by his professors and he had it made. He used his extra time to study for his exams, and what can I say; SCORE! Some of you try to get away with saying you are snowed in. I will give you a piece of free advice; never use an excuse that can be checked on the internet. Teachers can and will check if it is as easy as just clicking on the internet to see road and travel. Paul, one of my friends who recently graduated tried this excuse once. He said he was snowed in and could not leave Cheyenne. He called his professor just before the test to tell him he could not make it in to town. The professor listened to his excuse then plainly told him that he lives in Cheyenne too and the roads were just fi ne when he left to come to Laramie. How could anyone be in a class and not have known their professor commuted to town everyday. That is another clear case of not knowing your professor and refusing to see ditching a test as an art form. I know you are probably thinking that your pro-fessor doesn’t care if you are making up an excuse or not. Well, that may be true, but if it is a poor excuse and it does get checked out that ruins any chance you have to use an excuse with that professor again. It also does not refl ect well on you because professors probably talk to each other and then that poor excuse could hurt you with other professors. So from now on put some thought in the excuse you are going to use and stop ruining it for the people that work hard on their excuses. Ok, so you may think that there is a lot of work involved in some of this excuses and you might decide that it is much easier to go to class- BELIEVE ME FOR SOME PEOPLE, ITS NOT!


The bright lights of London, stretching as far as the eye can see, light the early morning sky. Below on this small island is a world that is foreign to all I know and have experienced in my life. What lies below is a mystery waiting to be solved. As the plane circles the runway and prepares for landing, I ask myself for the thousandth time, “What am I doing here?” After a seven hour fl ight the plane fi nally touches down at eight in the morning. For most of the people getting off the plane it was simply a connecting fl ight to another part of the world, while others were glad to be home. I was here for a different set of reasons. Unsatis-fi ed with what I had learned and experienced during my fi rst semester at the University of Wyoming, I decided to take an adventure. I thought I would see the world and maybe gain some life experience. I thought I would learn a different way of life, different daily rituals, different thoughts, and a different idea of normality. Hopefully when all is said and done, if I pay attention, I will have gained some wisdom, too. My fi rst taste of English culture came as I walked through the throngs of people hurrying to get absolutely nowhere. After a long, crowded, and expensive ride on the Underground, I arrived at my destination, Piccadilly Circus, where I would call home for the next several days

and maybe months. As I walked up the stairs and out of the Underground I received my fi rst look at Lon-don, England, a city with more history than the entire United States of America. As I stepped onto the narrow sidewalk, I was greeted by hundred year old buildings, millions of people, and a city that could devour me if I wasn’t careful. Part of me suddenly wished I were back in my dorm room in Laramie; because there, in the comfort of normalcy, I had no worries. After spending a half hour or so looking for a hotel, and having three locals inform me they weren’t maps, I found my hotel that I had passed four times in the pro-cess of locating it. After registering at the hotel, I had my fi rst chance to explore this magnifi cent city. I planned to spend the day seeing some sights, talking to some locals, and observing the way of life here in London. Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, The London Eye, and Hyde Park; I saw them all, and now I’m exhausted. As I sipped a cup of tea in a small sandwich shop I simply watched hundreds of people rush in and rush out with their meal. The pace of life amazed me. It seems that nobody has time for anything and they barely have time for that. My waitress, a Pakistani woman, has lived in London for two years with her hus-band, two children, and four other relatives. They live in



a two bedroom fl at about twenty minutes from her place of work. She has yet to see the Tower of London. I guess when you’re the only one working in a family of eight it’s hard enough to survive, let alone actually live. After I walked around Piccadilly Circus a little and watched the millions of people pass me, I realized that I was absolutely exhausted. The next twelve hours of my trip were spent recovering from my travels. The following morning I awoke early. Feeling refreshed and ready to take on the day, I made my way downstairs for a cup of coffee and newspaper. The fact that I was in London still sends a chill through my body. “Snowy Chaos” is the front-page headline of the local paper. I thought it epitomized London betterin two words than I ever could. After spending another day out and about in the city, seeing the sights and watching the people go about what they consider to be their normal lives, I was able to make some objective observations about the people and the way of life in London. The people in London are in a hurry. They are busy people trying to survive in a harsh city that is constantly eating away at their pocketbooks. Most people in London casually walk faster than the people of Laramie run on their morning jog. As I walked along the streets of London, I would casually smile at the people I passed on the streets. Not once in three days did a person smile back or even acknowledge that I existed.

