Amplify Utah supports and facilitates dynamic journalistic storytelling to celebrate diverse points of view. By partnering with traditional media, we cultivate an environment that encourages stories be shared widely and made easily accessible for our communities to read, hear, watch and engage.
Sandy’s new female speaking club strives to amplify women’s voices
07-06-2025 By Savannah Stacey
These women have entered their public speaking era.
80 Years Later: Student Documentary Revisits Utah's Topaz Camp
05-11-2025 By Jordan Thornblad
"It [is] so important to Utah history that we don’t brush this under the rug."
'Don't Let It Happen Again': Topaz Survivors Warn of Detention Powers
05-11-2025 By Marissa Bond
“When you forget your history, you repeat it,” says a 94-year-old Japanese American in the University of Utah student-made documentary.
Your voices matter. Let us help you get your stories out to our media partners.
Amplify Utah helps facilitate the connection between student work and traditional media outlets to encourage more diversity of voices.
For those interested in replicating, adapting or building upon the Amplify project in your own community, we've put together a comprehensive playbook. We are also happy to share with you a branding toolkit to get you started.
Liz Whittaker has been in the theater business for more than 20 years — mostly as an actor, with the occasional job as a director or sound designer.
Then, one day in 2018, Whittaker’s friend invited her to join a workshop about intimacy direction. Whittaker’s interest was sparked immediately. She saw how her passions for storytelling, social justice and mental health advocacy could all be combined in working as an intimacy professional.
Whittaker has spent the last three years developing a career as an intimacy director — someone who “helps choreograph scenes of intimacy,” she said. “The kind of closest parallel to this role is like a stunt coordinator or fight director.”
Whittaker’s role as an intimacy director is twofold. While working with actors to develop a story with their body language and movements, she also helps actors develop skills to communicate their boundaries and speak up for themselves.
Intimacy direction is a relatively new career in the theater industry. According to the University of Rochester, it’s only been practiced for the last 10 to 15 years.
Whittaker is based in Salt Lake City, and has worked on film and theater projects around Utah. According to her bio, she is providing intimacy direction on West Valley Arts’ upcoming production of the musical “A Tale of Two Cities,” and Plan-B Theatre’s upcoming play “Balthazar.”
“A really major part of why intimacy direction exists as an industry now, more efficiently than it ever has, is there’s room for so much abuse of power,” Whittaker said.
The power that directors have over actors, she said, often is exploited.
“It’s really easy for directors and teachers and people in power to be, like, ‘No, push yourself further, push yourself further, give me more, give me more,’” Whittaker said.
Actors, she said, use their bodies to tell someone else’s story. In those moments, an actor can be left feeling especially vulnerable, as someone else tells them how to perform. Having an intimacy director on set can help disrupt this power dynamic, by moderating how directors and actors go about their work. Acting out intimate scenes can feel especially vulnerable, but having an intimacy director choreograph these scenes can help them feel less personally revealing for actors.
“You don’t have to bring your own personal sexual experiences into this role,” Whittaker said. “I can tell you what to do with your voice. I can tell you what to do with your body. It will still be your body, which is vulnerable, but you don’t have to make it real.”
An empowered space
When working on a project, Whittaker said she doesn’t focus on creating a “safe” space so much as she aims to create an “empowered” space.
Creating a safe space could mean going to every actor individually, asking them about their boundaries and triggers, and then sharing these details with everyone else in the crew. Theoretically, this might eliminate the risk of someone’s boundaries being pushed. Realistically, it would be impossible to implement.
“What I’m more interested in is creating a space where actors are given the time, the space and the tools to speak up for themselves,” Whittaker said.
To do this, Whittaker said she gives actors example phrases they can use when they need to express a boundary. She helps facilitate conversations about boundaries between actors. Whittaker also helps actors care for their well-being by teaching them different kinds of exercises they can do to start or end their work, or to just check in. One of these is a closure exercise aimed at helping actors separate their roles from their real lives.
“Closure is a way to tell our brains and our bodies that what we were just doing is not real,” Whittaker said. Sometimes, people’s brains and bodies can’t tell the difference.
“Every body is a storytelling body,” Whittaker said. Eye contact, the way someone grabs another character or the way a character breathes after being touched all work to convey a story.
“If you’re just looking at your drink while you’re saying that line, it means that you don’t actually care. But if you’re holding your drink and making direct eye contact, that tells a different story,” Whittaker said.
It’s these kinds of details that Whittaker looks at as she choreographs intimate scenes between characters. For example, if someone uses their pointer finger to trace along someone’s body, that conveys possessiveness, whereas using the whole hand conveys tenderness.
“Is this a moment of non-consent or assault, or is this a moment of uncertain consent?” Whittaker uses questions like this, about the story she’s conveying, to inform what kind of movements to incorporate into her choreography.
