The Woman Who Wore Pants To Church

          This Sunday, December 16th, a group of Mormon women are planning a peaceful demonstration called “Wear Pants To Church Sunday”. This demonstration is only significant within the context of Mormon culture, which has very strong expectations for women to wear skirts to church. Pants aren’t forbidden; if a woman chooses to wear pants to Sunday service, no formal disciplinary action will be taken. From the outside, there seems to be no issue surrounding women wearing pants to church.
          As the organizers of the “Wear Pants To Church Sunday” event are discovering, there is a deep antagonism within Mormonism against the idea of women wearing pants to church. Some of the comments from the event’s Facebook page include:

“I cannot support an event that seeks to question divinely inspired doctrine about the roles of men and women. We are not meant to be the same. I can't believe how many women are listening to the Worldly view and Instead of celebrating their divine attributes and differences they want to change who God created them to be so they can be like their male counterparts.”

“ In 1993 president packer said one of the greatest threats to the church is feminism within the church itself, looks like that revelation is starting to come to pass right before our eyes, way to bring more negative attention to the church ladies”

“While you're at it why not shave your head, have your breasts removed and get your tubes tied? that'll show em”

          One of the women in my childhood congregation wore pantsuits to church every Sunday. She was the only woman brave enough to wear pants; members dismissed her actions by saying – “Oh, that’s just Carla*, she does whatever she wants.” Carla’s husband had served as bishop and came from a respectable Mormon family; no one dared to suggest that her pantsuits were a sign of apostasy.
          Carla was an outspoken matriarch, a woman that many people feared, myself included. My first memory of Carla was as a five-year old girl returning to the chapel from the bathroom. I walked into the chapel and sat down next to my mother. Or at least, I sat next to the woman that looked like my mother from the back. I slipped into the church-pew and snuggled up to the woman I thought was my mother, only to look up at the face of Carla. I started crying – loud,anxious tears that scandalized my mother. Seeing my confusion, Carla put her arms around me and told me that I was welcome to sit next to her. I shook my head and ran back to my mother, who was sitting a couple pews behind. 
          Most of the people in our ward feared Carla. She was the organist and in charge of all of the musical activities. She possessed an efficiency and take-charge attitude that, as a child, I feared, and as an adult, I envy. Carla was the real deal, a woman who raised eight children on a professor’s salary, ran the church music service, and still had the guts to speak her mind. Over the years, Carla, with her usual blunt manner, has asked me if I was anorexic (all ballet dancers are anorexic!), why I dyed my hair red (people spend lots of money to get the blonde hair you already have!),and trotted me around her daughter’s bridal shower with the triumphant news that I had finished my first year of college with straight-A’s. Straight-A’s! she said. That’s something to be proud of! I had been doubting my achievements; Carla's praise made me proud again. 
          Carla was outspoken, which made many of the members uncomfortable, as there is an unwritten rule against dissent. Carla was also honest. She served as the Relief Society president when I was in high school; those were the years that my mother enjoyed Relief Society. After church, my mother recounted tales of Carla presiding over lessons – listing virtues, preaching values – only for Carla to end the lesson by saying – “Well, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t actually met anyone that can fulfill these criteria.” Carla was a rare flash of honesty in the sea of the Prozac-fueled “happy, happy, happy” denial that is Mormon culture. My mother was too quiet to wear pantsuits or to speak her dissenting opinions; Carla was the woman that gave voice to my mother’s unease. 
          My father didn’t like Carla much; he complained that she was too bossy, too opinionated, too controlling. Carla was in charge of directing the music and my father was a musician; the two of them had many battles concerning the musical numbers. Carla was the rare woman with the courage to contradict my father. 
          Carla also wore pantsuits every Sunday, an act of independence that no one dared to speak about. I am not sure why she chose to wear pantsuits; I don’t think she wore them to make a statement or to create controversy. I never questioned Carla’s pantsuits; I also never questioned the fact that no other women wore pants. I too dismissed Carla’s pantsuits as just an eccentricity. 
          I never really understood Carla. As a Mormon, I thought she was too outspoken. As an ex-Mormon,I didn’t understand why she stayed within Mormonism. Now that I have a deeper understanding of the courage required to defy Mormon conventions, I realize that I dismissed her too easily. There isn’t a lot of room within Mormon culture for women like Carla; there are strong expectations for women to be soft-spoken and submissive. Carla was none of these; the fact that she was able to be herself in a culture that was stacked against her is a testament to her strength of will. Carla was a path-breaker, the type of woman that walked to the beat of her own drum. 
          Carla was the woman that wore pants to church. 






