Matt here.
Two or three hours after my post last week, the missionaries knocked on my door. They were new and looking for my roommate, who wasn't home. I thought that when I told them that they would leave, but the senior companion has been out for quite a while and he asked if they could come in and share a message with me. I said yes.
They came in, they sat down, and they wanted to start with a hymn. I chose "Lead Kindly Light," which has (ironically) been my favorite for some years now. We chatted a little, and I felt a bond with the younger one, a writer. At the end, I asked them to read something from the Beatitudes for their spiritual thought. For some reason he only read the first two, which was a shame. I think they're beautifully written, and I love hearing beautiful words read.
It turned out that last week's post was the inoculation I needed, because my belief and my confidence didn't shiver.
It did remind me of the pretty and pleasant parts of Mormonism, though, and I went to the church the next day. It was stake conference and everyone was gone, but I had beautiful walk in the hills and then I sat in a coffee shop and read for a few hours, so I was happy.
***
I finally finished reading Atlas Shrugged. It was an ugly but powerful book.
"Francisco, what's the most depraved type of human being?"
"The man without a purpose."
Showing posts with label church. Show all posts
Showing posts with label church. Show all posts
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Saturday, May 4, 2013
What's Best?
Matt here.
Today I feel humble. I don't know why you should be reading me when there's so much else available. Thank you.
***
When I run in the mornings I listen to a podcast called The History of Philosophy Without Any Gaps, and I've caught up to the first century AD. A couple of recent episodes have talked about Skepticism, and the discussion resonated with me. I don't have the energy to reserve judgement about everything (as recommended), but when it comes to Mormonism, that strategy has worked for me so far. Friends and family gush that it's true or it's false and I just sit here saying "Maybe." Then I go on with my life as seems best to me.
For the past handful of years, 'best' has been to pick the general principles out of Mormonism while ignoring its major claims to authority. My Mormons would say that that's a gutted version of the religion, that I'm missing the most important parts, but I wonder. I've never understood why a prophet would be necessary, or baptism. Or temple ordinances. To me, those have always seemed like ornamentation, superfluous to the main thrust of perfecting the people.
Recently, though, I've been wondering if I need to pay more attention to Mormonism's claims of authority. For whatever reason, my idea of 'best' has cracked a bit and needs shoring up.
It's a scary prospect, reevaluating things like this. What if as a result it seems to me that Mormonism is true in its entirety? That would suck. It would cut apart my plans for a family. It would mean dealing with vapid Sunday services again, and losing a tenth of my money. But it seems at least as bad to continue as I have been just because it's comfortable and not because it seems best. In fact, that's a caveat to my belief that (if Mormonism turns out to be true) God will forgive me my unbelief--that my intent was good. I think the belief that everything will be alright in the end can be dangerous, if it lulls us into complacency.
So sometime soon, when I'm employed again and not living with my parents again, you can expect to see me wrestle some thoughts out on here. I imagine I won't come to any conclusions about truth or falsehood, but I hope I'll be able to build up my understanding of what I think is best.
***
Apropos of nothing, but laugh-out-loud funny: How I Became a Hipster
Today I feel humble. I don't know why you should be reading me when there's so much else available. Thank you.
***
When I run in the mornings I listen to a podcast called The History of Philosophy Without Any Gaps, and I've caught up to the first century AD. A couple of recent episodes have talked about Skepticism, and the discussion resonated with me. I don't have the energy to reserve judgement about everything (as recommended), but when it comes to Mormonism, that strategy has worked for me so far. Friends and family gush that it's true or it's false and I just sit here saying "Maybe." Then I go on with my life as seems best to me.
For the past handful of years, 'best' has been to pick the general principles out of Mormonism while ignoring its major claims to authority. My Mormons would say that that's a gutted version of the religion, that I'm missing the most important parts, but I wonder. I've never understood why a prophet would be necessary, or baptism. Or temple ordinances. To me, those have always seemed like ornamentation, superfluous to the main thrust of perfecting the people.
Recently, though, I've been wondering if I need to pay more attention to Mormonism's claims of authority. For whatever reason, my idea of 'best' has cracked a bit and needs shoring up.
It's a scary prospect, reevaluating things like this. What if as a result it seems to me that Mormonism is true in its entirety? That would suck. It would cut apart my plans for a family. It would mean dealing with vapid Sunday services again, and losing a tenth of my money. But it seems at least as bad to continue as I have been just because it's comfortable and not because it seems best. In fact, that's a caveat to my belief that (if Mormonism turns out to be true) God will forgive me my unbelief--that my intent was good. I think the belief that everything will be alright in the end can be dangerous, if it lulls us into complacency.
