A Salt Lake City Memoir

Nic Quilter

4 min readJun 12, 2022

A flight attendant

Drunk, approaches me and asks

Why do you believe?

She wants me to fight

I ask her why she believes

We part, but now, friends.

Not too long ago I returned back to my hometown. I grew up in the beautiful settlement of Park City, which I‘ve learned is a fact that turns heads. My great privilege isn’t worth exploring much, but let it be said that I grew up very very very well. Despite winning the lottery of all childhoods, there are some old ghosts I’m having to square up against. This has made coming home a lot more emotional than I expected. It is sort of like a bucket of sloshing water has been strapped to my back; taking steps in any direction is labor, every step I do take is met with imbalance, and I can’t help but be mad it is there at all.

One day, I carry this bucket of water with me all the way to downtown Salt Lake City, where President Russel M. Nelson and his wife Wendy are addressing the entire young adult population of the worldwide Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. The bucket feels heavy, I’m weary of it, and I’m unfocused. So much so, that I manage to lock myself inside a stairwell on accident (thank God for cell phones!). After the address I’m walking alone down this ample sidewalk, water splashing everywhere, all over everyone (it’s a miracle no one has yelled at me yet), and I encounter this woman. She is probably mid 50s, wearing an overcoat, pronounced makeup, and has short blonde hair. She does or says something that stops me and we start talking. I’m wearing a suit and tie, I have my hair pulled back, and I have my guitar with me. I could’ve been coming from a gig, but it was at least somewhat evident that I belonged with the flocks of suited penguin people waddling in droves upon droves after hearing the soliloquies of their great penguin leader and his mate.

She asks if I attended the event. I say yes. The taste of this experience is all too familiar as I relive the numberless encounters like this I had as a young missionary. I know what is going to come next: an invitation to enter the ring. Penguin vs. Flamingo (*pause* I wish I would’ve recorded our conversation but instead you’ll get my best remembered interpretation *play*). “So what did you learn?”… “Uhh… good question.” I reply. Before I can say anything else she says, “Do you really believe it?”, “That is another good question… what do you mean by that?” She then continues to speak in broken sentences and I notice she is a little drunk. However, she is coherent enough and we keep talking. She asks me leading question (one that already has an answer) after leading question, and I feel defensive. I respond, “What are you really trying to ask me?”.

She starts to recite the classic chorus I’ve categorized under the file of protestant/evangelical criticisms. I honestly agree with a lot of what she is telling me, but I’m still at a crossroads. I know I can choose to take this conversation in two directions; I can fight, or I can friend. War is decidedly hell, so I choose to friend. She clearly has a faith of her own, and I try to make my way there. I too have faith, I know how it impacts a life. I also imagine being of a non-mormon faith persuasion in Utah would press unique nuances into one’s experience. I ask her if she is from Utah. She tells me she has lived here thirty years. Now I can receive a glimpse of her struggle. I set my bucket of water down. Being a flamingo amongst penguins must be disorienting. Being a penguin myself, I happen to have some insider information: despite the flamingos being our guests, we don’t really trust them. Among other things I ask her why she believes what she does. I get her to talk some more.

One thing she says strikes me. “My son went to an excellent private school, and the headmaster there, was incredible. He was a member of your faith but he wasn’t a Mormon.” I don’t think she’s trying any sort of clever play on words, she just says something that makes sense to her. I guess that he didn’t treat her like a flamingo, but like valued member of our flock. I say, “the Church can be like an exclusive club, huh?”. She responds emphatically, “Yes.” Curiously, this is when she points out how long my hair is. I think she realizes that the penguin standing before her is a member of her flock too despite the difference of feathers, and that not all penguins waddle the same waddle. Both of our worlds start to fill with more color. She asks about my music, I ask why she’s downtown. There is no need to discuss the contradictory nuances of our respective belief systems. I learn she is an international flight attendant and was in Paris just hours earlier. Eventually, I tell her I need to be on my way. We say goodbye, and I feel loved.

We saw each other across the contrived chasm of difference when we were willing to drop our guard. I’m so grateful for that moment. We stepped into the ring as enemies, and walked out as friends. The Spirit guided my heart and our words. I imagine there are good and appropriate times to announce the structure of one’s belief, but this was not it. There were wounds that needed mending. I pick up my bucket, waddling and sloshing back to the car, but smiling at the stars at least.