*Name has been changed

This Is Not Progress: Mormons, Gays, And Feminists

          There have been a few changes within Mormonism this past year.  First, the General Authorities announced a change in missionary policy, lowering the age for both men and women.  Men are allowed to serve at the age of eighteen, women at the age of nineteen.  Previously, men went out at nineteen; women were allowed to serve at twenty-one, if they were still unmarried.  The service time remains the same – two years for men, eighteen months for women.  When asked why the change in policy didn’t erase the differences between men and women completely, Thomas S. Monson’s reply was “one miracle at a time”.

          Women can now serve missions at nineteen.  This sounds like progress – except that women are still not granted any authority in church matters.  Within the mission field, only the male missionaries will be allowed to fulfill leadership positions.  Any investigator that a sister missionary teaches will be baptized by a male missionary, who will receive the credit for conversion.  I view this change in the policy regarding sister missionaries as a minor concession granted, with no real change in sight.  Authority – and the ability to effect change – remains firmly in the hands of an all-male leadership. 

          Every position within the Mormon Church that is filled by a woman is ultimately presided over by men.  Mormon authorities point to the Relief Society – an all-female organization – as proof that women are equal.  What they don’t mention is that any decision made by the Relief Society leaders can be over-ruled at any time by the male authorities.  As a teenager, I attended a church girls’ camp in the summer.  Our leaders were responsible, capable women.  This was not enough; church policy required that each ward provide a male chaperone, usually the bishop or one of his counselors.  I left Mormonism while I was still in high school; had I stayed, this dynamic would have followed me through my entire life, as all-female gatherings within Mormonism are subject to male authorities attending.  All of the pretty talk about respecting women is pointless when church culture is based on the assumption that women are not capable or trustworthy. 

          The second big change has been in the form of a website titled “Mormons and Gays” that is being touted as a new era in Mormon-gay relations.  The Church’s official stance on homosexuality is at the top of the page and reads:

“The experience of same-sex attraction is a complex reality for many people. The attraction itself is not a sin, but acting on it is. Even though individuals do not choose to have such attractions, they do choose how to respond to them. With love and understanding, the Church reaches out to all God’s children, including our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters.”

          In other words – it’s okay to be gay, it’s just not okay to be gay. 

          This is not progress.  I define progress as moving towards a new future.  What I see is a church that is being dragged into the future kicking and screaming.  Granting token gestures towards marginalized groups, in a manner that suggests the underlying attitudes are still intact, is not progress.  There is now a website that says Mormons should love gays, with the acknowledgment that being gay might be inherent.  Accompanying this gesture is a huge asterisk, in the form of a statement: “There is no change in the Church’s position of what is morally right.”  In other words, there has been lip service paid to the idea of change, without any significant revision of the underlying attitudes. 

          What about this can be labeled progress? 

           The Mormon Church has a long history of being forced into tolerance by the surrounding society.  There is now a satire website called “Mormons and Negroes”, which draws on quotes from former leaders of the Mormon Church.  As this website illustrates, the Mormon Church also has a very unsavory history with race relations.  Black men weren't allowed to hold the priesthood until 1978.  Receiving the priesthood is a rite of passage granted to twelve-year boys and is necessary for a full life as a Mormon male.  Lifting the priesthood ban was heralded as a monumental step forward.  However, the reversal of the priesthood ban was prompted more by the threat of legal sanctions rather than genuine tolerance.  Perhaps this would be okay; no matter the reason, the ban was lifted.  However, the Mormon authorities have never retracted their previous teachings or apologized for the ban.  As a result, attitudes regarding race have changed in a slow and uneven manner, with a significant number of members repeating the older teachings as truth.  After all, the men that made these statements are considered prophets of God – what argument can be made that these teachings are in error?  The only answer is to forget or deny the past.  As a teenager in the late 90s/early 00s, I learned that black people were descendants of Cain, cursed with dark skin for Cain’s murder of Abel.  I also learned that Native Americans had been cursed with dark skin for similar reasons.  Even in the post-civil rights era of my teenage years, these archaic and damaging teachings were far from dead. 