Josi Hinds, a communications major at the University of Utah, wrote this story an arts writer for the Daily Utah Chronicle. It is published as part of a new collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune
###
We also request organizations include the following text either at the beginning or end of the story text :This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and [Your Media Organization's Name] to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through emerging journalism. Josi Hinds wrote this story as a journalism student at the University of Utah. For more stories from Amplify Utah, visit amplifyutah.org/use-our-work.
In a cloud of smoke and people, money exchanges hands, and turbochargers spool and whistle. Despite quick growth across the valley, track closures and a recent enforcement push by the Salt Lake City Police Department, street racing, as a hobby, remains unchanged.
People race in the streets “because we don’t have a track,” said Shawn Atkin, who primarily races on Utah’s freeways late at night. “Fast cars aren’t going to go away because we don’t have a track.”
Street racers say they have been forced to find alternatives for racing as the Salt Lake Valley’s population swells, turning once-quiet roads into busy thoroughfares and dangerous places to hold their contests. In response to a surge in calls between 2020 and 2021, combined with legislation for stronger penalties for street racing, police have tried to curb gatherings but say racers and spectators tend to scatter to other venues, such as the canyons or highways.
With the 2017 closure of Rocky Mountain Raceway, some racers moved to the streets, stuck in a cat-and-mouse game with law enforcement. From 2020 to 2021, Salt Lake Police Department have seen a 476% increase in service calls.
While street racing isn’t anything new, with small outcroppings of automotive enthusiasts taking part, it has been ramping up in intensity since the closure of RMR, as well as the pandemic beginning, authorities say.
“This has been an issue with the department for a long time,” said Det. Michelle Peterson of the Salt Lake City police. She did not provide specific numbers for street racing severity and frequency.
Racing has migrated, Peterson said, from controlled environments like race tracks to the uncontrolled environment of streets, primarily around Salt Lake City’s industrial areas in the Pioneer Division, with the patrol headquarters located at 1040 West 700 South.
“Obviously, street racing impacts businesses, and people being able to get in and out of the business, because the roadway is blocked,” Peterson said.
The population of Salt Lake County has grown by nearly 160,000 people over the last 12 years, from 1,032,997 in 2010, to 1,186,421 in 2021. With that population growth comes an expansion to the western and southern reaches of the Salt Lake Valley, bringing businesses and traffic to what was once an oft-overlooked part of the area.
There are a myriad of car hobbies in America that are linked with racing, and that link has endured as long as there have been cars. Across America, grassroots race tracks, like Utah’s Rocky Mountain Raceway, shuttered for reasons ranging from lack of revenue to noise complaints from real estate developers and residents of new buildings.
Not all car enthusiasts believe people race on streets because of a lack of a track, however. Shannon Manning, an attendee at a November car community meetup — where owners will showcase their cars and buy, sell, or exchange merchandise and parts — said he believes the recent crackdowns by police are understandable, due to the often contentious showcasing that can happen at such events, even if enforcement interferes with the hobby.
“It’s pretty reasonable, [but] a lot of people end up putting themselves into that situation.” he said.
In March 2022, Gov. Spencer Cox signed SB53, which amended the state’s reckless driving laws to include some speeding violations.
The most significant change is the amendments to street racing penalties, such as “allowing the seizure of a vehicle that is not street legal that is engaged in a speed race,” as well as providing a “minimum fine for a speeding violation where the individual was traveling at a speed of 100 miles per hour or more.”
The bill had bipartisan support. The bill’s sponsor in the Utah Senate was Sen. Jani Iwamoto, D-Salt Lake City. The sponsor on the House side was Rep. Ryan Wilcox, R-Ogden.
Iwamoto, who left the Legislature in December, said that while safety concerns were the focus of the bill, local businesses also reported property damage and other crimes related to pop-up speed racing events.
“It was really interesting to learn about what risks there were and the impact to businesses,” she said.
Wilcox did not respond to requests for comment.
Peterson said the law, which went into effect in May, has already had an effect. “We’ve already seen a decrease [in racing] and increase in the [penalties] for when you’re participating, when you’re there to watch and/or participate,” she said. “There is a more severe penalty, and that has been a deterrent for sure.”
Still, attendees are getting even more likely to behave erratically and put themselves in danger, as showcased in posts by influencers with tags such as #streetrace and #takeover. This further drives banter on social media platforms and channels competing for likes and shares,.
As events grow in popularity, so too does the contention among attendees regarding who is fastest, most stylish or most willing to show off, such as holding street races or drifting on public roads, with the most bold driver gaining notoriety, a following and potentially cash prizes.
“Kids nowadays, they really don’t know what it was like,” Manning said. “It’s a matter of who [is the most bold] at the end of the day.”