So sometime soon, when I'm employed again and not living with my parents again, you can expect to see me wrestle some thoughts out on here. I imagine I won't come to any conclusions about truth or falsehood, but I hope I'll be able to build up my understanding of what I think is best.
***
Apropos of nothing, but laugh-out-loud funny: How I Became a Hipster
Saturday, March 23, 2013
A Known Thing
Matt here.
I don't know where I'll be living a month from now. I don't know when I'll get a new job to replace the one I'm leaving on Monday. I don't know if I'll get a chance to date the man I'm interested in. I don't know if I want to start being a little active in the LDS church or have my name taken from the records.
The first two have been impending for a while, but seeing them coming hasn't, unfortunately, helped me figure them out. The third I didn't really hope for until a few circumstances changed and he started calling me by a certain nickname. The fourth I thought I had figured out, but then I got Rick's letter.
The letter itself didn't mention the church and the couple of letters that followed (before he went silent again) were mostly about books, but they made me think about churchy things. After reading it, I looked back over the whole of my correspondence with Rick, and I found a version of me I'd forgotten about. In one of my letters I said that "I can honestly say I believe in the church now." This was while I was in Argentina, the semester after Prop 8. I'd forgotten I ever felt that way. I'd forgotten what I was actually feeling and thinking back then.
(I'd also forgotten a letter I wrote to him about conflating the holy spirit with conditioned mental responses—felt a flush of pride at that one. My argument still feels solid, which isn't something I can say for all of my old writings.)
Remembering the old me was important. After relying on memory to keep my history for a few years, it got distorted. I forgot what I knew, or what I thought I knew, and even that I thought I knew it. I forgot the texture and nuance of my internal debate. I remembered that I never really solved the old dilemma of what I believe about Mormonism; I just shelved it. That was a good thing—even the right thing—for me to do, then, but it's been four years since I graduated and shelved. (Already? Jeez.) Now that I'm coming back to the states (where I can communicate, drive cars, and do other grounding things) and now that I've had years of experience away from the church, I think I'm ready to de-shelf the church.
But here's one thing I'm certain about: The church isn't all it projects itself as. Its vision of eternity, particularly of eternal progression, resonates with me, but after Prop 8, where they supported bald lies and fear-based arguments, it's impossible for me to believe that the church always fights for the side of truth and God. Whatever I come to think about the church in the coming months and years, it's going to have to come around that known thing.
And whatever I come to think about the church, I will not be muzzled, and I will not be silent.
I don't know where I'll be living a month from now. I don't know when I'll get a new job to replace the one I'm leaving on Monday. I don't know if I'll get a chance to date the man I'm interested in. I don't know if I want to start being a little active in the LDS church or have my name taken from the records.
The first two have been impending for a while, but seeing them coming hasn't, unfortunately, helped me figure them out. The third I didn't really hope for until a few circumstances changed and he started calling me by a certain nickname. The fourth I thought I had figured out, but then I got Rick's letter.
The letter itself didn't mention the church and the couple of letters that followed (before he went silent again) were mostly about books, but they made me think about churchy things. After reading it, I looked back over the whole of my correspondence with Rick, and I found a version of me I'd forgotten about. In one of my letters I said that "I can honestly say I believe in the church now." This was while I was in Argentina, the semester after Prop 8. I'd forgotten I ever felt that way. I'd forgotten what I was actually feeling and thinking back then.
(I'd also forgotten a letter I wrote to him about conflating the holy spirit with conditioned mental responses—felt a flush of pride at that one. My argument still feels solid, which isn't something I can say for all of my old writings.)
Remembering the old me was important. After relying on memory to keep my history for a few years, it got distorted. I forgot what I knew, or what I thought I knew, and even that I thought I knew it. I forgot the texture and nuance of my internal debate. I remembered that I never really solved the old dilemma of what I believe about Mormonism; I just shelved it. That was a good thing—even the right thing—for me to do, then, but it's been four years since I graduated and shelved. (Already? Jeez.) Now that I'm coming back to the states (where I can communicate, drive cars, and do other grounding things) and now that I've had years of experience away from the church, I think I'm ready to de-shelf the church.
