Rocky Mountain High

Our family recently returned from spending mid-winter break in Aspen, Colorado.

We had a great time. The girls skied, I skied, and my husband’s family, whom we were visiting, skied like the seasoned experts they are. The mountains were breathtakingly beautiful, as they are at any time of year. This year’s record-low snowfall has caused disappointing ski conditions: no five-foot base this year. But the mountains’ majesty inspires awe nonetheless.

I always feel a little out of place in Colorado.

I’m a city girl from back east. I don’t ski with confidence. And I could have told you that the African American population in the state of Colorado is under 10% without looking it up; in fact, it’s 4%. In Aspen, it’s 0.8% of a population of 6,658 people. In other words, it’s pretty typical to walk around Aspen and not see any black people.

Then there’s my John Denver problem:

I did not grow up enjoying the music of John Denver.

Lyrics like, “Country road/ take me home/ to the place I belong/ West Virginia/ Mountain Mama/ take me home down country roads” were a huge turn-off to this urban-grown brown girl. West Virginia made me nervous. The state’s history of racism was enough to give me nightmares. I associated John Denver with those scary thoughts, because it sounded to me like West Virginia was his beloved home. Hence, I figured that Denver, Colorado must be a scary place too. John Denver; Denver, Colorado; West Virginia: all scary and definitely not for me. That’s what I figured, growing up.

John Denver made a guest appearance on the Muppet Show once, and that got me thinking that maybe he wasn’t a bad guy after all. I knew the reputation of Jim Henson and the Sesame Street organization to be pretty “modern” in their approach. And I knew that grown-ups could change their politics over time. So John Denver scored a few coolness points by appearing on the Muppet Show, but I remained frightened of West Virginia, and Denver, Colorado, certain they were both teeming with redneck lynch mobs.

Fast forward to my freshman year of college, when I made a new friend who happened to be from Colorado. A Jew from Colorado. I assumed his family must be living in cognito among the cowboys. I discovered that he was from Aspen. Well! Some of my childhood schoolmates had been from enormously wealthy families, and they spoke of Aspen like it was the most exclusive, most fabulous, most expensive vacation destination on the planet. So I drew some pretty judgmental conclusions about my new friend and his family. He explained that the Aspen of his youth was undeveloped big sky country, populated by sprawling ranches and earthy ski bums. But I still had trouble discounting the notion of Beverly Hills transplanted to the Rockies.

In a strange twist of fate, I married my college friend from Aspen, Colorado.

Now, Aspen is a place where family congregates. And I am getting to know the place. 

Over the past ten years, I’ve been watching her grow, and shrink, and change.

I used to get excited when we had an Ed Bradley sighting (yes, the 60 Minutes Ed Bradley) at the supermarket. Then Oprah bought a house there, followed by Will and Jada Smith. There are some huuuuuge corporate houses there, and some sports teams have houses in Aspen – don’t ask me how that works. The point is, it’s a lot less homogeneous than it was even ten years ago.

During this last trip, our family encountered another multiracial family, right there on the ski slopes. Honestly, I almost fell over from the shock. They weren’t flashy, or glitzy, or “Aspen-y” in any way. They were quiet and casual, like us. Signing their little brown girl up for ski lessons, just like us.

I had to recognize that my John Denver bias was from another era.

Little brown girls are everywhere!