I was in Utah when the Tucson killings happened. I had been reading a front-page article in the Salt Lake City Tribune about the Utah Minutemen and their fellow travelers. The article described the Minutemen’s attempts to “defend” Utah from illegal immigrants, which, the article estimated, was only about four percent of Utah’s population. So the Minutemen turn out to be hysterics. Given what was happening in Tucson, they would have been more effective at defense if they had focused on eliminating guns, not illegal immigrants.

I conflate Utah and Arizona, which lies on Utah’s southern border. They are both part of the land-locked west. The scenery is gorgeous, whether in the desert or the mountains. But I’ve had bad experiences there that told me it was easy for a crazy guy with a gun to incorporate the miasma of anti-government vitriol into his deranged mind and act on it.

On one Arizona visit, I walked out of a dinner party in which our hosts, a dentist and his wife, began to reveal bigotry that was out of a Herman Wouk novel from the late 1930s. I had never encountered people like that.

Another time, on the obligatory western trip with our daughters, we had lunch at a rural Utah restaurant. The owner, apparently sensing sympathy in our bland Midwestern appearance, started criticizing the behavior of the French, and then went on to express an unpleasant attitude towards several other ethnic groups. Our daughters slowly slid off their chair seats and under the table, fearful their parents might do something drastic. We made it out of the restaurant, but the day had been ruined.  Were these our fellow Americans, people who thought that bigotry was okay?

The recent politics hasn’t helped the landlocked west seem more appealing. I recalled Arizona’s punitive measures toward the illegal immigrants who trim Arizona residents’ bushes and clean their houses and pools. Arizona’s governor, Jan Brewer, the queen of death panels, last fall yanked Medicaid funding from 98 heart transplant patients, and two had already died. Such deficits of compassion made me want to get out of town.

So, bouncing back on the cramped airplane, all I could think of was, “Thank goodness I live in Massachusetts.”

Massachusetts—where I never encounter hate talk among the residents of downtown Boston. It must exist, but the culture here thankfully makes it unacceptable in polite company.

Massachusetts—where gun laws have been enacted and are enforced. It’s not that we don’t have gun deaths, often from guns acquired in less vigilant places. But we can be reasonably sure as we’re enjoying First Night that our fellow celebrants aren’t packing firearms.

Massachusetts, with the nation’s lowest divorce rate—who knew? And the nation’s lowest infant mortality rate, thanks to our universal health care.

Massachusetts—with the fewest fatal automobile crashes per mile driven. It seems counter-intuitive, given the reputation of Boston drivers, but there it is.

Massachusetts—where our elected officials seem to care about the people who elected them.

A good example is Mayor Menino. His state of the city address was a model of expression of what government ought to be: working for better education and health care and more jobs. He might even make it happen.

Among our other elected officials, there are few hate-mongers. Such candidates were handily defeated in the last go-round. Even Scott Brown, who was supported in the beginning by the mean-spirited Tea Party, is measured in his actions. He doesn’t seem to be out to get anyone.

Our plane landed before the snowstorm, which was converging on Massachusetts from both the west and the south. I was glad it was only weather coming—not hostility toward immigrants, barely cloaked bigotry or anti-government vitriol. When the storm came, it was peaceful. Few cars were on the roads. People had paid attention to the Supreme Judicial Court directive that they’d better shovel. Because we live in downtown Boston, our electrical lines are buried, and our electricity stayed on. The Red Line was running so our daughter and her family could come over for soup. The city did a good job plowing the streets.

I kept watching the television broadcasts from Tucson. Slowly my smugness about Massachusetts’ advantages slipped away. Those Arizonians were suffering just as we would if something like that had happened here. I wasn’t hearing much hate talk from them. I don’t know if the mean-spirited, highly paid talk show shouters said much because I don’t watch or listen to them, but there was little reporting on them. President Obama was his usual eloquent self, but even less agile speakers like John Boehner were sympathetic and appropriate.

I guess I’ll go back to the land-locked west. After all, it is beautiful. And I’ll keep looking for the kind-hearted westerners. I know they are there. I might start in Tucson.