The Start of the End

The second installment can be found here.

So that's how I found myself knocked down by an emotional tsunami and treading water for all I was worth.

To survive, I fawned. I gave them what they sought: I shared our news, I educated, I reconciled doctrinal concerns, I calmed fears. The conversation lasted for nearly an hour. They released me from my calling at some point. They did not extend to me a new calling. (One member of the bishopric literally never spoke for the entire time—weird, right?)

I walked myself home in the dark.

For the rest of the evening, I lived in shock and, I think, dissociation. I did get to hug Brooks, who had stayed awake, miracle of miracles! But then I sat on the couch with my eyes wide and staring. I mustered no energy; I felt no feelings. I went to bed early, exhausted.

I stayed in the shock zone for a few days. The meeting seemed unique, so I shared the details around a bit to fact-check. No church member to whom I told this story—current or former, young or old, man or woman—could remember a time when they had heard of all three members of the bishopric interviewing one member alone. My story dropped jaws and summoned incredulity, and most people commented that it reminded them of a disciplinary council.

After three days, my shock and surprise alchemized into anger and action. It hit right as I got into the shower (my best thinking time). I railed at the injustice of that meeting overfull with men, at how I had felt cornered, at how I had seemingly voluntarily spilled my secrets. I cried and I swore. I had the house to myself for an hour, and I yelled—alone and loudly—what I wished I'd said. I really let 'em have it, naked in my shower, wet but flaming mad.

As I got out of the shower, I looked at my clean clothes waiting on the bathroom counter.

My garments.

I was dry and back to a state of emotional regulation, but I felt a visceral, embodied reaction to seeing those garments. In a flash, they became to me nothing more than a symbol of the patriarchy, a tool for keeping women down and quiet, a literal manifestation of the deindividuation this proudly patriarchal institution intended for me. They were suddenly nothing but fabric, yet that fabric had woven into it every suppressed feeling I'd experienced two nights prior.

Rather than protecting me, as promised, from that traumatic tsunami, the garment had led me directly into the tsunami's path. The way of goodness and reputability within the church was revealed to have actually been a perilous way of unquestioning obedience. A way of losing my self, but not just to Jesus. A superficially smooth way, planned for me without my opinion or consent. Ultimately, the end of the way landed me at a bouldered blockade for the fight/flight path I would have rather chosen.

My body screamed, “Do not put those on.”

I had not listened to my gut on Tuesday night, and it had cost me. Now, alone and safe and embodied, I realized I could no longer afford to not listen to my gut. My gut knew the truth: that my humanity could never really be up for debate, that reputability was and is an illusion, and that my goodness was inherent and beautiful. 

With this course correction, I could finally step onto that elusive fight/flight path I had accidentally avoided earlier. Metaphorically, there were no immediate dangers. The tsunami had passed and I had survived, but I knew I would encounter future tsunamis if I didn't start hiking to higher ground.

I did not put my garments on.

I have never put them on since.

And honestly? Thank you, gentlemen, for the clarity.

The Start of the End, Prequel II

The first installment can be found here.

I waved Mel and Brooks home and walked into the church building while silently rehearsing my new calling boundaries. 

You can imagine my surprise two minutes later when all three members of the bishopric followed me into the bishop’s office. Immediately, I wondered why. Secondly, and nearly as immediately, I justified it—weakly—to myself. “I knew there would be two of them; what’s one more?” I was not worried for my physical safety. But my gut knew that this would not just be a 5-minute release meeting. (My head required some convincing.)

The four of us filed into the small office. We sat in a parallelogram shape: Bishop at his desk, me across from him, the two counselors each taking a seat on the side walls of the office. They were perfectly triangulated; I felt perfectly trapped.

The bishop asked me, “How are you, Sister Facer?”

I cheerfully, maybe a bit nervously, responded, “Fine! How are you?”

“I’m good! I’m good.” Slow nodding.

A pause. Nobody spoke. Then the bishop, again:

“How are you, really?”

And right then, a knowing from my gut rode a lightning bolt of recognition straight up to my head: this is about Melody.

See, those Easter neighbors? Who wanted a family photo? I like them! That family has since moved, and I miss seeing them. And, as helpful context, one of them was the Elder’s Quorum president at that time.

