It’s Nevada, not Nevahda, and drawing out that vowel won’t make us any prettier. Glance down at the hard earth under your feet and remember that we have a mining history of men risking their lives for riches. We are the pirates of the desert, and silver ore runs through our veins. We are battle-born and battle-forged, and you can still see the graves our fathers left behind.
There are small towns nestled between low peaks and tall grasses, a delightful surprise for the roadtripping child with the sticky-sweet smile. You’ll miss those if you blink. Then there are others whose lights you couldn’t mistake, not even from orbit. The clouds blanket us with a mood in direct opposition to apathy, still sharing the same mighty exhaustion. We have no basements, but the pools are deep like the water that courses through our streets during a hard rain.
Dirty fingers caked in chalk find treasures in their own backyards, while to the north, garnets sift through children’s fingers like sand. If I so choose, I can lose myself in a sea of salt, or a sea of brush, or a sea of lights. I could take a short hike to greet the crystal blue sky, or I may find it iridescent and orange, swimming in the evening’s heat. Every breath itches and burns, and this is just the smallest component of the adventure.
Abandoned highways bake and freeze, twisting through empty desert to sun-kissed city bleachers. Here we’ve built our own beaches, our own lakes and rivers, our own orchards, and they flourish. Nowhere else can you find so many custom license plates on battered pickup trucks. Charges of battery are pressed against the ice cream man and the crossing guard, but they still do their jobs and do them well. This town is infamous and exalted, while the mammoth expanse beyond remains a mystery to most. It’s time to venture further, to see Nevada all around us and then gather the pieces we’re missing.
It is Nevada, not Nevahda, and I have no qualms correcting atrocious pronunciation. Maybe that small ruptured syllable is all the pride I will show, but don’t you dare mistake the beauty we share for that one pretty little vowel. We are battle-born and silver courses through our veins. We are the pirates of the desert and the terrors of the plains. Sirens are our lullaby and garnets our treasure.
