Metal detectors greet you in the lobby of the First District Courthouse in Logan. Take off your watch and empty your pockets. “It’s like the airport,” an armed bailiff says as you hand over your backpack for inspection. Only there is no vacation on the other side. But there is something else—hope.
Name a woman at the helm of a Fortune 500 company. Now name one who isn’t Marissa Mayer. Stumped? Here’s why: Women hold less than five percent of the nation’s highest posts in business, and there are so few minority CEOs they don’t comprise a statistically valid sample to even study.
The sun hasn’t made its way over Logan Peak as Lars Peter Hansen, ’74, sits down for breakfast. The day before he shook hands with the governor of Utah. In a few hours he will visit a fifth-grade class at Adams Elementary School, and later, discuss uncertainty in financial markets before a packed performance hall at Utah State. Since winning the Nobel Memorial Prize in Economics, people are paying more attention to what Hansen has to say—and that takes some getting used to.
Joyce Kinkead knows students are capable of great things. Dozens have won Rhodes, Truman, Goldwater or Marshall Awards under her watch as the former head of Utah State’s undergraduate research program. But she also knows that freshmen are scared of the locker room.
A decade ago this May, a $1.5 million gift from the Charles and Annaley Redd Foundation helped spur development of the first religious studies program in the Intermountain West. The gift funded the Charles Redd Chair of Religious Studies, a position devoted to further inquiry of religion and help build the program. The idea was it could help answer the question, ‘How can we live peaceably with other citizens of the world?’
Becoming a citizen of the world means realizing actions taken in one part of it affect another. It requires acknowledging that good ideas emerge from all corners of the Earth. And that shared experiences between people of varying faiths, ethnicities, and languages can reveal more commonalities than differences.
The conference room at the Neighborhood Nonprofit Housing Corporation in Logan is Nelda Ault’s office two nights a week. She has no landline, no printer, no Internet. A line of refugees and immigrants wait their turn for Ault’s attention, holding cable bills, tax forms, and school documents. Because right now, they have no place else to go.
Pictures tell a story. But they don’t always tell the truth. Photographs can be, and often are, manipulated to fit a narrative of beauty that simply doesn’t exist.