Posted by:
tombs1
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Date: February 24, 2012 05:23PM
Hey everyone this is chapter 11 of my book, "Culture of Dillusions" it is about how I joined Mormonism when I was eighteen and got pressured into serving a mission one year later. The bulk of the book is about my experience in the MTC as a new member. I know that there are probably some spelling and grammer errors in this but I think this chapter gives good insight into my overall experience. I will soon be submitting this book to a publisher, so I would like to know what you all think about my experience. Enjoy..
CHAPTER 11
PRISON
As I lay in my bed my first night in the MTC, sleep did not come easily. I was on the top bunk up against a white brick wall with a brown wall locker to my back. I kept telling myself in my mind that “what I am feeling is normal.” But none of what I was feeling felt normal. I tried to think about all of my molly Mormon friends back home and how this type of lifestyle was normal to them and that all of my inner emotions were just homesickness that most people were feeling. But even the ways that I could comfort myself were regulated to me. I could not escape into a good book which I was I always did when I felt stressed out or worried, because the only thing I was permitted to bring with me were my scriptures and church materials. I could not call anyone I trusted and to a large degree, I could not even think what I wanted to or say what I wanted to because we had all been warned many times by now that “indulging in unworthy thoughts or words would cause the spirit of the lord to leave us.” The only thing I could rely on was prayer, but we would be doing plenty of that throughout every day as literally every event would start with a prayer either public or private throughout the day. I estimate that I prayed at least a dozen times a day both publically and privately throughout my time at this training center, which eventually ruined prayer for me as well. I wanted to stand up and say “I think God heard us the first time” during one of our endless circle prayers, but I didn’t.
My insides were a storm of emotions. Outside there were BYU students out on dates, watching movies, and even making out. Back home, my family were missing me terribly and I going through all of this for a church that they did not even believe in just so that I could build a life as a devout, industries Mormon. I did not feel like the idealistic boy who had enlisted in the Military against his parent’s wishes to serve a cause I believed in as I was hoping that I would feel. Instead I felt like a prisoner who had his right to think for himself and live life taken away from him.
That night I also felt something that I would become very familiar with over the next several weeks, sexual repression. The only females that we would be in contact with were the MTC employees, teachers, and sister missionaries (females had become eligible to serve when they turned twenty one, but were not put under the same obligation as nineteen year old males). We were not allowed to so much as hug any of them in a friendly way if we met them, and were always told to keep our thoughts “clean.” I did not know what to think as I lay their trying to figure out what the rules of my new life meant.
After two years would I be expected to get married as soon as possible? If I couldn’t support a wife how was I to deal with this overflow of “cravings” that would come over me after two years? While I was going through school, all I would be able to do is hold hands, hug and kiss a girl on the lips. While there were certain “rule breakers” I had always been warned about the consequences that followed them and how “unhappy they really were inside.” In countless church talks, I could never be a rule breaker and have the life that I was working for because Kayleigh, Jane, and Kourtnie certainly were not rule breakers.
I thought back to the girls who I had held in my arms, made out with and even gone further with who were not Mormon. All of those girls were free to go to school, drive cars, and most of all have sex if they wanted to. I realized that even the girls “with high standards” who hung out with the Molly Mo crowd in school were probably now rolling in the hay with their college boyfriends or at the beach in their bikinis being hit on. While I had given up that life because I believed the grass was greener on the Mormon side. I seriously doubted that I was happier than those living normal lives back home. I tried telling myself that this was just Satan putting those thoughts in my head but that was not working. Chasing girls had always been more or less a passion of mine and it had been completely ripped away from along with so many other things.
I eventually fell asleep and I remember dreaming about a girl who I briefly dated in high school. I had met her at my family’s Christian Church and I had been her first kiss. She was flakey like a lot of teenage girls, but I was deeply attracted to her. Even though we went on several dates that ended with us locked in deep embraces, she refused to be my girlfriend. I dreamed about being back home in her bed room, I ran my hands over her beautiful naked body and dark hair as we made love. I felt myself Cuming, literally and woke up with my garment shorts wet and sticky. I had a wet dream. I realized where I was and did not know what to think. I was a part of something that I never thought I would doing something that I was told was right trying to live a cookie cutter lifestyle, but none of this was normal or natural.
