Sister Jones didn’t call herself Sister Jones. She actually called herself Mary. However, she was female and she was Mormon, so everyone in her church called her Sister Jones; this included Nancy. Sister Jones had run track while attending Brigham Young University. She won the admiration of her coach and her teammates with her dedication to her sport. She figured, with some of the other girls on her team, that if she was still menstruating then she wasn’t pushing her body enough. So she ran and ran until she didn’t menstruate anymore. And later when she met Brother Jones, no relation at the time, she held off on her sport in order to fall in love. Since having children is what every Mormon lady was born to do, she was naturally heartbroken when, four years later, the doctors informed her that her battered uterus was too scarred and wasted to hold and grow a baby. “What about my eggs?” Oh, they’re fine, just fine; it’s just that her uterus was in slightly better condition than a well-used baseball mitt. So she cried and cried, having her greatest worth stolen from her athletic body by the silver medal she won in the Atlanta Olympic Games.
# # #
Nancy met Sister Jones on an airplane the summer before Nancy got pregnant; Brother Jones was not traveling with his wife at the time. The two women serendipitously found themselves sharing adjacent seats on two different planes from Anchorage, Alaska to Salt Lake City, Utah. Nancy had spent the summer as a tour guide on a small Alaskan island and had used a chunk of the money she earned to upgrade her return flight to Utah into the only first class ticket she had ever bought. Sister Jones had been visiting relatives in Eagle River. Flying first class was habit for her.
They began conversation quite easily as Mormons often do, and they conversed the whole flight quite easily, as Mormons sometimes do. Many life-long friendships begin in the seats of commercial airlines. Nancy and Sister Jones’ relationship was not one of these. It very well could have been, but no. Sometime in their conversations it occurred to Sister Jones that Nancy could serve a very different purpose.
Brother and Sister Jones had recently come to a decision about how they were going to have a child. Nancy listened to Sister Jones’ plight while on the flight from Anchorage to Seattle. The Jones had tried adopting twice and both times each birth mother had legally taken her baby back after two months. The Jones didn’t want that heartache again. Hence their decision.
Nancy asked questions; Sister Jones answered. They sat together in awkward silence at SeaTac International. In that silence, Nancy chose. Not for money. No, she felt herself drawn into a plan much bigger than she could conceive. On the flight from Seattle to Salt Lake, Nancy offered her service.
Sister Jones didn’t hear her right at first. “What did you say?”
“Choose me. I’ll do it.”
Sister Jones paused, considering. Then, “Nancy… this sort of thing is usually done by a woman who has had at least two successful childbirths before.”
Pause.
Then Nancy said, “I’ve had one successful child birth before.” She glanced at Sister Jones to see her reaction. Sister Jones only leaned in a bit and raised her eyebrows a bit. Nancy opened the floodgate, “I was seventeen. I wasn’t going to church at the time, like that’s the reason, right? I mean a whole bunch of girls don’t go to church and they don’t get pregnant.”
Sister Jones interrupted, “I don’t know. I go to church… and I’m NOT pregnant.” She smiled.
Nancy had to laugh. She continued, “It wasn’t like it is on any shows or movies. Even the serious ones. He was a nice boy, a really nice boy. I spent a lot of time over at his place and his parents worked and… I dunno. One thing led to another, you know? After the first time, I was so scared. He was, too. We didn’t even use anything. Which I know is dumb. I mean Planned Parenthood is right up the street, but how do you go into a place like that without having gone into a place like that before, right?” Nancy couldn’t believe she was divulging so much. She felt compelled and she didn’t understand why. She kept going, “We promised each other we wouldn’t, you know, do it again. And we didn’t. Until after my period came then we were both so relieved. And after you do it once and nothing happens, you get kinda stupid. I mean, I always knew there was a chance, and I think he did, too.” Pause. “But I got pregnant a couple months later. His parents totally freaked. His mom even quit her job to stay home all the time to make sure he didn’t go anywhere. My foster parents didn’t seem to care. They got their check from the state regularly, the baby would come just before I turned eighteen, and then they’d be rid of me. The most they did was call the local Bishop who got me in touch with social services… you know, the Church’s social services.”
Sister Jones nodded, waiting for more. Nancy swallowed and went on, “Did you know that less than one percent of unwed mothers give their kid up for adoption? You’d think it be more. I thought of keeping the baby for a while – even while I was working with the social workers and picking out the adopting parents. Which is weird. Picking the parents, I mean. They all fill out these forms that are like classified ads and they just sell themselves. It comes down to picking your flavor of perfection. I would never be like those people. What finally convinced me to do it was Christmas that year. I didn’t have a job and there was no way I was going to be able to give my kid a clean home much less presents. I hear about other pregnant women who feel connected to their baby – like they love it already. That doesn’t happen when you’re scared and your boyfriend’s parents won’t even let you talk to him on the phone and your foster parents are lazy shits who just like their monthly check… sorry…” She looked up at Sister Jones and saw she was crying. Sister Jones reached over and took Nancy’s hand. “I usually don’t swear,” Nancy said, which was a kind of a half truth; she usually didn’t swear half the time. But Sister Jones didn’t seem to mind. Nancy thought it was weird that Sister Jones was holding her hand and crying. Nancy didn’t know where to go next in her confession. Yes, she realized, that’s what it was, a confession. She hadn’t even told a Bishop this much (not until Bishop Christensen, but that would be later). She didn’t feel like crying, which made Sister’s Jones’s tears all the weirder. A shock of turbulence prodded Nancy to conclude, “Anyway, I’ve had one successful birth. She was born healthy. So they tell me, I told them I didn’t even want to see her… I kinda regret that now, but it’s okay.” Suddenly she felt tears starting to come. She swallowed once. Then twice, and fought them down.
###
Sister Jones thought about this, and thought about this. She liked Nancy, and she felt good about using Nancy. Sister Jones had healthy eggs and Nancy looked like she had a healthy body. Nancy may or may not have needed the money that Brother and Sister Jones were willing to pay. But Nancy didn’t even talk about the money. Sister Jones sensed another reason – one she didn’t understand.
When the plane landed in Salt Lake International, Brother Jones met his wife at the baggage claim. No one waited for Nancy. She wasn’t surprised. The Jones hugged and kissed and such. Nancy waited. Brother Jones, who didn’t notice Nancy, spoke first.
“Good news, honey!”
“What’s that?”
“The lawyers tracked down a single mother in Vernal. She’s had three successful births and no miscarriages.” Pause “Isn’t that great?”
“Vernal? Isn’t that a bit far away?”
“Oh, it won’t be too bad. We’d be able to drive there once a month.”
Sister Jones glanced at Nancy. Brother Jones followed her eyes and looked at Nancy as well. Nancy felt as if she was supposed to say something. She tried to put the words together to explain why she wanted to help them. But all that came out was, “Hi.”
Who are you? Brother Jones asked with his creased eyebrows. Sister Jones grabbed his arm and told Nancy they’d think about it and call her.
“And it was nice talking to you, Nancy.”
Sister Jones started leading Brother Jones towards the exit, whispering explanations as she went. Nancy watched them go. She sat down in a chair at baggage claim for almost an hour before she finally picked up her bag and walked to the airport shuttle desk.
# # #
Two weeks later as Nancy sat in her apartment reading Wise Blood, she got a call from Sister Jones. The following two weeks after that were full of doctors and lawyers and forms to fill out and doctors and lawyers and doctors. One of these doctors was Brother Jones. He happened to be one of the most successful OB/GYNs in Utah (having, of course, a wide range of customers to serve). He examined Nancy twice himself. This was going to be his baby after all.
Before the operation, Nancy prayed and prayed and prayed. She didn’t call her former foster parents in Orem. Instead, she prayed. She didn’t feel a warm fuzzy or love or joy or gentleness or goodness or anything she was taught to feel. After some time of praying she just knew what she was about to do was right. It was knowledge—not emotion.
So she showed up at the agreed upon time that at the Orem Community Hospital a few blocks from where she spent her Jr. High years; and the doctors, Brother Jones among them, placed a part of Sister Jones and a part of Brother Jones up inside Nancy. Sister Jones wasn’t there; she was resting the day in a different hospital with better facilities after having a few thousand of her eggs harvested from her body. Nancy was conscious the whole time and felt some discomfort while the doctors impregnated her, but felt no pain. She didn’t feel much of anything until about five weeks later week later when she began throwing up rather regularly each morning.
And so it went.
# # #
Nancy did have one friend while she attended BYU. She just didn’t know she did until a few weeks before she delivered. His name was John and she actually knew him before his mission when they attended Mountain View High School together. Neither of them went to church very often back then, so they naturally clung together—being too Mormon for the non-Mormons and not Mormon enough for the others. And as it often works itself out, both had decided after graduation (her after her delivery, him after his only possession conviction) to go back to church when they didn’t have to attend with their families anymore. John eventually decided on a mission; he went to Michigan. And Nancy decided on getting a degree—and not that damned M.R.S. either—she was at the college advisement center smoothing out some details for graduation when John walked in to declare his major. They hadn’t seen each other since before his mission.
“Holy crap! Nancy?!!”
“John?!!”
“Yeah! Holy crap!”
“Yeah! When did you get back?”
“Like over two months ago. Last I heard from you, you were going to Alaska for the summer. That was like a year ago.” Implying, of course, that she had stopped writing. Which she had.
“Yeah… sorry… some things came up.”
“Well, whatever, I’ve been trying to find you, but nobody knew where you were and you don’t have anything listed on Route Y.”
“Well, yeah. Just in case Sister Grendel comes looking for me.”
John laughed. That was what John used to call Nancy’s foster mom. “Damn, it’s good to see you, Nancy!”