Most people here will go to great lengths to avoid contact with an unfamiliar face. I soon realized that in an average day a single person probably encounters roughly two, maybe even three million people just going about their normal, everyday tasks. That number might grow by fi fty percent if you are at a train station during rush hour. And I don’t even want to guess what that number might be if it were a weekend. The sheer numbers are madness. In an average day in Laramie I might pass, or come into contact with, at most, several hundred people. It was now perfectly clear to me why the Londoners don’t greet strangers on the street with a hello, a nod, or even a smile. It’s not because they are rude, it’s because they are tired. The people of London live in a city of chaos. People are everywhere and they are all trying to do the same thing, survive. When I thought about the utter chaos caused by twelve million people simply going about their everyday lives I had a sudden urge to leave London. Heeding the advice of a person I met, I decided to try the lands of Scotland. I heard the pace of life was slower and the people actually had time to be nice to each other. Early on a cold Sunday morning, after an un-comfortable bus ride through the night, I arrived in Edinburgh, Scotland. With the North Sea at one side of town, Scottish mountains lurking in the background, a castle in the center of town, and an eerie fog surround-


ing it all, the aesthetics alone were more than enough to convince me this was a place that I wouldn’t mind living for a semester. However, after I asked the gentlemen next to me for directions and he gladly offered them to me with a smile no less, I knew this was the place for me. After spending several days acquainting myself with this magnifi cent town and its people, I realized that the rumors were true. Other than the icy cold weather, warmth abounds in Edinburgh. I couldn’t help but be warmed by the people of Scotland; they are kind and car-ing, and all around great people. Despite all of the warm fuzzies in my stomach, bad news did lie ahead. I was running dangerously low on money and it was time for me to get a job. With mini-mal effort and the assistance of a friend, I landed a job at a local brewery. Surprisingly enough, considering my age, I was now a full time bartender at Scottish Celidhs. Watching the Scottish men dressed in kilts swing the ladies around to authentic Scottish music hardly seemed like work to me, however, to my delight, I still received a pay check every Friday. The kindness of the people here in Edinburgh amazed me. Everyone seemed willing to help a friend or even a stranger. I was accepted and embraced by everyone I met, despite being from a foreign country. For the past several months I have been working a job, renting an apartment, and basically living life as anyone else in Edinburgh. When I arrived, I had no idea of what to expect from a foreign country. I automati-cally assumed that my life would change dramatically and that all my preconceived notions of normalcy would be thrown out the window. During the duration of my time in Edinburgh I had the distinct pleasure of talking to people from all ages and all walks of life. I have talked to old people, young people, backpackers, business people, married people, single people, and students both

local and foreign. The people in Edinburgh, Scotland experience the harsh reality called life just as the people of Laramie, Wyoming do. They have good days and bad days, happy times and sad times. They experience a whole gamut of emotions that aren’t different from those we experience at home in Wyoming. The married people fi ght over money, the old people tell of the good old days, and the students talk about classes and look forward to Friday night at their favorite pub. Fathers enjoy getting up in the morning and sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee and reading the daily newspaper. The children are off to school in the morning and dad is off behind them fulfi lling a different version of the “American Dream.” I never realized after fl ying four thousand miles I could end up in a land that wasn’t so foreign to all I know and believe. On this trip I like to think I have discovered a lot of things about myself and about the human race. One thing I’ve discovered is that all people, despite language, color, or nationality, simply want to be happy. It doesn’t matter if the people are from Scotland, America, or the Czech Republic; people from all over the world are striving daily to be happy. Although an ocean separates the two countries, they are actually much closer than they appear. Despite the superfi cial differences that exist even between states in America, the foreign island called Britain and all the people scurrying about, really are not all that different than me or you. In fact, we’re all very much the same.



