Play It Again, Tai

A little less than a year ago, a new guide entered my "Peanut Gallery" of guides. Her name is Tai. You can read more about her here. (This will make more sense if you've read the first one.) Anyway, Tai is my joy guide. (If that freaks you out, think of her as an imaginary friend. She won't mind.)

I don't actually see guides. In fact, Tai's the only one I "see" at all, if only in my mind's eye. I'm glad I do, though, because she cracks me up. When I'm stressed, she makes what looks like a dying goldfish face. And then there are her hands. You know when a kid is young enough that their hands are kind of chubby and dimpled? That's how Tai's hands are and, when she is really happy about something, she waves them excitedly, as if she cannot contain her delight. (This is usually a response to new art supplies.)

I also hear Tai--again in my mind--which is not something I ordinarily do. She has a wonderful laugh and I go out of my way to find ways to make her laugh. I also tell her that I'd like to put her laugh on an audio mpeg. She said, "That would be cool."

I discovered right away that Tai responds to music, at least certain music. I'm always trying to figure out what catches her attention and what doesn't. (She has her own playlist on my ipod, plus a bunch of favorite youtube videos.) I could play any version of "What A Wonderful World" without Tai showing any interest. If I play Louis Amstrong's version, Tai is enraptured. I can see her tilt her head and listen. In fact, she seems very drawn to blues, jazz, and old spirituals. Among spirituals, she really likes "Way Beyond The Blue" but her favorite is "Wade In The Water." She loves the verse "I went down to the valley to pray. My soul got happy and I stayed all day." According to Tai, our souls are supposed to be happy--if not always, then most of the time.

This does not mean everything with Tai is that deep. She really likes the Muppets version of the Village People's "In The Navy." I finally caught on that what she likes best about it is the stomping rhythm of the chorus: "We want you, we want you, we want you as a new recruit." Another recent Tai favorite song  is "Moon River." As with many songs, I couldn't remember all the lyrics, so I went to youtube. I played several versions and the one Tai responded to was Elton John's. (He performed it at a concert, though, as far as I can tell, he's never released it as a song.) Why Elton John and not Audrey Hepburn? (Another Tai favorite is "Son of a Preacher Man" by Dusty Springfield. Again, I don't know why.)

When Tai likes a song, I can use it to summon her, even on a bad day. Of course, this means I may hear her say "Um, play it again please." I caught on to the fact that she never asked for a song (or a video) to be played twice, but always three times. I tend to see things symbolically, so I kept trying to figure out the three connection. For instance, I've always thought Tai was around the age of three or four. (Tai won't tell me anything about her previous life--or lives--because "it's not important.") Three to me also means the Trinity. In Tarot, the third card in the Major Arcana, is the Empress, which is a card of abundance. In numerology, three symbolizes drama and joy. In The Gift Of Asher Lev by Chaim Potok, three is a riddle throughout the book, and, as it was one of my mom's favorite books, maybe it was a message from her?

 I finally got a connection strong enough with Tai to say "Why three?" and she said, "Three is my favorite number because, um, I like it's shape."

"Anything else?" I asked.

"No," she said, seeming a little perplexed, "it's just my favorite."

Tai has lots of favorites. Red is her favorite color. Elephants are her favorite animal. Cheetos are her favorite snack. Her favorite celebrities are the Dalai Lama-- ("he seems really happy") and Barack Obama-- ("he seems really nice and, um, I like when he sings.") Kermit is her favorite Muppet, followed by Animal. (Kermit sings. Animal's red. Makes sense.) She's not too keen on Miss Piggy, except when she's doing her "Hi-ya" karate. Tai's favorite word is "grooving"--as in "We're grooving to tunes."

And, in addition to the Muppets, she has a favorite form of comedy. Remember how I said I'll do about anything to make her laugh? One day, I told her that old knock-knock joke... You know:

"Knock knock"

"Who's there?"

"Banana"

"Banana who?"

"Knock knock"

"Who's there?"

"Banana"

on and on until she was exasperated and I said "Orange"

and she said, taken aback, "Orange who?"

and I said, "Orange you glad I didn't say banana?"

And then I discovered that along with her melodic laugh, she has a deep chuckle, which I'd also like to put on an mpeg.

That night, as I was trying to fall asleep, I heard a little voice say "Knock knock" and I said "Who's there?" and she said, "Tai" and I said, "Tai who?" and she said, "Um, just Tai."

Ode To Mormon Feminists

ode to mormon feminists

three decades later,
and the sisters rise,
again,
for the same crumbs,
symbolic though they may be,
never a whole loaf
to chase away hunger

lower your veil
for her sin
is your sin

a taint passed from mother to daughter
remember this shame

lower your veil,
it will conceal all
your flaws
and distort your vision

know your place, she says
you would say,
know your value.