I jumped down from my top bunk and felt my feet touch the cold carpeted floor. My watch said that it was past mid night as I walked to my wall locker to get a clean set of under wear (which were standard issue garments). I than gently opened the door and stepped out into the dark hallway to clean myself off in the bathroom. Wearing your garments uncovered was a violation of the rules and even though everyone within miles of the MTC knew what the garments were and what they meant, our white rule book said that the “symbols on the garments had to be covered when outside our rooms.” I would see many people over the next few weeks running through the hallways with their hands covering the symbols over their chests on their Temple garments as they tried to make it back into their rooms as quickly as possible.”
I was thinking to myself that this is definitely not a part of missionary lore that is discussed in mission prep classes and at firesides. Even though the church’s most controversial and fire breathing Apostle Boyd K. Packer had said that wet dreams were normal back in 1976 in a talk titled, “To Young Men Only” I had just dreamed about having sex with a Non Mormon girl who I still had feelings for on the first night of my Mission. This was not an issue that I had ever been prepared for and I seriously doubted that a procedure existed for a situation like this in the church’s handbook of instructions or missionary Manuel, both long documents.
The next morning I woke up at the time that all of us were supposed to 6:30, with our first class being at seven. I feel in line with what seemed like hundreds of missionaries all waiting for their turn to use the toilets, showers and sinks. This reminded me of the movie, The “Shaw Shank Redemption” where an inmate awoke after his first night in the infamous Alcatraz prison. All of us struggled to get dressed in our white shirts and ties and to class on time. There we met our three teachers who would teach us the Spanish language.
Our teachers consisted of two men and a woman who were not much older than the twelve of us. All three of them had served Spanish speaking missions and were BYU students. After introducing themselves and giving us brief biographies they told us that from here on out they would be speaking to us only in Spanish in order to get us fully immersed in the language. We were than shown instructional videos on how we should always speak the language to each other even when we barely knew it. By always speaking it, we would become “worthy of the gift of tongues.” The two male teachers wore white shirts and ties like the twelve of us with name tags identifying them as teachers. While the curly haired pleasant young woman would always wear a frumpy dress, I probably would have found her attractive if I ever saw here on the outside. But once again, I was to “keep my thoughts worthy” so I resisted.
After our first class we were hoarded into the large cafeteria where we would eat with hundreds of other missionaries. It was still early in the morning and I was not at all hungry but I followed my group. Every wall that we passed had religious pictures and paintings of various themes. Some were just pictures of the typical white skinned long haired bearded Jesus Christ. While the wall just outside the entrance to the cafeteria the wall was painted of Mormonism’s founder Joseph Smith holding up a book of Mormon while preaching to people of various ethnicities. I was not at all inspired by any of it.
After downing the fair cafeteria styled food that I would eat three times a day, we had a very short period of time to get to our next class. Our three teachers rotated in shifts in teaching the various classes that would be taught to us throughout the day. I remember my first day as a blur of being shuffled from one class to the next almost with no break. I was not bothered by the breakneck speed at which we were being pushed or the way the language was being taught. I was bothered by the endless diet of doctrine and Mormonism that was being force-fed to us.
Many of our classes involved us working on computers with head phones. Every time I would turn on my computer and put on my head phones I would hear a high pitched choir humming and see the words, “to every nation kindred and tongue” appear on my screen. I would than see small cartoon characters appear on the screen explaining how to work the language program. It reminded me of elementary school computer labs. Here I was being told how to dress right down to my underwear, what to say, what to think, how to act, and who to be with twenty four hours a day seven days a week and all “for my own good.” This would go on and on for the next two years with no respite in sight. Surly even the military is not a repressive as this, but it was only the first day, and I tried to tell myself that it would get better. But I would not even get to choose how to release stress for the foreseeable future.
In the afternoon right before lunch that day I was called downstairs to the counseling center. My companion had to accompany me and we sat in a comfortable office as a secretary handed me a questionnaire on a clip board. I was to rate how I was feeling to a list of about forty questions on a scale of one through five, with one being never and five being always. The questions asked things such as, “you feel angry and agitated” “You have thoughts of killing or hurting yourself in some way” or “you fell depressed and hopeless.” I answered all of the questions as honestly and accurately as I could and then handed the clip board back to the secretary and waited. After about five minutes, I was called into the office by a man wearing a white shirt and a tie with a name tag identifying himself as a clinical social worker. He told me that my Branch President had referred me to him because he had “concerns about me from my interview the day before.” He asked me about my history and background in the church. I told him that I was a new member and didn’t feel good here. He told me that I had scored a 115 on the questioner which he said that “anything higher than 115 we would normally send you home to get counseling.” I told him that “I felt like I was a part of a giant corporation and not a church right now.” He smiled gently and said that is part of the assembly line process that most missionaries feel and that “I am feeling like a sales person of the gospel.” I also told him that I had a fear that no one would want to marry me if I did not serve a mission, and he said “Yes there is a lot of social pressure applied to young men to serve missions” but that he knew a lot of very good men in the church who had not. Like the Second Counselor in his Stake Presidency who had not served a mission as a young man because he was “shy.” That man had grown up to become a Mission President and was now serving in a high up position in the church. I thought to myself, “lucky him.”
