Wednesday, September 25, 2013

The Pitfalls of Conversation in the 21st Century (Or Just Because You Posted It Doesn't Mean I Saw It.)

Ok, I just know I'm not the only person who has experienced this. You meet up with a friend or relative who launches into a conversation about people and events and you have no idea what she's talking about. Sometimes it's something small like a book or movie they liked. Sometimes it's like...apparently this person has broken up with their significant other or changed jobs or, I don't know, had a child. And the conversation starts in the middle and you realize, with a sinking feeling, you are supposed to know the back story to this all, but you don't....and you think....damn that social media.

And, hey, I love social media. Here I am blogging. I'm on Facebook. My cat is on Facebook (though she has woefully neglected her page in her quest to enjoy every last minute of nice weather.) Theoretically, I'm on Pinterest except I signed up for it and figured it out in the middle of the night, so I was under the influence of Ambien, and....I don't remember my password or how it all works. I may figure that out, but it's kind of low on my priority list. And every time I get a notification that someone is following me on Pinterest, I think, "Ok, they're going to be disappointed."

Here's the deal, people. I can barely keep up with my own life. Seriously. And I suspect I'm not alone in this. It doesn't mean I don't love your Facebook posts, but I might miss a few. I might only check out your blog every couple of months and find a few dozen entries I haven't read, including the one that says you've had triplets and moved to Siberia. And I'm definitely missing your Pinterest boards about your new obsession with building your own robots.

I use Facebook for three main reasons:

1. to keep everyone appraised of my cat's life
2. to post all the witty and sarcastic remarks that only the cat might otherwise hear
3. to say "help, help!" when something in my life goes wrong.

And I love that rush of support and love and funny comments, but I don't expect to hear from everyone I know. If someone goes weeks without even reading my Facebook comments or blog, I don't take it personally. I figure they're just all trying to keep up with their own lives.

Not to mention trying to remember all their passwords.






Wednesday, September 18, 2013

The Balm of Gilead

More than 30 years ago, a wave of feminism rose up against the Mormon (LDS) church. My mom not only joined it, she wrote about it, and, in doing so, gained a certain amount of notoriety and disfavor with the church's leadership. She would clash with church leadership many more times, but it began with a group of women who stepped forward and asked for more.

As those who know me or read my blog are aware, I carry psychic scars of that struggle, not to mention a case of PTSD triggered by anything connected to Mormonism. I have never read most of my mom's writings related to the church and I have distanced myself from the intellectual communities in which my parents played a huge role. I even decided to stop reading and watching local media because it always holds triggers. And so I live in Utah and I have no idea what's going on around me, unless someone tells me or it makes it to CNN.

I was aware of the fact that the battle for equality in the LDS church had continued and recently a new awakening had blossomed. I even have cousins involved in it. Still, I remained cynical. And kind of annoyed. I rolled my eyes and thought, "Fine. Battle the behemoth if that's what you want to do, but don't expect it to change." Most often I wondered why anyone would want to fight. Why not just get out?

You see, because I have never had any faith in the LDS gospel and because I have never been comfortable in an LDS congregation--the closest I've ever come to comfort is ambivalence--it's hard for me to relate to those who have both great faith in the gospel and ideological qualms with the church. I have to remind myself that it's possible to have both and how difficult that must be.

Yesterday, a friend sent my dad an e-mail letting him know about this bright young feminist who had a tribute to my mom on Facebook. As he does with all things concerning Facebook, my dad forwarded it to me. I clicked on the link and found Hannah Wheelwright's page. She'd posted a short, but powerful poem by my mom. I smiled when I saw she'd chosen a simple typewriter font for it because that's probably what my mom would have chosen. I sent her a message telling her I appreciated how she'd used it and wished her well in the struggle.

Later, I did an Internet search, found her blog, and read some of the posts, including one about why, out of respect, the church should correctly be referred to as the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, or the LDS church, not the Mormon church. I've resisted this for decades because I don't like doing what the church wants me to do. That said, her argument about the power of language reminded me that I had learned this same lesson from my mom. And that maybe I need to show respect even when I feel I have not received it in return. It's something I need to think about.

I also discovered just how powerful and extensive this network of LDS feminists--both male and female, gay and straight--has become. I have always known that every fight for equality has spanned generations and always some of those fighters succumb to cynicism. Whether it's women's suffrage, or an end to racial segregation, or the idea of women being ordained in the LDS church, it's always tempting to say, as I have said, it will never happen. I never wanted to be one of those people, but it happened to me anyway. Fortunately, even amid the cynics' warnings, some people push on.

While the LDS church will never be my spiritual path, I see a possibility of a more just and inclusive church. I have never thought the struggle my mom was part of was for nothing. Confronting injustice is a righteous act. I also never thought I'd see the fruition of that struggle. Now I think I might.

And that takes the sting out of a lot of my wounds.