          Earlier this year, Randy Bott, a very popular BYU professor, re-hashed some of the attitudes surrounding Mormon race relations in a Washington Post interview.  After public outcry, the Mormon Newsroom released the following statement. 

"For a time in the Church there was a restriction on the priesthood for male members of African descent. It is not known precisely why, how, or when this restriction began in the Church but what is clear is that it ended decades ago. Some have attempted to explain the reason for this restriction but these attempts should be viewed as speculation and opinion, not doctrine. The Church is not bound by speculation or opinions given with limited understanding."

          There was no attempt by Mormon authorities to address the past.  There was no attempt to clarify that the earlier teachings – which Bott had repeated in a national interview – were not of God.  Instead, the Mormon PR machine tried to sweep the whole issue under a rug.  

          This is not progress.  These are the actions of a church that is unwilling or unable to change. 

          Change is only effective if done willingly and with a full heart.  I see evidence of change among the members; Prop 8 was a source of heartache to many faithful Mormons.  Most members have also moved past the racist teachings of the previous leaders.  These are the people that give me hope for a better future.  What I don’t see is any hint of change among the authorities or even an avenue for change to occur. 

When Mormons Leave

          When I came home from my first semester of college, my sister-in-law asked me about college and if I liked the people at church. I looked at her, puzzled, until I realized she didn’t know. “I haven’t attended church in over a year.” I told her.
          My sister-in-law looked shocked and then, looking around her, lowered her voice – “Don’t tell my children about this.” I have honored my sister-in-law’s request – I do not discuss my reasons for leaving in front of her children. I do not want to be the trouble-maker.
          When Mormons leave, an odd thing happens. Mormons refuse to talk about the issue, creating a cocoon of denial around a person’s decision to leave. There is an almost universal desire among Mormons to ignore the fact of apostasy. I was never asked about my reasons for leaving, although there were a lot of people who tried to convince me to go back to church. Apostates are branded as angry, sinful, or deluded. The Mormons that love you don’t want to believe that you have joined the ranks of apostate – so they don’t ask, preferring to think that you are simply confused. The Mormons that don’t know you also refuse to ask, assuming that your apostasy was for the stereotypical reasons. A member’s inactivity is viewed as a temporary lapse of sanity, one that can be gently corrected by the faithful.
          Ex-Mormons don’t talk about leaving because doing so will be a spark of anger in an already tense situation. If we talk about the issues within Mormonism that caused us to leave, then we are branded as the stereotypical angry apostate. Faithful members fear that we will corrupt their children or shake their belief in Mormonism. My family does not want to hear why I left and I do not want to force my opinions on an un-willing audience. There is a communication chasm between Mormon and ex-Mormon that cannot be breached.
          An unfortunate effect of this impasse is that ex-Mormons have a difficult time finding each other. We cannot speak about our doubts in public and few Mormons will acknowledge our apostasy, creating a shroud of secrecy around the existence of ex-Mormons.
          A couple months ago, I discovered that one of my brothers is inactive. His church attendance has been wavering for a long time, with periods of activity followed by inactivity. I am ashamed to admit that I did not know this, in spite of the fact that this has been going on for years. My brother is thirteen years elder to me; he moved to Utah when I was four. Other than a couple of years spent living near my parents when I was eight, my brother has spent the majority of his life living in the Utah/Idaho region. This was happening in my own family – and I never knew. No one told me and I didn’t think to ask. The cocoon of silence surrounding ex-Mormons runs deep, even within families.
          The reason I heard about my brother’s inactivity is because my family is making a concerted effort to get him to go back to church. A couple months ago, when I was talking to my brother on the phone, he had to hang up because the bishop had arrived.
          “The bishop’s here - he’s going to try and convince me to come back to church.” my brother said, sounding gloomy about the prospect.
          Wait, he’s not going to church? I thought. I knew that my brother is responsible for driving his children to seminary and that his eldest son is preparing to leave for a mission – this is the gossip I have heard within the family circles. The fact that my brother was no longer attending was not part of the family narrative.
          “Oh, I’ve been there before.” I said. I wanted to talk more but my brother had to hang up. I sent him an e-mail, letting him know that if he ever wanted to talk, I was happy to listen. He has not replied. I am silent because I do not want to cause a rift in my brother’s family or be labeled as the corrupting apostate influence. I assume my brother is quiet for similar reasons; I am the baby, the little sister he doesn’t know well enough to trust. Even within my own family, we are doomed to isolation because we fear the retaliation that results from speaking against Mormonism.

