Faces of Courage: Girls of the LDS Church and Malala Yousafzai

Sorry, it's been so busy lately with school and such that I haven't posted foreeeeever. But the upside is, I still have a 4.0 for this year (which is a miracle, even though school's only been on for a month and a half). But I've definitely been hanging around the Feminist Mormon Housewife's website lately because of *drumroll please* General Conference and the OW Movement, and I've been pretty active in the comments section...

Anyways. I think that some of the talks so far are so good that there's good possibility that there will be some posts from here about them, like President Uchtdorf's talk in the first session, and Elder Holland's talk in the second session. But a few of the talks made... a few emotions flare, not only from me but countless others as well. Elder Christofferson's talk irked a few people, but then today Elder Oak's talk just about did a bunch of people in. Including me. **Note: I haven't exactly been paying the closest attention to conference this year, but it's been on in the background and I'm catching all of the highlights from fMh's live blogging and re-caps.

Here's "Thunderchicken's" recap of Elder Oak's talk: [my emphasis added]

• Elder Oaks speaking: Loves to hear his brother and sisters speak (thanks). Ten commandments important for Christians and Jews. First commandment deals with what our priorities should be – no graven images and no idols and all. Jealous means “sensitive/deep feelings” – so we offend God when we have priorities above God ie. career aspirations, political correctness, material possessions, power, prestige, and some I missed.
• What is our ultimate priority? Are we focused on following the Savior? For Mormons commandments are inseparable from Plan of Salvation. If we do not establish our priorities in accordance with that plan, we’re in danger of serving other Gods. We’re a family centered Church. Our theology begins with Heavenly PARENTS. A man and woman necessary for fulfillment of plan.
• We grieve at declining birth rates in Christian/Jewish countries. US has low birth rate/decline in birth rates. Median age for marriage is now at highest in history (26 years for women). Traditional family is coming to be the exception rather than rule. Pursuit of career instead of family is increasing goal, and necessity of fathers is diminishing. Concerning trends. Plan of Salvation for ALL children.
• We still respect all those who do not believe as we do, or don’t believe at all. All sexual relations are sinful to one degree or another outside of a married relationship between a man and woman. Many Churches agree with us on the importance of the sacredness of marriage. Concerned with all the many children born outside of marriage, and couples who lives together unmarried. Now cohabitation exceeds 60 percent of marriages. 50 percent of teenagers thought that out-of-wedlock children are a worthy life style.
• We cannot justify laws or condone laws that support stuff like gay marriage (sorry, totally paraphrasing – kids climbing over me).  Laws legalizing same-gender marriage to not change God’s laws. We remain under covenant to obey God’s commandments, and not serve other Gods, even if they become popular in our time. We may be accused of bigotry or suffer discrimination. If so, we need to remember our first priority to serve God. (DOES THIS TALK NOT END????)
• A moral coward is one who is afraid to stand up for something because of what others will think (or something like that????). We must not set our hearts on the things of the world/honors of men that we forget our destiny. We have a responsibility to never deviate from our desire to achieve eternal life, to have no other God and serve no other priorities before God.

Okay, so one thing I heard that Thunderchicken didn't really dwell on is how apparently the average age for marriage in women is 26, or 26 and a half or something like that, and the average age for marriage in men is 29 or something like that. When Elder Oaks said that, my parents gasped and went something along the lines of "Wow!" and "Oh man!" with disapproval in their voices. They thought that was a pretty big deal. Me? Not so much. But that's where the generation and age difference comes in.

My parents probably wouldn't appreciate me putting this here, but my mom is 53 years old and my dad just turned 61. Back when they were raised, the 1950s, 60s, and 70s, women and girls didn't really have much of a choice with their life besides getting married, having kids, and staying at home to take care of them. You remember the image of the typical 1950s housewife?

That's what they (especially my dad) was raised with. Plus, add on the fact that my paternal grandparents never graduated from high school and got married at sixteen... That's why those statistics were so shocking to them. While they were busy hemming and hawing about it, I didn't see anything wrong with those numbers. In fact, I would be perfectly fine getting married at 26.

Then Elder Oaks started going on about not delaying having children because of college or career goals. Wait a second... funny thing, I think that being pregnant and having children affects the wife more than the husband in that department. And it's difficult to go to college with a baby or little children on hand. So this is probably why traditionally the breadwinning is up to the husband. Which leads me to the fact that I believe we're cheating children out of their dreams.

