Forgiving Idaho

I moved to Idaho in 2017, and immediately loved it. I loved the nerds in Rexburg, the Snake River, and living with my best friend. I loved making new friends. I lived in Rexburg for just over five years, meeting wonderful and intelligent people who have, I hope, since forgiven me for any number of social mistakes I've made.

Idaho government was generous to me by giving me thorough healthcare when I did not have a job. I tried to return the kindness when I could. I participated in local politics and encouraged others in civic participation. I paid taxes with enthusiasm.

While I lived in Idaho, I got married for the first time in 41 years. My husband is a Californian who was living in Arizona with his father and brother, whom he relocated to Idaho Falls when he moved up to marry me.

After my wedding, many things began falling apart in rapid succession: my mental health, my car, my employment, my health, his car, his health, our living situation, etc. We suddenly found ourselves unemployed, homeless, and unable to make life in Idaho work. And since we couldn't afford to live in Idaho, I am not eligible for unemployment benefits.

I am not in Idaho anymore. We are essentially homeless, and are living at the mercy of family and friends while our stuff gathers dust in storage. We have a plan, but no certainty. We have come to the end of our savings, and are risking everything on a new state and new opportunity. But our path to new opportunity runs through Rexburg and I find myself caught in swirls of anger toward Idaho.

Many people in Idaho have proven their kindness and generosity toward our embarrassed situation. My employers and supervisors at Hard Hat, members of my church, colleagues in the English Department, and my best friend who is still my best friend - they are also Idaho, aren't they? Medicaid. Oh my gosh, how I am grateful to Medicaid!

And yet, I feel rejected by Idaho and I'm angry about it.

I could turn that anger inwards and internalize the idea that I just couldn't make it work: that Idaho was a test and I failed it. But there were too many gatekeepers for it to be just that simple. Success and failure in Idaho is too arbitrary to be a reliable judge of my character or capitalistic success. True failure would contain useful feedback, but being rejected by Idaho contains none, just a simple, "We don't want you here; go somewhere else." I am baffled.

I will be spending one more week in Idaho getting the physical remnants of my life in order before I leave them all behind, and while I am there, I don't want to see any but a few precious faces. I will not attend my old ward; I do not want to worship with them. I will not walk campus or visit the department offices; I do not want to see that pity or confusion, nor do I want to be escorted out by security. But mostly, I don't want to feel anger anymore.

Idaho, you disappointed me. I offered you love. I ate your potatoes with great gusto. I tried to work for you. I cared about your citizens and listened to indigenous voices. I gave of myself wherever I could. But when I fell, you stepped back and watched me fall. Part of you laughed to see so ridiculous a figure bruised on the ground, fat and ungainly, twisting to sit up and count my injuries. Idaho, you failed me.

There. That is my reckoning. I have spoken my piece and it is time to forgive and part ways. I will not carry you with me, but will take only those memories of goodness that hid among the trees and fields.

But Idaho, be better for the next faltering family. I know three of those off the top of my head, and they need you. Bend for them: there is great treasure found in caring for people and raising the poor among us.