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| I figure, with such a bubbly past, she's an ideal guest for this week's Friendly Friday post! |
At the time I, a really cool teenager, thought she was a mom-jean-wearing, know-nothing, lamezoid.
Since then, however, I have sincerely regretted my inability to really know and understand her as an adult. It was after her death that, digging through her things, found an article she wrote for American Atheist in 1985. She was nearly the age I am today.
Uncovering this and reading it was a crazy look not only at my mom, but at a political time-capsule that I think is slightly more worthwhile of a Throwback Thursday than a picture of me eating ice cream last week.
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| "OMG member when der was ice cream?? So good. Much ice ages."" |
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| "Boo have my blessssssings." |
(Fair warning, btw, I had to retype this from a very old photocopy, so if there are any mistakes, that's my bad.)
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THE GRIP OF MORMON PATRIARCHY
Mormon men have absolute control over their families. Church leaders (always male) control the members' spiritual lives, and Mormon women are carefully indoctrinated to fervently support the system that oppresses them. When I was a young child, I saw how patriarchy in the Mormon church promoted violence. As a teenager, I learned the power of guilt and fear in controlling church members' lives. After nineteen years of repressed rebellion, I experienced the ultimate Mormon nightmare -- excommunication.
The Mormon church in the area where I grew up was filled with societal misfits, the poor, and the ignorant. It seemed to attract them to it -- I'm not sure why except that perhaps these were the easiest for the missionaries to convert. One family that attended my hometown church seemed to define the misfit category: the Pyke family with its patriarch, Brother Leland Pyke.
Brother Pyke and his wife Jane had five children: Mary, Elizabeth, Faith, Melody, and Leland, Jr. All but Elizabeth were, at least to some degree, intellectually impaired.
The Pykes lived on Jackass Hill, the ugliest section of an incredible unsightly valley, because of the scarring done by a hundred years of corporate mining. Their house was the most shockingly dumpy on a squalid street lined by falling-down shacks. Car seat sofas and weeks of garbage furnished the front porch, and the yard was strewn with cast-off clothing and car parts. Grass had to be carefully nurtured in that area. Needless to say, the Pyke yard was sun-baked dirt.
Thinking back, I can see that the Pykes must have been incredibly poor -- I never remember any one of them sporting a new article of clothing, and they had the same beat-up station wagon all the years I lived there. Brother Pyke had once been a miner and after the mine wore his body out, he was on company disability. When that ran out, he turned to government assistance. During the weekdays Brother Pyke stayed home with June and the kids. He rarely spoke, never smiled, and ruled his clan with fierce domination.
One Sunday about the year 1969, my mother herded my two big brothers, my sister, and me into the church for Sacrament Meeting. My father was a non-member, so Mama had the sole responsibility for her children's spiritual upbringing. She carried and still carries this burden with earnest resolve.
We sat down in one of the middle rows behind the Pyke family just in time for the service to begin. I sat at the end of the bench by Mama, and Gus sat by Callie, teasing her and making her giggle softly. Chuck, the oldest at twelve, was a recent initiate into the church's patriarchal power structure -- he was a "deacon," the lowest rung on the ladder and had the duty of passing the trays which carried the sacrament; so he sat in front in his designated seat, facing the congregation.
The speakers for the evening were Sister Anderson, Brother Truman, and Brother Slaughter. Halfway through, Sister Anderson's dejected sounding talk, Leland, Jr. wiggled and shifted his weight on the solid wood bench. Brother Puke woke up from his habitual church meeting nap, mid-snore, just long enough to glare down the row of Pykes at Leland, who transferred his uneasy gaze from his father to his dusty, cracked, black vinyl shoes, size 12. Unaware of the sudden tension Brother Pyke's awakening had aroused, Sister Anderson droned sadly on about the necessity of sincere repentance to eternal salvation.
I sat stonily with my head leaning against Mama's shoulder, thinking how relieved I was that Brother Pyke wasn't my father. I watched him sleep, his long black nose hairs swaying to the rhythm of his breathing, he was as frightening and pathetically comical as a Dickens' villain. With a sighing breath, Sister Anderson intoned the traditional closing words: "I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen," and seated herself with her family. Taking advantage of the short respite between speakers, a pair of young mothers escaped into the foyer with their restless babies tucked under their arms. I listened with interest as old Brother Truman, a special friend to my brothers and me, began his talk.
