Bigotry in Television: Target: Mormons

My Dear Reader,

Imagine that one of the bigwigs at one of those big cable networks has a pitch for a new series called Bjudaism. You see, it's all about this fictional religious group of Americans with big, long beards and funny skullcaps who are trying to hide the fact that they sacrifice animals to their god. Oh, and it turns out that they have this weird thing against Germans. Hilarious, right? "I know what you're thinking," the bigwig says to his colleagues, each with a wig of a similar size, "but even though it sounds a lot like that non-fictional religious group, this is a television show, and we'll make sure that the people in the show are just different enough that the network can legally claim that what we're doing is fiction, but close enough to really, really confuse our audience and completely make a mockery of the religious and moral beliefs of an entire people."

Every Mormon (and some of other faiths) reading this knows exactly what I'm talking about, but let me finish my fictional scenario before I talk about the real one. First of all, there is no way that Bjudaism would ever be green-lighted in any country outside of Palestine, because in most places, Judaism, the real deal, is respected and honored by non-Jews. Second of all, if it actually got green-lighted, there would be a world-wide uproar like you've never seen. We're talking riots, here. And though I don't believe in violence, I would personally be very upset about it, even though I'm not Jewish. I would not be alone, especially among my fellow Mormons. Mormons would stand behind the Jews one hundred percent, to be sure, because we firmly believe that all people have the right to worship as they choose, even if they don't worship how we chose. It's actually number eleven out of our thirteen most fundamental beliefs, to be precise.

This same kind of mockery has been made of our faith. It's called Big Love, and it essentially portrays a parody of the Mormon faith, or the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They might as well call it Bmormonism. Like Bjudaism, which would make you believe that Jews still practice animal sacrifice, Big Love would have you believe that Mormons still practice polygamy, something we gave up about the same time Americans gave up slavery. Do people ask you if you're "still" a slave owner? Well, people ask us if we're "still" polygamists, and this doesn't help. The most frustrating thing about being a Mormon in this world is that even though we literally go door to door to explain to people who we are and what we believe, there are only a handful of people out there who actually listen to us, and much fewer that understand us. We are probably the least understood religion of our size in the world.

Speaking of size, there's a reason why I chose to contrast Mormonism with Judaism: we are about equal in numbers at thirteen million each, worldwide. In fact, there are actually more Mormons in America than there are Jews. So I figure if the Jews are a people, the Mormons are, too, and that's how I like to think of the members of my church: my people.

Last Sunday,* Big Love just got worse by completely desecrating one of our most sacred practices: eternal marriage. I used the words "desecrate" and "sacred" carefully, because they accurately describe what's happening here. When something is sacred, it is so important, so special, and so holy that it must be treated a certain way. When it's not treated a certain way, the sacred thing is desecrated, or in other words, it has been defiled. The Lord's name is sacred, so when you use the Lord's name when you aren't talking about the Lord, especially when you use the His name as a curse word, then you have desecrated that name. My name isn't sacred, so if you used it as a curse word, it wouldn't really matter. And honestly, if it would stop you from using the Lord's name as a curse word, go right ahead.

To my people, marriage is one of the most important things in this life, if not the most important thing. It's so important that we believe that marriage can last after death in what we call eternal marriage, and eternal marriage is so scared, so holy that the marriage ceremony has to be conducted in a sacred place. We call these places temples, and we have them all over the world. Temples, and more importantly, what goes on inside them are so important that we Mormons have a special way of treating them to ensure that their sacred nature is preserved, just like we have a special way of treating the Lord's name. One of the most important ways we protect the sacred nature of certain things in the temple is that we don't talk about it unless we're actually inside the temple. This confuses a lot of people, and it leads them to believe that we're doing crazy things in temples, and you would not believe the kinds of things that I've heard. The plain truth is that some things are to be kept private not because they're vile, but because they're personal, like medical records or credit scores. More importantly, they're sacred, and broadcasting temple practices violates the sacred nature of the temple.

Big Love doesn't understand this, or if they do, they must really hate us Mormons, because last Sunday, they tried to recreate the eternal marriage ceremony--something that is so sacred and holy that we believe that God has directed us to keep it inside the holy temple--and broadcast it on national television. It's like taking a yarmulke and throwing it like a Frisbee, except for much, much worse. Actually, it's more like taping sex between a married couple and airing it during morning cartoons: an abomination, and again, I'm choosing my words carefully. This is a desecration of my people's most sacred beliefs, and yet, it's perfectly acceptable because we Mormons are not understood or respected enough to get the same treatment as other religious groups, such as the Jews.

