I grew up on a farm in Bothwell, Utah, a small town so far north it is almost Idaho. I had an
ideal childhood in a typical town where most of the people in the community were cousins. My
grandmother came from a family of 16, so many of our neighbors actually were her sisters or
brothers. There were a lot of eyes making it almost impossible to get into trouble. I spent my
early childhood playing under my grandmother’s quilting frame, helping her and the women in
the ward thread needles. It was between the late 60s and early 70s, a time with no internet
and three network television stations. If you missed the news when it came on at 10 pm, you
waited until the next night for updates. The local paper, to which everyone subscribed, focused
mainly on who made the big trip to Ogden or Salt Lake and who won the blue ribbon at the
county fair.


I was the last of six children, my oldest sister being a senior in high school when I was born. My
sister was mortified that her mother would show up at Bear River High School pregnant. (Even
in those days, an 18 year-old knew how babies were made and the fact that her parents
hypothetically engaged in something so awful was embarrassing.) From the time this eleven-
pound baby was born, my parents told me the three of us were going on a mission together
when I turned 19. My dad served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
when he was a young man in the Southern States Mission. He absolutely loved his experience
as a missionary and wanted my mom to have a similar experience.


We excitedly submitted our mission papers on the same day. I received my mission call like
clockwork and was called to the Indiana, Indianapolis Mission. 1 They didn’t receive their call for
months and I was sure they were clearing up some moral transgression they hadn’t told me
about. It was 1983 — the bar hadn’t yet been “raised,” so I was sure it was something serious, I
mean after all I was already in the field. 2 Finally, my dad was called to be a Mission President 3 in
the North Carolina, Raleigh Mission. My mother, a creative person and a motivator who could
turn any difficult job into fun, came up with the idea of embroidering the top baptizing
missionary companionship for the month on the flag of North Carolina and the top baptizing
zone for the month on a confederate flag. There are hundreds of missionary photos out there
on the internet of proud elders and sisters standing in front of those flags, showcasing their
success.

When you’ve been a farmer in a small, white, rural town, a husband, a father of six, using your
spare time to serve in your church, you don’t really pay attention to what’s happening in the
world. My mother and dad were naïve to suffering around the world, even the suffering of
Black people occurring in their own country at the hands of both bigots and oppressive
systems. I’m quite sure my dad had witnessed some of this in the Southern States Mission
since he served in the late 30s early 40s, but by the time he was a Mission President, it was
1983 and the memories must have faded.


He hadn’t witnessed the Klan or lynchings in his town. He hadn’t witnessed cops senselessly
beating people who were only asking to be treated equally. He hadn’t read stories in the local
paper of people being denied the vote or learned of poll taxes. He had not witnessed white
people getting away with the murder of Black people due to a racist judiciary and law
enforcement system, which sustained white supremacy. The Tremonton newspaper never
carried stories of high-pressure fire hoses directed at protestors or police dogs being told to
attack and bite women and children who were marching for equality. My parents didn’t
understand that certain symbols and names were hurtful to a group of people who had
suffered immensely over decades. They had no idea how the confederate flag, the word rebel
or the name Dixie served to lift and honor those who denied the humanity of Black people.
They saw the flag as simply a symbol of the South without thinking through when and why it
became such a symbol.


You see, my parents weren’t racist, but they weren’t actively working to stamp out racism
whenever and wherever they encountered it. They came of age in a state where the lack of
diversity didn’t lend itself to seeing daily reminders of discrimination. They came of age when
information wasn’t rapidly available with a few keyboard strokes. They weren’t a few buttons
away from 24-hour news networks. The local newspaper certainly didn’t carry stories of
national news. My parents’ racial ignorance put them in the embarrassing position of
embracing a flag which many see as a symbol of dehumanization and division. They may have
had the excuse of being unaware, but today’s Americans do not have such an excuse. Learning
what Black Americans think about the confederate flag is as easy as a google search. We can
learn what the term Dixie memorializes by reading a book or turning on the news. More
importantly we can listen to Black Americans when they detail their experiences with racial
discrimination and racially-charged symbols and believe them. (This would probably be a good
place to add that white people don’t get to decide what’s offensive to Black people.)


Today, I’m quite sure my parents would have been embarrassed by the confederate flag being
used as the reward for their top baptizing zone. I’m also quite sure they would not want one of
the universities in their beloved state to carry a name that Black residents view as hurtful.
Dixie State University is a university paid for by the taxpayers of Utah, not just the people of
Washington County. It is a jewel of our state and should carry a name that everyone can
embrace. My parents may have gotten by on naivete, but in today’s world of constant news
access, connection and knowledge, we can do better. We know what Black Utahns think of the
name. We know the widely-recognized implications of the word Dixie. It’s time for a change!
Let’s not be blind to the suffering of so many people and change the name to something which unites a nation that is so divided. To paraphrase Maya Angelou, now that we finally know
better, it’s time do better.

1 In the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, young men were expected to go on missions at the age of 19.
The process includes submitting paperwork, like an application, to receive a “call”, or letter which details the time-
frame and geographic area for one’s mission.
2 As part of one’s application to serve a mission, members must receive an ecclesiastical endorsement from their
local leaders. Part of this endorsement includes verifying the prospective missionary has no serious sins on his or
her conscience which need to be resolved. “Raising the bar” refers to efforts made throughout the Church to raise
the standard for missionaries in the early 2000s.
3 Mission Presidents (and their wives) serve as the authority over specific missions. Young adult missionaries
report to them.