My friends and I went to the Oakley rodeo to see Xtreme Bulls, a competition where 40 of the sport’s top riders try to stay on a bucking bull for eight seconds, holding on with only one hand. The champion was Stetson Wright, a hometown favorite from Beaver, Utah. And with a name like that, how could he not be? In fact, that night, as the announcer called out each rider, I couldn’t help but notice everyone had the perfect rodeo cowboy name. There was Cobie, Jeter, Dustin and Dakota. What about Bob? I thought. What chance did he ever have? It was the opposite of Willie Nelson’s “Mama, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys.” Out here, little boys named Stetson weren’t going to practice medicine or law if their mamas could help it. Every time the announcer came on the loudspeaker, he seemed to be narrating two scenes at once: the one we saw in front of us and the one he saw in his own head. He was translating every seemingly ordinary moment into some kind of American mythology — not his America per se, but the America.   A shiny pickup truck began circling the arena. The announcer introduced the rodeo official riding inside the flatbed along with his “beautiful, beautiful blonde wife.” He later made a point of complimenting all of the Utah women with their “beautiful, beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes.” My friends and I looked at each other and laughed. While we weren’t all blonde-haired and blue-eyed, we couldn’t help but feel slightly flattered. During the halftime show, yet another beautiful blonde appeared. Dressed in Wonder-Woman red, white and blue, her long hair flowing behind her, she stood atop two galloping steeds that she rode like surfboards. The announcer marveled at the bond between the woman and her horses, as though she were Mother Earth herself. “Folks, there’s only one bond stronger than the one between a lady and her horse,” the announcer said. “There’s only one love that’s truer.” And I just knew what was coming next. I mean, what else could it be in this announcer’s version of America, the beautiful, beautiful? Sure enough, it was Wonder Woman’s mini me who strode into the spotlight with her pony like Little Miss America. “Folks, what American girl doesn’t want to have a pony and ride a pony?!” the announcer cried out. The crowd went wild and I have to admit it was the cutest thing ever as the little girl got the miniature horse to stand on its hind legs. In one of the cringiest moments of the night, the announcer said, “Folks, we’ve got visitors all the way from England.” I braced myself. “We love your muffins and your tea,” he dad joked. “Sorry not sorry about that revolution.” Then it was back to the competition. A rider burst out of the gate atop a furious bull. The bull bucked the rider and that’s when we saw the bull himself collapse. The rodeo clowns managed to distract him away from the cowboy. But as the bull got back on his feet, it was obvious that he was injured. All of the excitement and intensity of the competition melted away. My friends and I looked at each other as one of them quietly said, “Oh my god, they’re probably going to have to put him down.” “Folks! Don’t worry,” the announcer broke in, ever optimistic. “We’ve got some of the best bovine vets in the business back here,” he said as the bull was led out of the arena. “He’ll be just fine.” The announcer seemed to be smoothing out all of the rough edges. Everything was great. This was America, after all. Once I realized every story seemed to have another side, I started to see it everywhere. The line for corn dogs and BBQ were so long I decided to try something called a Navajo taco, which wasn’t a taco at all. Curious, I googled it. Turns out they were named for fry-bread rations the U.S. government provided to the Navajo people — the ones they forced out of their homeland in the 1860s to walk 300 miles to a new location in New Mexico. That’s when I realized the sick feeling I had wasn’t just from the “taco.” It felt like a moment I’d stumbled into a couple of days before at a party. “Well, what am I supposed to call them,” I overheard a beautiful blonde woman ask her friend. “I think you’re supposed to say Native Americans or indigenous people,” the friend responded helpfully. “OMG, who can keep track of all of this,” she sighed and wandered off to refill her chardonnay. Back at the rodeo, I wondered how I was supposed to reconcile the announcer’s version of America on the backs of all the other versions we stepped over in our high-heeled cowboy boots. “Folks, be sure to stick around for the grand finale,” the announcer said. And I knew there would be fireworks. Despite the bans, despite the wildfires, there would be no cautious drone show. The Oakley rodeo had its own idea of what the holiday deserved. At the first rocket’s red glare, the crowd burst into a rousing rendition of “God Bless the USA,” and everyone seemed to know every single word. I turned to see a man in a cowboy hat standing above me on the bleachers. Silhouetted by a spectacular firework fountain, he was holding a little girl in his arms. I immediately felt myself tearing up as I saw in my mind’s eye, my own father on a Fourth of July so many years ago. The booms terrified me, but my pop was there to protect me. Standing there in that arena with its cringey announcer and Stetsons and injured bulls and beautiful, beautiful blondes and fry bread and fireworks and Xtreme Americana — not one of those cancels the others out. Maybe that’s the real eight-second ride. Not hanging on to the bull, but hanging on to all those stories at once. The ones you’re told, and the ones that become your own to tell. The post Betty Diaries: My second rodeo appeared first on Park Record. ...read more read less