July 4 marked 250 years of American independence, and I spent the anniversary working on the tech crew for Forum Fest at Canyons Village.
Spending 12 hours each of the three days provides a wonderful opportunity to people-watch. The mix of locals, tourists and valley refugees escaping the basin’s midsummer simmer forms a tapestry of diversity unique to Utah. Hyper-prepared families, vintage bohemians, high-end hipsters, and the high school collective all gather on the slope-side meadow.
This tapestry, unlike my childhood home of Atlanta, where diversity was defined primarily by color, is monochromatic.
As monotone as our mountainside revelers are, they are nonetheless diverse in their life paths, core beliefs, faith and the specific promises they see in our nation.
Regardless of what the pundits tell us, I believe they all love America.
It grates on me to hear pundits paint our neighbors as anti-American or intent on dismantling our country. I will concede that those in the political arena often advocate for starkly different visions of our future, but that is a far cry from intentional malice.
My own perspective is inherited. My family’s story is rooted in the early 20th century in what my parents called Asia Minor. My dad never referred to his ancestral homeland as Türkiye. He called it what it was, the place where his parents were pushed out and forced to leave everything behind. If he spoke of the Turkos, it was always with a scowl and a quick, sharp spit to the floor.
Growing up on stories of Ottoman oppression spanning four centuries does something to a kid. It anchors a deep, reflexive animosity in your bones. I didn’t just learn the history. I inherited the bitterness. It was a tangible, daily presence, passed down through the stories of my father and grandparents — a collective grudge that defined the entire Greek Pontic community.
I’ve spent most of my life building walls from the brick and mortar of my ancestors, but I’ve also always been a man who likes a bargain. So, when I stumbled upon a screaming deal at a five-star hotel in Constantinople, a city my family would never call Istanbul, my curiosity finally outweighed my animosity.
I’m cheap, and I’m curious, so I dragged my family, including two young daughters, into the heart of what I’d been told was enemy territory.
This was a year after 9/11, and the loudest warnings came from other Americans, not my Greek relatives. Because I love a screaming deal, I ignored the noise and went anyway.
What I found on the ground was a place that felt like home. Once the locals realized we were Greek, their faces instantly lit up. We weren’t treated like foreigners. We were treated like long-lost, distant relatives.
Despite the governments still at odds over political issues like Cyprus, and the centuries of religious friction, the people were welcoming. We bonded over the food, the music, and that shared reality of living at the intersection of East and West, Asia and Europe.
I went there expecting the Turkos my father warned me about, but I walked away realizing that politics and faith are a hell of a lot noisier than the shared experiences of our two nations.
Looking over the tapestry at Canyons Village, I can’t help but wonder about the differences represented in the crowd. While the 7,000 in attendance could share in the experience of singing “Bohemian Rhapsody” together as one, what do they really think of the future of America?
Is our future one that leans toward socialism, or do we double down on free markets? Do we shut off the immigrant engine that fuels our exceptionalism, or do we throw the borders wide open?
I’d bet that if people found a reason to break through their self-imposed resistance to actually talk, and more importantly, listen to the person on the other side, we’d all realize we want the same thing: a better America, a better Utah, and a better Park City.
Talking will inevitably lead to discovering shared values and finding a way forward. Yes, we will continue to disagree, but let’s not let those disagreements build the same walls my family helped me erect.
If we want George Washington’s Grand Experiment to make it to 500 years, those walls, regardless of the mortar and brick they were built from, have to come down.
Ari Ioannides, chair of the Summit County Republicans, is a recovering tech entrepreneur, founder of BootUP PD, and serves on local government and nonprofit boards. He offers a conservative perspective on local politics. He can be reached at [email protected]