A Tale Of Two Seminaries (Part Two)

Note: This post is part of a two-part series.  Part One can be found here

         After the schism, I was sent to the seminary class held at the ward building. I was pretty torn up about the matter – I had known the bishop’s family for years, which made the exclusion all the more painful. I felt, more than ever, like the apostate leper. But attending a different seminary class – without all of the attendant baggage – helped me to resolve my feelings about my apostasy. Bit by bit, I made my peace with my lack of beliefs. Full activity – seminary, Mutual, Sunday School, Young Women’s – helped me realize that my atheism was not due to a flaw in my moral character. The longer I attended, the more I understood that I just didn’t believe.
          The following summer the stake president became aware of the situation regarding the separate seminary classes and intervened, making the decision to send me back to the class taught by the bishop’s wife. This was a pretty intimidating situation; I was being told to return to a class that had made it clear my presence was not welcome. I was angry and confused about the situation, which was exacerbated by the fact that my psyche was beginning to crack under the burden of living a double life. I was in a very dark place at the time and the complication of the seminary situation only made the issue worse.
          The school year started and I began attending seminary class at the bishop’s home. The situation made me very tense and edgy; my mood was going downhill rapidly. Then, one day, I read a touching story in Newsweek; the story of a couple that had adopted a disabled child from Russia. The story had a happy ending – the child was smiling and laughing. I figured the fact that the parents were gay would probably be a side-note, a slight complexity that still didn’t take away from the fact that the child was happy and in a stable home, as opposed to living life in an orphanage. I was scheduled to give the spiritual thought in seminary the next day – I figured this story was as spiritual as it could get.
          Naïve, I know. But this was a story that helped me believe in humanity at a time when I was in desperate need of that faith. I had been through hell the past few years, as I navigated the roller coaster of emotions that come after losing your faith. During the last few years, as I went back and forth, back and forth on my state of disbelief, I had watched my sense of self-worth slowly erode. Being a closeted apostate among Mormons is the loneliest feeling in the world; the events of the past year had taught me that I couldn’t trust the people I grew up with.
          The next morning, I went to seminary class. When the bishop’s wife asked me to give the spiritual thought I opened my copy of Newsweek and began reading. About a third of the way into the article, the fact of the parents’ sexual orientation was introduced; that was when a very deep silence entered the classroom. I became acutely aware of the thinness of my voice and the slight wobble of my words. I pushed on with the story, determined to finish. I could feel my hands shaking and my heart pounding in my chest but I refused to stop. I did not want my voice to be silenced, not this time. And so, I pushed on.
          When I finished reading, I looked up from the magazine to meet the eyes of my teacher. I have never, in all of my days, seen such a look in anyone’s eyes. Perhaps it was hate, perhaps it was fury, or perhaps it was anger. Either way, I felt a chill that sunk down to the bottom of my toes.
          The bishop’s wife flicked her hand at me in a dismissive gesture and said “Well! That child will certainly grow up to be open-minded!” I almost laughed but caught myself. The teacher was right. Her comment, although it didn’t ease the tension in the room, helped me see clearly again.
          I never went back to church or seminary after that; I was tired of living a double life. I was tired of feeling ashamed of who I was and dishonest about my beliefs. The time had finally come to stop living a lie and start with the business of living my life.  

A Tale Of Two Seminaries (Part One)

          I lost my faith when I was sixteen, when I was still living at home. For this reason, I tried to keep my apostasy quiet. However, my increasing doubts and disillusionment did not go unnoticed. I lived in an area where Mormons were in the minority; there was one other Mormon in my grade in high school, a girl by the name of Beth*. Beth and I grew up together, bound by geography and the isolation of upstate New York Mormons. 
          Beth was my oldest acquaintance and, bound together by our shared classes and early-morning seminary, she was the person that saw me the most, even more than my parents. Therefore, when my faith began to splinter, she was the first person to pick up on the fact. I tried to be discreet about my beliefs but every once in a while, a negative comment would slip out. I told her I felt uncomfortable with the idea of actively trying to convert others – her response was a fixed smile and the statement “So you’re telling me you don’t believe in the premise of the Church’s mission?” We stopped talking about the matter after that. A few months later, when I became upset in seminary about a General Conference talk – I said that the speaker’s promises were not grounded in reality – she lashed out at me, asking me what my problem was.
          Once again, we let the matter drop, at least until a few weeks later. At the time, Beth’s uncle was the bishop; the other students in the seminary class were comprised of the bishop’s family, the seminary teacher’s family, and me. A few weeks after our disagreement in seminary, the bishop’s family came in, announcing they had formed their own seminary class, with the bishop’s wife as teacher. There was no announcement, no warning; they simply gathered their scriptures at the end of class and said good-bye.
          Later that night, I went to the seminary teacher’s house to talk. She was visibly upset; she started crying while I was there, asking me what she had done wrong. There was a very painful feeling in my chest as I comforted her; I felt torn between privacy and honesty. She had been our teacher for two years, prodding us to complete scripture mastery and showing sympathy when we fell asleep in class.
          I wanted – so much – to confess to her of my disbelief, to let her know the fault was not hers, but I still could not utter the taboo words, especially not in light of Beth’s reaction to my unorthodox views. I was still confused, still uncertain; I knew I didn’t believe in God but I still hadn’t figured out that my disbelief didn’t make me a bad person. Part of me still believed that my apostasy was due to a defect in character. I had moved on from the belief but the guilt and shame still lingered. And so I couldn’t bring myself to voice the words “I do not believe”, not even to let a woman I cared about know that the blame was not hers. I still regret my cowardice; she was a good woman who did not deserve to get caught in the cross-fire.
          And so our seminary class was fragmented; I spent the next year attending seminary class in the next town, until the stake president intervened, sending me back to the seminary class taught by the bishop’s wife.

