Utahns love their CTR rings, but we could use more folks who choose the wrong 

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One of my good friends from up in Bingham Canyon—the only place in Utah that is marked with a star on God's map of the universe—was Dennis Nichols. He was quite a bit older than I, closer in age to my older brothers, Gary and Sam, but everybody knew everybody back then. Whether he knew me or not, we each knew of the other's family.

He was also well known because he was such a fine musician. And by the time I got around to graduation, he'd already made a name for himself with his talent, even as a U.S. troop entertainer in Vietnam.

Nichols taught music and played all over town. We became better acquainted years later when he'd perform at local clubs, especially at Club 90, which was owned at the time by a Bingham High classmate of his, Mike Kampros. His specialty was having a good time and making sure his audience did as well. He spiced his sets by taking all kinds of "Name That Tune" challenges from the audience and knowing every song, from Bach to the Beatles.

He also liked to layer in high school songs into his sets, notably—of course—"Bingham's Sons and Daughters," the fight song of his alma mater and the only high school fight song in Utah that even kids from other high schools had learned by heart (to mock us, but that's for another day).

Nichols suffered a stroke that nearly disabled his playing, but he didn't quit. City Weekly thus awarded him Best One-Armed Piano Player in one of our Best of Utah issues.

Too few people in Utah know that Dennis' mother is also notable. She led an extraordinary life as a church and community steward, showing by example how to give willingly to public causes. Everyone in Bingham Canyon knew of Norma Nichols. Somewhere along the way, she helped conceive of an idea to help the youth of her Latter-day Saints Church progress forward in a positive way as they prepared for their baptisms.

What began as a local practice spread to other LDS wards and stakes, then into use by persons way beyond the typical baptismal age of 8. It was a simple ring—on it were the letters "CTR," standing for the message to "Choose the Right."

Today, a CTR ring is as notable a religious signal as anything else in the LDS faith, right up there with the less-obvious-to-see temple garments. The rings used to be quite a simple affair, but now come in a variety of silicone colors, bright metallics, more valuable silvers and, of course, in the popular spinner models. Who among you have not joined a business lunch, seen such a ring on someone's finger and realized right away it might not be best to order a round of tequila shooters to celebrate the great big new contract?

What you did in that moment was to "Choose the Right," because what could be more wrong than to order up glasses of Don Julio 1942 Anejo and offer them to your non-drinking co-workers? I don't mean it's wrong to never order it for them—even many of the best of the LDS faithful like a shot of whiskey here and there. I mean it's wrong in that moment to order it because there's no more severe an evil crime than wasting good tequila, and it certainly would be wasted when there are LDS drinking police present.

Over time, CTR—Choose the Right—became sort of a line in the sand between LDS and non. It has morphed in the public eye from a quaint and innocuous messaging tool for wide-eyed LDS primary kids into something far different than what was conceived in the 1950s. It's taken to mean something beyond being a reminder to be stalwart before the Lord at a baptism and has come to symbolize that the person opposite is making a clear statement that they are right, and you are wrong.

It pisses people off. I don't think that was Norma's vision, nor—I'm pretty sure—that of Dennis. They were righteously good people who didn't have to keep proving it.

That's the outgrowth of what the LDS Church has always proclaimed, however—it being the one true church. If anything ever divided the cultures of Utah, it's that notion that a single faith is true, and all others are lost, fake or untrue.

As Utah's religion and politics become ever more entwined, that symbolic rationale becomes ever more divisive, since many CTR ring wearers are no longer virtuously right at all. Couple the idea that LDS is "right" and non-LDS are "wrong" with the mythology that conservatives are "right" and the left is "wrong," and in Utah (plus bassackwards Idaho), you have the makings for one-party rule.

Trouble is, the Republican Party is moving ever more "right"—ever more extreme, ever more fearful of anything on their composition labels that is not made from 100% pure and local ingredients. We're not talking Florida Orange Juice here. In short order, state and federal officials in Utah will all be grown from the local, historical stock only.

We should have two Election Day boxes: Right and Wrong. Everyone would get the drift and vote accordingly without having to explain that it's OK to be both a good Democrat and a good Mormon, not to mention ending the Rubik's Cube confusion cyclone of people explaining that they are both a good Republican and a good non-LDS citizen.

I suppose that's why so many Utahns claim to be independents. I'm going to keep voting Wrong anyway—because in Utah, that's the right thing to do.

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