But here's one thing I'm certain about: The church isn't all it projects itself as. Its vision of eternity, particularly of eternal progression, resonates with me, but after Prop 8, where they supported bald lies and fear-based arguments, it's impossible for me to believe that the church always fights for the side of truth and God. Whatever I come to think about the church in the coming months and years, it's going to have to come around that known thing.
And whatever I come to think about the church, I will not be muzzled, and I will not be silent.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Always.
Matt here.
Today I pictured myself married to a guy. Very thorough daydream on the train. I hope someday I can do that without a voice in my head saying "One day you'll be sorry."
It occurs to me that perhaps that voice will always be there.
Today I pictured myself married to a guy. Very thorough daydream on the train. I hope someday I can do that without a voice in my head saying "One day you'll be sorry."
It occurs to me that perhaps that voice will always be there.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
I followed him like a duckling.
Matt here.
Rick was my EQP when I lived in Wyview, my first semester at BYU. He’s a business analyst in California now. I got an email from him the other day, just checking in and seeing what I was up to. It was nice.
He’s awful at keeping in touch. I think the last time I heard from him was in 2010? Or 2011? Maybe? At first that really bugged me (because I’m the time to write pages and pages of letter and not be satisfied with a paragraph of response) but I’ve adjusted to it. In Rick’s case it’s particularly frustrating because of how that first semester went and how large an impact he made in my life.
See, I started at BYU as a junior and a seventeen-year-old, thanks to an unusual K-12 career, and I’d just admitted to myself and my parents that I wasn’t attracted to girls. I was a complete mess that semester. Rick didn’t know I was ‘struggling,’ but he knew I didn’t have much of a testimony.
If you’re a cynic, you might say he made me one of his projects. He hand-picked my home teachers, who were excellent guys. He talked to me at activities and things or when we just ran into each other around the complex. He spent a good handful of time sitting with me in my living room talking about serving a mission and using Preach My Gospel and studying the Book of Mormon (he was an MTC teacher). All this even though I was awkward and surely.
I followed him like a duckling. I pounded down those lessons! I marked up those scriptures! I went to the firesides and the church meetings and everything, and the thing is, it felt good. He paid more attention to me over those four months than anyone else (including my older brother, who lived in the same complex but was mooning over a girl). I depended on him and focused on the PmG and scripture exercises he gave me with a desperate sort of faith that I was only able to muster because he was so solid and so certain and invested.
In my subconscious, I think, he embodied the church. I didn't feel so lost and adrift. I felt slightly less isolated and weird. I felt like, uncomfortable and anti-intellectual as it seemed, the church was somehow still solid, like Rick.
And that’s how I got through my first semester without having a no-going-back meltdown!
The second semester, I moved to the campus Spanish immersion housing and I didn’t see Rick at BYU again. Looking back, I think my whole life would be different if I’d stayed there, under his influence, and I don’t know whether it would have been better or worse, more or less painful. I wonder if the church is true and I would have developed a real testimony of it there. I wonder if the church isn’t true and I would have developed a ‘real testimony’ of it there.
Before he disappeared from this latest email exchange, we decided we’d have lunch next month, after I’m back in the states. (He lives not too far from where I’ll be staying.) I wonder how that’s going to go. As important as he was to me, I have no idea why he’s barely-but-of-his-own-volition kept in touch, no idea what he gets out of it, because he writes so darn little. Part of me wonders if he’s going to try to get me to give the church another chance. Another part of me wonders if he’s gay. (Thirty-ish, handsome, successful, faithful, single . . . ) I’m not sure I want either of those suppositions to be right. If anyone could get me to try Mormonism again, it would be him, and if anyone would make a tragic ‘struggler,’ it would be him.
I guess the point is just that he is-was really important to me, and I’m apprehensively looking forward to seeing him again.
***
Related: I first heard Andrea Bocelli while sitting in Rick's car.
Unrelated: An illustrated guide to kissing.
Rick was my EQP when I lived in Wyview, my first semester at BYU. He’s a business analyst in California now. I got an email from him the other day, just checking in and seeing what I was up to. It was nice.
He’s awful at keeping in touch. I think the last time I heard from him was in 2010? Or 2011? Maybe? At first that really bugged me (because I’m the time to write pages and pages of letter and not be satisfied with a paragraph of response) but I’ve adjusted to it. In Rick’s case it’s particularly frustrating because of how that first semester went and how large an impact he made in my life.