Kids get asked all the time what they want to be when they grow up. A doctor, a firefighter, a policeman, a nurse, an engineer, a scientist, a builder. We smile and nod as they say it, whether it
be a male child or a female child. But little do they know that sometimes it's not that simple. Girls and boys know how to answer the question what they want to be when they grow up, but as girls get older they get bombarded with the expectations that they are going to get married. And have kids. And be the perfect stay at home wife and mother. Then the boys, they have hardly any restrictions when it comes to the career department. Get married, make sure that you have children, be a worthy Priesthood holder, and go to work and make a living. So why do we implant these false hopes and dreams in little girls when we ask them what the want to be when they grow up? Because we all know that they can go to college and get a degree and a good job, but that's not hardly expected of them. My mom didn't even go to college, and only had to get some kind of higher education when she had to become a CNA after her divorce to her first husband. She never even had to worry about going to college when she was married. And now she spends her days "busy" being the YW prez and cooking and cleaning and crocheting and running errands. This may be perfectly fine with some people, but not for me. I don't want to be that kind of wife. I want to get out and have a job, not just sit around the house all day. It may seem like freedom, but in the long run it may seem like a weight tied to your ankle.

Which brings me to a reply to one of my comments on the fMh live-blogging post of Sunday morning General Conference.

This is what I'm talking about. It's not like we're completely banned from getting an education and going to college, but obviously if we're going to stay at home and have kids (unless we get divorced or widowed) what's the point in going more in depth when it comes to schooling and education?

Elder Oaks is a great guy, and an amazing apostle. He really is. But he doesn't know me personally, or know my plans or dreams, or know my situation. The only thing he knows about me is that I am of the female gender. The reality is, not all women end up getting married. Not all women can have children. Everyone's situation is different. So please, General Authorities of the LDS church, please stop emphasizing the need to get married earlier, not delay in having children, and how women should stay at home to raise their children.

"Adam fell that men might be; and men are that they might have joy." If we are to have joy in our lives, then we need to stop doing things just to please other people or be "in the norm", or rise up to the expectations of others. We need to do what we feel is best for us individually, not what is expected of you because you are a female. I don't want to make the mistake of doing something that I felt pressured into that will eventually make me feel like I'm dying inside. I want to be happy, and if I follow the commandments and live my life the way *I* plan it to be, I will be happy.

And here's to Malala, who is trying to make education available to girls everywhere no matter what. She is an inspiration to me, and I think that if a girl who was shot in the head by the Taliban for going to school can make such an impact on the world and keep going, I can go to college and have a career and make all the life decisions that I want even with resistance and cultural restrictions.

 This morning I cut out the cover and article on Malala and put it on my wall. Only after I taped it up there, I noticed that I put it under this quote, one of the many I have on the walls of my room. Coincidence? I think not.

Memoir

For Language Arts, our project we've been working on is a memoir. I wrote this all in a 90-minute period (yay for being a peer tutor in a class full of freshmen with nothing to do!) So.... Not exactly sure why I'm posting this, but I hope the writing's ok. Now, just to let you know, in case you're some random family member who was there at my parents' wedding, remember that I was five years old. I may not have remembered things exactly as they were. This is just as I remember them. So if it's completely wrong, that's nice. Don't ruin my story. And if you're my parents reading this, GTF(oops)[H]O. Thank you.

My last memory of her is of her in a hospital bed.

I don’t remember much, except for the warm yellow fluorescent lighting and that she was smiling. I don’t remember my three year-old self feeling fear or apprehension from the medical instruments and monitors. I just remember the happiness of my beautiful mother looking at me and smiling. It was the last time I would see her alive, though we didn’t know it at the time.

            Linda Diane Fralick Wilcox died on Thanksgiving, November 23^rd, 2000 of a cerebral hemorrhage. After a lifetime of suffering from multiple kidney transplants, dozens of surgeries, hypertension, and a couple of near death experiences she was finally gone. She died at only 34, leaving behind a 48 year-old husband to care for their three year-old girl and two-year old boy, her miracle babies.

            My first memory is of getting a computer for my 3^rd birthday (one of the benefits of having a father in the computer industry). I remember sitting outside my bedroom door, hearing the unknown noises coming from my room of my dad setting it up. I remember my mom sitting down by me, hugging me and laughing.

            “What do you think Daddy is doing in there?” she asked.

