Writer Biography

Kelsey Vest is a sophomore at Utah State University. She is currently studying dietetics and loves cooking food, sharing food with others, and eating it. Her favorite plays to get a treat is the Aggie Chocolate Factory. She is the second oldest of five siblings. Kelsey was born and raised in Amarillo, Texas, and is proud to be a Texan. She works part-time while attending school full-time. 

This essay was composed in September 2022 and uses MLA documentation.

I’M STRAPPED IN AS A safety precaution, but the belt hinders my progress into the light. I wiggle in my seat, angling my head towards the window to my left. My tiny, chapped red fingers reach to obtain a solid grip on the car door. They remind me of fish. Slightly scaly from lack of moisture and in need of a cleaning. Red dirt lines the cracks of my broken skin. Fighting against the strap that holds my waist captive, I drag myself forward with the limited strength my four-year-old body possesses, forgetting the condition of my hands. The contact of the hand with the lightly textured car door causes me to wince, but I ignore the pain to get a better view. The pecan brown clouds of dust billow up around the car. They flow like a raging storm trailing my dad’s Nissan Titan. Always keeping up with the truck yet falling behind simultaneously. As one cloud of dust fades away, another churns up. The growl of the engine argues with the scrape of gravel colliding under the tires. My siblings and I bounce around in the back of the truck. My brother gets tossed into me, and without breaking my gaze from the scene before me, I give him a playful shove back.  The earthy particles entering through the cracked open window coat the back of my throat and fill my nostrils till I am unable to resist the impulse to cough. Immediately, Mom insists that I close it, which I do grudgingly. The lack of warm summer air pressing against my skin is instantly noticeable. Wind-whipped hair settles across my face, and I mindlessly brush the fair blonde strands behind my ears.  

Gazing through the tinted glass, I see our home in the distance. The beautiful billowing clouds slowly die off, foreshadowing our impending arrival. Now on a paved road, dust still flies around the vehicle. It never seems to leave. It tends to stick and stay. After a night of camping, the red dirt from our local canyon covers every inch of my body. Even with the short cut of my fingernails, the dust has found a way under them. My raw hands plead for the soothing comfort of cool water and moisturizing cream. This happens to be a frequent occurrence. In Amarillo, Texas, the sun shines, the wind blows, and the dust comes along for the ride.

—

At the beginning of the 1930s, the Great Plains farmers of the United States “were among the most prosperous in the nation” (Hanes and Hanes). Between the years 1914 to 1929, farmers plowed up the millions of acres of grassland on the plains. Before being converted into farms, the plains were natural grazing lands. They were covered in grasses, specifically buffalo grass. These grasses served as food for buffalo and cattle, but they also acted as an anchor for the soil. The roots retained the moisture and held the land in place. When the farmers began converting the land to farms, they did not realize the toll it would take. During that time, it rained frequently, and the wheat grew better than ever before, but wheat does not hold moisture well. The side effects from the lack of moisture did not appear until the drought began in 1931. The massive amount of plowing and tilling of the dirt that occurred for these farmers to plant their crops ended with a broken land. Hard, cracked dirt got pulverized into small particles of dust with the help of the steel plow. When the drought arrived, this powdery topsoil became vulnerable to the wind.

—

I live in Upstate New York. My ninth-grade year begins, and subsequently cross country practice. The humidity causes my clothes to stick to my skin. At barely 90 degrees, I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West from L. Frank Baum’s, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. As she slowly becomes a puddle, she screams, “I’m melting! Melting!” When my clothes don’t stick to me because of heat, they stick to me because of the continuous rain that turns the soil black and fertile.  

In Texas, when it rains, cross country practice gets canceled. Texas rain brings in thunderstorms. In New York, it rains every day, but it never storms. The dust follows me from Texas and becomes a new substance all together. With mud as my constant companion, the back of my shirt becomes my own canvas, polka dotted with a smattering of multiple shades of brown. Each day I start with a fresh canvas, but by the end of the workout I need a new one. The mud fights against me, but I always fight back. Instead of playing in the mud, I must run through it.  

—

The word “dust” according to the Oxford English Dictionary means, “earth or other solid matter in a minute and fine state of subdivision, so that the particles are small and light enough to be easily raised and carried in a cloud by the wind; any substance comminuted or pulverized; powder” (“dust, n.1.”). In 1931, a drought began, and the winds started up in 1934. By this time the soil had been so broken up that it became easily displaceable. With no grass to hold the soil in place, the wind picked it up and spread it, turning simple powder into terrifying clouds of dust. Soil and crops blew away, leaving farms devastated. Many farmers kept planting in hopes of the drought ending, but all their efforts failed. Slowly, destroyed farms and little revenue caused farmers to pack up their minimal possessions and take their exhausted families to California in hope of a better life.

The dust piled up around houses like snow. The drifts became large enough that people had to shovel their way out of their houses. Breathing became difficult, and many, especially the children, suffered with severe cases of dust pneumonia. Cooking was a chore. Dust got into everything. The women kneaded bread in a drawer to keep as much dust out as possible, and the milk turned the same shade as chocolate milk. To keep the dust out, rags were soaked and hung in windows and squished in doorframes, covering any crack that could let in dust. Even these defenses did little to stop the dirt from entering and disrupting life.  