See, I started at BYU as a junior and a seventeen-year-old, thanks to an unusual K-12 career, and I’d just admitted to myself and my parents that I wasn’t attracted to girls. I was a complete mess that semester. Rick didn’t know I was ‘struggling,’ but he knew I didn’t have much of a testimony.
If you’re a cynic, you might say he made me one of his projects. He hand-picked my home teachers, who were excellent guys. He talked to me at activities and things or when we just ran into each other around the complex. He spent a good handful of time sitting with me in my living room talking about serving a mission and using Preach My Gospel and studying the Book of Mormon (he was an MTC teacher). All this even though I was awkward and surely.
I followed him like a duckling. I pounded down those lessons! I marked up those scriptures! I went to the firesides and the church meetings and everything, and the thing is, it felt good. He paid more attention to me over those four months than anyone else (including my older brother, who lived in the same complex but was mooning over a girl). I depended on him and focused on the PmG and scripture exercises he gave me with a desperate sort of faith that I was only able to muster because he was so solid and so certain and invested.
In my subconscious, I think, he embodied the church. I didn't feel so lost and adrift. I felt slightly less isolated and weird. I felt like, uncomfortable and anti-intellectual as it seemed, the church was somehow still solid, like Rick.
And that’s how I got through my first semester without having a no-going-back meltdown!
The second semester, I moved to the campus Spanish immersion housing and I didn’t see Rick at BYU again. Looking back, I think my whole life would be different if I’d stayed there, under his influence, and I don’t know whether it would have been better or worse, more or less painful. I wonder if the church is true and I would have developed a real testimony of it there. I wonder if the church isn’t true and I would have developed a ‘real testimony’ of it there.
Before he disappeared from this latest email exchange, we decided we’d have lunch next month, after I’m back in the states. (He lives not too far from where I’ll be staying.) I wonder how that’s going to go. As important as he was to me, I have no idea why he’s barely-but-of-his-own-volition kept in touch, no idea what he gets out of it, because he writes so darn little. Part of me wonders if he’s going to try to get me to give the church another chance. Another part of me wonders if he’s gay. (Thirty-ish, handsome, successful, faithful, single . . . ) I’m not sure I want either of those suppositions to be right. If anyone could get me to try Mormonism again, it would be him, and if anyone would make a tragic ‘struggler,’ it would be him.
I guess the point is just that he is-was really important to me, and I’m apprehensively looking forward to seeing him again.
***
Related: I first heard Andrea Bocelli while sitting in Rick's car.
Unrelated: An illustrated guide to kissing.
Saturday, February 16, 2013
The Act of Fantasy
Matt here. Still not ready to finish that series I started, but getting closer.
For the last several days I’ve been full of fantasy. In the morning before work, still damp from the shower and half dressed, I’d lay on my bed and think about how life might be in two months, when I’ll be back in the US. In the breaks between classes I swept my fantasy across the backs of worksheets with a particular pen whose weight is perfect. Pages and pages of hopes and dreams looped out and hanging there, dependent on other people’s reactions to my several stateside applications.
Back in my dark days at BYU I tried to imagine a life in which I was straight/married/happy/unconflicted, and I couldn’t do it, couldn’t get my brain to make those leaps from where I was. Too far. Too bogged down. Too dark out there, too unknown.
When did the future stop being something to dread and tremble at?
Answer: January 2009. That month, with the help of my counselor, I got up the courage to take responsibility for my life and trust myself. That was the first step.
That month, I stopped going to church. I rejected the church’s claims to my body and my life. That was the second step.
Sometimes I wonder if it could have gone another way, if I could have taken a different second step. Several friends have. I wonder if I could have trusted the feeling I once confided to a friend that “everything just seems to go better when I’m reading the scriptures every day,” or the heady, burning feeling all through me when I performed my first and only live baptism. Sometimes I wonder if I would be happier in the church.
I think, though, the answer is no: I couldn’t have taken a different second step. It was distance from the church or standing still for me, because the church offered nothing for the pain. There was a lot of pain, then. Most BYU days I don’t remember individually, just as a feverish black cloud like last February when I had the flu. Stepping away from the church was my antibiotic. Stepping away from the church, I could slowly stop hurting and imagine turning twenty-one.
Now the pain is mostly gone. (Oh-my-god-the-pain-is-mostly-gone!) I can imagine turning twenty-five.
I’ll live on the west coast, said the loops on worksheets between classes. I’ll have a small, vibrant houseplant and a job I don’t hate. I’ll have my people, and more people. Books. I’ll keep learning stuff, whether languages or how to build stuff or how to make a relationship work for more than a few months.
