Laundry
Sunday had arrived once again.
I loaded up the car with 2 weeks worth of laundry and pulled out of the apartment complex. My wife, fighting an unknown sickness, would not be joining me. Without her voice to fill the silence my mind drifts into a hypothetical future. I think about a future where we have our own washer and dryer. I think about a future where I'm not in college and I don't need to rely on my parents. I think about a future where I don't need to drive 40 minutes to do laundry.
Pulling into my parents driveway I notice both of their cars are gone. I’m admittedly relieved, as this means I can have a nice and quiet day of folding clothes. This, however, makes me feel guilty, as I don’t get to see my parents that often anymore.
Regardless of my feelings I came here to do a job, so I step out of my car, grab all the clothes, and pile the mountain of laundry in front of the washing machine.
After several hours I had almost finished. I had just pulled out a clean load of clothes from the dryer and was in the middle of folding one of my shirts when my dad walked in the front door. I wasn't expecting to see him, but this was his home after all. We greet each other, and after several more minutes of pleasantries he revealed what was really on his mind.
He asked why I hadn't been wearing my garments.
Now, for the uninitiated, garments are sacred Mormon underwear. I wish I was kidding, but that's literally what it is. Mormon's will go into this big white building and do a bunch of totally not culty stuff and tell God that they promise to wear their new magic underwear.
My dad is asking his fully grown son why he isn’t wearing his magic underwear.
I know that sounds really bizarre, and it is, but failure to equip the sacred garments of the holy priesthood could be a sign I’m falling away from the Mormon church. That means I won’t be with them in the eternities. I would be the sole reason my entire family is broken up in heaven. It's kind of a big deal. I knew this moment was coming too, I mean we do laundry at their house. It was only a matter of time before they noticed that our laundry no longer included any garments.
My dad probes me a bit.
”So do you just not like them, or do you not believe in them anymore?”
He says the second option in a sort of a joking manner, which makes it obvious to me that it’s not an actual option in his mind. I mean, how could his own son jeopardize his eternal family? That's just the kind of dumb thing his son wouldn't do. His own son obviously wouldn’t do that.
It takes me a long time to answer him, longer than it should have taken to answer his rhetorical question. Agonizing seconds pass as I scramble for an answer. I can see the concern on his face developing.
I don’t want to tell him.
He’ll be so disappointed.
I really don’t want to tell him.
This isn't fair, I mean he practically blindsided me with this question. It's like I’m a feral animal and he’s backed me into a corner. I knew we we're going to have this conversation eventually but that didn't mean it had to be today. I wasn't ready yet. Maybe if I had just shown up earlier I could have finished my laundry by now and avoided this all together.
Finally, the words manage to escape my mouth. They come out hesitantly and quietly, so quiet I could barely hear myself.
I tell him I don’t believe anymore.
The moment the words come out of my mouth my dad's face shifts into a pained expression, like a cross between horror and sadness with just a hint of betrayal. What strikes me the most is how shocked he is. He seems genuinely surprised that I would say something like this.
Before I have a chance to process this he’s asking me why. Why would I do this? What happened?
I begin to explain the research I did into church history, but before I could even finish a sentence he interrupts me.
”So you read anti-Mormon material?”
This is a predictable response, but it still catches me offguard. Anti-Mormon material is the first item in a faithful member's arsenal to dismiss any historical facts that directly contridict what the Mormon church teaches. It's an extremely effective thought-stopping technique. Maybe I just thought that my dad wouldn't stoop to that level. Maybe I thought he would try and actually understand my concerns instead of dismissing them all because I read “anti-Mormon material.” Maybe I was wrong.
Recognizing that nothing I could say would change his mind, I stop talking. He tells me that he’s heard ALL the “anti-Mormon lies” back when he served his Mormon mission in California. This was, of course, back before the internet existed. I just stand there and let him talk, slightly dumbfounded at the words he's saying.
When he's finished monologuing I make one last ditch attempt to get through to him. I tell him that I don’t like the way the Mormon church treats gay people. He seems to have a prepared response for this. He tells me that he thinks being gay is a mental illness. That when you’re gay you’re “purposefully removing yourself from the gene pool.” He tells me that "you wouldn’t enable the behavior of someone who is bipolar, so we shouldn't enable the behavior of gay people."
I think about this response often. At the time I had never heard of this argument, but it sounded ignorant at best and malicious at worst. Reflecting on this now, several years later, I realize this kind of belief is a byproduct of believing in the teachings of Mormonism. Obviously that doesn't make it right, but I can at least direct my anger at the Mormon corporation and not my father.
Just to clarify, being gay IS NOT a mental illness as evidenced by a couple of things.
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The logic of this argument falls apart under scrutiny. So it's only bad because you're purposefully removing yourself from the gene pool? So straight couples in their 40s who chose not to have kids are actually mentally ill?
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Believing that homosexuality is bad because gay people are having sex knowing that they'll never reproduce means that you believe the only reason to have sex is to reproduce. Can't use a condom because I know it won't result in a baby. Guess that means if I use a condom I have a mental illness, right?
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Hey dad, if you and mom have had sex any time in the last decade that means you had sex knowing that the primary reason wasn't to reproduce which means, by your own logic, you have a mental illness.
These are all points that I wish I had brought up in the moment. I can really only take solace in the fact that it probably wouldn't have made any difference in his mind.
By this time we're sitting on the front porch. The concrete steps are warm from the heat of the sun. I sat there listening to the sounds of the birds when I realized my dad had finished talking. A silence had occupied the space between us as I had nothing left to say to him.
My mom's car pulls into the driveway. Not wanting to have this conversation in front of her, my dad tells me we'll talk later. We greet my mom and go inside to finish my laundry. Both of my parents help me fold the last load. I am now hyper aware that it does not include any garments. They help me load up the car and I hug them goodbye.
The radio is turned off on the drive home. Without my wife's voice to fill the silence my mind drifts into a hypothetical future. I think about a future where my dad doesn't fall victim to demonstrably false lies. I think about a future where I can share a beer with my dad and we can sit on the porch and just talk. I think about a future where I can be myself in front of my parents.
I think about a future that is never going to happen.