The Counselor than told me that one option is if “I went home and studied more that maybe I would hear something that I wanted to go out and share with someone.” He then said that “he could tell I was on edge but thought I had nothing to lose by waiting a few days to see if things got better.” We shook hands and I left his office feeling slightly relieved but knew like a stomach ache, it was only temporary.
After lunch came more classes. My anxiety, depression, anger, and homesickness just flared right back up. “This is not who I am!” “Why won’t anything work out for me when I am myself?” “Why do I have to do this?” I tried to retreat to a calming center deep within myself but that was not working, because I was supposed to be paying attention to the class on how to speak to investigators. I eventually pulled aside the Elder in my class who had been appointed “district leader” by our Branch President. I told him how I was feeling and that I would like to talk to a member of the branch Presidency. Even though I could already tell that this Elder (I will call him Elder B) was arrogant and self righteous who liked to brag and curry favors with our higher ups, his companion and him went to go call our branch President.
As my first full day in the MTC wound down, I was starting to crack. I knew that I had been sucked into something that felt very much like a cult. Everyone around me was smiling and at least acting happy, but how could I do that when I was not? I was not being trained to be a humble servant or “warrior for the lord” but to be a sales person in a white shirt and tie. Even though the FBI, CIA, and most federal agencies are reputed to hire LDS people and I really wanted to go into that line of work, I was thinking to myself, “Is it worth sacrificing myself respect and identity for that?”
So here I was sitting at a small desk inside a classroom with a window that looked out onto a beautiful summer dusk as our female teacher (I will call her Sister J) was teaching us how to approach a potential convert in Spanish. I was griping my desk so hard that I thought I would break it I didn’t know when I was going to be able to talk to my branch President, and I felt trapped. I was truly a prisoner I could not just get up and walk out without facing serious guilt that would be laid on me by my companions, teachers, and people back home. I could not stay or this place would kill me slowly until I turned into a lackey in a shirt and tie. I was trapped and finally I lost it and snapped.
I got up and said out loud, I am sorry I can’t do this. The teacher looked at me with a surprised look on her face as I headed for the door. My companion got up and followed me out into the hallway. He asked me what was wrong and I told him that I didn’t feel good. He understood what I meant and said, “lets have a prayer.” I stood in the hallway with him as he prayed “for the lord’s help.” He then picked up the on wall telephone and called the front desk to tell him that we are coming up there.
We exited the four story class room building, and looked at the surrounding mountains of Provo Utah in the beautiful early dusk. As I walked with my companion I told him that I felt like I needed to go off somewhere and “do some soul searching.” He patiently listened to me as we entered the large lobby of the MTC front office. We told the front desk worker who looked only a few years older than us that we needed to speak with my Branch President. I was quickly shepherded off into a separate room with a long conference table, while my companion was told “you are welcome to read scriptures.”
Shortly thereafter, the first counselor in our Branch Presidency came walking through the doors. He asked me to give him a minute and wait for him. After just a couple of minutes he came back in and asked me to join him in yet another prayer. I was annoyed by this, but got down on my knees with him as he said a prayer which I cannot remember.
After praying, we got off of our knees and sat at the conference table facing each other. I began to spill my guts to him as to what I was feeling. I told him, “that I consider myself a very spiritual person but that I do not feel comfortable here.” The life of a missionary so far was not the life that I had pictured, I badly missed being able to unwind the way I wanted to at the end of a work or school day, and no one had warned me that being a missionary required surrendering all of your freedoms. I was not feeling “the lord helping me through this” as I had been promised. I than told him, “that I felt out of place among my peers who had been prepared their whole lives for this and had their families support [or pressure].” I also told him that “I am the type of person who needs to be able to kick my shoes off at the end of the day and watch TV.”