It may not turn out anything like I imagine (the last four years sure haven’t), but because I was gay and Mormon and in a very dark place, I don’t take the act of fantasy for granted.
If you haven't read this essay by Adrienne Rich, you might want to do that.
If you have been or still are at BYU, you might want to look here.
If you haven't realized Eminem's just stopped trying, you might want to listen to "Lighters."
For the last several days I’ve been full of fantasy. In the morning before work, still damp from the shower and half dressed, I’d lay on my bed and think about how life might be in two months, when I’ll be back in the US. In the breaks between classes I swept my fantasy across the backs of worksheets with a particular pen whose weight is perfect. Pages and pages of hopes and dreams looped out and hanging there, dependent on other people’s reactions to my several stateside applications.
Back in my dark days at BYU I tried to imagine a life in which I was straight/married/happy/unconflicted, and I couldn’t do it, couldn’t get my brain to make those leaps from where I was. Too far. Too bogged down. Too dark out there, too unknown.
When did the future stop being something to dread and tremble at?
Answer: January 2009. That month, with the help of my counselor, I got up the courage to take responsibility for my life and trust myself. That was the first step.
That month, I stopped going to church. I rejected the church’s claims to my body and my life. That was the second step.
Sometimes I wonder if it could have gone another way, if I could have taken a different second step. Several friends have. I wonder if I could have trusted the feeling I once confided to a friend that “everything just seems to go better when I’m reading the scriptures every day,” or the heady, burning feeling all through me when I performed my first and only live baptism. Sometimes I wonder if I would be happier in the church.
I think, though, the answer is no: I couldn’t have taken a different second step. It was distance from the church or standing still for me, because the church offered nothing for the pain. There was a lot of pain, then. Most BYU days I don’t remember individually, just as a feverish black cloud like last February when I had the flu. Stepping away from the church was my antibiotic. Stepping away from the church, I could slowly stop hurting and imagine turning twenty-one.
Now the pain is mostly gone. (Oh-my-god-the-pain-is-mostly-gone!) I can imagine turning twenty-five.
I’ll live on the west coast, said the loops on worksheets between classes. I’ll have a small, vibrant houseplant and a job I don’t hate. I’ll have my people, and more people. Books. I’ll keep learning stuff, whether languages or how to build stuff or how to make a relationship work for more than a few months.
It may not turn out anything like I imagine (the last four years sure haven’t), but because I was gay and Mormon and in a very dark place, I don’t take the act of fantasy for granted.
If you haven't read this essay by Adrienne Rich, you might want to do that.
If you have been or still are at BYU, you might want to look here.
If you haven't realized Eminem's just stopped trying, you might want to listen to "Lighters."
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Nightmares
I woke up early this morning. I can't stress enough how infrequent an occurrence this is, especially during the last week of school. I can't even remember the last time I woke up at 7:30 unintentionally. Anyway, I woke up because I was having a nightmare, which, in contrast to waking up early, is a very frequent occurrence. Oddly enough, the nightmares have been calming down lately, maybe because I've been so tired. But tonight's was a fun one. Bear in mind that I watched Easy A last night, which makes the public shaming make more sense.
I dreamed that at BYU, before General Conference, this special church man had to come around and verify that everyone was going to watch all four sessions of conference. This man was named Brother Skinner and was actually the guy from the X-Files who is in charge of Scully and Mulder and tries to help them sometimes by telling them to conform. Anyway, I morally objected to having to sign a paper saying that I was going to watch 8 hours of conference, so my professor helped me hide in the ceiling t avoid signing it. Alas, Brother Skinner found me hiding in the ceiling and dragged me into his office for questioning: aren't I a good Mormon? Why was I hiding, then? Don't I plan on watching all the sessions anyway? Why not sign a paper saying so? What am I so afraid of?
Anyway, I got out of signing the Official Conference Contract and went over to my cousins' house to write a paper. However, Conference was on in the background, and several people started giving talks about how evil I was, saying I didn't sign the paper and I wasn't a real Mormon and I was a bad person. The closing prayer was all about how they hoped I could repent and become a better person and sign the contract that said I was willing to be a good Mormon by watching Conference.
This led to me being livid and also panicking, and I called my mom to try to explain the situation to her. She was skeptical, told me I was a bad Mormon, and refused to listen to my side of the story. After all, she'd heard it in Conference, so it had to be true!