Limitations

          When I first left Mormonism, I called myself an atheist.  I walked around saying “I know there is no God.”  Faced with the difficulties of transitioning out of Mormonism – the fights, the sorrow, the preaching – a hardline approach was necessary.  I needed to present a strong face to the world, to counteract the rigid beliefs I grew up with.  If a pendulum swings far to one side, then it must return to the other side in equal measure. 

          When I began to settle into my identity as a former Mormon, I realized that I am not an extreme person.  In church, I was taught to say “I know there is a God.”  Then I said “I know there is no God.”  Neither of these identities worked for me.  I do not know the truth and I do not want to lie – either to myself or others - about the fact of knowing.  As people, we have a tendency to whitewash our reality, to project an image to the world.  We all want to be seen as ideal versions of ourselves.  The more we act the part, the further from reality we find ourselves.  Saying “I know” about the existence of God is a deny our limitations as humans.  There is no substantive evidence that either proves or disproves the presence of a higher power.  

          As an agnostic, I have been accused of being wish-washy.  I disagree.  Part of growing up is accepting your limitations.  For me, the path to maturity involved accepting my limitations.  I will never be a social butterfly – I am far too introverted for that to be a reality.  I could wallow in self-pity about the matter – or I could grow up and accept myself for who I am.  Within the acceptance of limitations is strength.  Until there is substantive evidence concerning the existence of God, I will not claim to know the truth.  

          As human beings, we have our collective limitations.  As much as I love watching X-Men, humans will probably never develop super-powers.  I also don’t think we ever know the truth of what happens after death, as much as popular books and pop-science try to convince us otherwise.  We can either wallow in denial and self-pity or we can accept the limitations of our beliefs.  There is no shame in admitting we don't know the answers.  

Photo-Shopping Life

I have a habit of browsing through food blogs.  The photos are tempting – bright, colorful, and immaculate.  Sometimes I replicate these recipes – a couple weeks ago, faced with a deluge of oranges from the tree in my backyard, I made sweet orange marmalade, based off a recipe I found online.  Last month, when I was craving pumpkin spice lattes, I made my own pumpkin mixture to add to my morning coffee.  I found the recipe online, my attention caught by the gorgeous photos. 

When I made these recipes, the results looked flat in comparison to the glossy photos found online.  Don’t get me wrong – the results tasted delicious.  But my kitchen counters are worn, the lighting is funky, and my utensils are chipped.  My life lacks the filters and editing of modern photography.  

I live a pretty ordinary life.  My house is a 1920s’-era bungalow that is slowly being into turned into a home.  The furniture is sparse, the bathrooms are old, and the garden is an on-going mess.  I still don’t own a proper bed or matching sheets.  I eat good food – sometimes.  My husband and I are happy together – most of the time.  When guests come for dinner, I scramble to put my house in order and to make sure that I have enough matching plates.  My efforts at entertaining are a comedy in errors. 

We live in a world of photo-editing, where any photo can be turned into a surreal work of art.  When I look at magazine photos and Instagrams, I see an alternate reality.  Photoshop “accidents” are memorable; people lose limbs and gain curves in unexpected places.  Less notable is the effect that photo-editing has on the way we look at life.  Surrounded by photos of immaculate kitchens and beautiful examples of perfect lives, I feel inadequate. 