President Vaughn was a short stout man with a monotone voice, receding hairline and thick glasses. But he was an adult convert to the Church with his family and I assume that is why he was sent to talk with me. He listened to me patiently and then began asking me questions about how I had grown up, what I would do if I went home now? And various other interview/interrogation questions which I cannot recall. I do remember him asking me a question that even at the time bothered me.
“Suppose hypothetically we told you, you can’t leave?” I did not know how to respond at first, because I was so shocked. But then my anger began to boil up again almost to the point and I started to lose it. I told him that if they told me that, “I would say watch me and slam my name tag down on the table and march right back to my room and pack my bags.” His response was, “so you are planning on leaving.” I told him “Yes!”
President Vaughn considered me silently for a few seconds, and then said “let me tell you a story” he went on to tell me about how he had been called to be a bishop after only being a member of the Church for “seven years.” He told me about how out of place he felt because his counselors were “scriptural wizards” and he was so new that he “literally wore out the knees of his pants praying to heavenly father for help and guidance.” His story did not have any effect on me what so ever. I told him, that he was still free to “unwind and watch TV” at the end of every day. President Vaughn looked me in the eye, and told me that “out in New York there is someone that only you can bring into the church.” I was still angry that I had been convinced to come to this prison and give up two years of my life trying to sell my new religion to other people in return for “blessings.”
I told my branch President that I wanted to call my father and that whatever his counsel was I would follow. He reluctantly agreed and arranged to have a phone brought into the conference room. I told him that I wanted to speak to my dad alone, and he asked “is there any reason why you would not want me here?” I just told him that “I felt this was a private conversation between my father and I.” Once again he relented. I told him my home phone number and he dialed. I heard him speaking to my mother and told her that “her son is having questions about if he should be here.” She got my father and he explained the same thing to my dad.
My father had always preferred that I not go on a mission or even be a member of the Mormon Church. Surly my nightmare was going to end soon. My dad would support my decision to come home. In a matter of hours I would be free to explore Provo on my own before getting on a plan and going home to resume a normal existence where I could follow my own passions and goals how I wanted to. It did not happen that way. My father told me that “he would not support me coming home” and that “I had not given this mission a fair chance.” “You owe it to yourself to give this a chance, and it has only been one day.” He told me that things would be better once I got to New York and to just get through this, and I would learn Spanish and be able to join the F.B.I. one day. For the first time in hours, I began to calm down. I told my dad that “I think he has been touched.” He said that he loved me and I put him back on the phone with President Vaughn. They exchanged pleasantries and then hung up.
“Your dad seems like a really nice guy.” I felt better about myself and what I was doing at the moment and agreed to stay. He then said he wanted to give me a priesthood blessing and have my companion assist him. As is the standard way that Mormon males (only men can hold the priesthood in Mormonism) President Vaughn and my Companion laid their hands on my head and he blessed me “that my heart would become like a great sponge and soak up all that was taught to me here.” After Elder Carden and the Branch President finished the blessing, each hugged me and President Vaughn told me, “nothing bad is going to happen to you” and just “go with the flow.” I knew that I had been told the same thing by his ecclesiastical boss the day before, so I reasoned that they must be trained on how to handle these situations. I nodded and softly said “ok.”
Elder Carden and I left the front office and I was in a completely different mood. I was now smiling from ear to ear as we were told we should do. I told him that “I knew I was supposed to be here” and thanked him for being so patient with me. We rejoined the other Elders in our district and I told everyone that I was all right and felt better. With classes over for the day, we joined the flood of other white shirted missionaries heading back to the dorms for the night. I was energetic and almost bouncing off the walls, but in truth I did not know how to feel. I would not be killed by this experience and sure it was miserable now, but at least my dad advised me to stay.
That night I wrote in my journal and prayed on my knees with my companion (all of which we were instructed to do) before going to bed. I had a hard time sleeping again that night because of the whirl wind of emotions going on inside of me. But before we turned off the lights Elder Carden told me, “You know what they say the longer the mission the longer the life” “the harder the mission the hotter the wife.” That was a Mormon cultural saying and right then, I really hoped that it was right.
I am now ashamed of the way that I acted at this time. I was not able to tell my superiors that I didn’t want to be there because I had been tricked into giving up my life for superstitions and that I felt like I was in a cult. On the other hand, I had invested so much in the Mormon Church at that point that I was not even able to articulate or know that was what I was feeling at the time. Never the less I resorted to whining about the things I had given up, as a way to get out of there. I felt a little better than the night before, but I lay on my standard issue sheets fighting to sleep and suppress all “unworthy thoughts” at the end of my first full day as an “ambassador for the Lord.”