             With a shy but excited smile, I answered, “I don’t know” with an added shrug.

            We waited until he was finished, then I was introduced to a whole new world of Microsoft Word and a plethora of Sesame Street games.

            My second to last memory of her is on the way to Utah, a day or two before she died. We were about two hours away from our destination when two whining children wanted their mom.

            “Mommy!” Kevin wailed.

            “Mommy, please come sit back here with us! Please,” I pleaded.

 She finally relented, unbuckled, and precariously climbed into the back seat between us. That may have not seemed like a major act of love, but in that case, in that instant, it was everything.

            I don’t remember the funeral. And I’m glad. I’m well; I guess happy probably isn’t the right word to choose while talking about death. I’m suppose I’m thankful that my last memory of her isn’t of a cold, pale dead body, dressed in white clothes in a casket. This may sound demented but I have always been intrigued with dead bodies. From examining a dead mouse with my play doctor kit as a child to touching the waxy hands of the deceased at viewings and funerals, I’ve always found it fascinating. I know random facts, such as how decomposition starts the moment of death, though of course it’s not noticeable for another while.

            I want to know what makes a dead body so different from a living one. What is it about the moment of death, the absence of the spirit that causes such effects? Energy cannot be destroyed, only transformed. Where did the part of my mother that made her her go? I also wonder if someone this day, this second, is walking around with my mother’s corneas, her liver, hear heart. Definitely not her kidneys, because no one would want a malfunctioning, twice-used body part. I found out that she was an organ donor, that her body was kept alive just long enough to be eligible for organ donation. While her brain was… a dead, useless piece of body tissue.

            Because of my religious beliefs, I know that I will see her again. But that is not enough. I need her now. I found a hope chest of her things at my grandparent’s house. I sleep with her beautiful red dress she wore to see “Phantom of the Opera”, clutching it like a child’s security blanket, inhaling the musty but oh so wonderful scent of being in a wooden chest for 11 years. Sometimes by morning it ends up above the covers, and I know that my parents have seen it, though they never say anything. They never say anything at all.

            A month ago, I found a large box of her old things in the attic. I found a journal from when she was a teenager to her twenties, from which I found out her exact medical issues, that she didn’t even go on a date until she was 25, and that she considered suicide on a number of occasions. I found her old, huge make-up box filled with Amway makeup over 13 years old. I even found her glasses, those clunky, unattractive “coke bottle” glasses. I put them on and try to see what she saw. Maybe it would bring her back.

            My dad had already endured a divorce from his first wife in the 80’s, and now he was stuck again by himself but this time with two little children. I remember how night after night I would wake up in the middle of the night and run to his room, knock, and ask if I could sleep with him because I had a bad dream. I have to admit that I lied pretty much every night about those dreams. In reality, I was just lonely. In the mornings my dad would get my brother and I breakfast, do my hair in one or two little braids, and we would be off to the kind lady who babysat us every day. After over a year of shuffling my brother and me to the babysitter during the day, my dad finally found a permanent caregiver: my stepmother.

My stepmom was divorced by her alcoholic husband who came home with his new girlfriend and told her she had three weeks to move out. I didn’t care at the time that she was my stepmom, she was someone who was there to love me and take care of me. She was my new mother. She is a good woman and has done a wonderful job of raising my brother and me. But still it is not the same. I want the mother who thought she would be childless all her life. I want the mother who miraculously conceived and went through a risky pregnancy, but thought that her 3 lbs 7 oz daughter was perfect and completely worth it. I want the mother who would wake up in the middle of the night just to turn on the camcorder and record me, so that those moments could be captured forever. I want the mother who… loved me before she even knew me.

            On my dad and stepmother’s wedding day in January 2002, I was wearing a pretty puffy blue dress. I thought I looked just like Cinderella. No, I was Cinderella, and the temple with its beautiful fountain and landscaping was my castle. My new aunt was arranging all of my new cousins and aunts and uncles into cute picture-taking poses. Walking up to “Mommy”, I asked excitedly, “Can I be in a picture? Please?”

“No, honey,” she replied. “Only the cousins are going to be in this one.” My little five year-old mind was confused. Wasn't I part of this new family too? “But Mama, I am a cousin now too!” I could tell she was busy and didn’t want to worry about me at the moment. “Kelsey. These pictures are just for the people born or married into my family.”

“But… but Hannah and Abby were adopted, though—” She just looked at me. I could feel the implication. They count. You don’t.