I then proceeded to write a letter to Feminist Mormon Housewives invoking a variety of Harry Potter metaphors to explain my innocence, which they rejected on the grounds that they were too rambly (alas, like most of the seminary papers I'm supposed to be working on right now). My uncle then was persuaded to go to church with his friend and informed me that someone in church had already given a talk on how I represented a particularly bad type of person, was a liar, and should be kicked out of the state immediately.
Then I was so panicked that I woke up. I know this doesn't sound like a big deal--actually, it's kind of funny. Compared to my frequent nightmares about rape and murder, it shouldn't be too bad. But I was still freaked out enough to wake up. I'm guessing this particular dream has to do with my dread about going home for Christmas Break. I was going to go to church with my family on the 23rd just to make an appearance; as my parents have frequently informed me, the whole ward knows of my exploits, including being liberal! advocating for abortion rights! dating an "older man" that my parents don't approve of! All of this, of course, is my own fault--everyone in my ward knows this because of facebook, and not because my parents have talked to seemingly everyone about my supposed exploits, leading me to encounter a variety of strangers that are connected to people in my ward about what a terrible daughter I am. Again, this is not my parents' fault, as they've told me many times! It's my own for being willing to swear on facebook, leading ward members to come to my parents in tears asking what happened to me!! And my poor defenseless parents of course have to agree with them about how evil I am because coming to my defense would be completely ridiculous!!!!
The nightmare thus indicates that I'm panicking about going home to my home ward because I'm worried that everyone has been gossiping behind my back and believes already that I'm a terrible person--which is the reason why I wanted to go, frankly, to hold my head high and show them that I'm the same smart, nice person they thought they knew so well when I was a kid. But the terror of going by myself and encountering all the girls I graduated with and knowing the whole time that my parents are scrutinizing me to make sure I'm paying attention--why is she writing in her journal instead of paying attention?? Is she TEXTING?!?--means it might not be worth it.
Still, I'm tired of my supposed ignominy in various circles. Friends moving out because they think I'm evil. Having to conform to my roommates' expectations because they assume I'm just as Mormon as them--though the new Packer and Beck quotes on the fridge might be to counteract all the gay literature and anti-bullying slogans we have on the fridge. This isn't necessarily my roommates' fault; why do I care so much anyway? If I were less insecure I could just be my own brand of Mormon or non-Mormon, as the case may be, and not worry about what anyone thought. But I'm stuck here at BYU, and I've gotten very good at policing myself, and I've gotten very good at conforming.
I don't really have anything else to say. This isn't meant to be a diatribe against the church; I still consider myself Mormon in a lot of ways, and I agree with the most central tenets of what Christ (and every prophet from Mohammed to Buddha) taught, which is that above everything else, we need to love each other. Which is what makes staying in the church so hard--I don't feel that love coming from, well, anyone, frankly, including my parents, who are supposed to be such! good! Mormons! Just like I should be!!!
Sidenote--can you tell I'm freaked out about staying at home for four days beyond just feeling like I have to go to church with my family? I'm already idolizing the knives they keep in the kitchen. Just going home for dinner on Sundays makes me depressed out of my mind. But, of course, I can't talk to my parents about any of this, because they've already said to my face that the fact that I feel uncomfortable in their house is, obviously, my fault. It's because I feel guilty about what a sinner I am, which is obviously why I don't want to go to church anymore! If I could just be less evil, then my parents wouldn't have to be disappointed in me! Because the fact that they're disappointed in me is completely my fault, and they bear no responsibility in making me feel bad! But they're sorry that I'm suicidal, and are more than willing to help, so I should definitely feel more comfortable calling them than my nice, helpful boyfriend if I'm ever feeling bad about myself, because that makes perfectly logical sense! And of course I'm not going to bring up any of those gay things around my poor, helpless, younger siblings, right? I have to watch my mouth, young lady, and make sure that I don't corrupt those poor high school-age children!
I didn't mean for this blog post to degenerate into a huge rant. I kind of wanted to write about the huge things that have been happening in the gay blogosphere, namely the new "mormons and gays" website (...lol) and the two cases going to the Supreme Court that will likely decide on the future of gay rights in America, which I am both excited and apprehensive about. I guess my personal anxiety about going home is trumping that, which I'm sorry about. I'm still not sure if I'll go home for church in the 23rd. It's not like I owe my home ward anything, and it's not like I have anything to prove. I shouldn't care what they think of me--but I do. A lot. So I guess we'll see what happens.