The next days and weeks that I would spend in the Missionary Training center were long and often torturous. Someone would later ask me to sum up my experience in the MTC in one word. At the time I couldn’t but if you asked me to sum up that experience today, the one word I would use is “Stifling.” The days were spent in classrooms and auditoriums learning the Spanish language and being taught doctrine by various people. We were allowed thirty minutes to eat in the cafeteria three times a day and five one hour gym periods a week. Each day would bring different levels of misery for me, some worse than others. But I was determined to make it through and reap the rewards that had been promised me, but at what cost?
Literally every minute of every day was planned and spelled out for me and my peers for the next eight weeks. The thing that bothered me the most was the endless doctrine that was being crammed down our throats at every opportunity. One of the first things that I learned in the MTC was about obedience. After all we were told that “obedience is the first law of heaven.” What scripture is used to justify that line of teaching, I do not remember or care to remember.
I was quickly bothered by the fact that obedience seemed to be the theme of the Missionary Training Center. It was one of the first lessons taught to us, and almost everywhere we walked there were un-subtle reminders about being “obedient.” In the Cafeteria Chow line I remember a sign saying something to the effect of “take only one desert Please be Obedient.” Another sign was posted in the classroom hallways saying “No loud talking please be obedient.” I now think it is strange that I never heard of the teaching of obedience being the first law of heaven until I set for in the MTC. But once again I was determined to become a successful industrious Mormon however I could so I reasoned that I was just being tested.
I slowly began to settle into a routine at the MTC, but being obedient to all church leaders would be a theme that would dominate my actions for the next two years. Every morning our alarm clock would go off at 6:30 A.M. we were warned that if we did not get out of bed at that exact time, than we would “lose the spirit.” On some mornings we would head straight to gym period, were we could run around the track use the few weight machines that were available or play basketball. But even than we had to have someone within “earshot” of you at all times as per mission rules. So therefore you had to always find someone in your district who wanted to do the same thing as you.
After gym or first thing in the morning all the missionaries on the floor would overcrowd the communal bathroom that our floor shared. From my involvement in athletics most of my life showering with a group of guys did not bother me at all. But I never got used to the hectic way every morning went with up to fifty different guys rushing to shower, shave, and do basic toiletries always within a thirty minute time frame to get to our next function. I tried comparing this to military training as a way of coping, but I was having a difficult time understanding why a Church was being this controlling.
After breakfast every morning would usually start with a class in the Spanish language in my districts assigned building. The twelve of us would cram into a small classroom, or computer lab sometimes with a window and sometimes without. Even spirituality began to get routine. We would all sing a Church hymn in Spanish and then get on our knees and say a prayer in Spanish. Then the class would start with one of our three teachers assigned to teach at that time speaking to us in Spanish the entire time. The lessons would usually be learning routine sayings with some Church doctrine mixed into it. Overall I liked the teachers and thought they were caring individuals. That could possibly be due to the fact that I couldn’t understand ninety percent of what they were saying.
Part of our training involved always speaking Spanish to each other at all times, even if it was broken. We were told to do this in order to “qualify for the gift of tongues.” The meaning of this was that if we were obedient to all of the rules including always trying to speak Spanish, we would magically be able to start speaking the language by the Lord’s power. This was easier for me to swallow than other things that I was being force fed twenty four hours a day. Yet I was still a little off put by the official sounding language “qualifying for the gift of tongues.” But I did my best in speaking Spanish everywhere I went, even winning the neck tie that one of our teachers awarded to the Elder who worked the hardest at learning Spanish.
Every class would end the same way it begun with a song and a prayer on our knees. All of the thousands of men and women in the MTC at any one time were instructed to always pray on their knees in order to “invite the spirit.” At lunch time we would usually have forty five minutes to eat with anywhere from fifteen to twenty of those minutes spent in line. We were required to bow our heads and pray silently before eating and taking too much time could cause us to “lose the spirit.”
After lunch would come another round of classes in Spanish or large group doctrinal lessons in which hundreds of missionaries would meet in one of the same rooms that we arrived in (more on this later). Sometimes we would have our hour of gym time before or after dinner and usually more classes right up until the end of the day.