"It is not enough to repent, brothers and sisters. You must prove how much you regret your sins by promising not to repeat them, and by doing your best to keep that promise," counseled the humble, old man. Uncomfortable, familiar twinges of guilt tugged at my consciousness, and I stopped listening to my old friend, observing instead the bent heads of Leland and Melody. The brother and sister seemed to be suppressing a dispute over which one would hold the hymnal. As Leland whisked the book from Melody's grasp, Brother Pyke stretched a long arm behind his wife and two daughters and gave an open-handed whack to the back of his son's head. Leland strangled the wail that surged up his throat and cradled his head in both hands, moaning quietly, but not quietly enough.
Brother Pyke held the attention of the entire congregation, a few looking on with horrified disapproval, others with passive approbation, as he propelled his terrified son out of the chapel, cuffing him every few steps, and closing the door behind him.
I looked into my mother's eyes, which reflected the helpless pity in my own,and we both tried to block out the muffled sounds of the beating taking place in the hall.
As Brother Pyke returned to his seat without Leland, Brother Truman's expression of angry confusion was replaced by weary relief, and he continued his talk.
I can still remember the bitter abhorrence I felt when, after the meeting was over and the incident nearly forgotten, I saw Brother Pyke approach the station wagon where Leland cowered in the back seat.
As a young child, I saw the obvious evil in the church's permission of the physical abuse of a helpless boy. Not until I was a teenager did I begin to understand how the Mormon power structure manipulated its members through their feelings of guilt and fear. Mormons feel guilty when they disregard the code of behavior laid out in Mormon doctrine, so to avoid guilt feelings, they obey. If a Mormon is not motivated by guilt-avoidance, surely the fear of god's wrath will guide her, as Mary Daly explains: "Women are silenced/split by the embedding of fears. These [unreadable] and injected fears function... (like) electrodes implanted in the brain of a victim who can be managed by remote control" (Gyn/Ecology, 19). As a teenager, I resented the church's "remote control" intrusion into my life, especially its most personal aspect -- my sexuality.
A Mormon bishop has the responsibility for maintaining the righteousness of his congregation and so must conduct one-to-one inquiries into the private lives of the members of his flock. These meetings are called "interviews," and they take place as a matter [unreadable] once a year after a Mormon has reached adolescence.
When I was sixteen, I was called into the bishop's office for my first interview. I was quite nervous, because except for a casual passing greeting, Bishop Martin never deigned to speak to us girls -- unless there was some kind of problem. I meekly followed him into his office.
Bishop Martin was not a terribly likable kind of guy; he was young (mid-thirties), attractive, aware of the importance of his position, and proud that he had attained such eminence at such a young age. I could tell that he found the prospect of an interview with me only slightly less disagreeable than I did myself.
He began with a few, obviously perfunctory pleasantries: "How is school going," he asked, and not waiting for a reply, continued, "Are you still getting straight A's?"
I flushed, smiled, and stuttered an affirmative response. Then I despised myself for being taken in by such phony charm.
He confronted me across his tidy desk and looked at the piece of paper in front of him, then he began the serious portion of his unpleasant task.
"Have you been paying a full tithe?" he inquired, with more than a little reproach in his tone; he had the statistics of my scanty and random payments in front of him.
"No, I haven't. I mean to but somehow the money just gets spent. I really will try harder," I mumbled, feeling a familiar dawning of guilt.
"You realize, Sister Spear, that you can't go on the youth temple excursion to [unreadable] next month if you haven't been paying your tithing. Did you intend to go?"
"Well, I really hadn't planned on it," I said, thinking how tithe-paying might be motivated in some cases by the expectation of the fun of a temple excursion.
Bishop Martin, somewhat surprised by my answer, said, "Well then, there really isn't any need for an extensive interview," and brightened at the thought.
"Have you been keeping the Word of Wisdom?"
That meant, basically, had I refrained from smoking, drinking coffee, and drinking alcoholic beverages?
