Because I Care About These Things

Prediction:
Wesley Clark is going to be Barack Obama's VP pick. And this is a very very good thing!

Obama/Clark FTW!!!

See No Evil

I recently got an email from a good friend in high school. His name is Duane and it was less of an email and more of a forwarded article. A newspaper article actually. About a guy who was convicted recently for sexually abusing minor boys and doing it with a dog. Yes, a dog. This guy was someone we both knew at CCNZ, our church high school in New Zealand. This perpetrator was also my boyfriend named Raphael. And by boyfriend, I mean the boy who never held my hand but who wrote a 10 page letter to me saying how he plans to take me to the temple and marry me for time and all eternity. The letter was written on a turquoise blue stationary with an imprint of the New Zealand temple stamped on each page. It's the little things a girl remembers.

When I was in the 8th grade I had to do a "research paper". I had just finished a book from the "Flowers in the Attic" series or some heinous read like that which talked about child siblings in an attic who married each other and lived happily ever after. I'm not sure how I got a hold of such a book but I did and I read it and although I don't remember enjoying it all too much, it did leave me with some questions around dynamics. Healthy and unhealthy.

I loved going to our public library. It had three floors and was right across from a Taco Bell. Somehow I always got enough change to buy myself a soft taco in the middle of my vigorous research activities and then carry on with my academic pursuits. And so one afternoon, after a burrito binge, I began the task of writing my 8th grade paper on incest.

While I don't remember much of what I read, I do remember how I felt. Violated? No. Repulsed? A little. Scared? Not so much. Intrigued? Completely.

Raphael and I were a match made in heaven. He was an effeminate fag. And I was his approval seeking hag. He held the position of Prefect. The envy of all "wanna-be-a-bishop" kids and I was his non-blond, flat nosed, thick eyebrowed American girlfriend. Neither of us got the respect we felt we deserved but both of us were quite talented in the art of acting as if we didn't care. That no matter what others said or did, we were going to embrace the fact that we were "being prosecuted for righteousness sake." This is the kind of denial that I believe gets many people through many hard times and I believe in my case, it did its job as I've come through my high school years practically unscathed. I've become a healthy, educated, socially conscience adult. And a redeemed one as well. I married a hunk.

In retrospect, for Raphael though, denial seemed to be less of an means to a stable, balanced end and more of a permanent escape. Kind of like if he didn't think about it, it didn't happen.

The emailed article said that, "it" actually did happen to Raphael. During the trial, information came out explaining that he had been sexually abused since he was 10 months old through the time he turned 16. "It" was done by family members repeatedly, and now "it" was perpetrated by him towards other young boys.

When I googled his name, a photograph of Raphael at the trial appeared on my screen. I was sickened, disgusted, repulsed by him and the life he had chosen for himself. But I was not surprised. I remember during those short 2 weeks of "dating" Raphael, that I had a few moments of clarity. I noticed that he looked "empty" at times, that his dramatic mood swings seemed unfounded, that he could not look his father in the eye when it was parents week, and that he tried so hard to be good, to be worthy, not unlike a mouse pleading for his life in the face of a famished, unforgiving cat. It's the little things a girl remembers.

For the forth week Relief Society lesson, of which I teach every month, the Bishop assigned the article on abuse by Richard G. Scott. It's called, "To Heal the Shattered Consequences of Abuse." In it he talks of healing. But not before he prefaces his counsel with this piece of insight:

"Some matters are so sensitive and intensely personal and can awaken such disturbing feelings that they are seldom mentioned publicly. Yet, if tenderly and compassionately treated in the light of truth, discussion of these matters can bring greater understanding, with the easing of pain, the blessing of healing, and even the avoidance of further tragedy."


If this talk was given earlier, would life be different for Raphael? for his perpetrators? for his friends who knew there was "something" about Ralph, not knowing exactly what? Now that this talk has been given, will life be different for those poor boys and boys like him who suffered at the hands of him and people like him? What about the suffering of his own family? And what of these strange and all too commonly quoted principles of repentance and forgiveness? Their elusive path is one that feels too complex for my small and feeble mind. Too complex for the 8th grade girl scrapping up change for her taco.