Nancy glanced at the advisement counselor whose desk they still stood at. The counselor didn’t seem too amused. Nancy still had a few more details to work out… oh, screw it. She grabbed John’s elbow and headed for the door. Over her shoulder she said to the counselor, “I’ll be back in a while.”
“But…” was all Nancy heard before she and John got into the hallway. She slugged John in the shoulder.
“Ow, what the hell was that for?”
Nancy pursed her lips in ticked-off fashion but smiled with the rest of her face. “You’re at BYU now, John. People won’t put up with your crappy language.”
John rubbed his arm, feigning pain. “They didn’t care at UVSC.”
“Yeah, because they’re more worried about their students being able to sign their own names.”
“Oooh, ouch. That hurts more than you punching me. Your husband put up with this kind of abuse?”
Nancy felt her stomach drop. “I…” She looked down at the hugeness that was her belly. Not John, too, oh God, not John. Inexplicably, her eyes began welling up.
John saw her tears and said, “Oh damn, is he dead or something? I’m so sorry. I just…”
Nancy looked up at him. He looked scared and concerned, like accidentally-ran-over-his-sister’s-dog-concerned. The laughter burst out of her in a half-sob. John’s expression quickly changed. His holy-hell-my-friend-is-a-hormonally-insane-basket-case expression made her laugh harder. She wiped at the tears on her cheeks and said through her laughter, “Oh, man, John. No, it’s okay. I’m not married.”
It took a moment for that to register. Then he pointed at her belly and said, “But you’re huge… again…” His face reflected some rapid-fire logic-checking. Nancy could tell if they were just down the hill at UVSC, he wouldn’t have paused for so long. “It’s not Chris again, is it?”
She laughed again. John and her old boyfriend never really got along, though they all used to hang out. “Oh, hell no. You didn’t hear? His Guard unit got called up. He’s in Baghdad last I heard.”
“No kidding?” Pause. “So you’re not married?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. Well, are pregnant women as hungry as they say?”
She shook her head. “More.”
“You had lunch yet?”
“Nope.”
“You still like Teriyaki Stix?”
“Love it.”
“Well, let’s go see if the lunch rush has died down. My treat.”
She smiled and hooked her hand into the looped elbow he offered.
When they sat down with their trays of food in the Cougareat, John spoke first. “So you’re pregnant. No offense, but you look huge.”
“Thanks. Didn’t they teach you any manners on your mission?”
“My mission president’s wife tried to.”
“And?”
“I told her husband a J. Golden Kimball story.”
“Which story?”
“The one where he’s sent to St. George or Podunk, Southern Utah or somewhere to shape up a ward that’s not paying their tithing. Of course the whole town shows up because J. Golden’s known to color up his sermons. Anyway, he stands up at the pulpit holding a stack of papers and tells the congregation, ‘This here is the Lord’s shit list and all your names are on it!’ Then he slams the stack of papers on the pulpit.”
Nancy smiled wryly. “Is that story true?”
“Does it matter? My mission president loved it and his wife never bothered me again.”
“You haven’t changed that much.”
“Was I supposed to?”
“Well aren’t guys supposed to come back… I dunno… different from their missions?”
“Well maybe my weird stage took shorter than others?”
“Weird stage?”
“Yeah, you know. I’m going to live all the right rules and get married within a year and memorize everything written by Bruce McConkie. You know—carry the spirit of your mission with you and all that. It’s not human.”
“I’m glad I didn’t see you two months ago then.”
“I’m trying to forget I even knew myself then.”
Pause.
“You ready for this?” she asked.
He nodded. “I think so.”
“I’m a surrogate mother.”
Pause. He’s not saying anything. Maybe he has changed.
But then. “You’re shitting me.”
She smirked again. “Will you stop it? People might start shooting.”
“You’re serious.” A statement. Not a question.
“Yeah, I am.” But she could see he didn’t need her reassurance. He believed her. And he didn’t make any sign of discomfort or trying to move.
“Whoa. Do they even allow that kind of stuff?” By ‘they’ she knew John meant the same they who ran BYU and called young men and women on missions—the Church.
“Well my Bishop says that in his book of instructions, it just says that it’s ‘highly discouraged’ but there’s nothing in the handbook or the Honor Code that says ‘no way.’”
“Well, yeah, I guess that makes sense. I mean, you haven’t broken the law of chastity or anything… anymore…” He widened his eyes and cocked his head in mock seriousness. John wasn’t any more a paragon of virtue in high school than Nancy was and they both knew it. In fact, that one time during the party at Chris’s house when Nancy walked in on John and what’s-her-face… Nancy’s face flushed and she kicked him under the table.
“Ow!”
“I swear, John. Just because I’m pregnant doesn’t mean I can’t still kick your butt.”
“Okay, okay. Man, I really think that’s gonna bruise.”
“Like I care.” She laughed. “Now start behaving. No conversations with return missionaries are like this. At least none I’ve heard about.”
“Alright, alright.” He laughed along. “So do you know the people? The ones who you’re doing this for?”
So she told him about the Joneses. And she told him as best she could why she felt she was doing it.
John nodded in apparent deep thought. After a moment he said, almost to himself, “Man, this is wild.” He looked up and both he and Nancy laughed briefly at his summation. “Well it is, isn’t it?”
She had to agree, “Yeah it is.”
“So what are other people’s reactions like when you tell them?”
“Not like this. They usually just stop talking to me. It’s like it’s really awkward for them. Like they don’t know how to process it.”
“Hmmh. That’s too bad. You know, I actually met a woman on my mission in Jackson who was pregnant doing the same type of thing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we taught her all the discussions but she just didn’t ever come out to church.”
“Oh.”
“She said she was getting paid something like twenty thousand dollars to carry the baby.”
“People are willing to pay a lot of money to do this.”
“I guess. So when are you due?”
“Next month. Two or three weeks after graduation.”
“Well that sucks.”
“Why?”
“I’m thinking of going to Alaska for the summer. I probably won’t be able to be here when…” He tried to find the least awkward way to say give-birth-to-a-baby-that’s-not-really-yours.
Nancy saved him. “Really? What are you doing in Alaska?”
“Well I have a friend who hooked me up to work with this tourist spot on an island off the Alaskan coast.”
And so they talked about Alaska for the rest of their lunch. John saw her almost every day before he went to Alaska. He also came to her graduation. He brought flowers.
# # #
The soon to be un-mother screamed in pain.
“Oh, God!”
“Hold on, you’re doing fine, honey.”
“It hurts so bad!”
“Yes, I know. You’re going to be okay.”
“... Oh, God!”
“Here, the doctor’s coming. You’re going to be okay.”
“Nurse! How is she doing?”
“She’s completely dilated, Doctor Jones.”
“Is she ready to go?”
“We haven’t given her an enema yet, but there’s no time now.”
“Fine, we’ll just go ahead. Hook her up. Is my wife here?”
“I’m right here, dear.”
“Are you ready for this?”
“I don’t know. Is Nancy okay?”
“She’s fine.”
“But, she’s screaming.”
“So would you. And she won’t be screaming much longer; they’re hooking up the epidural right now.”
“Can I go talk to her?”
“Sure, honey.”
“Nancy?”
“…”
“How are you feeling?”
“…”
“You’re breathing so hard. My husband says you won’t feel that much pain in a moment.”
“...”
“I just want you to know how thankful I am that I met you on the plane that day and that you’re making our family a possibility. And…you can come see the baby whenever you want. And…and…just…thank you.”
“Sister Jones.”
“Yes?”
“Don’t talk to me right now.”
# # #
“You’re doing great, Nancy. Just keep bearing down. Push! Good. Just a few more like that. You’re doing wonderfully. Just keep going. His head is right here, Nancy! You’re so close. Come on! Come on!”
Nancy felt like her bowels were having the largest movement of her life. But she couldn’t feel much of anything below her waist. Brother Jones sat tensely on a stool between her spread legs. His latex gloves dripped blood and slime. And it stunk horribly.
“Oh, God!”
And Nancy churned out a baby.
“He’s here, Nancy! He’s out! He’s okay! You’re just fine! Oh, he’s beautiful! Can you see him, dear?”
“Yes, he is beautiful!” Sister Jones stood just behind her husband. She was crying. So was the newborn baby.
So was Nancy. In between sobs, she could hear nurses in the hallway joking with each other.
“Hey, there’s a code brown in here. Who gets to clean it up?”
Some laughter.
“Didn’t someone give her an enema before the doctor came?”
“There wasn’t enough time. She was in the room then she was giving birth. Well, whose turn is it?”
“It’s Martha’s.”
“Oh, crap. Is it really my turn?”
Some more snickering.
# # #
A nurse cleaned the baby from all the blood, water, and crap he came out with. Nancy watched as the nurse wiped him clean. He was an ugly thing. How can something so ugly be so gorgeous? The nurse finished cleaning the baby and wrapped him in a small blanket. She walked to Nancy’s bed, past her, and placed the baby in Sister Jones’ arms. Brother Jones had discarded his dirty gloves, cap, and surgeon gown and stood next to his wife and son.
Something broke in Nancy’s chest. It fell to her stomach and gurgled up her throat. Her face twisted into a sob as she lay there not holding the child she had held closer than anyone.
# # #
Brother/Doctor Jones sedated her when she wouldn’t stop crying. She slept until mid-evening and woke to a cramping gut and sore crotch. She realized immediately she was in a different room. And that someone was in there with her.
“Hey, Nancy. Nice nap?”
She turned her head and saw the familiar balding head and glasses.
“Bishop.” She managed a weak smile. “How’d you know?”
He put down the book he’d been reading. “Your roommates called their Bishop who got a hold of me. I got here not long after you went to sleep.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Oh about five hours ago.” He tried to make it sound like nothing.