One time a week there would be an entire MTC wide devotional with another on Sunday night. Our “white bibles” stated that those devotionals were “mandatory with no other MTC activity taking priority over them” and that all elders were required to wear their suit jackets. It was difficult for me to understand why most of my peers appeared to look forward to these devotionals after a day of nonstop religious teachings. I was told that the reason for the relentless pace that we were being pushed was because of the limited time and space available at the MTC and that they were just trying to get us through so that we could get out to the field. Some said the field would be better than this, but the social worker I had spoken to on my first day at the MTC, warned that “the field is slightly harder and more stressful than the MTC.”
Back to the weekly devotionals, every week the thousands of missionaries would cram into one of the large auditoriums that doubled as a gym while others would watch from one of the meeting rooms via broadcast. Usually the Sunday devotionals would have the MTC President or one of his Counselors preaching or teaching us something about the Church or Missionary work with the message always the same, but the delivery being different. But the weekly devotional would always have an outside speaker. That would draw huge excitement from my peers, one which I did not share.
The excitement that would come from my fellow missionaries was because usually the “outside speaker” was a general authority in the Church. A General Authority was one of the seventy men who had command over a specific area in the world wide Church. The highest authorities were the twelve men who were “apostles” and the first Presidency which made up the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints and his two counselors. The President is believed to be a Prophet and I had one of the missionaries who taught me tell me that he “knows the President of the Church has spoken face to face with God.” The twelve apostles are also believed to be “Prophets Seers and revelators” who regularly talk with God and Jesus Christ.
Even though no modern day President, Apostle, or General Authority ever claimed that he has spoken directly with any heavenly being all of the devout members followed their instructions without question. These instructions ranged from not watching R-rated movies of any kind, paying ten percent of one’s income to the Church, not wearing sandals to Church, and having “every worthy young man serve a mission” to name a few were regarded the same as scripture among faithful Mormons. One popular plaque that was sold at Church bookstores and hung on the wall of a few of my friend’s living rooms bore the writing, “When the Prophet Speaks the Debate is over.” These men also made the rules that were governing my life for the next two years.
The second largest frustration for me would be the huge number of bitter, old white men that I ran across every day. They were either adult missionaries who had volunteered with their wives or workers at the MTC or temple. The vast majority of them were natives of Utah or other areas in the western United States. I did not know what any of their motivations or way of thinking was, but I had never met more self-righteous old men before in my life. They were the typical crusty old timers who are part of small town hick culture in the United States, yet I had to hear them testify about “the Lord this and the Lord that” at every turn. I was now in their world with no way of escaping. I sincerely hoped that I would not turn into one of them one day.
My first Sunday at the MTC happened to be a Sunday where Thomas S. Monson decided to address the thousands of missionaries in training. That Sunday also happened to be “Fast Sunday” which is the first Sunday of every month where all member world-wide are expected to skip breakfast and lunch and donate the money from those meals to the church as “fast offerings.” That Sunday is also when fast and testimony meetings are held in every chapel meaning that all members of the congregation can come up to the podium and “bear their testimony” about the Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon or anything they want to say. Anyone who has ever been to a Mormon Church on this Sunday can tell you that all of the testimonies that are bared often have people telling faith promoting stories that end with the speaker sobbing while say “I just want to say sniff that I know this Church is true sniff and I know Joseph Smith was a prophet sniff and I love my family cry.” All testimonies and church talks from the President down to the local speaker end with, “In the name of Jesus Christ amen.” It is especially interesting when young children get up behind the podium every Sunday and sometimes with parents help all say the canned testimony for little kids “Id like to bare my testimony I know this church is true I love my family, brothers and sisters, in the name of Jesus Christ amen.”
Even though I would not have to listen to any young children baring their testimonies on my first Sunday of my “two year sentence” we would have our own fast and testimony meeting that Sunday Morning and the cafeteria would be closed for breakfast and lunch. They even turned off the vending machines that were in our dorms. We could use our cards issued to us with “the lord’s money on it” on any other day of the week accept for “Fast Sunday.” Oh, and the only water we were supposed to drink was the small cup taken for sacrament so as far as I know the drinking fountains were turned off as well. My subconscious told me that this was not a Christ like thing to do, all of us had more or less volunteered to serve this institution and they were treating us like we were in a communist reeducation camp. But all I could do was shrug and “go with the flow.”
