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Published anonomously

This is confusing, but maybe it is the best place to begin. . . .

When I was a sophomore at BYU, I had a peculiar run in with the Honor Code Office regarding LGBTQ students and behavior. It was 1989, and I was playing viola in the orchestra pit for an on-campus production of the Tragedy of Carmen. Given common artistic temperaments, a mixed group of singers, dancers and musicians would bond by going to Denny’s after rehearsals and hosting Sunday dinners together. A line from the opera–“You’re mine, daughter of Satan”– would often be belted out ironically when I made my entrance to any one of our shared gatherings.

Eventually, I began to pick up enough bits and pieces of conversation to realize that a good portion of my male friends from this production preferred relationships with men rather than women. That was wonderful for me, as it allowed me to play the role of the classic art-diva gal pal. I didn’t have to worry about dating or wonder if I would be safe late at night while with a group of men. I liked this group. More importantly, I believed in them, because they believed in me.

One day, another of our group, a woman dancer and Young Ambassador, showed up to our shared hangout in the Cougareat, holding out her left hand and squealing with delight about just getting engaged to a fellow Young Ambassador — someone who was not part of the opera production but was well known on campus as an incredible singer and dancer.

After she left, one of my most quiet and trusted gay friends, a returned missionary and grad student, leaned over and told me “She can’t marry this man, or if she does, she needs to understand more about his past.” I asked, “Are you absolutely sure about this one?” And without saying too much, he confirmed that he was definitely sure.

The woman was a friend of mine, but I’m no snitch. So I reached out to her fiancé, assured him I would not speak of it to her or anyone on campus, but told him, and hoped that he would agree, that a conversation between the two of them about his sexual history would be the honorable thing to do.

Two days later I got a call from the Honor Code Office. The fiancé had called them and reported me as a student in the music program who is connected to the closeted gay art scene at BYU. He apparently decided to act preemptively by accusing me, just in case I went against my word and reported him. He told the Honor Code Office that I had called him and accused him of something totally false, and he didn’t want to lose his standing in the community.

I was shocked.

When I arrived at the office two Honor Code Office officials, an older woman and younger man, began to drill me. I was handed a pen and paper and asked to write down the names of all the current students at BYU who I knew to be gay—and to provide any other details I might know about their private lives. My first response was to ask which Honor Code rule I had broken? What had I done to warrant being called in, and where was that rule written, so I would know in the future not break it? There was no answer to my honest question, only more pressure to start making that list. And it had better be complete.

When I declined to provide any names, the woman warned me that they had contacted my student ward bishop and scheduled an interview with him on my behalf. They told me to return after the interview and report what was decided by my bishop. This was prior to ecclesiastical endorsements, and felt like I was having more than my access to an education called into question. It seemed like it was a review of my access to, and membership in, the church itself.

My bishop had only known me for a few months, and the interview was brief. I recall him saying, “You should tell them everything you know, because I don’t want any of my tithing dollars going towards any of those gays.” I left upset and under a double pressure. It seemed that I could not, after all, avoid becoming what I had been ironically labeled: a “Daughter of Satan”—either for telling the Honor Code Office what I knew and bringing condemnation on my friends, or by not telling them anything, losing my standing in the Church, and quite possibly permitting a man to marry my friend under false pretenses. I was damned if I did and damned if I didn’t.

Frustrated, I called home and spoke with my dad, explaining the situation and explaining that anyone I named to Honor Code Office could be expelled, namelessly dropping into the dark shadow economy others kicked out of BYU were now struggling through—many times in life threatening ways. In 1989, the repercussions were devastating. Dad actually chuckled, and said, “They really have no idea what they are dealing with by calling you of all people in, do they? You’ll figure out how to do the right thing, and tell the truth.” Light bulb.

The next day, I walked into the office, sat down, and told them I had met with my bishop, thought and prayed an awful lot about the situation, and they were right. I needed to tell them the truth and exactly what I know — everything I know. “I know …(pause) that no man has ever been in a homosexual relationship with me. That’s what I know. With total certainty, I can guarantee no BYU male student has ever engaged in any homosexual behavior with me. Outside of this true thing, anything I could add would only be rumor. And I don’t do rumors.”

The bad-cop woman officer was visibly angered by this, but the good-cop officer could not contain his genuine laughter, and having no other actual violation to keep me in the interview, said I was free to go.

Soon after the opera closed and we—as dancers, singers and musicians—went back to our individual departments. I lost touch with my dancer friend. I believe she had the conversation with her fiancé, though I cannot attest to whether or not it was a wholly honest one — which, as I can attest to, often happens in the face of this system. Last I recall, the wedding had been postponed, but I don’t know if they actually married, or if the marriage lasted. But I do know that there were two people who mattered in this scenario, not just one.

It matters that a man was being pressured to lie about his nature in order to be married and maintain membership in the Church. And it matters that a woman was being lied to, and possibly lead into a marriage that might never result in genuine intimacy, in order to perpetuate the culture’s ideal of marriage.

In a system where marriage is solely between a man and a woman, who is that woman? Do we know her name? Is her unseen exile into shadow economy any less concerning than the often-named men who also navigate hard in our mixed-orientation religion?

As we debate the place of same-sex affection at the BYUs and within the Church, let us also broaden our vision to see the other silent and unnamed sitting among us—women and men in mixed-orientation, same-faith relationships? Because they are there. We are here.

These stories matter.