“You’ve been here the whole time?”
“Well, I’ve had to use the bathroom a few times.”
She smiled again. “Your jokes really aren’t that funny, you know.”
“Yeah. My wife keeps telling me that, too. She was here, you know?”
“Was she?”
“Yeah, she went home to watch the kids.” Pause. “You know what? Hold on a second.”
Bishop Christensen walked out of the room and returned less than five minutes later. In his arms, he carried the baby. Nancy started choking up again. Just outside the door, Nancy could just see the Joneses.
“They wanted to make sure you saw him,” the Bishop whispered, “I think they feel kind of bad for not letting you hold the baby first.”
“They told you?”
“I kind of grilled them. Here, hold out your arms.”
Nancy did and received the baby she’d delivered. He was asleep and wrapped in some sort of blue onesie-bag with sleeves. He wore a tiny blue knit cap on his head. He was less purple than when Nancy first saw him earlier – less ugly, too.
She smiled at the baby and said, “Hello there.” He didn’t respond, of course. Didn’t even move, just kept sleeping and breathing steadily. She wasn’t prepared for how light he felt. He had felt like a bowling ball in her belly. And now… She didn’t know quite what to feel. So many movies she had seen made it seem like a mother sees her baby the first time and instantly falls in love. No one really prepared her for this – that you don’t necessarily love the baby right off. She kept thinking to herself that she had carried this human being in her body. This baby… in her body… It felt unreal. For the first time, she wondered if the Joneses felt anything toward him. It surprised her to think that they would. Of course they would. They’ll fall in love with him eventually and they’ll care for him and he’ll grow up and meet someone and fall in love and have kids himself. His whole life flashed through her mind. And it didn’t bother her that she wasn’t really part of it. And, surprisingly, it didn’t bother her that she was okay with that. Am I shallow, she asked herself, because I’m so willing to give him up now even though the thought hurt me so before? She didn’t know, but thought she could use some time to think about it. Maybe during a long drive to Alaska.
She looked up to the Bishop who stood close by but respectfully out of reach. The Joneses still stood in the hall, apparently okay with not being asked in. Nancy blinked past her tears.
“So,” she whispered, “what did they name him?”
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Nancy Part 1
“Nancy? Nancy Allred!?”
Nancy stopped on her way up the library stairs and turned around to look down at the source of the excited high pitched voice. The young woman around Nancy’s own age had been walking down the stairs past Nancy but stopped a few steps below Nancy before talking. Nancy had vaguely recognized the girl but was not in the mood to play the where-do-I-know-you-from game. The baby in her uterus was kicking her bladder and she did not want to stop and chat. But, instead, she smiled the obligatory embarrassed smile, shrugged her shoulders ever so little, and shook her head slightly.
The young woman continued her assault. “From Aspen Third Ward. We were Laurels together?” She wasn’t asking if they were in fact Laurels, she was asking if Nancy remembered. Nancy didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy half chuckled. She bit her lower lip and creased her brow while smiling – the best ‘I-know-your-face-but-your-name’ expression she had.
“Oh, that’s okay,” the strange girl laughed back, frankly forgiving Nancy for her social blunder. “Meredith Monson. You know...I lived down just off of twelve hundred north?” Another question that was really asking something else.
Nancy played along and raised her eyebrows suddenly and emitted an “Ahh,” which communicated the opposite of what she was thinking. Namely, she still had no idea how this girl knew her. But Nancy nodded and said, “Right, okay, yeah, that’s right,” and so forth. The strange girl seemed satisfied with this response and shifted her weight on one leg to settle into some serious catching-up. Nancy really didn’t want this. The baby again kicked her bladder; Nancy hid the unacceptable grimace that almost surfaced.
“So, how long have you been here at BYU?” the strange girl probed.
“Oh, about four years now.”
“That’s so wonderful you’re still seeking an education.”
Nancy knew the girl tactfully left out “...even though you’re pregnant.” But Nancy just nodded and smiled. Another kick. The girl kept going along this vein. “My husband and I haven’t blessed with children yet.”
Yeah, birth control pills tend to do that, Nancy thought.
“But marriage is wonderful isn’t it?” the girl stated. Another kick; Nancy almost let her bladder go, but she just kept nodding and agreeing. The girl mercilessly continued, “Well, I’m actually Meredith Jensen now. I got married a year ago last month in the Salt Lake Temple. I was sure we sent an invitation to your parents’ house.”
Foster parents, Nancy silently corrected her, they never actually adopted me.
“Didn’t they tell you?” the strange girl asked.
“They probably just forgot.” Actually, I haven’t spoken to them in almost two years.
“Oh, that’s too bad. It would have been great to see you at the reception.”
Who are you?! Nancy shouted in her head at the girl.
The girl continued, “But marriage is wonderful. I just love having someone to hold.”
Sex, Nancy thought, that’s what you mean, you like having sex.
The girl kept going. “But I haven’t heard from anyone that you got married. That’s wonderful! And congratulations on expecting a baby! Is it a boy or a girl?” The strange girl waited expectantly, smiling with eyebrows raised.
Nancy knew her response wasn’t tactful, but she had to get out of there. “It’s a boy, and I’ve never been married.”
The girl’s eyes, although already opened wide, widened. “Oh,” she said. Her smile melted. “Um.” Though Nancy really had to go, she stood for a moment enjoying the girl’s reaction. When Nancy didn’t offer any more information, the girl awkwardly tried to push forward the conversation. She swallowed. “Oh, um, so what are you going to name him?” Her voice trailed off at the end of the sentence.
Another kick. Nancy didn’t try to hide her grimace this time. She held her large belly and said, ‘‘I’m sorry, but I have to pee.’’ She turned around and waddled up the stairs to the bathroom as fast as she could and barely made it to the toilet with her backpack still on when she let her bladder loose.
As she sat there urinating, she thought of the conversation the strange girl would surely have later today with her husband. She would relate to him about that girl from high school she just ran into who’s pregnant… and not married. That would surprise the husband because, after all, this is BYU. It probably wouldn’t surprise the girl, if she really knew Nancy while they were Laurels. She and her husband would discuss how tragic and concerning and just… odd… that an unmarried pregnant girl would go to school at BYU. The Church makes sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen, right? They would agonize about what to do. But eventually the girl would call the Honor Code Office with her dear old friend’s best interests at heart and try to get her kicked out of BYU to help her on the path to repentance. Nancy knew the call from the Honor Code Office would come in the next week or two. Maybe it would even be the same counselor she had talked to the last few times. Calls came about once every other week now that the baby had turned. There wasn’t really anything she could do to hide her pregnancy anymore, so she had stopped tying. Two girls chatted into the bathroom, interrupting Nancy’s flow of thought.
When Nancy walked out of the stall, the girls glanced at her as people often glance awkwardly at others when they suddenly find another human being in a place intended for the emptying of bladder and bowels. Back in etiquette mode, Nancy gave a small greeting smile to the girls standing at the long mirrors. She immediately recognized the girl who was talking; she was in Nancy’s New Testament class. The girl immediately fell silent when she saw Nancy and paid equally immediate attention to her makeup in the mirror. Nancy thought she saw a small smile in return but couldn’t be sure. The other girl, only momentarily confused, quickly caught on that an unmentionable was in utero. She attended to similar details as she and her girlfriend waited until Nancy left and made it more comfortable. As Nancy washed her hands, she recalled how the first girl had been very amicable the first day of class. Her name was Emma, as Nancy recalled, and she was going to get married in May after the semester was over. She glanced at Emma’s left hand and saw the proof of her fiancé’s eternal love. Emma had wanted to know all about pregnancy from Nancy (getting ready to procreate with reckless abandon herself); Nancy remembered being open with Emma. And Emma had been equally open until Nancy’s marital status came into conversation. Nancy even told her the nature of her pregnancy, but Emma still clammed up; two weeks later the Honor Code Office called to talk to Nancy. Nancy turned off the water and left the bathroom allowing Emma to quietly explain to her friend, “That’s the girl I told you about...”
# # #
On Sundays Nancy normally went to church.
She attended a church building just south of campus with a congregation of newly wed couples. Mormon congregations usually form within geographic boundaries (a river over there, a main street over here), but sometimes congregations form along other lines of segregation. In Nancy’s neighborhood, there were no fewer than four congregations that overlapped the same plot of ground – one for singles, one for newlyweds, one for families and old people, and one for Latinos. She lived in a small apartment complex with a vaguely noble and British-sounding name. Her complex had two buildings, one for single girls and one for single boys; she had been going to the singles congregation until four months ago when that Bishop had gotten the first call from the Honor Code Office. That Bishop was the manager of a successful accounting firm in Provo and numbered his congregation, his ward, very precious people. A ward of wards. But that Bishop, being a kindly man, kindly told her that he thought she ought to go to the young married ward where it would be more comfortable. More comfortable for whom, she still hadn’t decided. But it got her away from single people like her to be around young pregnant women like her.
She met fairly regularly with her new Bishop, Bishop Christensen—about every other week. He built stairs and railings for a living—for people like her former Bishop. She liked Bishop Christensen; he was a spiritual leader and a carpenter. She was pretty sure his dad’s name wasn’t Joseph, though.
She passed the new sign in front of the building that held the same name but new logo of the church she attended.
The Church of
JESUS CHRIST
of Latter-Day Saints
Some older church buildings like this one took a while to get the signs with the new logo that was over a decade old now. The double sizing and centering of JESUS CHRIST was, apparently and officially, to dispel any rumors that her church was not of Jesus Christ. But, alas, her church was still also of the saints who attended services with her.
