Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Reprocessing my childhood
As I say in my profile, two years ago, I left the Mormon church and I am just getting to know myself. Sometimes I feel like I have just stepped out of the cave and I am squinting at the bright light. So much of what I thought I was has changed COMPLETELY. Even the way I vote, speak, spend my free time, THINK. So some of what I want to include in my blog are thoughts about my upbringing. I need to reprocess it all.
Dirty, that is a good word to describe the pack of children growing up at my house when I was a kid. Not so much visible dirt, like peanut butter smeared around mouths or soil under ragged fingernails. Indeed, there was plenty of that, but this dirt was not that type. It was a more of a smell actually, a staleness caused by underwear found in the corner of the bedroom and put back on because there was none in the drawer. It was filmy, sticky teeth, slightly yellowed from many evenings of falling asleep anywhere that no one would stumble with no reminder to: “Brush your teeth, dear.” And stains, still visible after many washings on the clothes that were already used when the oldest began wearing them years ago. I can remember what it felt like to be in that group, hanging out the back of an old station wagon, or wiping my nose on the back of my arm. I remembered the smell of unwashed clothes, sweaty brothers, and beans cooking. I remembered the shouting and the preaching. Oh yes, the preaching.
Monday night was the regular night for gathering the children for the indoctrination. We all went to church, of course, but then on Monday, my father gathered us all together for additional instruction. All seven children, even the tiniest, were required to sit quietly and listen to my father. He often started with a nice story, or even a picture. He asked us to sing something. The first fifteen minutes were usually bearable. But he couldn’t stop there. The more he spoke, the more agitated he became. His voice got louder, he was more cross with the younger children as they fidgeted and jabbed each other.
“This is important,” he shouted. “Sit down and shut up.”
Thus, at very young ages we were all scared shitless of a loving God who wanted to punish us and separate us from our families.
My parents met at Brigham Young University when they were both eighteen. My father looked like James Dean with his slicked back hair, strong features, and cool khaki trousers. My mother, though beautiful, did a poor job of showing her beauty to the world. Her flawless velvety skin, dark hair and eyes, and long graceful fingers were concealed by layers of clothing, a down turned head, and an ability to blend in with a crowd and avoid the slightest bit of attention.
My mother’s first impression of my father was that he was cocky and unattainable. My father simply remembered my mother as the fat girl in the green coat. However, in spite of this shaky start, they ended up together and eventually produced nine children. Yes, nine children ranging in age when the youngest was born from zero to twenty.
A few months after the first meeting in class, my father agreed to go on a blind date. His social life had been suffering because all of his money was spent on rent, food, and school expenses. It was difficult to ask a girl out and then suggest that she pay or that they go for a walk. I am not sure how the date went, but I do know that my father had a vision from God that she was the woman he was meant to be with. I don’t know if along with the vision came love and attraction, perhaps that came later. Before they could be together, however, my father wanted to work as a missionary. He wanted to convert the heathen, preach the word of good ol' Joe Smith, and save souls. He wanted to walk through rural areas, live in shacks, and spread the good news.
Dirty, that is a good word to describe the pack of children growing up at my house when I was a kid. Not so much visible dirt, like peanut butter smeared around mouths or soil under ragged fingernails. Indeed, there was plenty of that, but this dirt was not that type. It was a more of a smell actually, a staleness caused by underwear found in the corner of the bedroom and put back on because there was none in the drawer. It was filmy, sticky teeth, slightly yellowed from many evenings of falling asleep anywhere that no one would stumble with no reminder to: “Brush your teeth, dear.” And stains, still visible after many washings on the clothes that were already used when the oldest began wearing them years ago. I can remember what it felt like to be in that group, hanging out the back of an old station wagon, or wiping my nose on the back of my arm. I remembered the smell of unwashed clothes, sweaty brothers, and beans cooking. I remembered the shouting and the preaching. Oh yes, the preaching.
Monday night was the regular night for gathering the children for the indoctrination. We all went to church, of course, but then on Monday, my father gathered us all together for additional instruction. All seven children, even the tiniest, were required to sit quietly and listen to my father. He often started with a nice story, or even a picture. He asked us to sing something. The first fifteen minutes were usually bearable. But he couldn’t stop there. The more he spoke, the more agitated he became. His voice got louder, he was more cross with the younger children as they fidgeted and jabbed each other.
“This is important,” he shouted. “Sit down and shut up.”
Thus, at very young ages we were all scared shitless of a loving God who wanted to punish us and separate us from our families.
My parents met at Brigham Young University when they were both eighteen. My father looked like James Dean with his slicked back hair, strong features, and cool khaki trousers. My mother, though beautiful, did a poor job of showing her beauty to the world. Her flawless velvety skin, dark hair and eyes, and long graceful fingers were concealed by layers of clothing, a down turned head, and an ability to blend in with a crowd and avoid the slightest bit of attention.
My mother’s first impression of my father was that he was cocky and unattainable. My father simply remembered my mother as the fat girl in the green coat. However, in spite of this shaky start, they ended up together and eventually produced nine children. Yes, nine children ranging in age when the youngest was born from zero to twenty.
A few months after the first meeting in class, my father agreed to go on a blind date. His social life had been suffering because all of his money was spent on rent, food, and school expenses. It was difficult to ask a girl out and then suggest that she pay or that they go for a walk. I am not sure how the date went, but I do know that my father had a vision from God that she was the woman he was meant to be with. I don’t know if along with the vision came love and attraction, perhaps that came later. Before they could be together, however, my father wanted to work as a missionary. He wanted to convert the heathen, preach the word of good ol' Joe Smith, and save souls. He wanted to walk through rural areas, live in shacks, and spread the good news.
