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Show Thursday, January 12, 199$ GOV TORY E R o places, like the Dead Goat, or the Zephyr." "I never go out," says Cliff, crossing his foot onto his knee. The Dead Goat or the Di5alSDK!KQDl 0 TLJG Zephyr have some pretty good blues. The last time I went out for a long time was and just last week, to the Tropicana there was nobody there, nothing going on! Someone must have told them I was coming." So I go home to dress up and decide to go into the city and see what I can find. I talk my roommate into coming with me to The Jamaican Place in Arrow Press Square. We walk down the cement steps to the club. It's early, only 8:30. We stand outside the door, because we can't see anyone inside. I wobble, clutching my purse, trying to decide if I want to go in. And then a man appears from inside the dub. Exploring Utah's Ethnic Clubs He asks us if we want to come in. He has an accent; he is Black. But I don't feel that By Stcfcne Russell enny Bruce once described I I LJ America as a "zug gornidtf say nothing" culture, And in that respect, Utah is the acme of American society. I feel weird around Black people, around Asian people, around American Indians. My mother was a hippie. She gave me lectures about bigotry, but men when my sister's good friend Joe, who happens to be Black, came for dinner, no one said anything. We talked about how the compost heap was coming and who wanted some peas. try to pretend that being culturally savvy is as easy as the Small World ride at Disneyland: that 111 just float down a canal I in a moldy little fiberglass boat, watching electric hula girls and Mexican Hat Dancers on a magnetic track, and IH be liberated. I am a closet xenophobe and writing this article was very difficult What do you do on a Saturday night in Utah if you're BlackS If you're Saudi If you're Hopi, Greek; or I had to talk to people who are Hispanic not white. So I went to the Center for Ethnic Student Affairs. I'd been there on Tuesday, Arabian wavering outside the door until I chickened out Hell, I don't know what to ask them, I thought'' call people up separately. It didn't happen. So I sit in the Center for Ethnic Student Affairs on Friday afternoon in a canvas chair thinking over and over, they think Ym a honky. Everyone in here is laughing at me. "Someone will be right out," the receptionist assures me. I look up and smile like a muppet Thanks a lot," I say. Fahina Pasi, the Pacific Islander advisor, comes out of her office to greet me. She's wearing every color of red I have ever seen d cat and has the presence of a good-hearte- We meet in Fahina's office. Clifton Wilks, n student advisor, is the there. He exudes snazziness as if his aura African-America- were made of little lightning bolts. Elizabeth Smith, president of the Student Union, sits on my right African-Americ- week-ends...y- closing." Tabitha Grimmet, another student who pokes her head African-America- n agrees. "Yeah, Idorito out much. This Native-Americ- week- an really go to clubs, either," Guyrene says. "We all went to The Westerner one night, but most of the time we'll go to Pow-Woat the Indian Walk-i- n Center. A lot zug gornicht gremlin, there is no internal monologue spinning, no scratchy little brain-voic- e accusing me of being a honky. His name is "Lash like eyelash." So we enter. I drink beer, Andrea drinks Sprite, and we play darts, while waiting for the band and an audience to arrive. Reggae is shimmering all over the place, ricocheting off of the brick walls. The whole place has a decidedly orange feeling to it "We smoke, lousy cigarettes and Lash sits down with us to talk. "Last night, the same thing happened. Nothing, until 10 o'clock, and then the whole place filled up," he says. band arrives to set up. At 9:30, a They are Tongan, and aside from Lash, the only other people in the place who are not white. There are two guys in knit hats playing pool, and two guys who seem to be the human manifestations, of Burt and Ernie oe six-pie- ce downing a pitcher over by the fireplace. At 9:45, the band begins to play. They are one part transcendental hula, one part Peter Tosh, one part Jets. Andrea and I sit, mesmerized, through three songs. I look down at myself, arid look at my purple velvet dress. I feel like an upholstered emu and decide that leaving before a huge crowd arrives is a very good idea. We leave just as Lash comes back. "Ladies' Night is Thursday, and College Night is Wednesday," he tells us, and we can sincerely assure him that well be back, albeit in different outfits. We look up the Tropicana Club in the phone book. It's in Sugarhouse, on 1130 East and 2100 South, right next to where Hygeia Ice Land used to be. There are not many places in Utah where you can forget you are in Utah. The Tropicana is one of them. It's decorated with fish tanks full of anenomes and lion fish, gold Christmas trees and plywood palm trees decorated with tiny white lights. The dance hall is hung with paper mache animals and beach balls, and there is a slightly awry video screen that plays Latino TV. Andrea and I sit right next to the dance floor, just absorbing all of the bright kinesis. The music is so loud I don't hear any- thing, just watch Andrea being led onto the dance floor. He twirls her around, and shows her where to put her feet Then Mario, Andrea's partner, sends the long line of his friends to ask me to dance. Somewhere along the line, I learn a harassed meringue. I dance with Arturro, then with Louis, who is more gentle; he just interjects "good, good, that's it," when I'm not dancing like an autistic praying mantis. am almost two feet taller and I know I have just fallen out of the ostrich ballet in Fantasia. But I do not feel unwelcome, and I don't think about melanin or language I barriers. Mario invites us to come back on a Friday, when it's quieter. Saturday, he explains, is the most explosive night of the week for the Club Tropicana. But being a clueless white girl in huge heels with a gremlin in her heart, it's the best night to go, to jump into, that pure chaos, when no one else is looking, and baptize myself in the fire of pure immersion, bum away those names as they stand in my own mind: gringo, whitey, goy, WASP. I don't know what name my melanin merits, but it's time to become an anteno-mialiwhen it comes to skin cells and hangouts: no law, just the human in front of me. Shake hands, don't think, just jump into that pure maelstrom of human geography and know that this is all there is. st f of students will go home on the weekend. We're very family-orie- Usually, other there are things nted. that we plan together." Fahina describes a similar sort dynamic in her of coaa--munit- y. "Usually, there are planned. If people go out, it's to a restauthe rant, like go." That sounded awful, I think, miserably. Good God, lama honky. And a WASP, and Grill. Islander's Other than that, they go out to the usual and. in, end, I'm going to be home, playing cards and dominoes." students don't "Most Twitch, you know, and we were just wondering what ethnic kids do on the weekends. Because we know where white kids goyim, ou own little cliques," says Elizabeth. "But if they do go out, they'll go to Shooterz, or the Caviar Club. The only problem with that place is that it's always opening and for a gringo, and a an Guyrerie Ben, a representative of the Intertribal Student Association, sits on the left They are quiet in two completely different ways. "Well, yh, I wanted to write an article about where ethnic students go on know, the club scene." "Most students just hang out in their other sorts of comevents munity I try explaining this article. "Well, uh, I work for the Chronicle 3 twitch k.. A Jill oV i . 'V' WWW TW2ffi JeffBeckstrand Fahina Rasi and Elizabeth Smith J |
