Postcards from Mosquitoville

So, I’ve got this blog, right?

I look at it. I change it. I play with it. I think about it.  But I just keep skirting the issue at hand:  I’ve got to actually POST on it.

It’s a whole lotta pressure.  The first post.  It’s gotta be good.  Really good.  I can’t just write about my last day of summer vacation or the fact that I folded ten loads of laundry on Friday.  It must be an inspired post that will live on in the echoing annals of my own personal history.

I was waiting around for something funny or positive or inspiring or upbeat to happen.  Maybe one of the kids would do something hilarious, or I’d see something incredible as I drove to the grocery store.  But then, yesterday I went to church.  I was just sitting in Sunday School, minding my own business when a bolt of lightning struck me where I sat.  I’m sorry to say it’s not funny or upbeat or quirky.  But, it happened nonetheless and I am going to write about it.

The lesson was about eternal marriage and how we believe it is necessary for our progression in the next stage of life.  Okay, that’s fine.  I’ve seen the light and I am grateful for my eternal marriage to a wonderfully imperfect and devilishly handsome man.  I know that it is something to work hard toward because we didn’t start out our married life by going to the temple; that came a little later.  And so I feel abundantly grateful for the blessings that have come into my life because of the temple.

Then came the problem.  In a calm discussion about choosing your mate wisely, Brother So and So made this actual statement:  “You can ask any counselor or therapist and they’ll tell you that if you want to avoid problems in your marriage, never marry anyone from another religion, race, or nationality.”

What in the world? Did he really just say that?  Oh yes, he did just say that.  But then it got even worse when he said, “I’ve been married to a white, Caucasian, Utah girl for the past 35 years and we’ve had our share of problems.  I can’t imagine if I had chosen someone different than me.”

ZAP!

(That was the jolt of anger that sizzled through my entire being.)

Now I was just plain mad.  I don’t have the foggiest idea what he said for those last ten minutes of class because I was lost in my own internal struggle.  I was locked in a tug-of-war with myself.  One part of me wanted to spring from my seat and huff out the door, never to return.  Another part of me was choking on a witty retort that would really put that guy in his place.  That wasn’t Gospel doctrine!  He’s preaching his own agenda now and I am so opposed to that.  The last part of me, the part that won out, just wanted to sit and cry but knew that I had Young Women’s next and it just wouldn’t do to go in with swollen eyes and runny mascara.

Why did those tiny statements offend me so badly?  Well, all I could think about were my two gorgeous brown-skinned boys sitting down the hall in their Primary class, arms folded reverently, listening to their teacher teach them about how much Heavenly Father loves all His children.  (Yes, I did say ALL of them.)  I have worked so hard over the past seven years since those Samoan babies came into our family to teach all my children to be colorblind.  I rejoice every time I see or hear one of them trying to describe someone they met or saw and they say, “that boy in the green shirt” instead of “that black kid.”  I have taught my children that people should be loved and treated with respect because they are people.  Not because they are a certain color or race or religion.  How could this old geezer be saying that none of the daughters of the white folk assembled before him should lower themselves enough to marry one of my brown sons?

Then I thought about my own in-laws.  Long ago Mark’s dad had married an 18-year-old girl straight off the plane from Scotland – accent and all.  And, quite honestly the fact that she says “garige” rather than “garage” has probably been the least of their troubles over the past forty-something years.  Could this man seriously believe that the likes of my children’s grandparents should never have hooked up?

These are the kinds of off-handed, thoughtless comments that do the most damage.  I could just imagine someone new to the church who heard this drivel spew forth from the mouth of an imperfect man and become so offended that they never return.  Then they hate all Mormons and tell everyone who will listen what a backwards, pious group we are.  It’s such awful PR!

I tossed and turned before falling asleep last night, trying to come to terms with what to do with this hurt I’m feeling.  I came to a couple of conclusions.  Number one:  This guy is NOT from my generation.  He grew up during the time of segregation and this kind of thinking is probably ingrained in his DNA or something.  People younger than he is are not so disgustingly prejudiced, right?  (Well, other than the skinheads and white supremacists, of course.  But I’m talking about regular people.)  So because of this genetic flaw, I should just forgive him and forget that he ever made such a ridiculous statement.  Number two:  I cannot relax when it comes to teaching my own kids about tolerance.  But, along with that, maybe it’s time I start teaching those sweet babies how to deal with the injustices they will undoubtedly face in their lives.  That idea just breaks my heart.  I dream of a colorblind world.  It exists within the walls of my own home, and in our circle of friends and family, but I can’t keep them safely snuggled away forever as much as I wish I could.

So there you have it; my little moment in time that will change us all a little bit.  Maybe it’s time to toughen up.  Maybe it’s possible for me to pour in enough love and mommy magic that those fiery darts of intolerance won’t hurt, or, even better yet, will just bounce right off without leaving a sting.

Maybe it’s possible.

Maybe…

Maybe my next post can be quirky.