Presentation at the Affirmation 2017 Annual International Conference on 23 Sept 2017 in Provo, UT.
Watch the presentation here.
Hello everyone. I have been assigned the task of sharing my experience
as a pansexual woman with you. This is somewhat of a challenge for me—I often
have difficulty expressing my experiences and emotions. For me, it’s far easier
to bury myself in my research and academia that confront the reality of my
emotions, but those emotions usually surface sooner or later. As a result, I
often have very vivid and imaginative dreams.
Recently, I had a beautiful dream that encapsulates my experience as a
pansexual woman. I’d like to share that dream with you tonight.
. . .
I was preparing for a large social event that took place in at a
mansion in the desert. I put on a beautiful gown that was so extravagant it
seemed like a costume. I put on makeup so thick it seemed like paint. But I
didn’t just put it on my face, I also put it on every part of my skin which was
exposed. I brushed the paint on my skin with the skill and precision of a
classically trained artist. There were some scars, bruises, and injuries, but nothing
unmanageable. No imperfection was a match for my paintbrush. I finished the
look with a decorative silver comb in my hair. By the time I was done, I was
nothing short of a vision. My exterior was flawless. Of course, I was everything
a refined woman should be.
I arrived at the mansion and walked through the over-sized doors that
were so opulent they seemed oppressive. I could see my friends and family had
already arrived, but strangely they were not wearing costumes. I saw people
from my past and people from the present. It seemed as though the room was
filled with every person I had ever loved, known, or met in my life. All, but
one face was there.
I smiled and socialized with various people while friends and family
complimented my ensemble. One friend commented, “You look so put together. How
do you manage?” I continued smiling and deflected the compliment. I didn’t have
an honest answer. They couldn’t see the volcano that raged inside—waiting to be
released. They didn’t understand my exterior, my costume, was an illusion. It
was a useful, powerful, and protective illusion. Yet, illusions only last so
long.
The costume grew heavier as the evening went on. I wanted to remove the
gown, but when I tried to take my costume off I was greeted with adverse
reactions by people in the room. Some were disgusted, some were scared, some
were annoyed, and some were hostile. My attempts to remove my costume, to
engage in honest dialogue, were often mistaken for a sexual advance.
I wandered from guest to guest, looking for any sign of authenticity. I
cautiously searched for opportunities to shed my costume, but when honesty
conflicted with compassion, compassion won. Honesty only seemed to cause them discomfort.
The costume continued to weigh me down, and I found myself moving to
the edges of the room, seeking solace. I
tried once more to remove my costume, but a well-meaning guest intervened and
said, “I’m sure you already know this, but you can’t stay here without your
costume. Don’t get me wrong. I want you to stay, but the costume is mandatory.
Think of your children. If you can’t wear the costume for anyone else, surely
you’re not so selfish that you wouldn’t wear it for them. Why make them suffer,
because of your selfishness?” I nodded once again and agreed with the woman. I
would do almost anything for my three children. I could live inside a costume for
their well-being and safety.
The straps of my gown dug into my shoulders. The textured fabric and
shimmering sequins rubbed my skin raw until I began to bleed. The costume wasn’t
simply heavy, it was painful. I could barely stand. Is this what is meant to be
a good mother, daughter, and friend? I knew these people. I knew their faces. I
knew their voices. Why was this costume a qualifier for their love and friendship?
With each rejection, I found myself closer and closer to the back of the large
hall next to an exit. I looked out the
back exit and saw a large garden fountain in the center of a secluded
courtyard.
I quietly slipped out the back and closed the doors behind me. It was
sunset and it felt good to be alone. Night was coming, but I knew I couldn’t
wait until the cover of night to remove my costume. I looked around to be sure
there was no one was near me before slipping the shimmering gown off my body.
The weight of the gown fell to the ground with an audible thud. It was no
longer my burden. I quickly stepped into the fountain, and rinsed the makeup, paint,
and blood off my body. Lastly, I removed the silver comb and let my hair down. I
was me again.