In the meantime, it's starting to just lightly snow outside, which is nice. I'm listening to the Princess Mononoke soundtrack and thinking that it's more than time to watch my favorite Miyazaki movie again. I'm going to a friend's homecoming, which might be the reason for some of this anxiety, but I'm actually excited to hear him talk about his experiences and then go eat some food at his house and watch the snow. Maybe I'll wear my rosary and bring my Koran to feel better about sitting through Sacrament meeting, but I'm pretty sure it will be okay. And then, of course, it's back to the daily grindstone of the final weeks of grad school, which means working on my paper about human rights and forensics and the imperial West, even though I'd much rather be watching an episode of Supernatural. Or Psych, which has consistently gotten me through a variety of hard times. Go figure.
I'm off to go get ready now, and scrounge up something warm to wear. I hope you all have a pleasant Sunday and a nice week. Here's the poem of the week, as usual. Happy Sunday, everyone.
MEDITATIONS AT LAGUNITAS
Robert Hass
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
I dreamed that at BYU, before General Conference, this special church man had to come around and verify that everyone was going to watch all four sessions of conference. This man was named Brother Skinner and was actually the guy from the X-Files who is in charge of Scully and Mulder and tries to help them sometimes by telling them to conform. Anyway, I morally objected to having to sign a paper saying that I was going to watch 8 hours of conference, so my professor helped me hide in the ceiling t avoid signing it. Alas, Brother Skinner found me hiding in the ceiling and dragged me into his office for questioning: aren't I a good Mormon? Why was I hiding, then? Don't I plan on watching all the sessions anyway? Why not sign a paper saying so? What am I so afraid of?
Anyway, I got out of signing the Official Conference Contract and went over to my cousins' house to write a paper. However, Conference was on in the background, and several people started giving talks about how evil I was, saying I didn't sign the paper and I wasn't a real Mormon and I was a bad person. The closing prayer was all about how they hoped I could repent and become a better person and sign the contract that said I was willing to be a good Mormon by watching Conference.
This led to me being livid and also panicking, and I called my mom to try to explain the situation to her. She was skeptical, told me I was a bad Mormon, and refused to listen to my side of the story. After all, she'd heard it in Conference, so it had to be true!
I then proceeded to write a letter to Feminist Mormon Housewives invoking a variety of Harry Potter metaphors to explain my innocence, which they rejected on the grounds that they were too rambly (alas, like most of the seminary papers I'm supposed to be working on right now). My uncle then was persuaded to go to church with his friend and informed me that someone in church had already given a talk on how I represented a particularly bad type of person, was a liar, and should be kicked out of the state immediately.
Then I was so panicked that I woke up. I know this doesn't sound like a big deal--actually, it's kind of funny. Compared to my frequent nightmares about rape and murder, it shouldn't be too bad. But I was still freaked out enough to wake up. I'm guessing this particular dream has to do with my dread about going home for Christmas Break. I was going to go to church with my family on the 23rd just to make an appearance; as my parents have frequently informed me, the whole ward knows of my exploits, including being liberal! advocating for abortion rights! dating an "older man" that my parents don't approve of! All of this, of course, is my own fault--everyone in my ward knows this because of facebook, and not because my parents have talked to seemingly everyone about my supposed exploits, leading me to encounter a variety of strangers that are connected to people in my ward about what a terrible daughter I am. Again, this is not my parents' fault, as they've told me many times! It's my own for being willing to swear on facebook, leading ward members to come to my parents in tears asking what happened to me!! And my poor defenseless parents of course have to agree with them about how evil I am because coming to my defense would be completely ridiculous!!!!
The nightmare thus indicates that I'm panicking about going home to my home ward because I'm worried that everyone has been gossiping behind my back and believes already that I'm a terrible person--which is the reason why I wanted to go, frankly, to hold my head high and show them that I'm the same smart, nice person they thought they knew so well when I was a kid. But the terror of going by myself and encountering all the girls I graduated with and knowing the whole time that my parents are scrutinizing me to make sure I'm paying attention--why is she writing in her journal instead of paying attention?? Is she TEXTING?!?--means it might not be worth it.
Still, I'm tired of my supposed ignominy in various circles. Friends moving out because they think I'm evil. Having to conform to my roommates' expectations because they assume I'm just as Mormon as them--though the new Packer and Beck quotes on the fridge might be to counteract all the gay literature and anti-bullying slogans we have on the fridge. This isn't necessarily my roommates' fault; why do I care so much anyway? If I were less insecure I could just be my own brand of Mormon or non-Mormon, as the case may be, and not worry about what anyone thought. But I'm stuck here at BYU, and I've gotten very good at policing myself, and I've gotten very good at conforming.