Behind every two-dimensional photo is a three-dimensional reality.  Photos capture a sliver of life, a bare millisecond of the world we live in.  In math class we put one over infinity, resulting in a number that forever slopes towards zero.  With photos, we take an infinitesimal fraction of reality and subject it to further manipulations.  The result is glossy, lightened, and devoid of the visceral heft of the real world. 

We all edit our lives; when I talk to people, I don’t go into every detail of my life.  I pick and choose what I want to share.  When I write, I pick and choose my stories, in order to create a specific narrative.  Editing is a necessary process of life.

Where do we draw the line?  When does editing stop being necessary and start becoming dishonest?  There are many different ways in which I can re-arrange my life.  I can cut and paste my experiences to create very different stories.  Each version presents a slightly different reality.  Which narrative is true to who I am?  Which snapshot presents my reality? 

Segregation

                Segregation (n): The action or state of setting someone or something apart from other people or things or being set apart

          I was summoned for jury duty today.  The jury duty itself was anti-climatic - four hours of waiting around only to be dismissed before jury selection began.  What struck me, however, was the assortment of people around me.  Jury duty, along with voting and identification, is the great equalizer. People are summoned regardless of gender, race, or socioeconomic status.  The result is a mixture of people that would never be thrown together otherwise.  

          I go through life surrounded by people that are similar to me.  Most of the people that I know I met through school, work, or leisure activities.  As diverse as my interests are, there is a limit to how many people I meet or the type of people I meet.  The people I associate with on a regular basis share a common bond with me. 

          People segregate according to shared values, culture, and social status.  We do this because identifying with people like ourselves is easy.  Friendship is an organic process that develops out of a shared bond; by that standard, most of our friends will be an echo of who we are.  I live in a city that echoes this trait on a larger scale – if you tell me your ethnicity and socioeconomic status, then I can make a pretty good guess as to which neighborhood you live in. 

Standing in the line at the courthouse, I struck up a conversation with a guy holding a Bible.  He was a youth pastor; I asked him about the training a minister is expected to go through.  This is not my usual conversation; I felt ill-at-ease, as though I had a big red “A” for agnostic tattooed on my forehead.  I am guessing that this youth minister probably felt the same way talking to a woman that seemed clueless about the basics of church leadership. 

Reunions

          I met an old friend this weekend.  This girl is my Mormon counterpart, the “what-if” version of a life spent inside Mormonism, rather than outside.  Our parents are long-time friends; we grew up in the same ward and attended the same school.  We were the minority Mormons in school, a fact that threw us together on a regular basis.  We were both blonde, straight-A students who went on to study biology in college.  Between early-morning seminary, our shared honors classes, and youth activities, she was the person that saw me the most.  And so, when my belief in Mormonism began to fall apart, she was the first person to pick up on the tension.

          I wish that I had a story of a friendship that transcended religious belief – but I don’t.  The fall-out was messy, involving a seminary schism and the involvement of her uncle the bishop.  I guess we both had our anxieties surrounding the Mormon faith - we were just on different sides of the spectrum.  I was angry with her for a long time; now I find my anger is slipping away.  And so, when I made the arrangements to visit my parents, I contacted her to see if she wanted to get together.  She said yes and we agreed to meet at a bakery downtown.

          We are now a little older, a little fatter, and more aware of life’s realities.  Neither of us have the life we dreamed of in high school.  I am OK with that; I like my life, even if it is not the life I expected.  We have both had our struggles; a traumatic accident for me, an autistic child for her.  She joked about her son, saying that he was the clone of Sheldon on the Big Bang Theory.  I joked about my accident, saying that my thick skull came in handy.  I have learned that life cannot be controlled; I suspect she has learned that too.

         I have been running from my past for my entire adult life.  I have avoided my high school classmates and most of my college-friends; they are a reminder of an angry, painful period in my life.  I have kept quiet with my family, afraid to spark controversy or tackle the harder issues.  I am not good at confrontation; I do not know the art of constructive argument.  Avoidance is easy - but does not solve the issue.

        I needed the space to sort out my thoughts, to figure out who I was and what I believed, to arrive at acceptance.  Now that I have grown into my identity as a post-mormon agnostic girl, the time has come for reunions, for confronting the past, and for moving on to a future that includes all the facets of who I am. 

        Past, present, and future.