I was in Colorado Springs, a city formed when miners came and raped the land of all its gold during the Rush. It was in El Paso county with a population of 370,000 and an elevation of 6035 ft. It was prone to blizzards, but wasn’t the icebox the world portrayed it to be. This was my hometown.

I cruised down Academy Boulevard, one of Colorado Springs’s major roads, in my mom’s old metallic blue Toyota. I watched the pine trees bend against the hazy, oil-pastel violet of the Rocky Mountains as snow banks danced past my window. Not much had changed. Colorado was still beautiful, and this road was still the same gritty, pristine grey. The crosswalk’s paint was wearing away, not from Caucasian Protestants strolling to Wal-Mart, but from rarely-braking cars barreling down the streets. No one walked in this town; everything was too far apart. Instead, they drove to work in their Toyota Corollas and Ford Thunderbirds to assemble or hawk Hewlett-Packard products, or have the honor of working at Lockheed Martin.

My stomach rumbled. Where could I eat? Great China Buffet was to the left, with its hot tables of pure goodness. The food wasn’t really Chinese, but 97% of The Springs wasn’t Asian, and was easily deceived by the backlit paintings of Oriental waterfalls and the Asian waiting staff. Maybe I’d visit charming Joe’s Crab Shack, which had sailor hats, lifesavers, and other ocean-themed bric-a-brac nailed all over its ceiling and walls. Or Fazoli’s, a buzzing Italian restaurant fully penetrated by the smell of warm, perfectly-seasoned, and (most importantly) free breadsticks. Or Wendy’s, my first love. I chose Wendy’s. A Frosty and a Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger filled me, and I drove on.

I arrived at the Air Force Academy, my ultimate destination. I was here to learn. I knew what “military” was because of my visits to see my Army father at Fort Carson. But because my father left me and my mom, I never learned what a “soldier” was-now I’d find out. After today, “military” wouldn’t just mean heavy coins engraved with patriotic mottos, high-quality cafeterias, or boot polish. I would find the human behind the strict uniform.

A typical Colorado Springs man walked towards me, a welcomed interruption to my thoughts. He was young, white, and whittled down to the vitals by the military-his hair trimmed, his baby fat skimmed off, leaving a pilot’s lean body. I knew this man. His name was Coloradoan, just like the rest of him.

“Hi, Justin.”

“I’ve been waiting for you, Darling,” he purred. We embraced and made our own little pocket of warmth away from the dry, cold air. I smiled. He and the Springs were proof-the miners didn’t take away all of Colorado’s gold.