I didn’t know what to expect as I walked down a Laramie street one Friday afternoon. I was fi shing for words to tie this guy down in my head: adventurer, writer, family man. As I rounded the corner, it surprised me to see that Mark Jenkins’ house looked ordinary. It had a little plastic play-set sat in the backyard and a wide inviting porch, I would call it quaint. Not at all what I expected after hearing the stories of this balls-y traveler. Who was the man inside? Barefoot at the door Mark invited me to the infamous basement offi ce where his tales are immortalized. Hardly a dungeon, it had bright blue carpet, large newly installed windows, books, fi les and a computer. I considered the things this mad man had seen, he was unstoppable. He has snuck into ‘hell’, stood above the life spirit lake of the Dali Lamas, kayaked the Niger and climbed Aconcagua, Everest, Xixabangma, Denali, and Kilimanjaro. He

leaned back and smiled and waited for my questions. Mark Jenkins, world traveler, is a Laramie kid who returned with his wife in 1990 to settle a block away from his folks. He studied philosophy as an undergrad and geology in graduate school. He is fascinated by his-tory, medicine, the outdoors, his children and frequently quotes Sheryl Crow. There were pictures of his daughters and wife on the wall and I wondered how he balances his life of incred-ible adventures with a family. “That’s the hard part of my job,” he said. By ‘job’ Jenkins means being a contracted columnist for Outside Magazine. This involves lots of time outside, frequently outside of the United States somewhere in unexplored territory “I’m usually doing something fairly diffi cult and fairly dangerous,” Jenkins admitted. Coming home from those experiences to a family is


something Jenkins also values “You hope that you end up with a traditional life; that is a wife and a family, close contacts- and still do things with them, still do trips with them, still do stories about my family. So that part of a traditional lifestyle, I am very attached to,” he explained. Jenkins is particularly grateful for the support he receives from his wife “she’s the only woman I’ve ever met who could kind of actually accept the fact that I....” he hesitat-ed for a moment, “she bought the whole package- this is the way I am going to be. She didn’t try to change me.” It seemed an instinctive move for Jenkins to pursue a more challenging and untraditional career. “I knew I could never wear a suit and tie and go to the offi ce”. The exceptional lifestyle Jenkins forged for himself is an uncommon mix of danger and stability. “It was natural for me I must say but, yea, it’s a rather odd path.” He has worked hard to achieve success as a respected writer and become a unique authority on adventure. Getting to this point though was diffi cult. He remem-bers living off of sardines and peanut butter sandwiches and working construction for years before writing and adventuring turned into a living. “The trick for me and the trick for almost all writers who want to make a living is knowing how to live very cheaply.” Jenkins has a lot to show for twenty years of hard work. His third book The Hard Way was released last year. The Hard Way is a surprising book containing “Stories of Danger, Survival, and the Soul of Adventure.” “I come up with my own trips I come up with my