The Mormon Church, or the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, has issued a statement on the matter, which you can find here. I highly encourage you to read it, because in my opinion it is not only appropriate, but also very smart. It essentially requests that we all ignore Big Love, and I very much agree. In fact, the only reason I wrote this post in the first place was to help people understand what was really going on here and why it's such a big deal to Mormons.

If you consider yourself to be a tolerant person, or a respectful person, I hope that I have helped you understand that Big Love espouses values that oppose what you believe in, because it is an act of religious bigotry by not only fostering misunderstanding about a religion, but also by desecrating what it believes to be holy. And because Big Love equals bigotry, I would encourage any tolerant, respectful person, of any religion or creed, to do the tolerant thing and not watch it. Ignore it. Watch something else. That's really what will make it go away. In fact, I would say that not watching Big Love is the American thing to do, and remember, Americans are my people, too.

Regards, best wishes, and true tolerance,

-Cecily Jane

*One thing that I do find funny in all of this is that Big Love airs on Sunday, a day that Mormons generally don't watch television because we believe that it's the Lord's day, you know, Commandment Number Four?

Congratulations! You Are Now Significantly Less Lame than You Were Yesterday

My Dear Reader,

On the 5th of March, in the year of our Lord two-thousand and nine, Miss Cecily Jane Harris, at the tender age of twenty-three, received a driver's license.

I know.

And just in case you're wondering, I've never had my license revoked or suspended or anything; I just hadn't gotten around to it yet. Yes, I used to be that lame. I'm the second oldest out of the six kids in my family, but I was the second to last to drive legally, beating out Youngest, who is twelve years old. That means that for the past few months I've been living in Oregon, I've had to ask my seventeen-year-old brothers to drive me around. Sure, it was slightly embarrassing, but they were driving me in my Madre's van, which tends to have that effect despite the circumstances.

The hard thing about this whole process is that the longer it took me to go into the DMV office, the more reasons I had to not go in at all. I mean, it's not like I could just put my hair in a pony tail and try to pull off being sixteen. Two weeks ago, I finally mustered up the courage to go in and take my first driving test, and the only way it could have been a bigger disaster was if someone had been injured. In fact, I was so upset about it, that I wrote my drive tester, who I will refer to as DMV Lady, into the story I posted last week, and it was pretty much like that minus the crash. She was already in a bad mood, and she got even more upset when HermanaMayor's small car didn't fit her rather large body very easily. It just went downhill from thee, because the more upset she got, the more nervous I became, and the more nervous I became, I would make mistakes and make her even more upset. Like I said, it was awful.

After a reasonable recovery period, I went back for more, praying that I wouldn't get DMV Lady again, and when I saw her behind the counter, I admit that I started freaking out a little. But this time i was with a friend who brought his lucky pants and joked with the other DMV lady who checked me in. Well, it turned out that The Other DMV Lady was my drive tester that time, probably because DMV Lady saw me and refused to ever be in the car with me ever again. It's kind of nice to know that we share a mutual affection, that DMV Lady and I. Anyway, it turns out that I can drive pretty well when the person in the passenger's seat doesn't think that I'm trying to murder them, and The Other DMV Lady was pleased to inform me that I had passed. She had no way of knowing that passing that test meant overcoming on of the greatest hurdles in my life.

I'm sure that you have at least some idea the kind of stuff I've had to put up with from family and friends in the last seven years, especially since I have three little brothers who relish any chance they have to one-up me--but no more! There is no longer an asterisk next to my name in the Book of Awesomeness, which petty much means that I can move up from spot number twelve to spot number nine, at least. That's right; I am now even more awesome than Barbra Streisand. That's quite an accomplishment, at twenty-three.

Don't tell Miss Streisand, though. She gets it hard enough as it is.

Regards, best wishes, and awesomeness,

-Cecily Jane

Character Naming 101

My Dear Reader,

If you knew how much time I spend looking at baby name websites, you would probably be very much concerned. Sometimes, I wonder if I think about names more than expecting parents do, and I might. You see, it just so happens that baby name resources are also perfect when you have to name a fictional character, which I do a lot.