Not every car meet-up turns into a street racing event, however. Most involve dozens of people gathering in such places as parking garages and public parking lots. There, they share stories, talk about their cars or why they got into the automotive hobby.
“Police should just let them do their thing. I get it when they say there’s street racing and all, but it’s not [everyone]. It’s just the people that don’t think, don’t care about the car community,” said Dan De La Rosa, who attended a meet-up on Nov. 11.
With the recent push for police enforcement, combined with the shutdown of race tracks such as Rocky Mountain Raceway, police departments have consistently been relying on reactive policies to enforce driving laws, and with that comes the potential need for collaboration among police, racers, and tracks looking for funding.
“I can’t really speak to that, all I know is that the roads that we’re talking about, in the city, are not designed for racing,” Peterson said. “As far as where it can happen, that’s kind of beyond my deal, but it cannot happen in the city.”
Alexander Campbell wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. It is published as part of a new collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.
###
NOTE TO MEDIA PARTNERS PUBLISHING WORK
We also request organizations include the following text either at the beginning or end of the story text :This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and [Your Media Organization's Name] to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through emerging journalism. Alexander Campbell wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. For more stories from Amplify Utah, visit amplifyutah.org/use-our-work.
Maria Pastrana Lopez’s dream of becoming a doctor and saving lives seemed impossible.
Living in South America, where Pastrana Lopez is from, can be challenging for those who want to pursue higher education. Private universities can cost much more than the average monthly salary, she said, and public universities can have low rates of admission.
When Pastrana Lopez was a child, her mother worked in a hospital. Watching healthcare professionals save patient lives, Pastrana Lopez found inspiration at a young age.
Five years ago, Pastrana Lopez’s aunt offered her the first step toward that dream – a sponsorship to study in the U.S.
“Without hesitating I said yes. It was the opportunity of my life,” she said.
Pastrana Lopez already spoke basic English but felt nervous about applying for her student visa, completing high school and applying to higher education, all the while trying to master a second language.
To enter the United States legally, Pastrana Lopez had to demonstrate that she was able to qualify for a student visa and present it to immigration.
“Going through the process of obtaining my student visa was very challenging, especially when having to be in front of an immigration officer asking questions,” she said.
After Pastrana Lopez came to the United States, she faced additional requirements for GPA and credits in order to maintain her status as an international student.
Pastrana Lopez applied to Salt Lake Community College two years ago and is majoring in pre-health sciences.
Pastrana Lopez is working at SLCC’s International Student Services as she looks to help fund her education.
The job helps in two ways – she’s gained tools that have helped her develop in her career, and she’s stayed up-to-date on information regarding immigration and student visas.
“Maria was very proficient,” said Venita Ross, international student admissions advisor. “She gained experience and adapted very well to the system.”
SLCC’s International Student Services help international students adapt to the new education system, which can be significantly different from their native country.
Advisors offer student orientations on what to expect and also invite students to participate in or join on-campus clubs so that they may feel more involved.
“Get involved on-campus and in community service,” Ross said. “It helps [students] connect and get in network with people.”
A difficult aspect for international students can be the distance from family. Pastrana Lopez first came to the United States alone as a teenager. Her mother and brother have since immigrated, but the rest of her family still lives in Colombia.
The separation forced her not only to grow and become who she is now, but also to get out of her comfort zone.
“Having to let her go and not being able to be there to be her support was the hardest part,” said Claudia Lopez Gomez, Maria’s mother.
Living in the U.S. has brought discoveries for Pastrana Lopez in how the cultures differ. In Colombia, she said, people hug, kiss and show affection to each other often, which she said doesn’t see often in Utah.
“People in Colombia are more caring,” she said. “If you want to be in the U.S. you can’t be weak.”
Though Pastrana Lopez initially wanted to be a doctor, she has decided to pursue a career in pharmacy and plans to start working toward her bachelor’s degree at the University of Utah following SLCC graduation this fall.
“I wasn’t sure if I could make it, but in the end – if you do it with effort – anything is possible,” she said. “You just have to put in time and dedication.”
Andrea Barboza wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. It is published as part of a collaborative including nonprofits Amplify Utah and The Salt Lake Tribune.
###
We also request organizations include the following text either at the beginning or end of the story text :This story is jointly published by nonprofits Amplify Utah and [Your Media Organization's Name] to elevate diverse perspectives in local media through emerging journalism. Andrea Barboza wrote this story as a journalism student at Salt Lake Community College. For more stories from Amplify Utah, visit amplifyutah.org/use-our-work.
Cultural pride is important. But for people raised with two cultures, it can be tricky to navigate.
“Humans are creatures of habit,” said Brenda Santoyo, coordinator at Salt Lake Community College’s Dream Center, which works with undocumented students and mixed-status families. “We do things simply out of the tradition of doing it.”