Liberated from my bonds, I ran to my car and hopped in the driver’s
seat. I sped down the empty freeway lined with endless desert. I looked in my
rear-view mirror and saw the mansion shrink into the distance. All the windows
were open—the wind blew across my nude body and whipped through my loose hair.
Only alone, was I free. I exhaled in relief as I flew down the freeway. The
isolation of the desert was protective and comforting, it’s fierce harshness
meant safety. Anyone would be foolish to follow me into this wasteland.
There wasn’t another car in sight for miles, other than a semi-truck far
off in the distance.
I dreaded wearing the costume again. No matter how beautiful it was, no
matter how desirable others found it, there was no point of existing inside a
costume. My authentic existence had been quarantined—sentenced to a lifetime of
confinement.
The semi-truck driving toward me on the two-lane road was getting
closer. It wouldn’t be long until our paths met on the narrow road. I thought
to myself, “What is the point of existing if no one will ever know who I am?
They can’t love me if they don’t know me, and what is life without love?
Perhaps they are better off loving the memory of the costume they had grown so
fond of. Surely my children would be better off with another mother—a normal
mother.” I concluded there was no reason to exist.
The semi-truck speeding toward me was my easiest way to ensure that I’d
never be imprisoned by the costume again. I looked ahead to my left gauging the
proximity of the semi-truck, and set the cruise control. I forced the car door
open as I sped down the freeway. I took off my seatbelt and prepared to jump. I
was certain if I timed it just right, I wouldn’t feel a thing. I then looked to
my right to see the sun setting over the desert one last time. I would miss the
desert.
As I turned my gaze, as if by magic, I was no longer alone. Suddenly,
sitting in the passenger seat was my best friend. I was certain I was alone
until that moment, but to my shock there he was, casually leaning back, also
completely naked. I wondered as to how he got into the passenger seat
unnoticed. I couldn’t remember consciously allowing him in.
He looked at me and smiled. He was calm, peaceful, confident, and
strangely unsurprised by the naked queer woman preparing to jump out of the
speeding car. He said only one sentence to me, “You don’t have to wear a
costume with me.”
I smiled with relief and nodded. I leaned back inside and closed the
car door as the semi-truck charged passed.
. . .
I woke up from my dream startled, and wiped a tear from the corner of
my eye. My heart was racing. The dream felt so real. I rolled over in bed and there
was the man from my dream, my best friend sleeping beside me. The foolish man
that followed me into the desert.
. . .
My dreams have a way of telling me my most inner most feelings and
desires, and my dreams continually tell me we all need to be each other’s
saviors. This is more than just a humanist view of a Judeo-Christian narrative.
I imagine that everyone in this room is on a unique path concerning
their faith. I have no doubt we have people here who are among the most active
members of the LDS Church and we have people here who are atheists with little
interest in religion or biblical narratives.
When I say savior, I don’t
mean that to be superstitious, mocking, or derogatory. I mean it literally. We
need to be saviors to one another, right here, right now, just as the
scriptures instruct. That is what it means to follow the example of Jesus and
become members of the body of Christ. To quote Corinthians, “Now ye are
the body of Christ and members in particular.” Christ is not Jesus, but
rather Jesus exemplifies Christ. If we are to become saviors, if we call
ourselves Christians, it is our duty to reconcile and overcome fear, ignorance,
hate, hopelessness, and death. We must become Christ which means Christ is as
queer as the members that compose its body.
As for me, I am still deeply inspired by my religion, even if it’s little
more than a myth or pious fiction, and I don’t mean that pejoratively. The
influence of myths, stories, dreams, theologies, and visions should not be
underestimated and shouldn’t be considered necessarily fraudulent. Humans are
storytellers. Life is a narrative and we are the authors. The story of
Mormonism and Christianity is incomplete without queer voices, and make no
mistake Mormons are a queer people. It is time to stop privileging views or
theological interpretations that neglect the experiences of queer Mormons. We
need your voice, otherwise, fear and ignorance wins, and I don’t know about
you, but I’m interested in a narrative where love wins.
Be a savior. Be Christ. You are a queer Mormon. Make your story the one
that lives. Together, I believe we can make love win. Thank you.