  I was heartbroken. I wanted to be in a picture, any picture so terribly bad. I felt left out, like everyone got to have fun and be a part of everything while my maternal grandparents stood there watching Kevin and I the whole time. I wasn’t a part of that family. I didn’t count. I was an outsider.

            Sometimes now, when I put on her glasses and favorite lipstick (Amway color “Ember”) and squint reeeaaally hard while looking in the mirror, I can almost see her face. I can almost see the face I don’t remember but have memorized from looking at countless pictures. But when I open my eyes all the way again, I see no resemblance.

            There are dozens of photographs from that wedding day, and I pass many of them in a collage frame in the hallway many times a day. I am in only one picture, the group picture, where my little body is standing in front of my new mom, face stained with dried tears, with red eyes and a half-hearted, attempted smile.

Here's a poem I found online a couple of years ago that I really love and I'm thinking about adding it to the the printed copy:

“Memories”

By “AmbRawr”

And I remember she wouldn’t wake up.
Her lips were mushed together in a
Horrible shade of red
They buried my mother in a white dress
And red lips.
And she couldn’t see.
Where are your glasses, Mommy?
And still at sixteen I bring them to my face
And peer through the distorted murky lenses
To see what she saw
Maybe one day …
And I remember it hitting me 
Like it does every day
When I hear them all talk and complain about their
“Horrible” mothers
What’s it like to have a mother
I’d give anything to know,
Or at least for them to know how lucky they are.
They know.
And I remember she wouldn’t sit up
And I dreamed of a stuffing machine because
Someone whispered by my ear she was
Cut in half and stuffed
And it made no sense
And still at sixteen I wonder
What happened to my mother?
And I remember her faintly 
She doesn’t even smile in my dreams anymore
And I wonder if she’ll ever be proud of me
If she’d ever approve of me
And who I’ve become 
The things I’ve seen
The things I’ve done
And I remember her singing 
Though I can’t hear her voice
The only happy Christmas I hold on to
Every year
Maybe one day it’ll come back
I used to think
Maybe one day she’d come back
And still at sixteen I hope
Maybe one day she’ll come back …
And I remember she wouldn’t wake up
Not even to say good-bye.

Haha, are you depressed yet from reading this? Sorry.

CPR and Life.... Totally Random

It's been forever since I've posted... I feel kind of bad, but school's been crazy. Fun, but crazy. Anyways, my Language Arts teacher (better known as English to you non-sophisticated, non-Kuna folks) seems like she's pretty crazy, but in reality she's pretty cool. Every class period she has us write something, and last time she wanted us to write a story or experience in exactly 150 words (because of course Reader's Digest is offering $25,000 if they publish it...) So here's mine:

There was a lifeless Caucasian torso lying on the table, staring at me through the crack of its eyelids. My fist was interlaced over my other hand. Then with all the strength in my little arms, I pushed the sternum in, it bending like a piece of thin Plexiglas. 

28, 29, 30, breathe. Pinching the nose shut, I breathed air into the non-existent lungs of the CPR mannequin. It was feeling surreal when our instructor said hastily to the class, "Ok, that's probably good. Let's move on to first aid."

While he droned on about burns and cuts, I stared at the wall, thinking. A teacher collapsing in the middle of class. A child laying face down in a lake. A suffocating baby.

Could I do it? Handle the desperation as I break bones, trying to save someone's life? And if I failed? A broken, lifeless body. A mannequin.

So where did this come from?

Last week I spent nearly my entire day participating in and helping out with a free CPR class. The instructor was pretty freaking hilarious, though he obviously didn't know that there were at least four Mormons in the class when he was joking around with everyone, talking about their experiences getting drunk.

I know. I love my iPod camera too.

I can't really describe the feeling when we were working. It was kind of weird, because, first of all, CPR's pretty much pushing someone's freaking chest in. Now, as I'm touching my sternum gingerly (I'm a sympathetic pain kind of person...), I can't even imagine it moving. And then when I'm just, lah-dee-dah, having play time with a plastic mannequin, you don't even hardly have to push to get that thing to cave in.

And breaking ribs. Don't you even get me started on that.

I just can't imagine what it would be like doing CPR on an actual person. I mean, obviously you would want to save their life and everything, but come on; I'm the one writhing in sympathetic agony and discomfort when Khan squishes Admiral Marcus' skull in with his hands in the new Star Trek movie. (haha, oops, spoiler alert... en retard.)