—

Every step I take up the massive hill has me sliding half a step back down. The person on my right goes down into the thick dark mud, riddled with the smeared imprints of spikes worn by the runners who pass us. Spikes are screwed onto the bottom of shoes and allow runners to have greater stability and grip. Those wearing them don’t tend to flail around like beginning ice skaters on the slippery ground. The kid to my left surges ahead, with no care in the world about the dark clods of paste his sneakers launch onto my arms, uniform, and face. Covered in mud, I resemble a Holstein cow instead of an exhausted runner. My brain signals explosions of pain with every step. The muscles in my calves scream for relief from the heat they currently feel. Even the rain drizzling around me does nothing to quench the fire. Each stride I take to the top brings me closer to freedom from a fire I fear will consume me. Right before I reach the top, my dad appears on the soggy trampled grass along the side of the course. “You got this Kels,” he earnestly encourages. I gasp for air. My breath falls into a steady rhythm. The cadence of his words plays through my head to the beat of my feet pounding against the earth. With a new rush of adrenaline, I kick things into high gear. I don’t stop running until I cross the finish line.

Dad teaches me the importance of finishing the race. Medals or the fastest times aren’t required. My father knows that running is not my strong suit. I find the most comfort at home playing my clarinet or piano, but I live for Dad’s smile, so I choose to run.  

My family surname is “Vest.” When people learn who I am they respond, “Well no wonder you’re a hard worker. You’re a Vest!”  Yes, I am a Vest. The legacy of my family is one that I strive daily to represent, but I often feel I fall short of reaching where I need to be. My ancestors were farmers. My grandfather was the head of the Department of Plant, Soils, and Biometeorology at Utah State University for many years. My family was founded in the soil, dust, and dirt, and the fruits of those labors are still being harvested.  

—

I live in Utah. My first year of college ends, and I fly home to visit my family. They are back in Texas. Another house—the fifth my family has lived in over the past four years. My dad’s dream to live in the country has finally come true. Evidence of the work my family has put into this house surrounds me. A small flower bed, planted by my mom, accents the front of the house. The pink roses stand out in stark contrast to the brown dust all around them. A new fence frames a large backyard, just recently finished by my mom, dad, and three younger siblings. Fence building seems to be a tradition in my family. While growing up in Texas, we rebuilt our fence together right before moving to New York. As my older brother said, “You can’t be a Vest until you have participated in building a fence.” The fence rises perpendicular to the flat earth giving my family the privacy they need.  

Weeds find a way to grow in the grassless yard despite the heat that sucks the life out of everything else. I step out on the cracked and scaly dirt, and it stings my bare feet nearly as badly as a road that has been subject to the sun all day. As I throw a baseball with my 10-year-old brother, the hard surface of the ground disintegrates, turning into the familiar powder from my childhood. The wind picks it up and carries it away. My family’s next project involves seeding the yard. No sod for us; my dad has already done his research. Seeding the yard seems to bring the best results. I need something to do with myself while my siblings attend school functions, so I lather my arms, neck, and face with sunscreen and head outside. My jeans protect my fair skin from the sun’s intense UV rays, and my arms slowly burn despite the layers of lotion I put on every morning. My honey blond hair becomes streaked and lightened by the sun that weighs down on me for hours of the day.

My dad comes home from his job at the office and goes directly to his room to change from his suit into his boots, jeans, and an old t-shirt. To spend time with him, I get back into my dirt hardened jeans and boots and join him. In these moments I learn from his actions. My dad knows what it means to work hard. His family moved around frequently while growing up. As a teenager, my dad worked in the cotton fields, picking and packaging cotton all day. When it snowed, my grandpa dragged his kids out of bed to help shovel. My dad did the same for us. Whenever I work with my dad, I learn something new. This time I learn how to seed a dirt yard. A very large dirt yard.

I stand beside my dad in the shade of the backyard porch. We each have gone through at least three bottles of water, and the moisture making paths across our dust encrusted arms reminds us that we need to drink more. Mom is inside cooking us lunch, but we take a moment to look at the dirt we just finished raking and seeding. “Now, we have to have the faith to wait for the grass to grow,” Dad says. “We plant, water, and weed, but it takes faith for the seed to sprout.”

A month later, I am back in Utah. My 14-year-old brother sends me a video. The grass has grown, and my dad mows it for the first time.  

—

“Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen is a well-known song with an interesting meaning. The writer uses the phrase, “another one bites the dust” to describe his failed romances, and death. “Another one bites the dust, and another one gone, and another one gone.” In my life, I use it to describe the passing of time. Every year bites the dust. Just like death, time comes and goes, and nothing can be done to stop it. Each time my family’s home is relocated, life seems to restart if only for a couple of months, then that too finds a way to move on. We joke about it lightheartedly, when we mourn for those days before we had to grow up. My family remains a tight knit group, but as we leave the house for college, the family must learn how to adjust with fewer members within its ranks. 

Works Cited

Baum, Frank L. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, illustrated by W. W. Denslow. George M. Hill Company, 1900.

Benson, Sonia, et al. “Dust Bowl.” UXL Encyclopedia of U.S. History, vol. 2, UXL, 2009, pp. 466-468. Gale In Context: U.S. History, link.gale.com/apps/doc/CX3048900184/UHIC?u=utah_gvrl&sid=bookmark-UHIC&xid=df5cb7d5. Accessed 22 Sept. 2022.

“dust, n.1.” OED Online, Oxford University Press, September 2022, www.oed.com/view/Entry/58683. Accessed 22 September 2022.

Hanes, Richard C., and Sharon M. Hanes, editors. “Dust Bowl 1931-1939.” Historic Events for Students: The Great Depression, vol. 1, Gale, 2002, pp. 168-185. Gale In Context: U.S. History, link.gale.com/apps/doc/CX3424800020/UHIC?u=utah_gvrl&sid=bookmark-UHIC&xid=7adedc50. Accessed 22 Sept. 2022.

Queen. “Another One Bites the Dust.” The Game, Reinhold Mack, 1980.