I think sometimes I hesitate to write about the subjects I’m
about to tackle in this story because it will be painfully obvious to most the
reasons I have “issues.” Perhaps those who choose to write understand this fear.
Most writers are introspective and understand that writing can be therapeutic.
Oftentimes, after writing about feelings or happenings, I feel they’re not even
worth sharing because I’ve learned the lesson I should have and am embarrassed
I didn’t learn it sooner and that anyone reading this might be embarrassed for
me. This teenage happening turned adult realization
however, though seemingly small, was just down-right pivotal in my road to
recovery. I’m going to address being raised Mormon, I’m going to address being
a feminist, and I’m going to address being (a) really funny (girl.) It is my
belief that these are not mutually exclusive, but some would have you believe
they are.
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| "If you're a really good girl, you could be one of many!" |
I was raised Mormon. This meant a whole lot of church, a
generally happy childhood, and A LOT to live up to. This was also a church
whose leaders believed that “feminism was one of their greatest enemies.”
Perhaps. Girls are pretty scary, especially when we’re shooting other humans
out our vaginas. *Shutter.* It is more likely that the church fell victim to
the scare tactics anti-feminists were using like, “they want the downfall of
men” and “they’re all lesbians” and not just, “Can we vote, please? Also, can
we make the same amount of money as you for the same jobs, guys?” (Sorry,
Mormon readers who are about to defend the church and feminism. I’ve got one
word: Polygamy. I’ve read and pondered all I can on the matter and it still
doesn’t sit right with me. Until God comes down and is like, “Polygamy is totes
cool, and here’s why…” I can’t and I won’t. But this is not what I’m here to
discuss.)
His name was Gary. (Ha! No, it wasn’t. What a dumb fake name
I’ve chosen to protect the innocent (guilty.) Frankly, if I told this story
with its details, some readers might know who he is, so I’ll be nice.
Gaaaarrryyy.) He was the son of a, we’ll say, higher up in the Phoenix area
of the Mormon Church. He was like LDS royalty. My teens as a Mormon were going
well. I was 16, getting (a little) cuter and my personality was ROCKIN’. Others
laughed at my jokes and everything I did. I was also discovering my talents in
high school; dance, drama, and really coming in to my own. Comedy wasn’t just a
means to cope anymore (See the “Mascot” post,) it was fun! I’d discovered I’d
inherited my grandfather’s very dry sense of humor. I felt a sense of pride
every time I used sarcasm or a non-sequitur. (Thanks, Grandpa.) I was cute AND
had a personality. I was turning into quite the Mormon prize. But when I
thought Gary was interested… Gary, a goofily handsome, son of a higher-up,
smart, funny, and Mormon royal?? I was
like, “Andrea, you’re a friggin’ Mormon princess!” Life was good.
The strangest part about dating the ultra-religious is that
you often don’t even know you’re dating at all. It seems to some that talking
after bible class or being with other dates on an approved group date means
you’ve courted and are subject to potential marriage scrutiny. Gary had spoken
directly to me a couple of times, some seemed an attempt to flirt. One time, he
and I happened to be on the same “triple date” (with other people,) and I
remember being quite the life of the party. (We played pool and I can be
charmingly competitive.) But we’d never spoken on the phone, never had an
extended conversation, nor had he ever asked me out on an actual date. So, when
he broke up with me, I was pretty surprised.
I had no idea our “relationship” had warranted such a
dramatic ending. Surely he understood
that we would inevitably end up in the same room at church, and by his
definition, we would date again, right? Never-the-less, he asked me if he could
drive me home from church one day. I was like, ‘oh, this is it! We’re finally gonna get to know each other. Maybe he’ll
even ask me out on a date because that would be fun!’ He, however, had
something different in mind. As he drove the .4 miles to my home he spoke of
our “relationship.” I was like, ‘Whaaaa?’
and he was like, “yes, you’re wonderful but I can’t keep dating you any
longer.” I was really taken aback here. ‘We
dated? Was it fun?’ “You’ve really got to work on your sarcasm,” he said as I
gaped at him in disbelief. ‘What is
sarcasm, again? It must be that super cute, dry bit I do and it’s a sin, apparently.