I knew suddenly that he had spread the word of Mel’s transition. He was allowed to do that; I had indicated that this was no secret. But so immediately? For what purpose? Why was this meeting called, and did it really have much to do with my calling? Why, why on God’s green earth, were there so many men in this room? Why did I feel like I was in trouble? I had done nothing wrong, and I knew this. Did they know this?

A quintessential “fawn” response arose: What do they want from me, and how quickly can I provide that to get out of here?

Many people like to tell me that this is when I should have stood up and simply dismissed myself from the interview. I wish, truly I do, that I would have done that. But the reasons I didn’t are perfectly plain to any woman in the LDS church, and they don't have to do with any lack of bravery or desire. Every woman who has suggested this course of action has also admitted (often with chagrin) that she, too, would not have known how to leave. But why not?

Because neither fight nor flight seems like a feasible response when the power differential so clearly supports the male majority in the room. I wasn't part of that majority. I was on defense, and I was going it solo.

Let me lay it out for you.

:: The binarily gendered Priesthood power structure

:: The passive aggressive nature of the bishop's repeated question

:: The misrepresentation in advance of this meeting’s participants

:: The lack of informed consent from me for the group setting

All of those bolded bits are so normalized in LDS culture, and they act together as a tsunami to enforce conformity. Each element is seemingly innocent, as in "nothing wrong here," "oops our mistake," or "sorry, I'm required to ask this." But en masse, they can turn a destabilizing tide with the bonus effect, given their ubiquity, of isolating anyone who questions the norm.

The goal of these systematic mores, particularly toward women, is long-term deindividuation. The message: Women in this church, or at least the good women in this church, find this acceptable—why don’t you? We have all agreed that men exercise power and authority, they set the tone, they hold the meetings and the expectations.

Meanwhile, women cooperate, if they know what's good. If they want good things for themselves and their families. If they want to be good, period. And what woman (what person) doesn't want to be good?

These cultural norms, and the people who uphold them, silently declare, "Question me, and I will question your goodness, your reputability, your humanity." If you don't believe me, I invite you to imagine (literally, go ahead and picture it!) how good, reputable, or human you would feel or expect to be treated if you got up and walked out of a meeting with your full bishopric.

Fight and flight may have led me to higher ground, safe and away from that silent tsunami. But my lifetime of deindividuation was deeply rooted, and despite years of study and a good bit of therapy, I could not climb any path toward higher ground. I perhaps could have seen the path, and my gut certainly sensed the possibility of it, but I did not yet have the legs to take it.

I had been crippled by the mores and the system which kept me in the room. Here's an important point: The mores and the system exist only when perpetuated by the people in the room. Whether my bishopric upheld the social system knowingly or unknowingly, I cannot say. I do like to give them the benefit of the doubt.

Either way, I realized quickly that you cannot stop a tsunami; you can only preempt one. I had not preempted this one. My Priesthood leaders' pile of personal questions and unsought advice would now flood the room, and I was squarely in their path.

You'll recall that I had, in fact, preempted something else entirely, had spent all my prep time building boundaries and words around my next calling and my desire to possibly, potentially, maybe consider declining it. I had done everything I thought might work in an attempt to save my own goodness, reputability, and humanity while still honoring my needs and wants. I was ready at least to swim and to do so in deeper water than I had thus far traversed!

In fact, I had even planned to let the bishop know that Mel is trans. It was not a secret, and it would have to come up eventually. But it was supposed to be at the end, casually, on my way out, lobbed gently like an underhand throw, with kindness in my tone and enough patience to answer a couple of questions.

Alas. Wrong higher ground, Alyssa.

The final installment will be posted tomorrow.

The Start of the End, Prequel I

Tuesday, April 11, 2023.

The four of us filed into the small office. We sat in a parallelogram shape: Bishop at his desk, me across from him, the two counselors each taking a seat on the side walls of the office. They were perfectly triangulated; I felt perfectly trapped.

The bishop asked me, “How are you, Sister Facer?”

I cheerfully, maybe a bit nervously, responded, “Fine! How are you?”

“I’m good! I’m good.” Slow nodding.

A pause. Nobody spoke. Then the bishop, again:

“How are you, really?”

And right then, a knowing from my gut rode a lightning bolt of recognition straight up to my head: this is about Melody.

