By Michael Flynn
When I first arrived in 2007, my impression of Southern Utah was bleak. The cultural landscape seemed as desolate as the ancient geology, beautiful and barren cliffs locked in time. A city in stasis.
Like so many transplants, I found it difficult to make friends with my new Utah neighbors. Was it my occasion to curse that made it difficult to connect with co-workers? Or was it my affinity for fine spirits, my pro-beer bias, that my neighbors seemed to find so off-putting? At one time I probably thought so. It’s tempting, when surrounded by self-professed saints, to believe that a holier-than-thou spirit is working in the community, warding away the ward-members, alienating the elders.
After eight years spent living-among and writing-about the people of Southern Utah, I no longer believe this to be the case (well, at least most of the time). As an ex-mormon friend once explained to me, for LDS folks, community is largely defined by the all-consuming social 
demands of church callings and other related activities. For most Mormons, free time is spent attending fireside chats, relief society meetings, and ward potlucks. Leftover time is usually spent with family.
It wasn’t so much that my neighbors didn’t like me; it was that they were so busy being Mormon there wasn’t really any space for me in their busy lives.
I think I was at Jazzy Java Cafe the first time I noticed The Indy’s rainbow-colored logo nestled among the stacks of SLUG Magazine and City Weekly. I almost chuckled at the sight. “What’s a pretty underground pub like you doing in a place like this?” I wondered to myself.
Casually leafing through the events-calendar, I was happy to see life stirring beneath the sterile desert surface. I saw listings for tai-chi classes and yoga workshops, writers’ circles and book clubs, jazz concerts and blues jams. It seemed that there was almost always something interesting going on in Washington County.
So I started showing up to things. The tai-chi class was interesting, but not really my thing. I went to some shows, and I was blown away at the breadth of musical talent here in Southern Utah. At “Godless Coffee,” a Sunday morning meeting of local atheists, I finally found my people, a gathering of fellow heathens — outcasts, nerds, and geeks — hot-house flowers thriving in the desert. Ironically, it was here in Southern Utah, where for two years I thought I’d never quite fit in, that I’d made some of the best friends I’ve ever had.
You have to wonder if, at 19-years-old, The Indy’s founder, Josh Warburton, understood what he was building. When he launched his improbable publication against the advice of nearly everybody, he wasn’t merely launching a newspaper, because The Indy is somehow more than that. Like the community it serves, The Independent lives on the periphery, bucking convention, standing up to power, forging connections between the myriad misfits of Southern Utah. When it comes down to it, The Independent really is more than another local newspaper or news website. It is a community.