In sacrament meeting, Nancy partook of the sacrament but little else. Two people addressed the congregation on that Sunday. They were married and they were young. They both began their remarks with some variation of “The Bishop asked me to give a talk today, but I don’t really want to be up here right now because speaking in front of a crowd scares the hell out of me.” But they said it in a way that required an obligatory chuckle from the congregation, for they didn’t really hate being up in front of a crowd all that much—just a little. She passed the time looking at different people around the chapel as the young couple up front took turns reading their prepared talks word-for-word. Bishop Christensen sat on the stand with his two counselors, college-aged kids like Nancy, except they were both boys of course—not girls. They lived in the same married student apartments with their wives and the rest of the ward. Boys in her singles congregation weren’t allowed to be counselors to the Bishop over there, but if they were quick enough about it and got married before they ended college then there was a chance they could sit away from there newly-wed brides at church and sit with the Bishop instead. One of Bishop Christensen’s counselors (Nancy vaguely remembered he was in law school) kept dropping his head then snapping it up again rather quickly hoping no one would mistake his horse-getting-rid-of-flea impression for drowsiness.
Nancy shifted her attention to the couples around her. She sat alone, as usual. She first glanced at a few sets of couples in front of her. Half of the females were scratching the backs of their male counterparts. Other couples sat arm-in-arm. She allowed herself a moment of jealousy—but only a moment. A few of the couples had babies with them. Most babies in these church services weren’t held or cuddled; rather, they remained safely seated in their portable car seats, placed on the pew conveniently close to the young, caring parents.
Nancy let her right hand lightly rub her eight-month extended belly. I’d hold you, she thought. I hope I get to hold you. She let the thought trail off as she looked to her right.
Across the chapel, seated near the back was the Donald family. Nancy shook her head as she looked at them. They were definitely a family—not like the nuclear couples with their one (maybe two) little kids. No, the Donalds had stepped up to the Lord’s command to multiply and they truly did—thrice. Nancy counted again. Yup, six kids. She had heard that the Donalds lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the married student apartments. She had no idea where all the kids were kept. She noted that Sister Donald, somehow paying attention to three of her kids at once, was looking a bit round around the tummy herself. Maybe five - six months along. Just churning those kids out—boom, boom, boom. Nancy smiled at her thought. Brother Donald, balding and portly, juggled the other three kids. Nancy had also heard he was in the seventh year of his undergraduate construction management degree. It didn’t take a college graduate to figure out what was taking him so long. She wondered idly why the Donalds didn’t go to the family congregation.
Nancy looked back to the front of the chapel when the organist started braying the closing hymn. She picked up her hymn book and joined the singing with the chorus, “Hold to the rod, the i-i-ur-urn rod...”
# # #
She was on her way out of the building after the meeting when the Bishop intercepted her in the hallway and asked her to meet with him in his office. Nancy sighed a smile and said, “Sure, Bishop.” She wondered how many people actually told him no. As they entered his office, Nancy asked him, “What’s your father’s name?”
The Bishop creased his brow at her and said, “Fred. Why?”
“Just wondering,” she said as she sat down in a chair he offered her. The Bishop had set the chair to the side of his desk instead of in front of his desk. She thought this was probably some ploy to make her feel more comfortable.
The Bishop sat down and Nancy said, “The Honor Code Office called you, didn’t they?”
The Bishop looked only mildly surprised. “Yes, they did.” Nancy liked the Bishop’s straightforwardness. “The man I talked with sounded very serious.” The Bishop smiled. Nancy smiled, too. The Bishop had graduated from the University of Utah upstate and didn’t have much use for a lot of BYU policies. “He tells me that they’re not going to call you in anymore.”
“That’s fine with me, Bishop.”
The Bishop smirked at her remark. “They also told me that the last girl who called in was somebody’s grand-daughter.” Oh, THAT Monson. Nancy finally remembered who the girl on the stairs was. Her dad was the son of someone pretty important in Salt Lake City. The Bishop went on, “But the Honor Code Office said that allowing you to stay at BYU still depended on my endorsement of you.”
“And?”
“Well, nothing’s changed in the book yet. They sound like they really want something to change, though. Like they would really like the ‘strongly discouraged’ in my manual replaced with ‘excommunicate on sight.’” He paused for a moment to allow himself and Nancy to chuckle at his attempt at levity. One of those clumsy silences followed. Nancy knew he was going to get serious. He cleared his throat and looked over his glasses at her. The tilt of his head caused the neon lighting to reflect off his bald spot. “But, how are you doing, Nancy?” She hated this question, especially from the Bishop because she felt he actually meant it.
She took a deep breath. “I’m tired, Bishop.” He nodded and let her keep talking. “I know what I’m doing is right. I know the Jones need this baby.” She took another deep breath as she felt her throat tighten, “But dammit, Bishop, I feel like he’s mine.” The Bishop didn’t flinch at the swear word. Her eyes welled over and she kept going, “I mean… I’ve been carrying him for eight months, right? I exercise; it’s my body he’s living off of. It’s okay that I feel like he’s mine, right?” The Bishop nodded and looked at the floor as Nancy paused. Nancy spoke to his bald spot. “Sometimes I cry at night and my roommate turns over in her bed. I know she can hear me, but she doesn’t want to hear me. Nobody wants to hear me, Bishop. And no one wants to know! I hate that you’re the only person I can talk to. I mean, who are you?” Her voice cracked and snot dripped down her upper lip. The Bishop looked at her and handed her the customary box of Kleenex that adorned every Bishop’s office. She grabbed a few tissues and wiped at her nose. “I don’t like doing this, Bishop.” But, she realized, I always feel better afterwards.
She kept crying through this bi-weekly ritual. The Bishop listened.
Nancy stopped on her way up the library stairs and turned around to look down at the source of the excited high pitched voice. The young woman around Nancy’s own age had been walking down the stairs past Nancy but stopped a few steps below Nancy before talking. Nancy had vaguely recognized the girl but was not in the mood to play the where-do-I-know-you-from game. The baby in her uterus was kicking her bladder and she did not want to stop and chat. But, instead, she smiled the obligatory embarrassed smile, shrugged her shoulders ever so little, and shook her head slightly.
The young woman continued her assault. “From Aspen Third Ward. We were Laurels together?” She wasn’t asking if they were in fact Laurels, she was asking if Nancy remembered. Nancy didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Nancy half chuckled. She bit her lower lip and creased her brow while smiling – the best ‘I-know-your-face-but-your-name’ expression she had.
“Oh, that’s okay,” the strange girl laughed back, frankly forgiving Nancy for her social blunder. “Meredith Monson. You know...I lived down just off of twelve hundred north?” Another question that was really asking something else.
Nancy played along and raised her eyebrows suddenly and emitted an “Ahh,” which communicated the opposite of what she was thinking. Namely, she still had no idea how this girl knew her. But Nancy nodded and said, “Right, okay, yeah, that’s right,” and so forth. The strange girl seemed satisfied with this response and shifted her weight on one leg to settle into some serious catching-up. Nancy really didn’t want this. The baby again kicked her bladder; Nancy hid the unacceptable grimace that almost surfaced.
“So, how long have you been here at BYU?” the strange girl probed.
“Oh, about four years now.”
“That’s so wonderful you’re still seeking an education.”
Nancy knew the girl tactfully left out “...even though you’re pregnant.” But Nancy just nodded and smiled. Another kick. The girl kept going along this vein. “My husband and I haven’t blessed with children yet.”
Yeah, birth control pills tend to do that, Nancy thought.
“But marriage is wonderful isn’t it?” the girl stated. Another kick; Nancy almost let her bladder go, but she just kept nodding and agreeing. The girl mercilessly continued, “Well, I’m actually Meredith Jensen now. I got married a year ago last month in the Salt Lake Temple. I was sure we sent an invitation to your parents’ house.”
Foster parents, Nancy silently corrected her, they never actually adopted me.
“Didn’t they tell you?” the strange girl asked.
“They probably just forgot.” Actually, I haven’t spoken to them in almost two years.
“Oh, that’s too bad. It would have been great to see you at the reception.”
Who are you?! Nancy shouted in her head at the girl.
The girl continued, “But marriage is wonderful. I just love having someone to hold.”
Sex, Nancy thought, that’s what you mean, you like having sex.
The girl kept going. “But I haven’t heard from anyone that you got married. That’s wonderful! And congratulations on expecting a baby! Is it a boy or a girl?” The strange girl waited expectantly, smiling with eyebrows raised.
Nancy knew her response wasn’t tactful, but she had to get out of there. “It’s a boy, and I’ve never been married.”
The girl’s eyes, although already opened wide, widened. “Oh,” she said. Her smile melted. “Um.” Though Nancy really had to go, she stood for a moment enjoying the girl’s reaction. When Nancy didn’t offer any more information, the girl awkwardly tried to push forward the conversation. She swallowed. “Oh, um, so what are you going to name him?” Her voice trailed off at the end of the sentence.
Another kick. Nancy didn’t try to hide her grimace this time. She held her large belly and said, ‘‘I’m sorry, but I have to pee.’’ She turned around and waddled up the stairs to the bathroom as fast as she could and barely made it to the toilet with her backpack still on when she let her bladder loose.
As she sat there urinating, she thought of the conversation the strange girl would surely have later today with her husband. She would relate to him about that girl from high school she just ran into who’s pregnant… and not married. That would surprise the husband because, after all, this is BYU. It probably wouldn’t surprise the girl, if she really knew Nancy while they were Laurels. She and her husband would discuss how tragic and concerning and just… odd… that an unmarried pregnant girl would go to school at BYU. The Church makes sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen, right? They would agonize about what to do. But eventually the girl would call the Honor Code Office with her dear old friend’s best interests at heart and try to get her kicked out of BYU to help her on the path to repentance. Nancy knew the call from the Honor Code Office would come in the next week or two. Maybe it would even be the same counselor she had talked to the last few times. Calls came about once every other week now that the baby had turned. There wasn’t really anything she could do to hide her pregnancy anymore, so she had stopped tying. Two girls chatted into the bathroom, interrupting Nancy’s flow of thought.