--Cynthia Sillitoe, January 2013

Conspiracies of Silence and Omission

Note: this blog may annoy/anger my relatives and/or Mormons. Consider yourselves warned. From this point on, you're offended at your own risk.

Tonight, I started reading Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's book Black Profiles of Courage. In his essays about prominent people of African descent in American history, he writes not only of these important historical figures, but of what he sees (and I see) as a concerted attempt to write them out of history. And the more I read, the more I find myself muttering, "Tell me about it, Kareem."

Those who know me through my blog or not, know that I have an ambivalent relationship with the Mormon church. (Yes, I know it's properly addressed as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. I won't call it that because defying the church's public relations' campaigns is one of the joys of my life.) Anyway, my life has been a strange microcosm of Utah. I had a mother from a devout Mormon family, a father from a very non-Mormon family, who converted. Years after they married, my parents started questioning church teachings, which led us as a family down a long and winding path further away from the religion. As such, I find myself knowing some things about church history and doctrine which most active Mormons might not know, and then I find myself not knowing things that would have become obvious if I'd stayed in the church.

In the days when "Which Greek hero/gay leader/jazz musician/femme fatale are you" quizzes were all the rage on Facebook, one was "Which Book of Mormon Character Are You?" I reported this idly to my mom, noting that so far none of our relatives has turned out to be female characters. My mom looked at me for a minute, took a deep breath, then said, "Cynthia, there are no female characters in the Book of Mormon. Well, there are two, but only one has a name, and neither is someone you'd want to be."

"Huh?"

"Well, you can assume somewhere there are women because generations of sons continue to be born to men, but uh...yeah. It's not like the Bible. You won't find women like Ruth or Esther, or Mary, or Martha."

At that point, I commenced screaming.

See, one of my qualms with Mormonism is that there's a "separate but equal" bit going on. Men and women have different roles in the religion which are both supposed to be equally important, though a woman's path could never lead her to be prophet of the church. (Unless a future prophet has a major revelation.) One of the many topics my mom got into hot water over was equality in the priesthood. Men get the priesthood which gives them the ability to heal, have visions, etc., and eventually maybe lead the church. Women don't get that. Women get to have babies. Although if women choose not to--or are unable to--have babies, they can't get the priesthood by default.

So my screaming went like this: "What the hell? Did you all know that? All the Mormon feminists who have been fighting for generations, they knew they weren't in the Book of Mormon, right? Why the hell would they think they could demand equality from a church whose gospel doesn't even mention them?" (Actually, this is the edited version. My real screaming was far more profane.)

And then it went like this: "So, you as a little girl, were raised to seek solace and wisdom in a book where you would find no one like you? No role models at all? How did you do that? Ok, clearly you didn't forever, but for how many generations have Mormon women sat in pews and read scripture all about men?"

"Well," my mom said, "the Bible is scripture, too, and you could find a few good women in that. Setting aside Eve, of course. It's amazing how women have suffered because of one woman and her lust for an apple." (She was trying to calm me down with humor, but it wasn't working.)

"So how do women get the Priesthood?" I asked my mom, because I know there are devout Mormon women who believe there will be a revelation from the prophet. "I mean, is that prophet going to say, it has been revealed to me that Brother Joseph missed translating a gold plate and now regrets it? Will someone have to dig up a new addition to the gospel? Or will the prophet have to admit that the scripture is...uh... flawed?"

Of course, the Mormon Church has gotten really good at revising history. In efforts to move away from connections to polygamy, and perhaps also to create a female role model, the last few years have seen a lot of books about Joseph Smith and his wife Emma. Not his only wife, but apparently the one he loved most, and his spiritual wife. Everywhere you turn, there are articles, essays, blogs, books and even movies about Emma Smith. She is the face of Mormon women. What's hilarious is that, after Joseph Smith's murder, Emma Smith and her Smith sons, broke away from the traditional Mormon church to create their own version of the religion. That fact seems lost on the Church marketing machine. (Personally, I think her descendants ought to sue for royalties.)

And, as for other women role models, the Church has moved a bit on the concept of Mother in Heaven. Turns out Father in Heaven does have a wife, but, as one friend told me at school, "she was not to be spoken of...because if she were people would take her name in vain the way they take God's name in vain, and so Heavenly Father tries to protect her from this." I came home and announced over dinner that Mother in Heaven was clearly a wuss. A deity who needs to be protected by another deity from mere mortals?

These last few years, I've been trying to remove myself from all this baggage of my childhood, to gain some kind of intellectual and emotional distance--maybe even disinterest--my loyalty still lies with the women who fight for the priesthood. But if you get it, sisters, every time you pick up a Book of Mormon, may you remember that when the angel appeared to Joseph and brought him a gospel, for all intents and purposes, you weren't important to the story.

And, if they write you into it, keep a vigilant watch, or they'll revise you out of it when you're not paying attention.