See, the back story goes like this.

Mel was soon to come out publicly, and I was busy informing everyone that we regularly interacted with that she is trans. As Relief Society secretary, I had told the RS presidency in one of our meetings already. We were friends, and they were supportive and loving and, I believe, discreet. It wasn’t a secret, but they knew not to treat this news as gossip.

On Easter Sunday, April 9, I learned that we, the presidency, would soon be released from our callings. Though I wouldn't have shared this with anyone, I was honestly glad to hear it. Brooks and I were sitting on the curb of our corner lot after church when I read that text, and my happy hands started waving at passing church traffic with a bit more enthusiasm: “Hello ward members, driving by! I am getting released, hello! I will no longer feel an obligation to connect with you and can therefore do so genuinely, hello! Happy Easter! Hello!”

Our neighbor asked if I could come over and take a picture of their little family in their Easter garb. I thought, “So cute, I am in a happy hello mood, of course, hand me your phone!” And I took advantage of the moment to also let them know Melody’s name and pronouns. They expressed support and love, and I felt relieved, plus an extra measure of gladness. The circle of who knew our biggest news had grown a bit more, and with good results. So far, so good!

The next day, Monday, I received a text message from the bishop. Something like this: “Sister Facer, would you be available to meet with Brother XXX and I tomorrow evening at 8:00?” I replied with something like this: “Sure! See you then.” And again, I felt glad to know that this releasing would be made official very soon.

I realized immediately that the bishop might extend to me a new calling invitation. Would I accept a music calling in this ward? Would I accept a primary calling? A teaching calling? Any calling? I certainly had much to consider. I got straight to work on the mental and emotional load of boundary finding, reciting, and holding before our meeting. I had never declined a calling, but I would be ready.

A quick note: I found it a little weird that I was requested to meet with both the bishop and Brother XXX for a simple calling release meeting. I also thought it strange that the bishop had texted me directly, rather than going through his executive secretary. (Honestly, if you're allowed to text me directly, release me over text, please, I beg you.) 

I did not see either of these things as strange enough for me to be concerned. I knew some women in the church dislike meeting one-on-one with men in the church. I knew some bishops monitor bits of their own schedules. Okay, whatever, it’ll be five minutes, see you then.

On Tuesday, prior to my appointment with the Bishop and Brother XXX, we ran to Target for a few things. Mel, Brooks, and I raced through the checkout line as 8:00 approached, and I knew I’d need to be dropped off at the church on our way home. I was planning to do bedtime at 7:45 but had missed my window. Before they left the church parking lot, I assured Brooks I’d be home soon to give a bedtime hug. 

The second installment will be posted tomorrow.

Book Report: Know My Name by Chanel Miller

 

It is January and I am ready to declare this memoir my “book of the year” for 2024.

Chanel Miller writes the story of her assault, court journey, and accidental (and anonymous) Buzzfeed fame after being Emily Doe in Stanford’s rape case involving Brock Turner. I will mention that Brock is a swimmer, not because he deserves the accolade of being speedy in the water but because the media’s coverage of this case in 2015 likely means that you, dear reader, are more likely to recall the events of the case if I mention his swimming than if I don’t. Chanel’s courage, truth, and nuanced understanding of the world shine like a lighthouse beacon from every page, but don’t get me wrong: this is not an “I made it and so can you” inspirational story. This is closer to “I can’t believe this shit, can you?” realism with rawness and solidarity for unnamed victims across the world, along with their families and friends (so, all of us).

Everything about the book is clearly intentional, from the font sizing and kintsugi on the cover to her acknowledgments at the end. Chanel comes to the book with an understanding of triggers and consent, walking the reader through tricky topics with compassion for the ways those topics may flare up in readers’ bodies. But she doesn’t shy away from ideas or even words which may cause discomfort, using that discomfort deliberately throughout the book to bolster any victims and to call in any non-victims. If you have not suffered assault, congratulations on bearing instead the uncomfy feelings of knowing it exists. And if you have suffered assault, congratulations on finding the balm that is Chanel’s writing.