When Nancy walked out of the stall, the girls glanced at her as people often glance awkwardly at others when they suddenly find another human being in a place intended for the emptying of bladder and bowels. Back in etiquette mode, Nancy gave a small greeting smile to the girls standing at the long mirrors. She immediately recognized the girl who was talking; she was in Nancy’s New Testament class. The girl immediately fell silent when she saw Nancy and paid equally immediate attention to her makeup in the mirror. Nancy thought she saw a small smile in return but couldn’t be sure. The other girl, only momentarily confused, quickly caught on that an unmentionable was in utero. She attended to similar details as she and her girlfriend waited until Nancy left and made it more comfortable. As Nancy washed her hands, she recalled how the first girl had been very amicable the first day of class. Her name was Emma, as Nancy recalled, and she was going to get married in May after the semester was over. She glanced at Emma’s left hand and saw the proof of her fiancé’s eternal love. Emma had wanted to know all about pregnancy from Nancy (getting ready to procreate with reckless abandon herself); Nancy remembered being open with Emma. And Emma had been equally open until Nancy’s marital status came into conversation. Nancy even told her the nature of her pregnancy, but Emma still clammed up; two weeks later the Honor Code Office called to talk to Nancy. Nancy turned off the water and left the bathroom allowing Emma to quietly explain to her friend, “That’s the girl I told you about...”
# # #
On Sundays Nancy normally went to church.
She attended a church building just south of campus with a congregation of newly wed couples. Mormon congregations usually form within geographic boundaries (a river over there, a main street over here), but sometimes congregations form along other lines of segregation. In Nancy’s neighborhood, there were no fewer than four congregations that overlapped the same plot of ground – one for singles, one for newlyweds, one for families and old people, and one for Latinos. She lived in a small apartment complex with a vaguely noble and British-sounding name. Her complex had two buildings, one for single girls and one for single boys; she had been going to the singles congregation until four months ago when that Bishop had gotten the first call from the Honor Code Office. That Bishop was the manager of a successful accounting firm in Provo and numbered his congregation, his ward, very precious people. A ward of wards. But that Bishop, being a kindly man, kindly told her that he thought she ought to go to the young married ward where it would be more comfortable. More comfortable for whom, she still hadn’t decided. But it got her away from single people like her to be around young pregnant women like her.
She met fairly regularly with her new Bishop, Bishop Christensen—about every other week. He built stairs and railings for a living—for people like her former Bishop. She liked Bishop Christensen; he was a spiritual leader and a carpenter. She was pretty sure his dad’s name wasn’t Joseph, though.
She passed the new sign in front of the building that held the same name but new logo of the church she attended.
The Church of
JESUS CHRIST
of Latter-Day Saints
Some older church buildings like this one took a while to get the signs with the new logo that was over a decade old now. The double sizing and centering of JESUS CHRIST was, apparently and officially, to dispel any rumors that her church was not of Jesus Christ. But, alas, her church was still also of the saints who attended services with her.
In sacrament meeting, Nancy partook of the sacrament but little else. Two people addressed the congregation on that Sunday. They were married and they were young. They both began their remarks with some variation of “The Bishop asked me to give a talk today, but I don’t really want to be up here right now because speaking in front of a crowd scares the hell out of me.” But they said it in a way that required an obligatory chuckle from the congregation, for they didn’t really hate being up in front of a crowd all that much—just a little. She passed the time looking at different people around the chapel as the young couple up front took turns reading their prepared talks word-for-word. Bishop Christensen sat on the stand with his two counselors, college-aged kids like Nancy, except they were both boys of course—not girls. They lived in the same married student apartments with their wives and the rest of the ward. Boys in her singles congregation weren’t allowed to be counselors to the Bishop over there, but if they were quick enough about it and got married before they ended college then there was a chance they could sit away from there newly-wed brides at church and sit with the Bishop instead. One of Bishop Christensen’s counselors (Nancy vaguely remembered he was in law school) kept dropping his head then snapping it up again rather quickly hoping no one would mistake his horse-getting-rid-of-flea impression for drowsiness.
Nancy shifted her attention to the couples around her. She sat alone, as usual. She first glanced at a few sets of couples in front of her. Half of the females were scratching the backs of their male counterparts. Other couples sat arm-in-arm. She allowed herself a moment of jealousy—but only a moment. A few of the couples had babies with them. Most babies in these church services weren’t held or cuddled; rather, they remained safely seated in their portable car seats, placed on the pew conveniently close to the young, caring parents.
Nancy let her right hand lightly rub her eight-month extended belly. I’d hold you, she thought. I hope I get to hold you. She let the thought trail off as she looked to her right.
Across the chapel, seated near the back was the Donald family. Nancy shook her head as she looked at them. They were definitely a family—not like the nuclear couples with their one (maybe two) little kids. No, the Donalds had stepped up to the Lord’s command to multiply and they truly did—thrice. Nancy counted again. Yup, six kids. She had heard that the Donalds lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the married student apartments. She had no idea where all the kids were kept. She noted that Sister Donald, somehow paying attention to three of her kids at once, was looking a bit round around the tummy herself. Maybe five - six months along. Just churning those kids out—boom, boom, boom. Nancy smiled at her thought. Brother Donald, balding and portly, juggled the other three kids. Nancy had also heard he was in the seventh year of his undergraduate construction management degree. It didn’t take a college graduate to figure out what was taking him so long. She wondered idly why the Donalds didn’t go to the family congregation.
Nancy looked back to the front of the chapel when the organist started braying the closing hymn. She picked up her hymn book and joined the singing with the chorus, “Hold to the rod, the i-i-ur-urn rod...”
# # #
She was on her way out of the building after the meeting when the Bishop intercepted her in the hallway and asked her to meet with him in his office. Nancy sighed a smile and said, “Sure, Bishop.” She wondered how many people actually told him no. As they entered his office, Nancy asked him, “What’s your father’s name?”
The Bishop creased his brow at her and said, “Fred. Why?”
“Just wondering,” she said as she sat down in a chair he offered her. The Bishop had set the chair to the side of his desk instead of in front of his desk. She thought this was probably some ploy to make her feel more comfortable.
The Bishop sat down and Nancy said, “The Honor Code Office called you, didn’t they?”
The Bishop looked only mildly surprised. “Yes, they did.” Nancy liked the Bishop’s straightforwardness. “The man I talked with sounded very serious.” The Bishop smiled. Nancy smiled, too. The Bishop had graduated from the University of Utah upstate and didn’t have much use for a lot of BYU policies. “He tells me that they’re not going to call you in anymore.”
“That’s fine with me, Bishop.”
The Bishop smirked at her remark. “They also told me that the last girl who called in was somebody’s grand-daughter.” Oh, THAT Monson. Nancy finally remembered who the girl on the stairs was. Her dad was the son of someone pretty important in Salt Lake City. The Bishop went on, “But the Honor Code Office said that allowing you to stay at BYU still depended on my endorsement of you.”
“And?”
“Well, nothing’s changed in the book yet. They sound like they really want something to change, though. Like they would really like the ‘strongly discouraged’ in my manual replaced with ‘excommunicate on sight.’” He paused for a moment to allow himself and Nancy to chuckle at his attempt at levity. One of those clumsy silences followed. Nancy knew he was going to get serious. He cleared his throat and looked over his glasses at her. The tilt of his head caused the neon lighting to reflect off his bald spot. “But, how are you doing, Nancy?” She hated this question, especially from the Bishop because she felt he actually meant it.
She took a deep breath. “I’m tired, Bishop.” He nodded and let her keep talking. “I know what I’m doing is right. I know the Jones need this baby.” She took another deep breath as she felt her throat tighten, “But dammit, Bishop, I feel like he’s mine.” The Bishop didn’t flinch at the swear word. Her eyes welled over and she kept going, “I mean… I’ve been carrying him for eight months, right? I exercise; it’s my body he’s living off of. It’s okay that I feel like he’s mine, right?” The Bishop nodded and looked at the floor as Nancy paused. Nancy spoke to his bald spot. “Sometimes I cry at night and my roommate turns over in her bed. I know she can hear me, but she doesn’t want to hear me. Nobody wants to hear me, Bishop. And no one wants to know! I hate that you’re the only person I can talk to. I mean, who are you?” Her voice cracked and snot dripped down her upper lip. The Bishop looked at her and handed her the customary box of Kleenex that adorned every Bishop’s office. She grabbed a few tissues and wiped at her nose. “I don’t like doing this, Bishop.” But, she realized, I always feel better afterwards.
She kept crying through this bi-weekly ritual. The Bishop listened.
Aside
Thus begins the saga of Nancy. Single. Pregnant. BYU student. Quite the existential dilemma, eh? I’ll post sections of her story as they come. I finally figured out how to title my posts, so I’ll titled the Nancy sections in numerical order. I just took down three Nancy posts and combined them with the rest of the scene I began in the thrid post. Anyway. It should be easier to read this way. Enjoy.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
During this Christmas season amid all the consumer materialism, it is helpful to remember the true blah blah blah blah blah blah blah…
Here’s the coolest stuff I got this year.
First, my sister has this computer-VHS doohickey that can transform VHS media into digital format – that isn’t the gift. She and my dad took a bunch of our family’s old home-movies and transferred them to DVDs. I’ve been bugging them for years to do something like this. Included in this batch: most of the school plays I performed in (beginning with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in the 5th grade and culminating with the Pirates of Penzance my junior year), my dad’s old 8mm films of my older siblings (and me to age three), and a performance of the Marshallese Jobwa Stick Dance. This is definitely my favorite Christmas present this year.