Children raised in a country different from their parents can find difficulty in balancing their identity within two cultures.
A September 2020 report by Pew Research Center showed leaning on multiple identifiers is not uncommon for Hispanic and Latino people, noting that “the use of these terms varies across immigrant generations and reflects their diverse experiences.”
Generation, country of birth and use of the Spanish language all factor into the terms a person identifies with.
Keiko Pozo, a speech pathology student at the University of Utah, identifies as Hispanic. And she tells people she is from Peru when asked where she is from.
“That’s where I was born, that’s the culture I’ve been trying to keep,” Pozo said.
Identifiers are different for everyone.
Santoyo, for example, said she uses several identifiers interchangeably.
“In Mexico, I probably wouldn’t say I’m Mexican American, I would just say I’m Mexican,” she said, adding that her language around her identity changes depending on who she speaks with. “Over here, I would say I’m Mexican American or Chicana.”
Santoyo said her use of “Chicana” depends on whether someone is familiar with the term.
Sinthia Rosado Veronica, a nursing and sociology student at SLCC, said being in-between two cultures makes life complicated. Born in Mexico but raised in the United States, Veronica’s expression of culture changes depending on context.
“In my house, I go by Katy. I think of that as my name within Mexican culture,” she said. “I go by Sinthia at my job and at school.”
Living between two cultures also brought pressure to conform. Veronica recalled her siblings pointing out her “white people music” and being questioned on her ability to speak Spanish by other Spanish speakers.
“I used to feel in-between. Ni de aquí, ni de allá,” Veronica said, using the Spanish term meaning “not from here, nor there.”
Veronica said though she’s been living in the United States since she was a few months old and sees it as her home, she doesn’t feel American. She also struggles to identify with Mexican culture because she wasn’t raised there.
It’s a feeling Gisselle Ramirez, a business and communications student at Westminster College, said she recognizes as she navigates between two cultures.
“I don’t feel like I fully belong in American culture,” she said, explaining she has been influenced by the United States but identifies more with Mexican culture. “It’s very conflicting at times.”
As a child, Ramirez explained, she struggled to make sense of the differences she saw between herself and her peers, especially after moving from Texas to Utah.
“When I was younger, and I didn’t understand it, I felt like, ‘Why am I Mexican? Why can’t I be like everyone else?’”
But as she got older and grew more comfortable, she felt more confident in her Mexican identity. Now she feels like a “weird mix” of the two cultures and that the combination feels like an additional part of her identity.
“I don’t feel like I fully belong in American culture, there’s things I do with the culture, but I spend so much time with my family so I have their culture mixed in, too,” Ramirez said.
The pull of two different cultures affects more than identity. It also impacts decision making, Ramirez said. She recalled her parents pushing against the idea of taking a gap semester during college because her parents grew up with the mindset that moving through school without a break and graduating college was the best way to be successful.
“That’s been hard to navigate,” Ramirez said of balancing her parents’ expectations and her own preferences.
Mexican parents, she said, tend to be more strict with children, especially when compared to American culture, which she sees as more lenient. That leniency is something Ramirez said she’ll borrow from American culture for her own children.
It’s a notion Veronica echoed when thinking about her own future. She said she won’t raise her children to value Machismo, the Spanish term used to describe overt and aggressive masculinity.
“If I ever have kids, don’t tell them not to cry like a girl,” she recalled telling her father,
noting she relates more to American views on gender roles than the views often held in Mexican culture.
American culture has influenced Pozo’s decision to live separately from her family once she is married. Having lived in the U.S. since the age of seven, some American customs feel more normal than her family’s customs.
“[In Peru] everyone lives in the same house. When someone gets married, they build a second floor. Eventually everyone ends up living in one household,” Pozo said. “[In America] once you’re married, you move out.”
Being raised in two cultures can make finding cultural pride a long process, said Santoyo, who added she has taken deliberate steps – including traveling to the city of Guanajuato – to learn more about her Mexican heritage.
“I got to see how it is on that side and compare it to what it’s like over here,” she said, pointing out that part of her journey has been learning about the indigenous tribe, Guamare, of which she is a descendant. “That culture shock helped me understand that there is a difference between the two, and that I have a lot to learn on the Mexican side.”
Still, Santoyo said, being close to Mexican culture has led her, unintentionally, to having predominantly Mexican American friends. That shared culture, she said, naturally helped her create connections.
“I wouldn’t be able to build a community without being Mexican,” she noted.
Pozo embraces the connections to several cultures. She was raised with Japanese – from her mother’s side – and Peruvian traditions, and began including American traditions after her family’s move to the U.S.
“It’s the differences that make us unique,” she said.
