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.