I also got books…
American Gods and Stardust by Neil Gaiman. Neil Gaiman rocks the world of everyone who reads his stuff. American Gods won the Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker awards the year it came out – not shabby. It’s also a postmodern/posthuman clash of ancient mythologies and contemporary technologies (with a splash of Americana). And Stardust is the fairy tale that spawned the greatest romance/fantasy film since The Princess Bride. I feel sheepish that I haven’t read either one of these yet.
Then I got Twilight and New Moon by Stephenie Meyer. I have more than one friend who has recommended these – my cousin and aunt foremost among them (who got me these books). I should read these – most importantly because they have a frackin’ cool premise. I have other compelling reasons: Meyer is a Mormon fantasy author who eschews Mormon fiction (score), reads Eric Snider (double score), and digs Orson Scott Card (triple score).
Then there’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra by the indestructible Friedrich Nietzsche. The most misunderstood book by the most misunderstood philosopher. I like reserving Nietzsche for rainy Sundays.
And then this book by Tom Reynolds. I Hate Myself and Want to Die: The 52 Most Depressing Songs You’ve Ever Heard. It’s the perfect bathroom book.
There’s other stuff, but those are my favorites for now.
Libby and I got to spend Christmas with our favorite cousins (the country mice part of the family) down in Ivins, Utah. Good company, red desert, green shrubs, 64 degrees. Perfect Christmas.
It was good to leave home for the holiday and it feels great to be back.
Merry Christmas. Enjoy all your stuff.
Here’s the coolest stuff I got this year.
First, my sister has this computer-VHS doohickey that can transform VHS media into digital format – that isn’t the gift. She and my dad took a bunch of our family’s old home-movies and transferred them to DVDs. I’ve been bugging them for years to do something like this. Included in this batch: most of the school plays I performed in (beginning with Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in the 5th grade and culminating with the Pirates of Penzance my junior year), my dad’s old 8mm films of my older siblings (and me to age three), and a performance of the Marshallese Jobwa Stick Dance. This is definitely my favorite Christmas present this year.
I also got books…
American Gods and Stardust by Neil Gaiman. Neil Gaiman rocks the world of everyone who reads his stuff. American Gods won the Hugo, Nebula, and Bram Stoker awards the year it came out – not shabby. It’s also a postmodern/posthuman clash of ancient mythologies and contemporary technologies (with a splash of Americana). And Stardust is the fairy tale that spawned the greatest romance/fantasy film since The Princess Bride. I feel sheepish that I haven’t read either one of these yet.
Then I got Twilight and New Moon by Stephenie Meyer. I have more than one friend who has recommended these – my cousin and aunt foremost among them (who got me these books). I should read these – most importantly because they have a frackin’ cool premise. I have other compelling reasons: Meyer is a Mormon fantasy author who eschews Mormon fiction (score), reads Eric Snider (double score), and digs Orson Scott Card (triple score).
Then there’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra by the indestructible Friedrich Nietzsche. The most misunderstood book by the most misunderstood philosopher. I like reserving Nietzsche for rainy Sundays.
And then this book by Tom Reynolds. I Hate Myself and Want to Die: The 52 Most Depressing Songs You’ve Ever Heard. It’s the perfect bathroom book.
There’s other stuff, but those are my favorites for now.
Libby and I got to spend Christmas with our favorite cousins (the country mice part of the family) down in Ivins, Utah. Good company, red desert, green shrubs, 64 degrees. Perfect Christmas.
It was good to leave home for the holiday and it feels great to be back.
Merry Christmas. Enjoy all your stuff.
A Philosophized Articulation of Teaching
Also Sprach der Lernenlehrer: a Philosophized Articulation of Teaching
[This is something I've been working on for a while. I'm not fully happy with it; it's frankly boring. But since I was working on it during a lazy moment on Christmas, I'll post it as representative of non-school stuff I'm doing now.]
Teaching is an act of atonement. Teachers, quite seriously, atone for the ignorance of their students. Teaching also requires the humility of a weed-pulling gardener. The distribution of knowledge mutually reflects the distribution of wealth. When both are done correctly, recipients are made high in that the givers are made low. Teachers equalize as they elevate, empower as they endow, and distinguish as they dispense. “One repays a teacher badly who remains nothing more than a pupil,” speaks Nietzsche. I add: one treats a student badly who remains forever the teacher. Popeye professors know this. All they can teach is all they can teach. When they reach this point, they must learn more. Teaching consummates when the teacher can teach no longer and becomes a fellow-student – again, an act of atonement.
Teaching morally validates every other attribute of supremacy. A parent who does not teach lacks true parenthood. A god who does not teach must be Greek, for Prometheus had to steal his knowledge. Rulers who do not teach their subjects how to self-govern are not worthy of their posts. Leaders’ attributes of temper such as fairness, kindness, and loyalty to those who follow mean nothing if these attributes are not taught to followers. Attributes of mind such as knowledge, intelligence, or cleverness require dissemination to achieve value. Even Kant’s good will must follow the duty it has to teach its attributes to others, else it would not be good.
Teaching responds to the human drive to question. Subjectively new questions comprise the sum total of any and all truly individual thought. Any other thought is either a response or reformulation. Teaching succeeds when student-teacher orthodoxy and orthopraxy balance and provide the basis for individual thought. The achievement of this unity of thought and practice fosters the environment in which both teacher and student may ask new questions. Asking and answering old questions anticipates this moment and fills most teaching efforts. Once achieved though, individual thought (or the asking of new questions) upsets the balance and pedals the cycle of more teaching and learning. Heidegger was right in this, that questioning is not only the activity but also the proof of authentic existence.
Teaching and learning mediate knowledge and life. Without a mediator, Adam and Eve could only partake of one at the expense of the other. With a mediator, they eventually partook of both knowledge and life. Teaching makes possible the activity of embracing life while pursuing knowledge and of embracing knowledge while pursuing life. Questions of pedagogical purpose arise because institutions forget these principles. The study of pedagogy thus mushrooms from the compost between the tree of knowledge and the tree of life.
[This is something I've been working on for a while. I'm not fully happy with it; it's frankly boring. But since I was working on it during a lazy moment on Christmas, I'll post it as representative of non-school stuff I'm doing now.]
Teaching is an act of atonement. Teachers, quite seriously, atone for the ignorance of their students. Teaching also requires the humility of a weed-pulling gardener. The distribution of knowledge mutually reflects the distribution of wealth. When both are done correctly, recipients are made high in that the givers are made low. Teachers equalize as they elevate, empower as they endow, and distinguish as they dispense. “One repays a teacher badly who remains nothing more than a pupil,” speaks Nietzsche. I add: one treats a student badly who remains forever the teacher. Popeye professors know this. All they can teach is all they can teach. When they reach this point, they must learn more. Teaching consummates when the teacher can teach no longer and becomes a fellow-student – again, an act of atonement.
Teaching morally validates every other attribute of supremacy. A parent who does not teach lacks true parenthood. A god who does not teach must be Greek, for Prometheus had to steal his knowledge. Rulers who do not teach their subjects how to self-govern are not worthy of their posts. Leaders’ attributes of temper such as fairness, kindness, and loyalty to those who follow mean nothing if these attributes are not taught to followers. Attributes of mind such as knowledge, intelligence, or cleverness require dissemination to achieve value. Even Kant’s good will must follow the duty it has to teach its attributes to others, else it would not be good.
Teaching responds to the human drive to question. Subjectively new questions comprise the sum total of any and all truly individual thought. Any other thought is either a response or reformulation. Teaching succeeds when student-teacher orthodoxy and orthopraxy balance and provide the basis for individual thought. The achievement of this unity of thought and practice fosters the environment in which both teacher and student may ask new questions. Asking and answering old questions anticipates this moment and fills most teaching efforts. Once achieved though, individual thought (or the asking of new questions) upsets the balance and pedals the cycle of more teaching and learning. Heidegger was right in this, that questioning is not only the activity but also the proof of authentic existence.
Teaching and learning mediate knowledge and life. Without a mediator, Adam and Eve could only partake of one at the expense of the other. With a mediator, they eventually partook of both knowledge and life. Teaching makes possible the activity of embracing life while pursuing knowledge and of embracing knowledge while pursuing life. Questions of pedagogical purpose arise because institutions forget these principles. The study of pedagogy thus mushrooms from the compost between the tree of knowledge and the tree of life.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Some lucid moments on Trax from Saturday evening.
An teen nine rows away, sporting an ipod, red A’s cap barely containing his fro, eating deep-fried Chinese that smells like dog food.
Snowmen (-women? -eunuchs?) stenciled on the windows.
The convection caused by the sliding doors keeps my legs and lungs toasty, my feet and hands clamy cold.
A toddler two rows behind us alternating between bouts of forlorn wailing and insane giggling – for the entire trip.
Sidewalk salt powdering seats under automated speakers intermittently spouting, “Please consider others” in their lifeless appeal to passengers to keep their feet off the seats.
An early-40s Greek across the aisle, rounding out his khaki pants and white hoodie, bemoaning business lunches over his cell phone, “Yeah, I’d take clients there more often, but I only have a 30-minute lunch and it takes 17 to walk there.”
Somewhere behind us (across from the wailing/giggling toddler?), a male voice outshined in volume only by its red-neckedness – the train’s white noises interspersing his exclamations. “Randy would wear maroon polyester pants and a black leather vest.” […] “Polyester and leather DON’T go together.” […] “And then he went and killed himself.” […] “Some of these trains they bought USED from Colorado.” […] “… scrounge up a couple of bucks and ride one of these all day…”
An teen nine rows away, sporting an ipod, red A’s cap barely containing his fro, eating deep-fried Chinese that smells like dog food.