own ideas and I execute them sometimes successfully sometimes not- although some of the least successful trips make some of the best stories.” Jenkins’ physical accomplishments are beyond impres-sive for most people but as an innate outdoors person he views that part of his experiences as natural. “Adventure- like I said that’s the easy part it’s totally easy for me; I mean I may get killed doing it but it’s still easy. The point is it’s not a problem for me to get up at two in the morn-ing and climb a mountain; the tough part is- can this experience mean anything beyond just that forMark Jenkins?” He sets out, sometimes every month, with a clear goal in his head of something that he’d like to do. Some-times it is something that no one has ever done before, assent a virgin face of a mountain, explore the Himalayan wilderness of Bhutan, or kayak the Niger. Sometimes it is a personal fi rst, as he recorded in his second book reaching the mysterious city of Timbuktu. Each trip begins with extensive preparation. Jenkins fi gures out the logistics of the trip securing permission with the countries he will travel through and pours over maps. He also does extensive research on the area and the history that is relevant to his journey. “I come back with a stack of notes, several hundred pictures at least, half a dozen books and all the interviews that I have done. ... and then I sit down with this big stack of stuff and try to fi gure out ‘what was the point?’” Jenkins doesn’t take lightly the seriousness of his trips. He is aware of the risk involved in living an adventurous lifestyle. Jenkins lost his best friend and adventure part-ner, Mike Moe in a 1995 Canadian expedition accident. “Mike and I were soul mates in terms of adventure. We played off each other an enormous amount, we helped each other, and we pushed each other. In some ways we created each other I would say”. With such an awareness of what is at risk Jenkins still pursues what he loves to do. “I need to do this- it is not purely a want- it is part of my nature.” Jenkins has the support and unique understand-ing of his family. His wife sees that adventure is a part of Jenkins that can’t be suppressed. “...my wife...we’ve talked about this many times... to her credit she has said ‘well then you wouldn’t be the man I married would you- you would be someone else’. That alone is one of my best defenses I guess.” Jenkins exercises caution to make sure that the risks he takes are intelligent based on a theory that he and Moe discussed. “Mike and I used to argue the ‘X- fac-tor’ the ‘X- factor’ is something that you can’t control that can kill you.” The more experience and preparation you bring to the challenge, the lower the ‘X- factor’. Al-though Mike Moe hoped the ‘X- factor’ could be lowered to the point of everyday risk Jenkins believes that the unknown and uncontrollable are aspects that defi ne ad-venture. So Jenkins faces the challenge with a degree of humility and optimism. “If you know that you are going to reach your goal there’s really no point in setting out. It


must get pretty tiresome to always do the easy thing.” Throughout Jenkins stories, alongside accounts of ice climbing, canoeing the bayou, or hiking the mountains of Ethiopia there is careful attention to the personal and interpersonal dynamics of each journey. He recognizes that this is a very important part of his experiences; “For lack of a less corny term the best trips are those where you have elements of self discovery; you learn something about yourself, you learn something about the human condition, you may learn very small things.” Betraying his background in philosophy Jenkins ad-mits that for him “The physical struggle- it’s a metaphor for the struggle of the soul.” This is the mountain with no summit for Jenkins. Dis-covery is an ongoing process with no ultimate answer and Jenkins clearly enjoys the quest “Rilke - a poet had a great line- he said ‘live the questions now’. So I think that you live the questions and you also live the answers... So are there answers? The quest is far more important than the

answers, I’m afraid;” Jenkins believes that on every trip he takes, he learns new things that add to his understanding. Evaluating the world around him and his relationship to it is for him the challenge of the adventure lifestyle and this is what he strives to convey in his writing “I hope that my stories aren’t simply ‘here I am hanging by my fi ngernails again’. That certainly would be boring for me and I think boring for the reader; at some point there has got to be more going on and certainly there is; you just have to think about it…” This is a process for Jenkins that happens long after the trip is done in the quiet basement offi ce of his home. Jenkins comments that through writing about his experiences he begins to understand them. This is a


separate process from the physical experience “often times in the act of doing something, whether it is kayaking in Turkey or climbing in the Himalayas, or whatever- in the act you have reverted to a more primordial state; you are operating closer to an animal than you are to a thinking human.” Jenkins commented that he considers himself a writer fi rst and an adventurer second. For him it is important to make connections to other people through writing about his experiences. “Can it be anything greater or anything more signifi cant or anything more powerful than ‘yea I just kayaked that river’ big whoopee really- for me the challenge is trying to put it into a language that captures; one- the spirit of what was happening and; two- goes deep enough to those feelings that we all have as humans so that people can relate to the story” Jenkins commented that his most rewarding moment as a writer is when someone who has read his work identifi es with it so much that they send him a letter or an e-mail. He values those connections so much he confi ded that he