*Name has been changed

3 Idiots: Memorization Or Understanding?

(Source)

          



          A couple weeks, I watched a Bollywood movie called 3 Idiots.  The plot centered on the adventures of three friends who are attending a top-ranked engineering college in India.  The 3 idiots in this movie are a group of friends named Rancho, Farhan, and Raju.  Rancho is a brilliant student who graduates at the top of his class while his two friends are consistently last in everything.  Farhan was pushed into studying engineering by his parents, in spite of his talent at photography, while Raju’s studies are affected by his fear of poverty and failure.  Rancho’s mantra is that people should follow excellence, not success, as success will follow excellence.

          3 Idiots features an argument between two types of people – people who learn and people who memorize.  The protagonist is a student named Rancho, who is studying because he loves engineering and wants to understand how machines work.  The antagonist is a student named Chatur, who believes in mindless memorization, in order to achieve the social and economic status he craves.  Chatur, in a fit of jealous rage, challenges Rancho to a bet: after ten years, who will end up more successful? 

          Silly antics and over-the-top drama aside, this movie raises an important point: what defines learning?  Memorization or understanding?  The movie came out on the side of understanding, which is a conclusion I agree with personally.  However, as I have seen, real-life is not always that way.  I have known many people over the years – including some very highly ranked researchers – who believe that memorization is the key to becoming a successful student.  In the short-term, memorization is very useful.  For some areas – learning the muscles of the body in anatomy class or the myriad of reactions in organic chemistry – memorization is necessary.  In other areas – such as research – the habit of memorization proves to be a crutch that inhibits a student from asking questions and challenging assumptions. 

          3 Idiots was a fun movie that also raised a few questions.  The engineering college featured in the movie was modeled closely after my husband’s alma mater, the Indian Institute of Technology; he informs me that the college-life details featured in the movie is a very close match to what he experienced.

This movie, with English subtitles, is available on Youtube.  

Looking Ahead (And Writer's Block)

          There comes a time in every person’s exit out of Mormonism where the past begins to lose its painful edge and the future begins to fill up with promise. For some, this journey takes longer than others. Sooner or later, we all reach this point. For a post-Mormon, Mormonism will always be a part of the past. For most of us, Mormon culture also infuses the present in the form of friends and family. There is no middle ground within Mormonism, a fact that has caused many of us to struggle along the way.
          I chose to name this blog “A Post-Mormon Life” because, for me, as well as many others, the life I have gone on to live has exceeded my wildest expectations. I don’t have to lead a life that feels hollow; I am free to shape the future to fit the person I am. I don’t have to fake happiness or belief anymore. I don’t need to struggle to believe something that always felt hollow to me. I am free to explore who I am and to arrive at my own conclusions. I am also free to accept my own limitations and to accept myself for who I am, even if the person that I am is not considered worthy by Mormon standards. This freedom, bewildering at first, has given me the rare opportunity to dig deep and search for understanding, a freedom for which I am forever grateful.
          This past year, much of my writing has focused on my Mormon past and the struggles I faced growing up. These stories are not yet finished; there will always be time for reflecting on the past. But as I look to the year ahead, I find myself wondering about the direction of this blog. 

          The truth is, I've been a little stuck for the past couple months; I have been starting pieces, only to have them either stretch into unwieldy essays or to discard them as inappropriate.  As a writer and as a post-Mormon, I think the time has come for my little blog to expand into new territories.
          I have not yet decided on what direction I want this blog to take – whether to expand by including the voices of other post-Mormons or by focusing more on the life I live now. I have been mulling over this issue for a while now. What I do know is that the time has come to dig a little deeper.    