Snowmen (-women? -eunuchs?) stenciled on the windows.
The convection caused by the sliding doors keeps my legs and lungs toasty, my feet and hands clamy cold.
A toddler two rows behind us alternating between bouts of forlorn wailing and insane giggling – for the entire trip.
Sidewalk salt powdering seats under automated speakers intermittently spouting, “Please consider others” in their lifeless appeal to passengers to keep their feet off the seats.
An early-40s Greek across the aisle, rounding out his khaki pants and white hoodie, bemoaning business lunches over his cell phone, “Yeah, I’d take clients there more often, but I only have a 30-minute lunch and it takes 17 to walk there.”
Somewhere behind us (across from the wailing/giggling toddler?), a male voice outshined in volume only by its red-neckedness – the train’s white noises interspersing his exclamations. “Randy would wear maroon polyester pants and a black leather vest.” […] “Polyester and leather DON’T go together.” […] “And then he went and killed himself.” […] “Some of these trains they bought USED from Colorado.” […] “… scrounge up a couple of bucks and ride one of these all day…”
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Toward a Comic Solemnity
“A Paradox, a Paradox, a Most Ingenious Paradox, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, a Paradox!” - Sir William Schwenck Gilbert
There exists a paradox between sanctity and atonement. The ground this paradox stands on is God’s sense of humor.
The other day I encountered (yet again) someone chortling a variation of the claim, “Well God must have a sense of humor, just look what He’s done with my life.” In this view, God’s sense of humor explains every inconvenient thing from romantic breakups to the Holocaust. Humor as theodicy… hmmm… People usually share this claim non-seriously. They don’t really think God’s sense of humor extends to royally screwing up someone’s life just for laughs. That would violate principles of atonement (specifically charity). God is love – not irony.
On another occasion, a woman removed from me by a generation offered a serious alternative to this non-serious view of God’s sense of humor. She suggested that God could have a sense of humor in a manner similar to the way parents enjoy the innocent foibles of their children. In this view, God enjoys the occasional chuckle at viewing His children floundering about innocently – like we might enjoy for a moment the way a kitten rummages around in a paper sack trying to get out. Silly kitten, bags are for groceries – heh heh heh… So God could laugh, but like above, this kind of sense of humor relies solely on condescension. Not in the sense of coming down voluntarily but in the sense of deigning. Not in the sense of interactive humor but in the sense of laughing from a distance – the objects of humor unaware that Someone is laughing at them. A humor consisting of condescension and nothing else also violates principles of atonement (specifically reconciliation), for it forever relies on a stratified relationship between those who get to laugh celestially and those who are laughed at.
If God has a sense of humor, He must be able to laugh at things on His own plane of existence. This would salvage charity, reconciliation, and other principles of atonement. For in a celestial sphere, Everyone laughed at is also in on the joke, for Everyone is of one heart and one mind. So if God has a sense of humor, then the things within His realm of humor include things which exist on His level. These include heaven, eternity, charity itself, prayer, the Temple, ordinances, scripture, revelation, family, the Holy Ghost, even Heavenly Mother.
But this begins to get uncomfortable, for are not some things simply sacrosanct? Untouchable – even unapproachable – except through serious solemnity? (as if comic solemnity were an oxymoron and not an actual possibility)
Hence the paradox between sanctity and charity. If God has a sense of humor, one of a few conflicting possibilities may be true. First, God laughs at things too sacred to laugh at (thus salvaging principles of atonement). Second, God laughs only at things which are not sacred (i.e. only things below His level of existence, thus limiting principles of atonement).
I see two solutions to this paradox.
First solution: God does not have a sense of humor. Since humor is all about contexts and frames of reference, and because God’s frame of reference is the sum total of everything that was, is, and will be, God simply does not have a sense of humor. This I find especially hard to believe, if only because humans are created in the image of Heavenly Parents. Humans clearly have a sense of humor. We are literally children of God – Gods in embryo. God clearly exhibits a wide range of other passions and emotions – why not humor? Plus, much of humor evolves not just through conflicting contexts but from the ability to appreciate multiple contexts even if those contexts are intimately familiar. This is why Monty Python and the Holy Grail will always be funny. Indeed, this is why I’m convinced even God laughs at Monty Python jokes. Our resistance to the idea of God having a robust sense of humor probably stems from the same cultural resistance we have to viewing God as having an active sex drive (i.e. what happens behind heavenly doors should stay behind heavenly doors; likewise, there are some things so sacred that they simply CANNOT ever be funny – I just don’t buy it).
Second Solution: God exists in a state of perfect moderation; therefore, anything in the right context can be funny. This is the most palatable to me for a few reasons. God could laugh on occasion like we do at a kitten in a paper sack, but then God could also laugh at John Cleese’s brilliant eulogy at Graham Chapman’s funeral. If God really appreciates humor in this way, then this removes the furtive guilt I sometimes feel when I enjoy something gloriously sacrilegious. There is a time to laugh. Exaltation is probably too serious to be taken too seriously.
“A Paradox, a Paradox, a Most Ingenious Paradox, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, a Paradox!” - Sir William Schwenck Gilbert
There exists a paradox between sanctity and atonement. The ground this paradox stands on is God’s sense of humor.
The other day I encountered (yet again) someone chortling a variation of the claim, “Well God must have a sense of humor, just look what He’s done with my life.” In this view, God’s sense of humor explains every inconvenient thing from romantic breakups to the Holocaust. Humor as theodicy… hmmm… People usually share this claim non-seriously. They don’t really think God’s sense of humor extends to royally screwing up someone’s life just for laughs. That would violate principles of atonement (specifically charity). God is love – not irony.
On another occasion, a woman removed from me by a generation offered a serious alternative to this non-serious view of God’s sense of humor. She suggested that God could have a sense of humor in a manner similar to the way parents enjoy the innocent foibles of their children. In this view, God enjoys the occasional chuckle at viewing His children floundering about innocently – like we might enjoy for a moment the way a kitten rummages around in a paper sack trying to get out. Silly kitten, bags are for groceries – heh heh heh… So God could laugh, but like above, this kind of sense of humor relies solely on condescension. Not in the sense of coming down voluntarily but in the sense of deigning. Not in the sense of interactive humor but in the sense of laughing from a distance – the objects of humor unaware that Someone is laughing at them. A humor consisting of condescension and nothing else also violates principles of atonement (specifically reconciliation), for it forever relies on a stratified relationship between those who get to laugh celestially and those who are laughed at.
If God has a sense of humor, He must be able to laugh at things on His own plane of existence. This would salvage charity, reconciliation, and other principles of atonement. For in a celestial sphere, Everyone laughed at is also in on the joke, for Everyone is of one heart and one mind. So if God has a sense of humor, then the things within His realm of humor include things which exist on His level. These include heaven, eternity, charity itself, prayer, the Temple, ordinances, scripture, revelation, family, the Holy Ghost, even Heavenly Mother.
But this begins to get uncomfortable, for are not some things simply sacrosanct? Untouchable – even unapproachable – except through serious solemnity? (as if comic solemnity were an oxymoron and not an actual possibility)
Hence the paradox between sanctity and charity. If God has a sense of humor, one of a few conflicting possibilities may be true. First, God laughs at things too sacred to laugh at (thus salvaging principles of atonement). Second, God laughs only at things which are not sacred (i.e. only things below His level of existence, thus limiting principles of atonement).
I see two solutions to this paradox.
First solution: God does not have a sense of humor. Since humor is all about contexts and frames of reference, and because God’s frame of reference is the sum total of everything that was, is, and will be, God simply does not have a sense of humor. This I find especially hard to believe, if only because humans are created in the image of Heavenly Parents. Humans clearly have a sense of humor. We are literally children of God – Gods in embryo. God clearly exhibits a wide range of other passions and emotions – why not humor? Plus, much of humor evolves not just through conflicting contexts but from the ability to appreciate multiple contexts even if those contexts are intimately familiar. This is why Monty Python and the Holy Grail will always be funny. Indeed, this is why I’m convinced even God laughs at Monty Python jokes. Our resistance to the idea of God having a robust sense of humor probably stems from the same cultural resistance we have to viewing God as having an active sex drive (i.e. what happens behind heavenly doors should stay behind heavenly doors; likewise, there are some things so sacred that they simply CANNOT ever be funny – I just don’t buy it).
Second Solution: God exists in a state of perfect moderation; therefore, anything in the right context can be funny. This is the most palatable to me for a few reasons. God could laugh on occasion like we do at a kitten in a paper sack, but then God could also laugh at John Cleese’s brilliant eulogy at Graham Chapman’s funeral. If God really appreciates humor in this way, then this removes the furtive guilt I sometimes feel when I enjoy something gloriously sacrilegious. There is a time to laugh. Exaltation is probably too serious to be taken too seriously.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Wednesday morning sometime around 7:30, I sat in the Wilkinson Center Terrace writing a self-loathing email to a much-abler writer than myself. I sullied my compositional capabilities and generally felt sorry for myself that others existed who could turn a phrase with greater ease than I. Pathetic, right?
I feel I could write well (instead of just teaching others what good writing looks like); I just have this crazy fear of putting my writing out where other people can look at it without my constant control of the situation. I’m also pretty sure I’m beginning to bug the person I wrote to. I mean, how much of “you’re wonderful/I suck” can a stomach handle? We actually had the briefest of conversations the next day, but neither of us said anything about writing. Nor have I received any response to that email. I don’t know if that speaks legions or simply not a damn thing. But more importantly, I’m not going to worry about it.
