Tag Archives: Salt Lake City

Let’s Talk Stars.

Because I’m still reeling from realizing how one-sided my blog has become, I decided that this week I wanted to shift gears and talk about what I believe in. Basically, I believe in the stars.

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Six weeks ago yesterday I got a third piercing in my right ear. Call me a twenty-year-old, but it’s one I never plan on taking out, but wearing always. It’s my cross. (Plus, by buying these earrings I made a donation to the Make a Wish foundation, and who doesn’t like them?)

When I was a Mormon, looking at the stars freaked me out, especially when camping and away from city lights. They made me feel small. They made everything I had ever known or made or met or thought or seen small. The vastness of the universe drove into my young brain a helpless feeling of insignificance.

(Plus the LDS religion teaches that God lives on a planet called “Kolob” that is circling among the stars, watching you. And that’s just a little bit creepy.)

I’m not saying dropping the Mormon religion made my anxiety over the nighttime sky disappear (although for other anxieties, that’s perfectly true). But without a “God Made the World in 7 Days” roadmap, I started paying a lot more attention to science. And that’s how I fell in love with the Big Bang.

For official NASA explanations, click here: http://science.nasa.gov/astrophysics/focus-areas/what-powered-the-big-bang/

For my summary, read below:

At the beginning of the conceivable universe, we were a star. A giant whopping star, and when I say we, I mean everything: Humans, animals, plants, water, suns, planets, solar systems. All encompassed within a giant star. In an event known as the Big Bang, the star exploded and sent its stuff into all space. When the stuff settled after the galactic sneeze, the piece we know as earth was a molten ball. Without an atmosphere, comets pummeled it over and over and over again, each time leaving small deposits of water behind. Out of this water eventually grew algae, and after the eternity it took to gain an atmosphere, the first forms of everything crawled out of the puddles.

With a universal relative like the nighttime sky, I click perfectly, knowing each person and place and thing is the literal stuff of stars. It forms this big fuzzy ball of comfort in my chest. Everything is beautiful and miraculous, a series of incredibly complex chemical and electrical accidents that form every amazing thing I do and breathe and see. The fact that I am so tiny fits into the larger puzzle so perfectly—the inevitable heat death of the universe is now a mural on the walls of my mind. It works. We were all together and we all will be again, and there’s something so tenderly wonderful in that. Reincarnation is possible on this inconceivably huge, universal scale. And it doesn’t scare me.

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The Book of Mormon tells me over and over again that I am “less than the dirt of the earth.” Every cell in my body screams that I am star dust. I am not a cog in a deity’s machine. My life is a miracle.

My beliefs still have room for a god–after all, you have to explain where the giant star came from–but knowing that we are all stars, I just don’t see why anyone needs a god.

Let’s Talk Patriarchy.

This is incredibly difficult for me to write about. It’s a tumor the doctors are still afraid to operate on because its fatty little tentacles wrap around my heart. It’s still cancerous. To make this blog post effective, I have to talk about my personal life.

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I wasn’t a Mormon in practice until I was seven years old. I might never have been if my mom hadn’t married Julio.

My mom was a 24-year-old single woman with three kids who made her living by running a daycare in her living room. Julio was an immigrant from South America whose green card was about to expire. Although the signs of emotional abusiveness were visible within the first month of dating, it wasn’t until I took an intro to Psychology class my freshman year of college that we knew that Julio had Antisocial Personality Disorder. This disorder is colloquially known as psychopathy, or the disorder of being a psychopath. Persons with ASPD is characterized by a violation of other’s rights and a disregard for consequences. They are impulsive and controlling, making them successful in such fields as politics and business. The most damming characteristic of ASPD is the systematic charisma of the person. Often they refuse to see a psychologist because they don’t see or feel that there is a problem. When they do see someone, it’s usually because a family member got them to. Like Julio, however, they maintain such a charming and polite appearance that they walk out of offices still undiagnosed. Sometimes, like Julio, they can flip the tables entirely and get the family member that brought them in diagnosed with something.

Although my mom divorced Julio over a year ago (and has been separated from him longer than that), his disorder still stains every day of my life. My family suffered emotional, physical, and sexual abuse for twelve years and we are still very much dealing with the aftermath.

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One of the first things Julio did to establish himself at the head of his ready-made family was forcing us to go to church. A man who didn’t believe in God took all the necessary steps to obtain the Priesthood, the Mormon God’s ultimate power—reserved only for men.