Insomnia: A Chance to Analyze My Relatives

Lately, I've been having more trouble than usual sleeping and that's saying something. I've never been a good sleeper and, before you start posting sleep remedies, I've tried them. All of them. What's worked best for me  has been Ambien, though lately that hasn't worked, so I dutifully went to the doctor and we decided to try Ambien CR. The only catch was that it turned out my insurance wouldn't cover it until I'd used up the rest of the last prescription. It didn't matter that the current medicine wasn't working and my doctor wanted me on another. My first reaction to this was an expletive. My second was to remind myself how lucky I am to have insurance at all.

That reaction is what I call the "Grandma Buhler" effect. My mom's mom was incredibly optimistic and grateful for everything she had. Give her a bad situation and she'd find a blessing in it...or two or three. A number of life experiences shaped this. One was when, as a child, she sat too close to a woodstove and caught on fire. At first, she was not expected to live, and then she spent months in a pre-WWII pediatric burn unit, enduring skin grafts and other medical tortures. I figure when you've been in a pre-WWII pediatric burn unit, most things in life seem pretty damn minor. In fact, one of my mantras for when everything seems awful is "at least it's not a pre-WWII pediatric burn unit."

This does not mean she was a Pollyanna. You know, Hayley Mills' character who asks for a doll and gets crutches and gets over her disappointment by being glad she doesn't need them. In that situation, Grandma would have been disappointed, eventually glad she didn't need them, (but still disappointed,) but she also would have realized that somebody didn't get the crutches they needed (which never seemed to occur to Pollyanna) and that would have really bugged her. She probably would have tried to track down the child who had needed the crutches. And she would have lost sleep over it.

My Grandma Roberts, my great-grandmother on the other side of the family, would have reacted differently. She would have been furious about not getting the doll, but she also would have kept the crutches, knowing with the instincts of a great--uh, packrat--that you can never have too many pairs of crutches stashed away. She also might have wanted to make sure that no one on the block had better crutches.

I remember being a small girl and finding a cane in a closet at Grandma Roberts' house. I believe it belonged to Aunt Pearl. What I can't tell you is how Aunt Pearl fit into the family or if she was even anyone's aunt. That family is kind of loose about things like that. People called "aunt" or "uncle" might really be cousins and people called "cousins" might really be nephews. Uh, yeah.

At the time, I thought it was sweet that Grandma Roberts couldn't bear to part with the cane and proof of how much she loved Aunt Pearl. Now I realize it was only part sentimental. Mostly it was the "They don't make good canes like they used to and you never know when you need one so it would be a sin to throw one out" mentality. It was like walking past a penny and not picking it up. Grandma Roberts used to tell my dad that "If you don't see the pennies, you'll never see the dollars."

Then there was my great-aunt Chick. Once, when Mom and I were living in Arizona, someone called and asked for her. I told them she wasn't there and offered to take a message. She said, "Tell her her Aunt Charlette called." (I hope I'm spelling that right...I know it was an unusual spelling. Someone remind me if I  have it wrong.) I took the message and when my mom came home, said "Since when do you have an aunt Charlette?" She said, "Oh, that's Chick. Chick hates being called Chick." I said, "Does the family know that?" and she said, "Yes, but everyone still calls her Chick anyway."

Anyway, it turns out that my great-aunt Chick (Charlette) had decided to write a book about her battle of weight loss, so called her niece the author for pointers. While I don't still have the manuscript and wish I did, it contained several hysterical stories, including one which my mom swore was "All you need to know about Aunt Chick...I mean, Charlette."

It seems one summer she and a friend decided this was it, they were losing the weight. They joined an aerobics class and twice a week they'd drop all their kids off at a babysitters, go to class, pick up the kids and then, "as a reward" go to Snelgrove's (famous Utah ice cream shop) for root beer floats. Chick (Charlette) said to my mom, in all seriousness, "Linda, I didn't miss a class that summer, and I didn't lose a pound, either." Next time I insist chocolate is a health food, remember this story. It's genetic.

Why I remember all these family stories and quirks is beyond me. Maybe part of it is because I come from two families of storytellers who also remembered them and found value in retelling them. Maybe the part of my brain that keeps track of family stories is dominant while the part that regulates sleep clearly isn't.

I can tell you that Ambien or no, I wouldn't have gotten to sleep Christmas night until all my thank you notes were done. In fact, as I crawled into bed that night, I thought, "Susan, I hope you noticed I did all my thank you notes. Ok, some were emails, but I did them all." My aunt Susan had many fine qualities, but absolutely no tolerance for late thank you notes, and she wouldn't mind waking me to get them done.

Of course, first I'd have to go to sleep....

Fragment of a Dream

in the dream, it seemed
that you were back,
trying to reclaim donated clothes and books

as you stomped your feet and shouted,
I haggled with the store owner
and with you

"I tried to warn you," I said,
"We both knew you wouldn't stay away."

"I meant to stay away," you said,
"but now I want my things."