I just need to step up and just start sharing writing. Hence this blog. I will not pretend satisfaction nor articulation with anything I write here. I feel I need to unblock some compositional pathways (I inundate my poor students with this idea early every semester). Again, hence this blog.
Back to Wednesday morning (this all relates, I promise). Two maybe three other people shared the basket-ball court-sized Terrace with me. Some others wended their ways around tables on their way to the neuronal necessities that keep this university running. I finished my email and idled through a few Scrabulous games doing my best to ignore my grad school applications and their impending deadlines. Then as the dim outside grew a bit paler and the lights in some offices around me flickered on, I heard a low voice somewhere behind me engaged in a conversation with someone else.
“I’m B Money. Have you seen me on YouTube?”
I whipped around and saw a bearded, early-thirties bundle of gansta pants and brown corduroy jacket attempting conversation with a backpacked and hoodied coed. The guy held a disc-man, the girl looked like she wanted to run. But nearly two decades of cultural conditioning held firm and she answered politely instead.
“Um. No, I haven’t. Is it good?” She wasn’t really interested. B Money couldn’t tell.
Part of me wanted to enjoy the awkwardness for a moment, but I interrupted right at that point.
“You’re B Money?” I ventured. Both looked at me, she visibly less tense now someone else had entered the conversation and he not at all surprised that someone even knew who or what B Money was. The girl’s eyes darted to me, to B Money, to the door – obviously planning an exit strategy. I’d like to think I interrupted as an act of mercy to the girl, but really I just couldn’t believe that B Money actually stood less than ten feet away from me.
The conversation between B Money and the girl ended quickly. He tried to give her his number, she said she’d look him up on facebook. The first action never happened; somehow I doubt the second will either. She quickly left. B Money stepped over to me.
He looked like he had just gotten off of a graveyard shift at a Kwik-E-Mart. I almost asked him how Apu was doing, but I didn’t. The gray in his short rusty hair disconcerted me a bit. Somehow I had expected B Money to be younger. His eyes had a dim almost Asbergers shield about them. He smelled of sweat and backseat upholstery. I grinned at him. It never occurred to him to smile back.
I have no idea what his real name is, but B Money (sometimes “Bee” Money) has had a few rap videoes on YouTube for a year or so.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlGh64-l4IU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abfh206OocQ&feature=related
Some friends in north Orem showed one to me some months ago. Some people laugh at him or laugh with him, some who don’t get the situation with B Money hate his stuff. Others ignore it. He wrote his songs himself (some of my favorites include "It's your fetchin B-day" and "Abso-fetchin-lutely") and some guys in his ward just south of BYU campus helped him film the videos. One of the videos contains clips of him cruisin’ down 700 East, dancing at a local club, kicking an abandoned police barricade, and jumping multiple times over a “No Trespassing” cement barrier – almost the full extent of all gangsta activities in Provo. When you watch his videos, you can’t help but sport a smile. See, it’s pretty evident that B Money has some sort of mild social disorder (maybe some form of low-grade autism, I dunno). He lives in one of the quasi-run-down half-house apartments south of campus. He reminds me a bit of Arthur Killer Kane. B Money’s so damn sincere in his cultivation of a gansta rapper persona that you can’t help but want to support him in his bald-faced attempt to franchise himself.
Franchising himself was exactly what he was doing in the Wilk Terrace sometime before 8AM on a frozen Wednesday morning. I heard from a friend later that day that B Money upon occasion has had some run-ins with campus police because of his attempts to sell his B Money paraphernalia on campus. Even if I had known that, I wouldn’t have cared.
I had him sit down at my table and he put the CD from his disc-man into my laptop. We listened to a few of his new tracks and he informed me about the stuff he sells. His entire product line consists of a t-shirt ($10), a CD ($10), and a DVD ($4). I had a passing student take a picture of me with B Money and I made arrangements to buy a CD and a t-shirt (which I later did).
Here’s the point of this (I think). B Money is not good at rapping. In fact, he’s pretty horrid. I admit I’m already biased. For me, “good” rap songs include mostly Weird Al parodies and a few Beastie Boys tracks. But B Money would not be on anyone’s list of rappers they listen to because of sheer talent. People who actually listen to B Money usually listen to him for one of two reasons.
First, pity. See reasons listed above. I actually believe this is the lesser of the two reasons.
Most important reason I believe people listen to B Money: B Money wears his heart on his sleeve. He puts his whole soul into what he does. Think William Hung, Dwight Shrute, the early Ramones, and others.
True - they generally suck at what they do.
But they suck with such magnificent brio and aplomb.
So here’s to sucking with brio and aplomb. And here’s to wearing hearts on sleeves. May this blog be worthy of such aspiration.
I feel I could write well (instead of just teaching others what good writing looks like); I just have this crazy fear of putting my writing out where other people can look at it without my constant control of the situation. I’m also pretty sure I’m beginning to bug the person I wrote to. I mean, how much of “you’re wonderful/I suck” can a stomach handle? We actually had the briefest of conversations the next day, but neither of us said anything about writing. Nor have I received any response to that email. I don’t know if that speaks legions or simply not a damn thing. But more importantly, I’m not going to worry about it.
I just need to step up and just start sharing writing. Hence this blog. I will not pretend satisfaction nor articulation with anything I write here. I feel I need to unblock some compositional pathways (I inundate my poor students with this idea early every semester). Again, hence this blog.
Back to Wednesday morning (this all relates, I promise). Two maybe three other people shared the basket-ball court-sized Terrace with me. Some others wended their ways around tables on their way to the neuronal necessities that keep this university running. I finished my email and idled through a few Scrabulous games doing my best to ignore my grad school applications and their impending deadlines. Then as the dim outside grew a bit paler and the lights in some offices around me flickered on, I heard a low voice somewhere behind me engaged in a conversation with someone else.
“I’m B Money. Have you seen me on YouTube?”
I whipped around and saw a bearded, early-thirties bundle of gansta pants and brown corduroy jacket attempting conversation with a backpacked and hoodied coed. The guy held a disc-man, the girl looked like she wanted to run. But nearly two decades of cultural conditioning held firm and she answered politely instead.
“Um. No, I haven’t. Is it good?” She wasn’t really interested. B Money couldn’t tell.
Part of me wanted to enjoy the awkwardness for a moment, but I interrupted right at that point.
“You’re B Money?” I ventured. Both looked at me, she visibly less tense now someone else had entered the conversation and he not at all surprised that someone even knew who or what B Money was. The girl’s eyes darted to me, to B Money, to the door – obviously planning an exit strategy. I’d like to think I interrupted as an act of mercy to the girl, but really I just couldn’t believe that B Money actually stood less than ten feet away from me.
The conversation between B Money and the girl ended quickly. He tried to give her his number, she said she’d look him up on facebook. The first action never happened; somehow I doubt the second will either. She quickly left. B Money stepped over to me.
He looked like he had just gotten off of a graveyard shift at a Kwik-E-Mart. I almost asked him how Apu was doing, but I didn’t. The gray in his short rusty hair disconcerted me a bit. Somehow I had expected B Money to be younger. His eyes had a dim almost Asbergers shield about them. He smelled of sweat and backseat upholstery. I grinned at him. It never occurred to him to smile back.
I have no idea what his real name is, but B Money (sometimes “Bee” Money) has had a few rap videoes on YouTube for a year or so.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlGh64-l4IU
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abfh206OocQ&feature=related
Some friends in north Orem showed one to me some months ago. Some people laugh at him or laugh with him, some who don’t get the situation with B Money hate his stuff. Others ignore it. He wrote his songs himself (some of my favorites include "It's your fetchin B-day" and "Abso-fetchin-lutely") and some guys in his ward just south of BYU campus helped him film the videos. One of the videos contains clips of him cruisin’ down 700 East, dancing at a local club, kicking an abandoned police barricade, and jumping multiple times over a “No Trespassing” cement barrier – almost the full extent of all gangsta activities in Provo. When you watch his videos, you can’t help but sport a smile. See, it’s pretty evident that B Money has some sort of mild social disorder (maybe some form of low-grade autism, I dunno). He lives in one of the quasi-run-down half-house apartments south of campus. He reminds me a bit of Arthur Killer Kane. B Money’s so damn sincere in his cultivation of a gansta rapper persona that you can’t help but want to support him in his bald-faced attempt to franchise himself.
Franchising himself was exactly what he was doing in the Wilk Terrace sometime before 8AM on a frozen Wednesday morning. I heard from a friend later that day that B Money upon occasion has had some run-ins with campus police because of his attempts to sell his B Money paraphernalia on campus. Even if I had known that, I wouldn’t have cared.
I had him sit down at my table and he put the CD from his disc-man into my laptop. We listened to a few of his new tracks and he informed me about the stuff he sells. His entire product line consists of a t-shirt ($10), a CD ($10), and a DVD ($4). I had a passing student take a picture of me with B Money and I made arrangements to buy a CD and a t-shirt (which I later did).
Here’s the point of this (I think). B Money is not good at rapping. In fact, he’s pretty horrid. I admit I’m already biased. For me, “good” rap songs include mostly Weird Al parodies and a few Beastie Boys tracks. But B Money would not be on anyone’s list of rappers they listen to because of sheer talent. People who actually listen to B Money usually listen to him for one of two reasons.
First, pity. See reasons listed above. I actually believe this is the lesser of the two reasons.
Most important reason I believe people listen to B Money: B Money wears his heart on his sleeve. He puts his whole soul into what he does. Think William Hung, Dwight Shrute, the early Ramones, and others.
True - they generally suck at what they do.
But they suck with such magnificent brio and aplomb.
So here’s to sucking with brio and aplomb. And here’s to wearing hearts on sleeves. May this blog be worthy of such aspiration.
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