Ushering In The New Year: A Look Back at 2012

          Every once in a while, it is wise to stop and take note of where you have been and where you are headed.  I rang in 2012 in a pretty dark place; 2011 had been a year of crumbling apart, of watching as my dreams slipped away from me.  In late 2010, I was in an auto-pedestrian accident; the resulting anxiety forced me to quit grad school.  I began to spiral downward in a maelstrom of anger, depression, anxiety, and grief.  I grew angry; angry at the past, angry about the accident, angry about being forced to give up on a dream that was once precious to me.

          Mormonism is not an easy religion to either live or leave.  But I left and I worked hard to overcome my childhood and create the life that I wanted.  I had faith that work would lead to a better future, a faith that I was able to sustain by denying the past.  I dealt with my issues by stuffing them into a little box and burying the box with a big heap of denial.

          Then, on the verge of arriving at a settled place in life, I was hit by a car while walking across the street, in the type of freak accident that people hear about on the news but never imagine will happen to them.  I always believed that hard work would yield results.  But sometimes something will come along and smash your life into a million little pieces.  In my case, literally.  My life slid downwards in a spiral of anger, anxiety, and depression as I questioned why this had happened.  I lost my faith that hard work would yield a better life. 

          There was sufficient cause to be angry, both from the accident and from life.  But anger is only healthy in small doses; in large doses, anger quickly becomes dangerous.  A hearth-fire warms the house; a raging inferno threatens to burn down everything in its path. 

          And so 2012 was a year about picking up the pieces and putting them back together.  I was lost and confused for a very long time; without a clearly defined goal in front of me, I lost my bearings and my ambition.  But slowly, in fits, starts, and bursts of writing, I began to regain a sense of self.  Writing provided clarity of mind and gave me the courage to start focusing on what I wanted out of life.

          This blog, which developed as an offshoot of my writing ventures, has helped me find my footing again.  I am grateful, in a thousand ways both big and small, for all of the comments, e-mails, and goodwill I have received since going public with my story.  I look forward to writing – and reading – many more stories. 

          At the verge of 2013, I am scheduled to start school again.  I have re-applied to graduate school for the fall semester.  Maybe the path I have mapped out for myself will come to fruition.  Perhaps it won’t; perhaps something else will come along.  Either way, I am at a point where I feel hope for the future.  I have faith that I am strong enough to handle whatever life throws at me.  And so, I will welcome 2013 with the optimism that I have the strength and resourcefulness to meet whatever challenges may come my way.  

Book Review: The 19th Wife

 

         The "19th Wife", by David Ebershoff, is a novel that alternates between the narrative of Ann Eliza Young, the 19th wife of Brigham Young, and Jordan Scott, a “lost boy” that was born to a 19th wife in a modern-day polygamous community. 

          Ann Eliza Young was famous for divorcing Brigham Young and then going on to crusade against polygamy. During her crusade, she wrote an autobiography of her life, titled "Wife No 19". In re-writing Ann Eliza Young’s story as a work of fiction, Ebershoff goes one step further by providing the narratives of others, including her family members and Brigham Young. Some of the narratives didn’t come across as authentic – they felt too clean, too self-aware for the rough-hewn pioneer characters they portrayed. Nevertheless, by including these alternative voices, the author created a more nuanced portrayal of 19th-century polygamy.
          The other part of the novel is comprised of the story of Jordan Scott, a lost boy who was kicked out of his polygamous community at the age of fourteen. After fleeing Utah, he returns home when his mother is arrested for his father’s murder. Believing his mother to be innocent, Jordan sets out to uncover the truth. The story that unfolds is a complex narrative of modern-day polygamy, with ties to the original Mormon faith that fostered the practice. The story alternated between the two time periods with relative ease; this was a book that I started reading and couldn’t put down.
          The author did an excellent job at untangling some of the complex emotions that happen when one man is married to multiple women, as well as portraying the religious significance of polygamy in early Mormon history. Overall, this was a very engaging work of historical fiction.


This book has been out a while – I picked up my copy at a used book-store. For history buffs, Ann Eliza Young’s book "Wife No. 19" is also available as an e-bookon Amazon for a reasonable price.

My Mother-In-Law, the Drug Dealer

          The last time my mother-in-law (Amma) visited, I gave her a bottle of melatonin pills to take back to India with her. The pills helped her recover from her jet lag, and, now that she has settled back into her daily rhythm, help her deal with her chronic insomnia. For the first time in years, Amma can sleep through the night.
          Always a selfless woman, Amma has decided to share her melatonin supply with the other women in her apartment complex. Now, late at night, Amma will sometimes hear a soft knock. When she opens the door, she finds one of the neighborhood ladies standing there, asking for one of Amma’s “magic pills”. She then hands out a couple pills, wrapped up in a twist of wax paper, saying “Here. This will help you sleep better.”
          My husband and I are under strict orders to bring a large supply of melatonin with us the next time we go to India. After all, there are a lot of sleepless women in India depending on Amma’s magic pills.