It happens frequently to me here in Boston; it probably happens to you in your neck of the woods, too. I meet a new colleague or neighbor and somewhere along the line—maybe they ask where my daughter is attending college or where I grew up or I say “no thank you” to the offered coffee—it visibly dawns on them. The braver among them will come out and say it: “Are you Mormon?” More often the epiphany is just in their eyes. Oh, she’s Mormon. (Insert stereotypical mental pictures, some accurate and some not, of polygamy, Mitt Romney, the Osmonds, missionaries two-by-two, pioneer dresses, the Book of Mormon musical, huge families, Republicans, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, South Park comedy sketches, green jello, and even, confusedly, Amish people.)
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not ashamed of my labels. I’m a Mormon, yes I am. But sometimes in those introductory moments, I want to say Yes, I’m a Mormon and a mom of three and I grew up in Utah and you know what you’re picturing and assuming right now? That’s not necessarily an accurate mental model of me. I want footnotes, asterisks, or hyperlinks to explain who I fully am.
I suspect it’s not just me and it’s not just the Mormon label. It’s stay-at-home mom, working mom, legislator, southerner, soldier, Republican, Democrat. Often the labels conjure inaccurate stereotypes and take us to a place of judgment. They don’t tell the whole story.
A few years ago I came across a writer’s unique bio outlining the directions to where she was, a kind of road map to get from her beginnings to the here-and-now. I was hooked. I could relate to the concept of mapping that path out and elaborating on the labels. I appreciated the sense of history and process of unfolding it gave me in understanding not just who the author was at that moment but how she came to be.
Isn’t that what we all want, really? To be understood for the person we’ve come to be, with all the twists and decisions and complexities and not simply the labels? In that spirit, here’s my attempt at outlining directions to finding me.
Directions to where I am
Start in New York City at the height of the Miracle Mets world series in 1969 as a grad school baby. See the city from your perch on your dad’s shoulders. Wear a “please do not feed this child” tag pinned to your shirt. Take a detour south to Peru for a couple of years. Sing at the top of your lungs. Jump into outstretched arms, over and over. Fly back to the US and alight in Logan, Utah, for the rest of growing up.
Smell lilacs. Read thirstily, tucked into the crevice of a nubby beige sofa. Feel safe at the feet of the mountains. Go tubing in the creek. In the summers go to church under the trees in the canyon. Ask questions. Listen to your younger cousin tell you where babies come from–or rather, how they’re made. Grow a big nose, get braces. Be happy when the rest of your face catches up to your nose (sort of) and the braces come off. Get yearly calls from the Birthday Lady.
Reluctantly grow up–be one of the girls who doesn’t eagerly await all the teen girl accoutrements. Discover you can write. Rebel a little. Be on both sides of unrequited love. Pray for a testimony. Be surprised when it doesn’t come in a big moment but in many tiny blessed ones.
Go to BYU, major in English. Ask questions. Fall in like with a series of boys. Meet up with a bass player who’s just a friend. Move to England. Take up running. See Princess Diana four times and Prince Charles once. Exchange increasingly love-filled letters and tapes with the bass player. Move back, marry bass player + put him through law school. Write and edit, repeat.
Move from Salt Lake City to Boston to Washington, DC, to Boston. Have three babies. Be amazed at the depth of mama love. Cut sandwiches, hold hands, answer questions. Ask questions & follow where they lead. Go back to graduate school, trudge toward a PhD. Be cherished. Move forward. Be challenged in your beliefs. Ache for loved ones who ache. Acknowledge complexity. Forgive. Laugh, wipe tears, listen to teen questions and prayers. Try to mend hearts broken from both sides of unrequited love. Embrace it all. Write this. You’re here.
. . .
Now it’s your turn. Tell me how to get to you.
Which labels do you sometimes want to footnote? I’d love to hear some directions to where you are or the rest of the story behind one of your labels.
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