Chanel chooses viscerally cozy imagery when dreaming about her future and builds such neat (tidy, yes, see also: cool) analogies from seemingly mundane life experiences. She’s right—emotional healing is like learning to hold a gallon of milk. Chanel employs hilarious imagery when describing miserably unfathomable court questions: “Ns and Os painted across hairy stomachs, NONONONONONO, doing the wave.” Chanel is such a person throughout this memoir, unafraid of the title of victim but also unafraid to be full of her self. She does not perfectionize her thoughts, actions, feelings, for the benefit of anyone, including herself. Chanel is Chanel; know her.

In fact, I think that’s what I loved most about the book: reading a modern memoir where someone has so clearly flown to the depths of their self, understood what is there, and come back to enlighten us as to how that is done but without prescribing platitudes is just…rare. I think every memoir is a self-help book, at least for that author’s self. The trick is that the author’s written down help of self is more helpful and therefore valuable than the average self-help book. Don’t tell me what to do; rather, tell me what you did and allow me the space to follow.

I will be purchasing a copy of this memoir. Five stars.

 

(As a helpful note: Chanel’s victim statement is printed at the back of the book. I googled the statement and read the Buzzfeed edition but would have liked to stay within the book for that content.)

For 10 Years

Last year around our anniversary, Melody had just come out to me as transgender and I was awaiting my fairly definite diagnosis of MS. We took extended family photos on the eve of our anniversary, with our wedding photographer 🥹, immortalizing the wildest time in our years together thus far.

I remember telling Mel one morning in the shower, "I of course want us to support each other, but right now I think it makes sense if I worry about my body and you worry about your body, independently, instead." Oxygen-mask mentality, you know?

Today life feels a lil more relaxed, a lil less disruptive. We aren't 100% settled (who is?), but we aren't still wondering whether we must inevitably split over huge pieces of news that rock our worlds individually and collectively.

It's just one year later, and I can see some light at the end of this tunnel. A silhouetted image against that light reveals two scenes: one of me caring for Mel and Mel's body, and one of her caring for me and my body. The image is stunning and honest and true. It is the truth of where we must go.

As it turns out, we cannot just each worry about our own selves and bodies, not within the context of this marriage and this family. Our relationship was built on mutual respect and understanding, strengths that led us both to enjoy relatively early independence within our marriage. Now we understand our selves and our bodies mutually, acknowledging that interdependence is also strength (or STRANK!, as Brooks would say 😂). (Football is life, but football is also death.)

Ten years ago (!!) we bound these two bodies together by marriage. Then, we spent nine years trying to keep them distinct and discrete, coming together at times to connect and connect deeply, but only if we each stood to benefit individually. Oxygen-mask mentality.

In one year, we have married like complementary flavors placed in the fridge for a few hours to "marry." We have married like two pieces of rope, spliced and rejoined together seamlessly. Married! We have married each other in such a way that we are both changed, renewed, totaling more than the sum of our individual parts, a chemical reaction (as opposed to physical reaction, yes, seventh grade science) where something new is formed. 

We still leave the door open for things between us to change if they must. We still choose each other explicitly and often, and I think we manage to keep appropriate boundaries of self. But this year I have been absolutely struck by the magnificence of caring for each other in such a way that I do NOT always know where Mel ends and where I begin. And we're just at the start!

Love generates through and between us both by virtue of deliberate and consensual joining, relaxing, marrying. This I could not have conceived of before last year. And I gotta say: it is one hell of a way to marry. 10/10, would recommend.

I love you, Melody Facer.

Tikkun Olam: Repairers of Creation

This weekend I watched Won't You Be My Neighbor, a documentary about Fred Rogers. When he was asked to come out of retirement for a video message after 9/11, he said:

"No matter what our particular job, especially in our world today, we all are called to be 'tikkun olam,' repairers of creation. Thank you for whatever you do, wherever you are, to bring joy and light and hope and faith and pardon and love to your neighbor and to yourself."

Last night I broke a glass dish. It was my left hand's fault, the one still recovering from my MS relapse last year. My hand slipped, the bowl fell, and glass scattered across my kitchen floor as I said, "Shit." 

I thought about Fred's injunction to be tikkun olam, a repairer of creation. I didn't really want to attempt to repair that glass bowl. I could neither repair nor eat the avocado that I'd been smashing into the bowl. I may never fully repair my left hand. In a quick moment of almost-bedtime defeat, I thought, "Why bother repairing?"