I've never broken a bone in my life or seen anyone break a bone, so I seriously have no idea what it's like. So all of the sudden if I have to do CPR on someone, I'll probably be crying and on the verge of a panic attack while trying to re-start someone's heart.(Why am I thinking of going in the medical field?!?)

I think it all comes down to this: "Sometimes in order to help someone, we need to hurt them first." Examples are of when a bone heals incorrectly and doctors have to re-break it and set it, slicing someone open to fix something in their body, and even other stuff that doesn't pertain to the medical field, like how you have to deadhead rosebushes or trim trees so that they can grow in healthier. CPR's kind of a life lesson, you know? If you can look past the literal fact that you are performing an act on someone that will save their life, there's all kinds of ways you can look at it.

So, if at all possible, please do not stop breathing and fall over with no pulse right in front of me. I'm perfectly qualified and might be able to save you, but I'm pretty sure your broken bones will hurt me more than they will hurt you.

My Take on Modesty

Okay. So recently I've been involved in a discussion about Modesty on Facebook, when I shared fMh's article "Tank Top Day" (which happens to be today), and I thought that I should kind of state what I think pretty plain and simple. I know that I've done a couple of modesty posts in the past, but this, I hope is kind of straightforward.

**Note** I originally wrote this to defend my position in a conversation, so I didn't cite my sources or anything when I "borrowed" and changed some stuff from fMh. But now that I'm putting it as a blog post, I kind of feel obligated to cite and link stuff.... But I changed some of it to fit in the convo, sooo.... will I get in trouble for that? I hope not....




 Now, I'm going to change up my response a little bit so that it will be in bullet points and italics and all that stuff, so it will be less confusing :)

• My thing is, that people go a little overboard sometimes. I believe that fear is the thing that drives people to do a lot of things, and that part of the modesty thing is that people are afraid. If you’re a parent and your daughter wears a tank top to the park or something, and you become afraid because, “It’s a big bad world out there, and what if because she’s showing her shoulders boys start noticing her, and that could lead to babies and diseases and oh no!” I don’t like the fact that most of the people I know (I obviously can’t speak for everyone, but this is how I see it), drive the modesty standards because of that kind of fear. We are afraid of teen girls getting pregnant, being thought to be a slut, or experiencing sexual assault, and we frequently draw a line from the sexiness of clothes to those adverse outcomes.

• It’s been implied to me that if I don’t dress modestly (as strictly defined by that line on the arm) then boys would lose respect for me and would see me as an object, not a person, and that other girls who dressed that way were just looking for attention and being inappropriate. I don’t like the way that makes you adjust your body image and self-esteem. I’ve gone almost 8 months of wearing just long sleeve shirts (not because the church’s modesty rules, but for personal reasons), and I know for a fact that your clothing choices can affect your confidence and self-esteem, especially when you feel obligated or forced to wear a certain kind, or feel pressured to. “For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.” (1 Sam. 16:7) furthers my belief that God doesn’t care if people can see my shoulders. I’ve heard that being modest shows respect to your body and to Heavenly Father, but I seriously cannot logically think that He thinks less of me if I wear a sleeveless shirt or a swimsuit that doesn’t cover my stomach.

• Granted, I think there’s a line we have to draw on what we wear if it’s suggestive, etc. because I do believe that our bodies should be respected, and that if we wear something with the intent of being suggestive or “showing off”, that’s a problem. “What I am I trying to get from other people by dressing like this?” is what everyone should ask themselves. When I wear tank tops, I am not trying to get anything from other people. I am wearing it because it’s warm outside and I picked it for the day, and maybe it has a cute design on it or something. I don’t believe that NOT having a piece of fabric over my shoulders affects me in a negative way, except when people who have been raised all their lives to believe that it is bad judge me for it. When it comes to garments, I completely and 100% realize that to show respect, you wear clothes that cover them up. 

 

• But for people who haven’t been through the temple, I think that it’s more of a matter of personal opinion and belief, and what works best for you.

 Well, that's my take. Any questions?

Sources:

1) Feminist Mormon Housewives, "Modesty Part One of Four" (http://www.feministmormonhousewives.org/2010/11/modesty-part-one-of-four/)

2) Feminist Mormon Housewives, "Modesty Part 4 of 4: Just For You" (http://www.feministmormonhousewives.org/2010/11/modesty-part-4-of-4-just-for-you/)