I really like to take special care when I match a name to a character, because no matter what Shakespeare says, a name carries meaning. You think something differently about a Hank than you would a Henry, in terms of age, social class, and even personality. A Leonard is older than a Michael. A Susan is more serious as an Ashley, and etc. Perhaps the most fascinating part for me is the meanings and origins of the names, because sometimes a beautiful names will have an ugly meaning, or vice versa, like my name, which means "blind." I sometimes use a name meaning as irony or to decribe the most basic, essential layer of a character's outlook in life, personal mission, or function in the story. You can name your character after a real or fictional person to connect your story to the outside world in a variety of ways. In the end, names are actually very important in a story. Here are some names I find especially interesting at the moment:

• Roland ("famous land," or after this Roland)
• Eloise ("famous warrior")
• Angus ("one strength")

Last names are a little bit different, because they aren't as personal and don't have to be as unique. Still, I find that the right last name is still important for characterization. When it comes to last names, I generally get what I need from my trusty writer's notebook, where I write down pretty much every interesting last name that I see. When I worked in the MTC Cafeteria this was a piece of cake, since I could just scribble down the missionaries' names from their name tags as they walked by. Nowadays, I get my names off of everything from street signs to the British Parliament. Here are some real names I've found:

• Sweat
• Vendassi
• Salterthwaite
• Rowberry
• Wipf
• Prentice
• Brazier

I know that it might seem a little trivial to you, Gentle Reader, but names are something that I actually think about a lot. It might have somethingt to do with the fact that my name means "blind son of Harry," which is less than an accurate description, or perhaps the fact that it's a lot easier for me to solve fictional problems than it it to solve the problems in my life. Either way, the next time you see me take my notebook out of my purse and scribble something down, maybe you could suggest a name for me to add to my list.

Regards, best wishes, and roses,

-Cecily Jane

Short Story "Blind Date"

My Dear Reader,

I apologize for missing my post last Tuesday. The truth is that I found out about the tragic loss of a friend just before I sat down to write my post and, well, it just didn't work out. I hope that you will instead enjoy a light-heearted story I wrote over the weekend. I often write stories to help me get over things, and this story acted as a kind of therapy to help me through an unrelated (and essentially trivial) circumstance. I'll see you again on Tuesday.

"Blind Date"

By Cecily Jane
The way that Wilbur’s sweaty head shone in the yellow porch light made it resemble a serving of mashed potatoes, smothered in butter and surrounded by a meager helping of black gravy. Sweat was seeping out of his hands, so that salty beads were casually weaving their way down the stems of the carnations he was holding. He could run right now and no one would know, except her. Even then, she would probably think that he hadn’t come at all. He could go right back to work tomorrow and tell Cheryl that everything had worked out just as terribly as he had warned her that they would, and then give her enough disappointing details to make her buy it. Heaven knew that his brain was concocting a new horrendous scenario a second.

It took him a full five minutes before he mustered the courage to dry his hands on his khaki pants, leaving a thick, dark streak in their wake. He knocked on the door. The sharp yapping of a dog started before Wilbur could bring his knuckles back to the flowers, and it was the kind of barking that came from a dog that would bite.

He was opening the door to the passenger side of his Buick before he knew it. What did she say her name was? He should write it down somewhere, just in case. She had a hard time getting in at first, and had to recline the seat a little to fit. He was relieved to see that she was about as heavy as he was; one less thing that he had to worry about. He usually reclined the seat a little, too. He waited for her to buckle her seatbelt before he started the car and pulled out to the empty street.

“You didn’t put your blinker on,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“Your blinker—you’re supposed to put it on when you merge into traffic.”

“Oh.”

There was silence in the car before Wilbur managed a strained, “So how do you know Cheryl?”

“We used to work together,” she said. Wilbur could see a scowl start to form on her face.”

“So where do you work now?” he said.

“At the DMV.”

“Doing what?”

“Drive tests.”

“Ah,” Wilbur said, making sure that he had turned his headlights on and checking his mirrors an extra time. He could tell by her voice that she really wanted to work just about anywhere else.

“How do you know her?” she finally asked.

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Cheryl.”

Wilbur gulped loudly. “I work with her now.”

“At the capitol?”

“That’s right.”

The wheel was starting to get slippery in Wilbur’s hands, and he hoped that she wouldn’t notice as her eyes periodically darted towards his speedometer. As they went down a hill, he saw her clutch the armrest out of the corner of his eye. He checked his mirrors again.