saves every letter he gets. For him writing is a process of connecting and understanding and as he put it “dancing with a partner you can’t see.” And so Mark Jenkins continues to weave these unusual elements together- family, risk, adventure, experience and refl ection. He makes this unusual life look easy and maybe for him it is. He has chosen to pursue what he is passionate about and was willing to work hard at it. Mark Jenkins sits back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “You can’t get rid of human desire and I wouldn’t want to. That’s one of the great goals obviously of Buddhism; is to quell the inner desire of the human soul and I don’t buy it. The best stuff that humans have ever done came from desire...the greatest things that humans have created is through passion; weather it’s a little kid, or a piece of art, or a bridge, someone was passionate enough to go after it so I don’t really believe in trying to subjugate passion. I’ve done just the opposite in my life I must say - pursue it - pursue it with all you’ve got! “


Diversity has come to be, at times, an uncomfortable expression for many of us here at the University of Wyoming. It is a word that when spoken in a room can produce an effect much like the following: students from the majority culture, heave a heavy sigh, as if to say “here we go again,” They cross their arms, sink deep into their

seats, take a deep breath, and wait to be bombarded by voices crying of foul play, of grave injustices and victim-ization. The rest of the students, the “minority” students, squirm in their seats and sink even deeper because they can almost always swear they can feel the more than 90% of eyes in the room boring into their skulls because it’s


their fault that the disaster-prone issue was even brought up in the fi rst place. So both populations, “majority” and “minority”- are guarded.It is true that there are various retorts to the subject of diversity, but most of the responses we all experience are nourished by the same emotions that feed the reactions described-fear, anger, shame, hatred, sympathy, betrayal, disgust, confusion, just to name a few. Setting out to fi nd how someone else felt about this whole issue, I sat down with Tanaya Moon Morris, Project Coordinator at the Multicultural Resource Center (MRC), so that she could share some insights into this intimidating subject.

It is necessary to establish why diversity should even be a topic of discussion in a place like the Univer-sity of Wyoming. So when asked “Why even talk about diversity?” Tanaya declared that since the system that administers and governs most aspects of our lives has defi ned certain boundaries that govern the way we live, it is inevitable that we are going to speak of diversity. She states that the fi rst impression gives it all away. Tanaya articulates, that on a fi rst encounter, “One of the most prominent features you observe is the color of one’s skin. This leads immediately to any preconceived notions, beliefs, or values that a person may harbor about people who are different than themselves. However, at an insti-tution of higher learning, it is the responsibility of each one of us to educate others. Simply, you will not truly know who you are supposed to be unless you educate yourself about others. Diversity, because it is everywhere, is not something that should produce fear, it is the aes-thetic of our world.”

There is a device of variety in every single meeting of people-two or more. “In every class on campus, even in an all white classroom, there is a instrument of diversity in that class. Diversity is ever present, and to ignore that is a huge injustice. I don’t care if you teach Mathemat-ics, true, diversity may not be easy to address as far as ethnically, however, what are the dynamics of your class? Where do your students come from? The best teachers of diversity aren’t always the one that stand in front of a classroom and discuss the issues, they can be the one that is aware of it’s effects on others, and have prepared themselves accordingly.” Tanaya gets a chance to interact with students in the University Studies Program and she asserts that it is always a good chance for her to try to reveal to most freshmen that diversity means more than just being a minority. “Most of the “majority” students do not see their place in a multicultural world. When most of them hear such words as diversity or multicul-turalism, they instinctively think, minority and they historically exclude themselves from the discussion,” Tanaya declares. She emphasizes that it is imperative for all of us to keep in mind that we all have an ethnicity that deserves to be celebrated. “I know that there are many people today who don’t know what their family background is, so therefore cannot understand another’s need to celebrate, and this is where it is the responsibility of each of us to be aware and be sensitive to the fact that while some have their history, other’s may not, and treat each other accordingly, teach each other” She reminds us that, “even in the beginnings of this country the people who now comprise the majority culture were once the