He Never Hogs the Bed

When Tevita and I first met, it was at a conference at the University of Utah. I was a Social Worker and he was just starting his MSW. It was a "Multicultural Conference" or something to that effect. Which seemed important at that time, because like most over-compensating, predominately white institutions of higher ed, it was an attempt to "reach out", to "embrace difference", and to "learn from each other". These functions and similarly themed festivals usually last up to a week with publicity beginning months ahead of the event. Count on every nationality in the world being represented during these times. What Utah lacked in fair hiring practices and educational opportunities, it made up for in "Living Traditions" events.

I remember seeing Tevita and in an effort to simultaneously flirt with and forgive him for not calling me, I said in the most sultry tone my tranny-sounding voice could muster, "Hey! Did you get my note?"

Months earlier I was walking around the School of Social Work at the U. and came across a board with photos of all the current 1st and 2nd year Master students. His was on the first year bulletin board. I knew him from the days we attended BYUH together. At that time, I was working at the school's convenience store which was in the student union right across from the information desk where he was working.

Tevita was the BYUH Man of monumental proportions. I didn't know it during those school days though. I only dated white guys. I had just returned from my mission where I preached the doctrine of dark skin = repent, sinner; white skin = heaven. I preached it in the South and that still small voice of mine seemed just as confused about that principle as those investigators I was preaching to. So in an effort to preserve my testimony and my need to conform, I chose to ignore all implications of racism. And with that, all notions that race even existed. Except for the one skin tone that held odds of making it to the afterlife we all want. I may be from Vegas but I'm no gambler. Being part white, I was half way there anyway. Why spoil my chances by falling for a Lamanite?

The reason I knew that Tevita was even considered a stud at that time was because the girls liked him. And by liked him I mean they had "revelations" of marrying him and having his babies. Or at the very least attending the Spring Ball with him by their side. They would tell me how righteous and spiritual he was, that he was respectful and smart and had a strong work ethic and then they would top off this string of accolades by giving him a compliment of the highest Mormon order, "He's going to be a GA, you know," and then they would sigh. and then they would close their eyes. and then they would sigh again. and then they would open their eyes. and then we would talk about the red haired, freckled face, 2.0 GPA gomer that I had my heart set on. His name was Wes. And he wore Doc Martin boots. and then I would sigh.

Tevita though managed to ward off the dating/marrying/want to have your babies attempts while at BYUH but not before I knew second hand details of every aspect of his personality, every like and dislike, every post graduate decision, and every career he was considering. I pretty much knew Tevita.

And I thought he knew me.

About 3 years after he graduated and left Hawaii, I graduated and moved to Utah.Visiting the campus, I walked through the School of Social Work, saw that photo, and left a note in his box, written in true Liz form, on a piece of scrap paper. It said, "Aloha David! I just moved here and am working as a Social Worker! Can you believe it???? Going to Boston soon so would love to get together and do something! Call me, Tongan!" And that was that. Until the day of the conference.

Five years after the conference we fell in love and one year after that, we married. In month three of our dating, Tevita confessed that he did not recognize the name of the girl who signed that note. He had no idea who I was or how he was suppose to know me. Upon seeing me at the conference, he vaguely remembered me from BYUH. But only vaguely.

Tonight as I lie awake during my current string of sleepless nights, I realize that I've known Tevita for 15 years. Albeit 3 years longer than he's known me, but still longer than many marriages today.

Almost six years into our marriage now and Tevita has lived up to his college reputation and more. With quiet strength, I have seen him move the mountains of pride, envy, and anger that seem to plague many aspects of work, school, church, and family life. He has no desire to be a GA but he thinks I would rock as one!

This is why I like watching him while he sleeps. This is why thinking about him lulls me into a peaceful night's rest. This is why I thank God for festivals and notes and late night talks with girlfriends and yes, I can even thank God for BYUH. But most of all, this is why I love you, Tongan.