The stop at the light wasn’t as smooth as Wilbur meant it to be, and he closed his eyes for a second so he wouldn’t see her shake her head at him.

“It’s green,” she said. She hadn’t loosened her grip on the armrest.

“Oh, thanks.”

“So, tell me about yourself,” she more demanded than requested.

“Well, I . . . I . . .” The wheels squeaked a little.

“Are you purposely staying in that van’s blind spot?”

“No, I . . .”

“Slow down! You’re going forty in a construction zone!” she shrieked.

“Um . . .”

“Did you just change lanes in an intersection?”

He let off the gas, but the car kept going faster, and faster, and somehow the steering wheel melted away as he tried to put on the break, but the car was screeching out of control even louder than his date was. And then, though the car was speeding up, time seemed to slow down. He saw the intersection come closer and closer, but he couldn’t do anything about it. They were doing to die.

When the blue Buick collided with the side of the Chevy, Wilbur could hear the scratching of metal against metal. He could smell the burned rubber. He could even feel the impact throw him against his seatbelt. But more than anything, he could hear the incessant screaming that came from the passenger seat. If only he could close his ears.

***

Wilbur opened his eyes to find himself still on the front porch, holding carnations and sweating like a pig. It had all been in his head—the woman, her job, the crash. Realizing how long he had been holding his breath, Wilbur took a deep breath and hailed a cab.

-Cecily Jane

Sister Moments: When Your Little Sister Gets Married before You . . .

My Dear Reader,

When your little sister gets married before you do, you have to be a bridesmaid.

And when you have to be a bridesmaid, you have to go buy a dress.

I know what you may be expecting: that I'd be jealous because my younger sister is getting married first. The truth is that I'm not really the jealous type. It's also true that PetiteSoeur is going to marry a guy that I'd very much like to have as a brother-in-law, and while I won't go into the -they're-so-good-for-each-other brand of mush, believe me when I say that I could. And it's an honor to be bridesmaid, of course. I just find the whole process a lot less comfortable than I expected. And I hate buying dresses.

I'm just not cut out for this, I think. It involves two things that I hate most: being told what to wear, and wearing a dress for longer than one hundred and eighty minutes. Oh yeah, and there's the whole "look good for the pictures" aspect of it, which could get pretty ugly. I'm the kind of girl who likes to watch musicals, read Jane Austen, and bake things. I leave all of the other girly things to my sisters, and they generally have no problem picking up the slack. Unfortunately, there's no time for that when a wedding is involved.

I don't want you to think the wrong thing, Gentle Reader: PetiteSoeur isn't any bridezilla, not by a long shot. But when one sister is the bride and the other is the maid of honor, and you are the kind of person who doesn't get pushed around, there tends to be a lot of tongue-biting that goes on, from each side. And when the bride, the maid of honor, and the mother of the bride have conflicting ideas about things, the last place you want to be is in a dressing room, half naked and listening to some overly-fluffy eighties faux-music. Can you die from an overdose of estrogen? I just might.

Of course, I have considered that the problem behind this mess might be my unwillingness to let go of PetiteSoeur, but there's not enough time to worry about that. I have a wedding to be part of. In three months.

Regards, best wishes, and solidarity,

-Cecily Jane

I Say We Boycott!

My Dear Reader,

As you may recall, I posted my English wish list a few months ago, chock full of some things we could add to our lovely language in order to make it even better than it is. It has also occurred to me, however, that we might improve our language just as well by taking some things as we might by putting some things in. And so, Gentle Reader, I will now present to you a small list of linguistic habits that we should boycott, if only for the greater good of our language.

BOYCOTT:

• Rhyming "friend" with "end."
  
  I believe that we've reached that statute of limitations on this one. It has been used so many times that it's been worn out. This makes no sense at all, since according to Rhymezone.com there are somewhere around fifty other words that rhyme either "friend" or "end." I don't care if "you're such a great friend and our friendship will never end" is a good sentiment or not; you don't always have to express the same feelings with the same exact vocabulary! Otherwise, we wouldn't have word like "portend," for one. And by the way, here's some advice just in case you happen to be an aspiring poet or lyricist: explaining something that has been explained the same way before in exactly the same way equals bad writing.
  


• "Putting a smile on his/her face."
  
