Hey all!

For some reason I am currently listening to Hootie and the Blowfish and thinking about how much I miss Fruitopia. Nostalgia has bitten me hard this week and it kinda fits in with the new entry into Mormon Stories. I’ve been thinking about the people I knew growing up and where they are now and all that stuff. By the way, I have a whole section on my site now where I am collecting these stories, so feel free to check it out here: Mormon Stories. You can read past entries, comment on them, and make fun of me on the internet. Why not? Clearly I have no self respect, as I am currently listening to ‘Let Her Cry’ by Hootie and the Blowfish and weeping uncontrollably. Man, I could really go for some Fruitopia.

(Ok, enough shenanigans)

In my Ward there was a special wall opposite the Bishop’s office devoted to all the accomplishments and honors belonging to church members. Some were directly tied to the church, such as the Young Women’s honors. Some were organizations that were separate, such as all the Eagle Scouts that had pictures on the wall. In any case, the church was very supportive toward those who achieved. To be fair, it takes a lot of devotion, time, and effort to engage that thoroughly in Young Women’s and Boy Scouts. There should be recognition for those who work hard and achieve.

However, there is a somewhat sinister side to all this conspicuous achievement. What of those who don’t quite make it all the way to the top? What of those who by physical, cultural, or intellectual limitations can’t achieve at the highest level? What happens when you try and fail? When you fail in the church, EVERYONE knows about it. With all that knowledge comes the question: what happened? Should we honor them? Should there be a plaque? I don’t believe that everyone deserves a trophy just for participating. Honestly, the idea of trophies and subtle deification in the form of plaques and pictures is abhorrent to me. The pride in a job well done should be its own reward, right?

(Chuck Norris approves)

Well, not so much in the Mormon Church. There is very much a culture (at least in my Ward) of conspicuous achievement. Members were so focused on showing the world and the Ward that they were doing good, that they were succeeding. That is why I think that I had an easier time than most when leaving the church. In the end I didn’t really care what anyone thought of me.

Going back to childhood I can remember singing a song in Primary called ‘I Hope They Call Me On A Mission’, a song dedicated to indoctrinating children at a very young age to leave their family for two years and go spread the word of this church. To be fair they wait till you are the ripe old age of 18 to send you away, so it’s not as bad as I make it out to be (lol). I suspect it’s adorable to hear your child sing about wanting to take on the world in a very adult way when they can’t even tie their own fucking shoelaces, but us on the outside see it as FUCKING CREEPY. It’s culty and sounds an awful lot like the songs my Uncle Fritz had to sing during World War II.

(Uncle Fritz’s neighborhood after an Allied greeting!)

I’d sit in Primary, in my reflective suit that my Mom bought from a guy named Tony out of the back of a truck, and sing along to the tune. As a child, I had no idea what a mission was, I just knew that I HAD to go on one. We had entire lessons on why it was imperative that all MEN go on a mission. The world needed us, the teacher would say. How are we ever to rid the world of sin unless you, BROTHER WHATEVER, get up off your lazy little kid ass and go out and DO SOME FUCKING WORK! MOVE IT!

I’d tell my parents that I HAD to go on a mission, that I might not be home for a while and for them not to hold onto my dinner. They’d laugh and go back to watching Star Trek and I’d shuffle off, trying to decide which Goosebumps books I wanted to take with me on my mission. Fortunately for myself, I remained a lazy cad for most of my life and never got around to going on a mission. I know a lot of people who did and came back with their faith in the church shattered. I can’t imagine what that is like and my heart goes out to those people.

I wondered to myself as I mindlessly sang along to the tune what would a mission consist of? On TV I had seen that whenever Inspector Gadget was sent on a mission it was typically very dangerous and brought with peril. Only with the help of his niece Penny (whom I had a thing for) and her dog Brain would he get out of these pickles. As I sang the final verse I wondered if they would give you a dog and a Penny before they send you on a mission?

(Mission time!)

On my way to one of my endless, pointless indoctrination classes on those three-hour Sundays I would often hear about different young MEN on their missions and how they were doing. This was at a time when Missionaries could only call home TWICE a year.

Sister A: Oh, did I tell you? Devon called last night!

Sister B: Oh wow! How’s he doing?

Sister A (trying to fight back tears): He’s doing great! He’s…he’s really feeling the spirit.

Sister B: Oh, I don’t know how you do it. Sending your boy to Central America with the condition that it’s in.

Sister A: Well, he’s got the spirit of the Lord to protect him!

Yeah, well the spirit doesn’t stop motherfuckers from being stabbed and murdered. Actually, last I checked God has caused more deaths than he’s stopped. However, that didn’t stop people from subtly pressing young MEN into committing two of their most formative years to being door-to-door salesman of the wild ramblings of a film-flam artist and con-man.

(That part.)

There was a guy in our Ward who had his picture on the wall of honor for achieving his Eagle Scout. He was an honestly good guy, always even-keeled and always looked out for us younger kids. I got picked on as a kid frequently because I had glasses bigger than my fucking face (hey, it was the 90’s) and this guy would always step in and stop kids from picking on me.

(I was official hammer-holder on all household repairs)

Anyway, Brother Good Guy came of age and it was floated around that he would probably be called on his Mission soon. His Mother and Father scraped together every single spare nickel and dime they had, even reaching out to people in the church to help with the costs. For a church that prides itself on how much money it makes, it’s fucking atrocious that it charges its poorest members to go out and do its dirty work. Somehow they got enough to send him on his mission.

There was a big farewell party for him at the Ward. Everybody, and I mean EVERYBODY was there. This guy was very well liked. Brother Good Guy stood with Mother and Father Good Guy, receiving kisses from the old ladies and vigorous handshakes from the old men. I was about 12 at this point and I went up and just thanked him for looking out for me when I was younger. He tousled my hair and gave me a handshake. The party all culminated when the Bishop and Father Good Guy gave a blessing to him, essentially ensuring him that God would be on his side. He was a made man.