"Yes," I replied with only a twinge of conscience. I thought about the tea I'd had last week at a Chinese restaurant on a debate trip -- it came with the meal; I didn't order it.
"Good, good," he murmured and jotted on the paper.
I was startled to notice perspiration begin to accumulate on the bishop's brow, and I could almost feel the emotional distance he suddenly put between u. In a brisk, slightly scornful tone, he asked, "Have you kept yourself chaste?"
A hot blush pulsed in my face. I had certainly not expected cold Bishop Martin to ask such an intensely personal question. What was I expected to admit, I wondered, as I forced out the response: "Yes, sir. I have." From repeated Sunday School lessons I knew that chastity meant more than being a virgin, which I emphatically was, but I couldn't help recalling recent post-football game romps in the wide receiver's Subaru. However, I would die before I would describe my dating activities to Bishop Martin.
He glanced at my suspiciously, probably wondering whether my severe embarrassment stemmed from feelings of guilt or simply shyness. Returning the note paper to its file, he stood up and stretched out a hand for me to shake. "Well, Sister Spear, I guess that's all. You can go back to class now. Don't forget your tithing."
"Thank you, sir, I won't," I affirmed, as I wiped my damp palms on my skirt and shook his hand.
I didn't go straight back to class. Instead I walked into the ladies' bathroom and sat on a chair in the corner, facing the great rectangular mirror. Slowly, my blush receded and the fierce pounding of my heart subsided.
Waves of humiliation rolled over me, drenching me. As I looked at my now pale reflected image, I wondered why the bishop had to act as an intermediary between god and me; couldn't I confess my sins to him on my own? I had always been told that god listened to everyone's prayers, even women's.
It was months before I could recall the interview without feeling a painful shame.
I had a revolutionary experience when I was a senior in high school: I realized that I was an obedient Mormon, not because I wanted to be one, but because I was afraid I would go to hell if I wasn't. Being idealistic and having a sincere desire to live according to a true and just moral code, I threw off my Mormon, other-wold-orientated morality in favor of a self-defined, this-world ethical code. It has been the most difficult task of my adult life to purge Mormon indoctrination from my subconscious. I believe that Mormonism's greatest evil lies in its shameless brainwashing of children who become so thoroughly trapped in the church's web of guilt and fear that they are never fully able to escape.
I was formally excommunicated from the Mormon church in October of 1980, after being summoned to trial in the Boise 42nd Ward by Bishop Clark and his counsels. The church did not order my departure, rather, I chose it for myself.
As a child, I heard of excommunication only in furtive whispers -- to be excommunicated was, of course, to be a pariah in Mormon society. Most Mormons would scarcely believe that anyone would choose to be banished from an afterlife with god and Christ. But even more incredible to Mormon believers would be the thought that anyone who had once had a testimony that the church was true would later deny that testimony, the punishment for such a denial is to be cast by god into complete darkness, all alone, for eternity.
After seventeen years of bearing my reluctant testimony, I stopped going to church. I wouldn't have said I didn't believe the doctrine, just that I didn't like it. My brother Chuck, who had reached the highest level of the pre-mission Aaronic priesthood, concurrently made the same choice. The inactivity of my brother and me was like a lead weight on Mama's soul; we didn't talk about it.
One summer in 1979, while I was visiting with my mother, she tearfully complained to me that Chuck had been excommunicated at his own request. Being extremely proud of her brilliant son, Mama characteristically made excuses for him: it was the influence of his liberal college professors and radical friends. She said, "It is better for him to be excommunicated than to be a hypocrite." As I listened to her, I felt a little contempt for my brother -- how could he hurt Mama so deeply and for no good reason? If he didn't like the church, he didn't have to attend. To renounce his belief by excommunication seemed unnecessarily cruel.