  Ugh. This phrase is so sappy that I feel all sticky inside whenever I hear or read it. And I mean sticky in the worst possible way. On the inside. Not only is it over-used, essentially meaningless, and the earmark of a pansy, but it makes less sense the more you think about it. After all, doesn't using "put" imply force? Physical force, even? Because when you put a tray of assorted cheeses on a table, you are physically forcing the cheese to be in that tray and on that table. And if somebody reached over to you, grabbed both sides of your mouth, and forced them into an upward position, wouldn't you be the opposite of happy? I don't know about you, but anytime someone tells me how to smile I get that tingly feeling that always accompanies a very strong urge to punch the offender's teeth out. I mean, how dare they try to tell me how to feel? But maybe I'm over-analyzing that one.
  
• "Prego," "preggers," "baby bump," and the like
  
  Okay, I know that this might make me sound a little snobby, but I honestly believe that children have the right to be treated with respect, even before they are born. I also fear for anyone who uses these words to describe their own child(ren)-to-be, for I would think that s/he probably doesn't know that pregnancy results in babies and not American Girl dolls. It is also possible that the person in question does not know the difference between a new born and Samantha Parkington. I can only imagine that delivery day would only bring disappointment for all involved.

That's all for now; feel free to add more boycott items in the comments!

Regards, best wishes, and languistic sanity,

-Cecily Jane

The Mormon-Other Faith Dictionary, Young Women Edition

My Dear Reader,

If you would like to learn a little about Mormonism, or of you are looking for a way to explain your faith to those who believe otherwise, I have compiled a list of some terms and explanations that should ease the process. This first batch contains the definitions that relate to the Young Women of the Church, and there is more to come.

The Mormon-Other Faith Dictionary: Young Women Edition

Deacon: N. 1. The lowest office in the clergy, an unpaid position. 2. A Mormon male who is generally twelve or thirteen years old and is found worthy to be ordained into the office. 3. Someone of the male sex who is unbelievably immature.

Teacher: N. 1. The second-lowest office in the clergy, also unpaid, and rarely requires teaching. 2. A Mormon male who is generally fourteen or fifteen years old and is found worthy to be ordained into the office. 3. One who teaches, as in a lesson.

Priest: N. 1. The office higher than Teacher in the clergy, also unpaid. 2. A Mormon male who is generally sixteen or seventeen years old and is found worthy to be ordained into the office and is in charge of things.

Young Women: N. 1. Mormon women who are older than eleven and younger than eighteen. 2. The organization which encompasses these young women, offering a compulsory one-hour meeting on Sundays and compulsory one-to-two-hour meetings one night during the week.
Beehive: N. 1. A Mormon female who is twelve or thirteen years old. 2. Someone of the female sex who is unbelievably immature, esp. if she is irritatingly peppy and talks too much.
Mia Maid: N. 1. A Mormon female who is fourteen or fifteen years old, "Mia" being the initials the old name of their organization, the Mutual Improvement Association.
Laurel: N. 1. A Mormon female who is sixteen or seventeen years old, esp. if she believes that she rules the world.
Calling: N. An unpaid position in the Church, usually at the local level. Every Mormon over the age of eighteen is supposed to have one calling or another, though some get them earlier. All callings are technically considered equal, despite the fact that the church is comprised of imperfect people living in a class-conscious environment.
Beehive Presidency: N. Beehives who have absolutely no authority or responsibility whatsoever, except for giving ideas about selected activities. This position exists primarily so the beehives will stop whining about adults running and ruining their lives.

Mia Maid Presidency: N. Mia Maids who have absolutely no authority or responsibility whatsoever, except for planning two activities a month. This position exists primarily so the Mia Maids will stop whining about how lame the activities are.
Laurel Presidency: N. Laurels who have the responsibility of planning activities, conducting meetings, and deciding who gets to pray. This position exists primarily in the hope that these girls will learn something about responsibility.
EFY: N. Especially For Youth, a week-long Church camp held at college campuses across the nation in which the more pretentious Mormon youth can be among their own kind. Attending EFY is very desirable for Mormon youth who want to be around other Mormon youths, but is even more desirable for parents who want their Mormon teens to see what good kids look like.
Seminary: N. 1. A four-year-long program in which Mormon high schoolers are forced to take time out of their daily schedule (usually during the "sleep" portion) and go to a class five times a week, with the main purpose to encourage them to finally do some serious studying of the Scriptures.
Regards, best wishes, and teen girls,
-Cecily Jane