targets of bigotry, prejudice, and racism. When the issue of diversity is put right in front of them in a way that they can relate to, it then becomes much easier for them to acknowledge and even understand that these social injustices are still occurring today. This is when the real work begins, because this is where alliances are built.” When asked about what it is like to be an ethnic minority on UW’s campus, Tanaya is unhappy about what she calls “being to-kenized”. “When you make an effort to become active in a group on campus, people start to see you only in that role and they ultimately confi ne your participation and purpose only to that one group.” “There is much to do in regards to educating the majority population and even ourselves about the ethnic populations, and most times, there are less than 10 students involved in each ‘big pro-duction’ on campus. So, this means that they are burned out. I am constantly amazed at what these students can do on this campus, yet I worry, because I have been where they are, that their devotion and desire to bring awareness to our campus and community also has dire effects on them academically, socially, and personally. It can be extremely diffi cult to put so much into an event, and then it only draws 15-20 people, most of whom are probably your friends! Or when the expectation to attend certain events is placed solely on ethnic minority students, and not campus wide. If we (UW) are truly invested in diversity, this includes EVERYONE, faculty, staff, and students. This shows that there is still a great need for multicultural issues to be campus wide.” But being tokenized is not the only concern minor-ity students have. Most of them, (who make up less than 1200 on this campus of 11,000-plus), feel that they are often neither validated nor heard. When asked if UW is moving towards a more progressive approach towards minority issues, Tanaya says “Absolutely.” She states that from when she was arrived at UW in 1993 to date, there have been tremendous improvements such as a more proactive approach towards hiring more minority faculty and staff, creating ethnic studies programs and even the creation of clubs and associations for other minority groups on campus. “When I fi rst came to UW, it was Dolores Cardona, and Jason Thompson. Now we have everyone in the Offi ce of Multicultural Affairs; Tammy Mack, Al Rich, Cynthia Chavez Kelly, Atsuko Seto. We also have Dominic Martinez and Nadine Alvarado in the Offi ce of Admissions. It is amazing the progress that our institution has made.” Tanaya admits that as a student, she was cynical of the efforts UW portrayed to make to-wards making this a more “minority friendly” campus. “It was diffi cult to see as a student, that there was a sincere effort to change the demographics of our campus, and I think that this led to many of us disbelieving that we were actually being heard.” But now that she is a part of the campus staff, she sees that there are many people who wish to see the issue of diversity and multiculturalism thrive here, and make this campus a place where everyone

can be at ease, be validated and feel part and parcel of this campus community. As fi nal words of counsel, Tanaya makes a call for ALL students to become involved in multicultural activities on campus. “Even students from the majority culture need to realize that they have so much to offer and celebrate and learn.” Tanaya states. “I hear so many students and even staff and faculty say, “I want to learn more but I don’t want to offend anyone.” First off, just having that mentality of being concerned about doing harm to another is a huge step in the right direction. This caring attitude will help to open the doors. Second, don’t worry about being politically correct-this leads to confusion as to how best to approach another person, just be true and take that caring attitude with you. Be inquisitive-ask questions: about other people who are different from you, about yourself, about the world. All in all, we have so much that is good to learn from each other- a lifetime might not even be suffi cient to learn it all, but our world and our campus community does not exist in a vacuum. As we all know, it is inevitable that we are growing and developing and these two words, diversity and multi-culturalism, are at our doorstep, knocking loudly and clearly!” Tanaya would encourage everyone to utilize the resources here at UW. So, stop by the Multicultural Resource Center, room 103 in the Wyoming Union and seize the opportunity to learn!





Documents

Spring 2003