That Sunday we were expected to rise at six thirty and study and read scriptures. Taking naps was another rule that could cost us “the spirit” but I saw many people break it (not me however). That mourning the twelve Elders in my district along with the several other districts met for our Sunday service. The service would be just like any other back home with the three men in our Branch Presidency presiding. After our one hour service we were expected to go back to our rooms and write letter, write in our journals, read scriptures, study, but no sleeping on the Sabbath day. The rest of the day was more studying, more religious services in various rooms all with no food and no sleep. Then came the surprise.
Elder B (our district leader) pulled us all together after one of our meetings and told us that he had a surprise for us. Thomas S. Monson would be speaking to the entire MTC at the devotional that night. President Thomas S. Monson was the first Counselor in the First Presidency of the Church and at the time next in line to be the “Prophet.” So in effect all of us would be hearing the second in command of Mormonism speaking. All of my fellow Elders were thrilled and excited to get to hear him speak as if we would be going to a rock concert or the super bowl that night. I just hoped that maybe this whole thing would start making sense and soon.
That day was already a dark and rainy day in Provo. President Vaughn gave me a written “phone pass” to take to the front desk so that I could call my parents and let them know I was doing better. During a break in our schedule Elder Carden and I went up to the front desk and showed the clerk the piece of paper. He then directed us to a row of pay phones where I could use my calling card to call home. After dialing the number, I got an answering machine and left a message saying that I was doing ok, and told them that I loved them in Spanish. It turned out that my parents and brother were at one of my family’s favorite vacation spots in San Diego California. Deep down inside, I felt more resentment that they were enjoying life as best they could (their letters all said how sad and how much they missed me) while I was cut off from them doing what I was expected to in this grey and dreary prison.
Because President Monson would be speaking to us that night we all had to grab sack lunches for dinner from the cafeteria. We all stood in an endless line and took white sacks from an unsmiling young worker, as she instructed us “one sack, one fruit, one drink.” We quickly ate what was in the bag after a whole day with no food and then put on our suit jackets for the devotional. We stood in another endless line outside the auditorium and I thought of how much I used to enjoy rainy Sunday afternoons where I could relax read books, watch TV, take naps, and rest for the week to come. But here I was paying the price for a life and beautiful woman that I craved. All of these thoughts were just “Satan trying to tempt me.”
When we finally got into the auditorium a group of tight lipped Elders were directing everyone to their seats as they acted as ushers. Once we were seated I saw a man who I would get to know well over the next weeks. This man was a white haired unsmiling man who had the look and manner of Dick Cheney (I thought he was his twin). At every devotional he would come up to the microphone before the start and remind us all to be quite and reverent and then say “let us now raise our voices in praise as we sing hymn number….” He would than lead everyone with his white baton. This Dick Cheney look alike than reminded all of us that we needed to stand when President Monson walked onto the stage out of respect for his office. We would be reminded to do that for every general authority that came to speak to us. I wondered why we needed to do this for “humble servants of the Lord” but I did not dare say that out loud.
After signing a round of hymns, we were welcomed by President Wirthlin. President Wirthlin told us that that mourning Monson’s secretary had called him saying he wanted to come speak with us, and he got so excited that “I almost jumped through the phone.” (I heard a loud laugh at that but I didn’t think it was funny at all) He then said “what a treat it was to get to hear President Monson’s words on this night.” We than went through the standard procedure of opening hymns and prayers after which President Monson was introduced with a list of all of his Church services given like he was a military commander. I had always thought that Thomas S. Monson was the most boring speaker I had ever heard. Even when I would watch his conference talks at home, it seemed as if he were trying to hypnotize the audience with the droning voice that he used whenever he delivered a talk. On top of him being in his seventies at the time and overweight, I had never found him to be an engaging person to listen to. I do not remember much of what Monson said to us I only look back and think of what a miserable end to a miserable day that was. I had just witnessed another irony and contradiction of Mormonism. Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, and we had no language classes that day as our teachers had the day off. Yet all of the missionaries spent the day being pushed from one meeting to another.
I do remember a short conversation I had with Elder B, right before the devotional. I was trying to lighten the dour mood of the day by telling him that I thought President Monson looked like a character on the movie, Wayne’s World. Elder B. quickly told me not to talk like that about an apostle. I was taken aback but did not pursue it. I had just been introduced to one of the elements of missionary life and culture that I had been warned about. That element was arrogant, kiss ass missionaries who make life miserable for everyone with their self- righteousness and pettiness. I did not find out until many years later that those are the missionaries who end up in high positions giving their parents bragging rights back home.