Michelle Thorley (@florafamiliar) shared about repair on Instagram this weekend. She wrote:

"To create can be exciting and rewarding. To break can be satisfying and final. But to repair--that is long and often difficult."

I thought again of Fred Rogers and his injunction for us all to be tikkun olam, repairers of creation.

Michelle's post was a clue! Fred and Michelle both argue not merely for the repair of immediately personal issues, though there is value there. They argue instead for societal, systemic, interpersonal repair.

But here's the thing: I've been learning the skills I need to help enact societal repair, and it's also super personal. I (and you) cannot repair creation without acknowledging that repair is needed, without seeing where it requires mending, without watching closely for cracks and chips. And where better to practice noticing cracks in creation than within my own self? If I truly desire to be a repairer of creation, I must first shatter open, myself, to the brokenness of the world on both large and small scales. I have to experience disrepair.

I will remain unable to comprehend the world's brokenness until I claim my being part of it. I both require repair and owe repair. We all do. 

Today is 9/11. In 2001 the attack on the twin towers shattered our collective understanding of safety. The news coverage shattered most Americans' positive or even neutral perceptions of Islam and its adherents. It shattered relationships between nations and individuals. Death itself shattered the heart of anyone who lost a loved one to the tragedy.

Repair of these wounds is tikkun olam: repair of all creation. And despite 9/11 being over 20 years ago, some of those wounds are still wide open, still awaiting their healing and repair.

In the great Jewish tradition of interpreting, reimagining, and reinterpreting scripture, one modern interpretation of tikkun olam theorizes that the Creator left a bit of the world unfinished, waiting and ready to be repaired (improved upon) by its inhabitants. Human action, rather than the hand of divinity, will therefore be the primary driver behind the world's final completion and perfection. Our role as repairers of creation is not just superfluous to existing creation; rather, it is the completion of creation.

Today I cried remembering the large-scale tragedy of September 11, 2001. Today I also cried remembering the small-scale tragedy of my clumsy left hand. They were the same tears. And they were tikkun olam, at least for me, as I cried them. 

*"He couldn't fit a whole woman in his head."

Tonight I spent an hour or so in the same room as a dude in this outfit, name tag and all. We chatted in a group setting, made eye or conversational contact at least three times.

After a bit, I moved to another part of the party. When I came back, I decided to put on my sweatshirt and I sat one seat over from where I had been since my old spot was now taken. I still had my name tag on, as pictured.

When that same dude left just a little bit later, he said goodbye to the room, and I joined the crowd in saying goodbye to him, to which he replied, "Oh but we didn't meet!" He pieced together quickly that we had met, or maybe he didn't; I don't know. He was gone quickly and it was hard to tell. I don't need to know.

Now. I'm not here to throw shade on this particular dude cuz he seemed lovely in a bunch of ways. 

But I do wanna point out two things that this FEELS like for me:

:: Apparently my clothes are me and I am my clothes and what I wear is the most memorable thing about me.

:: The ideas and jokes I contributed in our earlier conversation were not significant, at least not enough for this dude to bother remembering me or connecting with me over them in a meaningful way.

Again. No shade to this dude. We're unlikely to cross paths again anytime soon, and not all of us can fit everyone we meet in our brain.* But let's zoom this out a bit.

I could spend the rest of my evening or weekend or life letting it be the story that I am forgettable outside of my clothes, but I don't think that's true. I think it's more likely that these thoughts and feelings are a misdirected attempt to solve a problem that exists fully outside of me.

I haven't seen the Barbie movie yet but that felt like a Ken moment for me. From what I understand of the movie, Ken(s) in Barbie's world are dispensable, unnecessary, eye candy.

And I'm just here to note for me and for you, should you also be suffering in this world made for men, that I am none of those things. I am here to stay and here to say what needs said. 

Again (again!), no shade to that dude or to that party dynamic (it was lovely!) or to any of the specific players in this scene. But TONS OF SHADE PLEASE to the patriarchy that tells us we can just go ahead and forget the women we meet unless they are there to serve and serve well. The patriarchy doesn't serve me--I'm braver and more worthy than it would have me believe--and it doesn't serve him/them/you--anyone who might never get to know my bravery or worth despite having a chance to do so. And that's not about me; I want every person to feel like their bravery and worth and words are memorable. No matter what they might be wearing.