Damn, there are more sins?!?’ As he walked me to my door (this break-up
lasted about 4 ½ minutes, 3 minutes longer than our relationship) he said,
“There’s no room for sarcasm in Heaven. I hope you remember that.” I was at a
loss for words. It was odd enough he was breaking off our imaginary
relationship and if it were just that, I would’ve laughed at him with hearty,
“Whatever, dude!” But, “There’s no room
for Sarcasm in Heaven?” He tapped into something very deep and emotional. I
fought back tears as I ran into my house and back to my room. I replayed our
every interaction over and over in my mind. ‘What had I done that was so sinful? Why was I going to hell THIS time?’
I spent a long time trying to figure that out. Too long. I
was quiet in church for a long time for fear I may say something sarcastic. I
finally asked my mother for her expertise on the subject and she said, “He’s an
idiot.” That helped a little, but I was still scared to date other Mormon boys
because I may offend them if I slipped in a little sarcasm. So, when I fell in
love with a non-Mormon boy from school, who deeply appreciated my humor and
out-spoken-ness and was quite the ass himself, how could I be blamed? I began
to really think I just didn’t fit in at church anymore. Gary breaking up with
me for having a boisterous personality could not have come at a worse time in
my Mormon career. At 16 we were already being taught how to be “good and worthy”
wives, that submissiveness was a valued virtue (a virtue that I did NOT
possess,) and that feminism would be the downfall of society. I just wanted to go camping like the boy
scouts did, ok?! The combination of
all of these events lead me to think an out-spoken, feminist, and ambitious
female like myself might never be appreciated by my perceived definition of a Mormon
boy, nor by the church. Sitting around, hoping that some virgin hero might
return from his mission and want to sweep me up and impregnate me before my
ovaries shriveled up sounded like a dream come true terrible. This is my
simplest explanation for my “inactiveness” (non-Mormon-ness) now. Looking back
on my limited Mormon options, it is entirely possible that most of them were
just “idiots” like my mom said. (She’s so wise.) How could wildly witty and yes, sometimes,
sarcastic banter between two humans be a sin? I found it to be fun and thought
it was wildly attractive in a mate. Sarcasm is an acquired taste, some may argue that its the lazy kind of funny, but it is
most certainly not a one-way ticket to hell.
What Gary probably experienced before he accused me of
committing a sin, was that I was a bit of a threat to him. It was really he,
and not I, who had the problem. It took me a long time to learn this and that I
was still dealing with subconscious feelings that being sarcastically funny was
a sin. We should never suppress a girl’s (anyone’s) personality based on social
or religious norms. I’ve felt an intense guilt my entire life for my humor or
even laughing too loudly or too much because of this incident and many others. I’m
just grateful for my inclination to always follow my instincts because it’s
lead me to have exceptionally fulfilling relationships. Sometimes I’m like, “I just
have too many funny and talented friends.” (Sarcasm)
Funny, witty, and sarcastic usually means supremely
intelligent. So it’s not surprising the “idiots,” are threatened. The feminist
in me would like to offer some advice and change the lyrics of the song “If YouWanna Be Happy” by the (hopefully sarcastic, but most likely misogynistic) Jimmy
Soul, from:
“If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make
a pretty woman your wife. From my
personal point of view, get an ugly
girl to marry you.”
To:
“If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life, never make
a vapid woman your wife. From my
personal point of view, get a funny
girl to marry you.”
Lesson taught; delightfully offensive song made more
delightful. Two birds. Say whatever the fuck you want to say, ladies and laugh
as much as you want at whatever you want. You will never regret it.
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| Hell is a magical place where all the cats look like this. |