I don't really have anything else to say. This isn't meant to be a diatribe against the church; I still consider myself Mormon in a lot of ways, and I agree with the most central tenets of what Christ (and every prophet from Mohammed to Buddha) taught, which is that above everything else, we need to love each other. Which is what makes staying in the church so hard--I don't feel that love coming from, well, anyone, frankly, including my parents, who are supposed to be such! good! Mormons! Just like I should be!!!
Sidenote--can you tell I'm freaked out about staying at home for four days beyond just feeling like I have to go to church with my family? I'm already idolizing the knives they keep in the kitchen. Just going home for dinner on Sundays makes me depressed out of my mind. But, of course, I can't talk to my parents about any of this, because they've already said to my face that the fact that I feel uncomfortable in their house is, obviously, my fault. It's because I feel guilty about what a sinner I am, which is obviously why I don't want to go to church anymore! If I could just be less evil, then my parents wouldn't have to be disappointed in me! Because the fact that they're disappointed in me is completely my fault, and they bear no responsibility in making me feel bad! But they're sorry that I'm suicidal, and are more than willing to help, so I should definitely feel more comfortable calling them than my nice, helpful boyfriend if I'm ever feeling bad about myself, because that makes perfectly logical sense! And of course I'm not going to bring up any of those gay things around my poor, helpless, younger siblings, right? I have to watch my mouth, young lady, and make sure that I don't corrupt those poor high school-age children!
I didn't mean for this blog post to degenerate into a huge rant. I kind of wanted to write about the huge things that have been happening in the gay blogosphere, namely the new "mormons and gays" website (...lol) and the two cases going to the Supreme Court that will likely decide on the future of gay rights in America, which I am both excited and apprehensive about. I guess my personal anxiety about going home is trumping that, which I'm sorry about. I'm still not sure if I'll go home for church in the 23rd. It's not like I owe my home ward anything, and it's not like I have anything to prove. I shouldn't care what they think of me--but I do. A lot. So I guess we'll see what happens.
In the meantime, it's starting to just lightly snow outside, which is nice. I'm listening to the Princess Mononoke soundtrack and thinking that it's more than time to watch my favorite Miyazaki movie again. I'm going to a friend's homecoming, which might be the reason for some of this anxiety, but I'm actually excited to hear him talk about his experiences and then go eat some food at his house and watch the snow. Maybe I'll wear my rosary and bring my Koran to feel better about sitting through Sacrament meeting, but I'm pretty sure it will be okay. And then, of course, it's back to the daily grindstone of the final weeks of grad school, which means working on my paper about human rights and forensics and the imperial West, even though I'd much rather be watching an episode of Supernatural. Or Psych, which has consistently gotten me through a variety of hard times. Go figure.
I'm off to go get ready now, and scrounge up something warm to wear. I hope you all have a pleasant Sunday and a nice week. Here's the poem of the week, as usual. Happy Sunday, everyone.
MEDITATIONS AT LAGUNITAS
Robert Hass
All the new thinking is about loss.
In this it resembles all the old thinking.
The idea, for example, that each particular erases
the luminous clarity of a general idea. That the clown-
faced woodpecker probing the dead sculpted trunk
of that black birch is, by his presence,
some tragic falling off from a first world
of undivided light. Or the other notion that,
because there is in this world no one thing
to which the bramble of blackberry corresponds,
a word is elegy to what it signifies.
We talked about it late last night and in the voice
of my friend, there was a thin wire of grief, a tone
almost querulous. After a while I understood that,
talking this way, everything dissolves: justice,
pine, hair, woman, you and I. There was a woman
I made love to and I remembered how, holding
her small shoulders in my hands sometimes,
I felt a violent wonder at her presence
like a thirst for salt, for my childhood river
with its island willows, silly music from the pleasure boat,
muddy places where we caught the little orange-silver fish
called pumpkinseed. It hardly had to do with her.
Longing, we say, because desire is full
of endless distances. I must have been the same to her.
But I remember so much, the way her hands dismantled bread,
the thing her father said that hurt her, what
she dreamed. There are moments when the body is as numinous
as words, days that are the good flesh continuing.
Such tenderness, those afternoons and evenings,
saying blackberry, blackberry, blackberry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)