Months went by, and my feelings concerning my brother's action slowly changed. I read about Sister Sonia Johnson who was persecuted by the Mormon leaders for her stand on the Equal Rights Amendment, Johnson saw Mormon opposition to the ERA as being motivated by fear. "Though the ERA threatens only legal privilege... men of the church... fear the undermining of any sort of male privilege" (Heretic, 252). Sonia Johnson was excommunicated against her will in December of 1979. Newspapers and magazines carried stories about Mormon teenagers who committed suicide because of overwhelming guilt -- one high school boy in Meridian took his own life because he couldn't stop masturbating. I saw television commercials that celebrated this martyrdom of mothers ("You gave me everything you had, Mother. Don't feel bad for missing your master's degree"). One Mormon commercial showed a little boy heartbroken because his friend had complained, "He throws like a girl." I mulled over the way the church had tried to force my multi-talented but unathletic brother into a macho mold. I thought about my little sisters and their ambitions, certain to be squelched or belittled by church leaders. Two years of detached observation showed me that not only did I not believe the church's teachings. I despised them.
Not long after my twentieth birthday, I called my brother to find out how to get myself excommunicated. He said to write a letter to the bishop of my ward requesting it, and to include several heretical comments so there would be no doubts about my sincerity. On a Friday afternoon I received a hand-deliver response to my letter. The bishop's note informed me that the church had decided to act on my request, and the excommunication would take place on October 9th at 6:30 p.m., whether I was in attendance or not. I decided to attend.
Arriving at the church a few minutes early, I sat down outside the bishop's office on a hard wood bench. The Silence in the cold church made me feel a little uneasy. When the door to the bishop's office finally opened, an older man emerged and introduced himself as Bishop Clark. He reached down to shake my hand. I stood, rubbed my palms on my skirt, and returned his greeting. "Nice to met you. I'm Shelley Spear." Then I followed him into his office where I was seated in a chair across from the bishop's desk. Two other men, the bishop's counselors, were present in the room.
"Sister Spear, I hope you know that you didn't have to come here today. This might be upsetting for you." Bishop Clark paused, probably hoping I'd burst into tears and say the whole thing was a mistake.
"I wanted to be here, so that I'd know what actions you'll take, and so that I could clarify any questions you might have about my letter," I said firmly.
"Before we start, I'd just like to say that what we do here is not necessarily final -- if, after a time, you reconsider your feelings, you have the opportunity to have your membership reinstated," Clark explained, discomfited by my apparent self-confidence.
"I won't reconsider, Bishop," I stated flatly.
""All right, then," he said, obviously irritated, "Brother Morgan, we're ready to begin." I turned to look at the person being addressed. The ward clerk sat quietly in the corner by the door, holding a pen poised over a stenopad, ready to transcribe the proceedings.
After clearing his throat, Bishop Clark began the church's case against me. Basically, there were two reasons for granting my request, botht aken from my letter: first, I did not accept the authority of the priesthood, especially that of the Prophet, and second, I did not believe the Book of Mormon and other Mormon doctrine to be the word of god. Then, for my benefit, the bishop added his personal testimony as to the truth of the gospel and the divine inspiration of the priesthood. His counselors, in turn, bore their testimonies. The bishop concluded the case by saying, "Sister Spear, when you leave this building today, the spirit of the Holy Ghost, which has been your companion since you were confirmed a member of the church, will no longer be with you. That little voice of conscience which has helped to guide and shelter you will have been taken away. You will undoubtedly feel lost and alone without him. Let us pray for your safety and happiness, and for your return to god's church.
"Is there anything you would like to say before the closing prayer?" he asked me.
I hesitated, knowing that I could never shake the belief of these four men in the patriarchal structure that gave each his power and importance. But at least they would hear me out, as I had heard them: "Yes, Bishop. I'd like to say that I don't recognize your right to take the Holy Ghost from me, since I don't believe he was yours to give in the first place. And I don't believe in a god who would condemn me for what I've done today. I've only looked for what is right and good, and I haven't found it in the Mormon church. I'll pray for you, Bishop Clark, and for all the members of the church, that someday you'll find truth and happiness."
As I left the church that evening, I admitted to myself that Bishop Clark had been right about one thing: I did feel different. Mormonism had loosened its death-grip on my spirit. I trembled in the crisp May air as I got into the drivers' side of my car and bulled away from the simple, red brick church.
About The Author
Ms. Spear, an English teacher in Idaho's Treasure Valley, gained her familiarity with Mormonism through birth in Utah and long-time residence in an Idaho mining community. She is currently at work on her Master's Degree in English and Secondary Education.
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