Every Sunday, I’d pass the wall of honor, looking up at the proud portraits of all those ‘white and delightsome’ people, thinking if they’d ever fuck up and put my picture up there. For what, I don’t know. Probably ‘Least Likely to Get Your Daughter Pregnant.’ Even though I knew I didn’t belong there, I still went by the wall every Sunday and waved to the picture of Brother Good Guy, wished him luck, and went on to another boring Sunday with a bunch of boring honkies.

One Sunday a few months later my Mom told me that I needed to say a prayer for Brother Good Guy. Immediately, I suspected the worst.

“He’s sick? Is he hurt?”

“No, he’s…” Mom started, but didn’t know how to answer. “Just pray.” So I did. Even though I didn’t believe it would work, I hedged my bets and prayed. He was a good guy, I didn’t want anything bad to happen.

The next Sunday I did my usual circuit past the wall of honor to do my usual good luck wave when I noticed that something was drastically different. I looked up at the wall, but I could not find the portrait of Brother Good Guy, only a ring of dirt where his picture once hung. Maybe it fell, I thought and I scanned the floor for the picture. Nothing was on the floor. I overheard hushed tones in the hallway on the way to the morning services, but I couldn’t make anything out. It sounded serious. I sat next to my Mom, flipping through the hymnal, when from the corner of my eye I saw Mother and Father Good Guy making their way into the chapel. They had forlorn looks on their faces. I also saw what was distinct and absolutely recognizable shame. Had something happened to Brother Good Guy?

They took their seats, leaving a space between the two of them. The chatting of the congregation died at once. I looked up to see Brother Good Guy, his head hung low, making the long walk to the vacant space between his parents. A sigh of relief came out of me accompanied by a smile. Brother Good Guy was ok! I’d have to remember to give him a big hello when I could. However, I noticed that no-one else seemed to be as excited as I was. The most odd was that his parents actually looked embarrassed to be seen with him. Clearly something was going on that I wasn’t hip to.

During the day I made my way to the bathroom to relax and reflect on the oddness that was going on in the Ward. I locked myself in the handicapped bathroom because I really enjoyed the space. Shortly after, the sound of the door bouncing open was followed by two loud boisterous voices doing a healthy about of shit talking. I eavesdropped on the conversation because this was an era before cell-phones and bathrooms were low-tech.

Brother Dude #1: Dude, I heard he he didn’t even unpack his bags before he wanted to go home.

Brother Dude #2: No dude, I heard that he froze up on his first house call. He got there and he didn’t know anything about the Book of Mormon. He just stuttered like a weenie!

Brother Dude #1: Can you believe that he showed up today? Man, I wouldn’t show my face after bailing out of a Mission!

Brother Dude #2: I know! I’d rather die than come back early!

That was it? He came home early? That’s all? I sat and listened to them shit talk even more, fighting the urge to go out and kick their asses. Brother Good Guy had done so much for these two little shits and here they were, talking about him like he was a punk.

After classes I scoured the hallway, looking for Brother Good Guy, hoping to tell him that I still respected him. I looked all around, but I couldn’t find him. I wasn’t even able to find Father and Mother Good Guy. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure that with the exception of a Ward picnic, that was the last time I saw him at church. I’m still not entirely sure what happened to him on his mission that cut it so short. Maybe he got homesick, something so natural and understandable for an 18 year-old? Maybe he saw something on his mission that fucked him up? After all, not everyone gets sent to Orlando.

Maybe he had doubts about the church? This is the one that I think about often. Maybe he wasn’t drinking the Kool-Aid anymore. I’ll never know for sure. What I do know is that from the moment that he came home early, he was DEAD. All that respect and love was GONE. All that was left was a dirty ring on a wall where his picture once was.

Something in that conversation triggered a memory from when I was a kid, all those years ago in primary. The rhetoric, the pressure that every young boy feels to live up to, all flooded back to me listening to that shit-talking session in the bathroom. The picture was gone from the wall of honor because he failed in his ultimate duty. His past accomplishments, even his character was worth less because of his inability to finish his mission. Anything less than total success is total failure. There is no middle ground.

The most frightening image that sticks with me, even all these years later, is that of one of my Primary classmates with a Future Missionary name tag on. This little angelic steward of religious furvor strutted into Primary, chest puffed out, and sat in the front row. Our Primary teacher, a weepy middle-aged woman without any children, rushed over and swept him up into a suffocatingly long hug.

(One ticket to therapy, please!)

“Look!” she turned to the rest of us, “he’s got the right idea! Heavenly Father will be so lucky to have him on a mission!”

The little boy looked up at her with a stoic pride uncharacteristic of non-indoctrinated children, and replied “I’d go tomorrow if I could, but Mom says I have homework to finish!”

The Primary teacher let out a howl of laughter and crunched him up into a hug one more time. He sat down next to me, polished his name tag, and opened his well-worn scriptures. In that moment, I think a part of me understood what just happened. I didn’t feel jealous. On the contrary, I think that I felt sorry for the kid. He was fucked. He HAD to go now. Shit, if you don’t stick to your mission commitment after that, I don’t know what you’d do.

I felt sorry for him because I knew something that the teacher probably didn’t know. Kids that young have no idea how to order Future Missionary name tags, so it must have been either the parents or someone in the church that gave him that. In any case, it doesn’t matter who gave it to him. This was a choice that was made for him and that he just got tricked into thinking it was his own.

In the meantime, I raise a glass of Fruitopia for our Brothers and Sisters still suffering from the malady of organized religion. Till next time!