95% of Sundays during those twelve years, he stayed home in bed. Whenever he was disappointed in me or my sisters, though, he insisted on making us sit down so he could put his hands on our heads, a physical display of his dominance, in the name of giving us a Priesthood “blessing.”

When I believed in God, I knew that a man like Julio did not have the right to give blessings. Julio, the man who makes you eat your puke if you get sick, who makes you hold his steel-toed work boots out in front of you for thirty minutes if you come home three minutes late, who shoved my mom around the workplace, who rubbed his teenage stepdaughter’s backs every night to check what they were wearing because they weren’t allowed to wear bras or underwear to bed—

No god would give a man like that power over me.

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Not only did the Church give Julio authority by principle over his all-female family, but when my mom moved to divorce him, the Church shit its pants.

It didn’t matter that her husband was an abusive psychopath and my mother’s catchphrase of the time was “I want to die.” My mother was repeatedly told that she had to stay and work it out by men from the Church who came to lecture my family. She was told the same thing by her LDS therapist.

The icing on the cake is that even though my mom and Julio are legally divorced now, according to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, which my mother believes in, she is still eternally married and bound to him in God’s eyes. She is still sealed to Julio past death and into eternity.

The only way for her to get out of that is if she finds a new man to get herself sealed to.

Because God doesn’t let unsealed women into heaven.

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The Mormon organization is obsessed with patriarchy, with men being the head and always having the final word, from the top to the bottom, women and children explicitly subordinated. But I’m not tackling the top of the totem pole (although there’s plenty of examples just from taking in the all-male leaders of the Church and the gender-specific “powers” of the Priesthood). I’m pointing out, with my handfuls of shit and pain, how much harm it has the power to wield behind household doors.

Let’s Talk Madness.

While out to dinner with a good friend, conversation inexplicably turned to Jonestown (I think because my peach lemonade reminded him of red Kool-Aid?). Between bites of fried pickle, he expressed how curious he was about how one man who claims revelation from God can convince people to kill themselves.

My friend is a bitter atheist who believes that religion has no place whatsoever in the world. Jamestown is one of his many good points.

Suddenly, he steered the conversation much closer to my little Cache Valley: “What if Thomas Monson suddenly had a revelation and told everyone to kill themselves?”

We agreed that the Church was too profitable for the prophet to pull a move like that, at least in the foreseeable future. Still, the thought was scary enough to make us put our forks down. He decided that his family would do it without hesitation. I wondered.

Not to jump on the bandwagon that is Mad Max, but I didn’t realize in time that I paid for my movie ticket with my soul. (Brief sales pitch: Go see it. Especially if you like being uncomfortable.)

With no further introduction/warning than one commercial that came between me and the movie I was trying to watch, I jumped from my theater seat into a world of pure, sandy Hell.

(If many of you are familiar with this version of the apocalypse, I apologize, but I need to recapitulate a bit to make my point)

At the head of a group of barely-survivors rules fat ol’ Immortan Joe. He is worshipped by everyone (not coincidentally, Joe controls the water distribution in his desert community). He cages and breeds with the most beautiful, multiple wives, considers human beings his property, and even raises an army of young boys to become chaotic warriors. Did I mention he hogs the water in the desert apocalypse?

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Joe is worshipped, especially by his brain-washed (and potentially drug-addicted) army of young men. They consider it an outrageous honor to die at his command.

How does an old, fat, dying guy rise to the top of the dung pile and stay there? How does he talk his citizens into giving him all the gorgeous women and keep everyone else impoverished? How does he manipulate his hordes of men?

Ahaha. With religion.

In the end, my friend and I decided that if the prophet of the Latter-Day church were to ask everyone to kill themselves and their families, he would know. If only because they would call him and try to get him to kill himself, too.

Let’s Talk Silence.

In preparation for visiting my grandmother on Mother’s Day, I warned my own mother than I had made Grandma swear on Facebook earlier in the week (by sharing an article titled “My Mormon Mission Made Me an Atheist,” a very poignant read found here: https://broadclarity.com/my-mormon-mission-made-me-an-atheist).

What I had intended to be a soft warning (if I could make sweet ol’ Grandma say “Bull Shit” on the internet, I was a little nervous about what would be said face-to-face) turned into the first time my mom really opened her heart to me since I started my blog. She told me (correctly) that 90% of my friends had rejected me and 99% of my family were deeply hurt by the things I wrote. My mother wasn’t making a point about my decision not to be Mormon anymore. It was about this.

