Mormon Grown Gay
by
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Chapter 3: A Mormon Flunk I knew I was different growing up. As bitty, Mormon, clean slates, we are taught in sunday school that the Latter Day Saints are different. We follow different rules, we dress differently, we have a certain code of conduct. (We can’t drink coffee for the love of all that’s frickin’ holy!) And it does take a lot of doing (or more importantly, abstaining,) from doing things most people want to do to be a good Mormon. For that reason, it is “known” within the church that we are special, and will be rewarded in the afterlife for our behavior, if not this life as well. We stand out in a crowd, like a couple of tall, white and blonde missionaries wearing white shirts and name badges in… well, …. anywhere outside of Utah and Scandinavia. (Mormons no longer have predominantly blonde hair and blue eyes, but the stereotype persists). Having now lived away from the Utah motherland for 15 years, I’m frequently reminded that the rest of the on-looking world has a fascination for Mormon stories. I left, and forgot after a while that deep down, I’m still weird due to those cultured roots and who I am now. There are still things that creep up in my previously LDS brain that are not conscious choices. For instance, after 10 years of living away from Utah, I was learning about the retirement benefits at a new job when this thought hopped from my deep, dank, mushroom-spawning subconscious: “Hmmm, I don’t need to invest too heavily in a 401-K right now—the second coming of Christ is supposed to happen soon, and I’ll just wish I had kept it and spent the money on food storage or a bomb shelter before the shizzle hit the fan.” So there it is—I solved that allocation issue. Financial irresponsibility is actually the furthest thing from the Mormon way. But I have heard the second coming of Christ and the end of the evil world as we know it prophesied since my childhood. These concepts were made so real in my mind that they still affect my day-to-day outlook if unchecked. It’s so ingrained that no amount of cerebral Clorox or time away can stop it from rearing its ugly head. I don’t even see it coming—it just lurks in the shadows and then, BAM! Out of the cobwebs from crazy-town, the thoughts I have but don’t claim as mine. Pushy, brainwash-y imposter thoughts that don’t ask permission to interrupt my flow of normal. I’m glad others can’t hear my inside voice, or I fear I would be sequestered as a protege to the ranting bag lady down my street, who stops traffic to bellow to unsuspecting drivers—and the heavens—that she is destroying evil empires with her mind and to watch out for colored lights in the sky and “boo hags”, or your mind will be stolen as well. No one can stop the leaky, accidental expression of what was infused from childhood, even if it’s not something you agree with as you age and make your own choices. You can only hide the recurring thought, laugh about it, or try to assuage it into submission. Or re-evaluate which parts of it you will and will not embrace. Mormon practice has a great deal of intelligent design that I don’t take for granted. I still pause to consider things such as the importance of disaster planning and earthquake preparedness, I just don’t mention that Mormons link being prepared to the second coming of Christ, when the righteous shall be lifted off the earth while the evil burn below, then replaced to survive for a time until righteous community resources are restored. Fifteen years hence, I like to think that the righteous are the majority of us doing the best good that we can, and not the few who are good, and who are in a certain religion. Anyway, this outside interest in Mormonism is repeatedly demonstrated not only by television shows and Broadway plays but also in conversations each time I meet someone who asks me where I’m from. Add the super scoop of sticky intrigue being gay and (ex-)Mormon provides, and it’s a spicy blockbuster pausing for repeated applause. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t always mind. “Oh, you’re from Salt Lake City?” “Yes, I was raised a Mormon.” I do sometimes welcome it as a mindless escape from awkward conversations at parties. It allows my brain to switch on auto-pilot, and.I can perhaps even seem interesting while putting no sweaty-palmed effort or original thought into the conversation that ensues. “No, I’m not practicing—I’m a recovering Mormon. M-wa-hahaa.” They laugh. It’s entertaining. “Did you ever go into one of their temples? I hear they don’t let people in unless they have a special card and pajamas.” They are leaning in, engaged and interested. “Yeah, the card bit is true. I rebelled before I got my card, so I only went in twice to a protected enclosure within the temple where they baptize for the dead. I was 12. But I didn’t get the whole tour.” At this point my new acquaintances usually have looks on their faces like they are walking the line between wanting to ask more questions and not really knowing where “going too far” is. They consciously evaluate