When she asked me if my blog was worth it, I quickly said yes. I told her first about all the people I were helping and giving a sense of community to, and secondly that the Church is doing so much harm in people’s lives and damaging world at large.

Mom said she didn’t understand how I could choose strangers over all the friends and family I was hurting/losing. Now, nearly two weeks later, I have words for the sadness that welled up inside of me at my mom’s confusion.

From left to right: My mother, myself, my grandmother.

From left to right: My mother, myself, my grandmother.

One thing it is not okay to do in this world is to stay silent—especially when you have something to say. There is not much practical difference in this life between the schoolyard bully and a corporate religion suppressing groups of people. In their gut, everyone has to stand up for what they believe is right, even when the fight isn’t theirs and the bully is punching the kid next to them. Only the people who speak out loud can share their ideas and make change.

Speaking up isn’t easy. Especially when you’re stuck in a mud puddle of opposition. But it will never be okay to swallow your tongue and sink in, because this life is yours and it really is what YOU make it. It’s not about the friends you lose, the grandmothers you make swear, or the strangers who are thankful they’re not alone. It has always been about you and being true to your voice.  

It’s the unconditional love and support my mother gave me that made me as brave and unafraid to follow my heart as I am right now. I hope she knows that my blog is me trying to pass that along to others who don’t have such a blessing in their lives.

 

So raise your voice up and pick your kickass boots out of the mud. What you have to say is beautiful every time.

Hipster Mug

Specs: While this buddy may be hip, he probably shouldn’t be hot on account of being made of glass. Even though it is capable of holding hot drinks such as coffee or tea (featured above), you’re probably going to burn your hands.

Nonetheless, the handle is molded seamlessly into the side of this wanna-be jar, making it ten times cooler in the college student’s cupboard. It holds about a jar’s worth of drink and it is green (also available in blue and clear).

Rating: 2/5 stars as a mug. And those two stars are awarded purely on the basis of being cool.

Summary: Some things try really, really hard to be like the other things in the cupboard. They don’t realize that their differences make them awesome–but in their own way, for different purposes. Just because they’re not good at holding hot drinks doesn’t mean they’re worthless.

Flowers~

Specs: This darling-ly decorated mug is wide open for all of your caffeinated needs. The outside is painted with gentle swirls, dots, and flowers, all with a linear texture so as to appear to be painted on. The handle juts out far enough to give 2-3 fingers comfortable distance from the hot mug.

Rating: 5/5 stars. Easily. It’s huge without being jumbo, it’s adorable, it’s got flowers on it.

Summary: I have a list of my top five favorite things in life. Among fat babies, fat puppies, old people, and cheese, flowers is undoubtedly one of them (it should be noted here that there is no hierarchy among the five). Flowers are just one of those things that gets me buzzing inside, that I absolutely have to see and touch and feel and therefore make a part of me (it should also be noted that this procedure usually is flower-specific regarding the five).

I am a firm believer that everyone should have a top five. What would be your life without the little things.

Let’s Talk Brainwashing.

The last time I went to church was for the Primary Program. The Primary consists of all the children in the ward (neighborhood) between 3 and 12 years old, and the Primary Program is when the whole hour of sacrament meeting is dedicated to listening to them sing. As I have two siblings that fall into the age range, my mother invited me and I didn’t resist going.

As the program went on and the children took turns walking up to the podium microphone to quote scriptures and dedications between songs, a lump slowly grew in my throat. The program that I used to find adorable as hell was hitting me in the face as full-blown brainwashing. They take the children at three years old and pump them full of lessons and songs and commandments to memorize and before they can realize they’ve been indoctrinated they grow up and the gospel way of life is all they’ve ever known. They’re the kind of Mormon adults that will quote the Church when asked for their opinion and won’t know the difference.

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At five years old, the Church is teaching my brother and children everywhere that he is going to do things in his life that he should be ashamed of and that the only way to be happy is to “repent and come unto Jesus” (not to mention repenting to the 40+-year-old stranger behind the big desk). They are teaching my ten-year-old sister to run away from me in tears when I come home with a second ear piercing, only to come back later and beg me to take them out so I can be in heaven with her. The Church is engineering the children to think only white in what is taught as a black-and-white world.

When it came time for the congregation to sing the closing hymn with the Primary, I opened the hymn book like everyone else, but I couldn’t sing. When my sister asked me why I didn’t, I whispered back “Because I don’t believe God loves any of those children.” We laughed, because I said it like a joke.

But because I don’t believe in their god, I also kinda meant it.