how many drinks they have had before speaking. They are also wondering actively if I am pulling their leg with the baptizing for the dead bit. Then they look on expectantly, and with not just a little trepidation. I can throw them a bone if the conversation is still serving us well. “Yes, they baptize dead souls who did not accept the church in this life, so it allows them to be baptized by proxy in the afterlife. Then they can still score Celestial kingdom-hood in the afterlife. It’s like a back-up plan (soul insurance) for the dead. We would go to a big hot tub–type structure in the center of 12 life-sized, carved granite oxen and literally be dunked for each name read out. The temple and the oxen were artistically stunning. It was weird, but beautiful.” “What’s with the Oxen”? “I think they represented the 12 tribes of Israel, but I couldn’t swear by it.” Sometimes they stop there, or tell me that they were raised Episcopalian, or that their grandpa raised oxen when they were kids on a farm in the Midwest. To which I grasp for an appropriate response, conjure a courtesy laugh to follow, and linger until it’s polite to go. The best is a spirited, tipsy guy who’s wife is not at the party and he doesn’t have to drive home. He asks it all. Conspiratorially, with a sideways shiz-eating grin, he half whispers, “Is it true that you can’t even have sex with the girl before you marry her? You just have to cross your fingers it’s good?” “I know, right? Talk about a gamble,” I chortle back if he doesn’t seem too dirt bag about it. Like I said, it can be a party favor. I don’t always mind it.
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About the Book
The intent of this book is to encourage and inspire individuals to love who they are when they find themselves outside their cultural norm, and to thrive in their difference instead of striving to change or hide it. Brandea does this through sharing her own story, a long and bumpy, sometimes hilarious and sometimes heartbreaking road to self love and acceptance. This book is not limited to Mormons who are gay. It speaks to a larger audience of any who feel demoralized and judged for being different than the majority around them when they are true to who they really are.
It’s a story of one who deviated from the heterosexual majority knee deep in the Mormon heartland, and underwent considerable religious and self persecution as a result. Through many experiences, failures, attempts at otherness, and finally success in self acceptance, she has shows that a truly happy ending awaits if you can learn to embrace who you are, who you love, and allow your highest self to emerge.
Her secondary intention is to assist those who are trying to help, love, support, fix, or understand the people going through this experience. By sharing the stories and experiences offered by her family and friends, she shows the many different perspectives that loved ones go through. Their perspectives coupled with hers can help guide your actions to be optimally conducive to healing and progress, while avoiding the murky and discordant pitfalls of divisive blaming, shaming, and disassociation. Foster parents, social workers, parents, family members, gays or bisexual, transgendered queers, counselors and therapists, teachers, Mormons, those fascinated with Mormonism, atheists, Muslim, Catholics or confused friends can find insightful support and solace through these well written, honest accounts.
How do you get through this fracture? How do you gain faith in the fact that you are perfect the way you were made? How do you reconcile the perceived loss of your culture, family support or your spirituality, and how do you find new spiritual building blocks having only ever known one way? How do you then convince others that you’re not broken and you don’t need fixing?
This enlightening memoir offers deep and valuable insight to an often difficult and tumultuous time. She brings levity to the topic, and provides an entertaining and uplifting journey through the experience of discovering and embracing the higher self that is awaiting discovery in all of us.
About the Author
Brandea J. Kelley was born and raised in the Mormon heartland of the Utah valley. She now resides happily in Seattle, Washington, with her wife and two children, enjoying the close relationships of her extended family and friends. She received her BS in psychology from the University of Utah and worked as a counselor for troubled youth prior to joining the Peace Corps in West Africa. She then continued her education at the University of Washington to become a physician assistant and has practiced in oncology, urgent care, and surgery in her twelve years as a physician assistant. She is a human rights activist, art and music enthusiast, voracious reader, spiritual seeker, qigong, and meditation enthusiast, lover of the outdoors, and recovering Mormon. She is honored to serve on the board of two nonprofit agencies: Global Impact (providing health care and service work to those in developing countries) and the Institute for Qigong and Integrative Medicine.