Who wants to go to Fiji, anyway, unless they're doing touristy things maybe?

It seems that tattoos in visible places on the body can pretty much get people banned from serving LDS missions.  I had never given this topic much thought, but my former on again/off again relationship knew this. I'm not sure about the rule if the tattoo appears on one's buttocks or some similarly not-normally-visible in Mormon-acceptable clothing. Maybe it's on the health form one takes when one has the required physical before a mission. Then again, maybe it's not.  I'll have to research that.

In Jared's case, it wouldn't have mattered anyway, as his tattoo (with my name on it; isn't that just special?) is in a place where at least part of it is visible in a standard T-shirt.

Jared was formally told by his bishop that he would not be serving a mission. no one told the hedge hogs in Provo or salt lake City or wherever the divine inspiration takes place as to whom will be sent where. So on Wednesday, Jared got his envelope. he and some friends, including my brother, got together and had a party at which they opened the thing. I think it's posted on youtube somewhere, but I cannot give more details because I'm supposed to be semi-anonymous, and reveling such details would reduce my chances of anonymity.

So Jared opened his white envelope and read aloud (I saw it all on skype) that he had been assigned to the Fiji Suva mission. (They almost always call each mission by first the nation, then the city  or region.0) So Jared would've been in Fiji, where the roads may be too sandy even for bicycles. I really don't know much about the Fijian islands. there's another topic I'll have to research.

My brother had been planning this demonstration or show of support for Jared, where a whole lot of people would put temporary tattoos on their arms, keep them covered until right in the middle of the sacrament, then take off their jackets and display their tattoos. Once my brother heard that Jared had been called to serve in Fiji, he wanted, instead, for the whole crew to dress up in Fijian attire, whatever that might be --probably floral patterns and those lava lava skirt things that men wear in other parts of Polynesia. Tim, a family friend, told Matthew that while it would be funny, it would be less effective, because the Fijian-attired people either wouldn't be allowed in the door or would be asked to leave shortly after entering. So they went with Plan A.

Tim's temporary tat featured the medical insignia. Matthew found a ridiculous one that was a stop sign. I don't know what would be the point, but Matthew said that was the beauty of it, that there was no point.  Other people got all sorts of interesting artwork. one guy even got a picture of his kindergarten teacher, who was a nun. I didn't know you could have temporary tattoos custom made.
Jared said that the whole thing was going to look a bit suspicious no matter how it went down, but the main thing was that everyone couldn't arrive and sit by him, and everybody couldn't show up in one large group. He said they had to act as though they knew what they were doing, sort of like no genuflecting. You just walk in, shake somebody's hand if they offer it, say either that you're an investigator or that  you're visiting from some made-up ward in any part of the country.

People arrived alone or in groups of two or three.  There were, Matthew believes, a total of forty-nine of them. Seventeen were female, and thirty-two were male. Most of them knew each other, or knew someone in the group. people sat mostly with one or two other co-conspirators, rather than clustering.

First in the Mormon service, the bishop or one of his counselors welcomes everyone. Next comes an opening hymn, for which no one stands, followed by an opening prayer, for which the members also remain seated. then the bishop or one of his counselors conducts any ward business. this might be a change in callings (jobs) for anyone, a new membership, a confirmation of a new member if it wasn't done at the time of the baptism, or that sort of thing. then comes the Sacrament hymn, after which they pretty much barricade the chapel as though they were the Branch Davidians in Waco with David Koresh in charge. The sacramental prayer, read or ideally recited verbatim by someone who holds at lest the office of priest, is said. then someone who is at lest a deacon passes the white wonder bread around. In a normal family wards, it would be mostly 12-year-olds passing the bread around, but there are no 12-year-old deacons in a student ward, so it was ordinary young men passing the trays of bread so that worthy members could partake,

At this point, sweaters, blazers, and jackets started to come off.  It was choreographed so that each person knew when to remove his outer garment rather than everything coming off simultaneously. it was almost like doing the wave, Matthew said. It wasn't until midway through the passing of the water (virtually every other denomination uses grape juice or wine) that the bishop, who had noticed Jared with his visible tattoo and was staring him down, started to notice others. It must have been a tough choice for him: interrupt the sanctity of the Sacrament or let it go for a few additional seconds. Rationality won in the end. The bishop allowed the sacrament distribution to proceed.

At the completion of the sacrament, once the doors were un-barricaded and the place ceased to resemble the Branch Davidian Compound, the Bishop approached the pulpit with an angrily red face. He said that all those present  who were bearing tattoos were invited to cover them with clothing and to keep them covered, or to leave immediately. Everyone watched Jared for his cue. He slowly  picked up his suit jacket -- it looked almost as though he was going to put it on -- then suddenly stood up, walked down the aisle, and out the door. The remaining forty-six followed. Matthew estimated that the forty-seven tattoo bearers comprised probably a third of those resent, so it was a noticeable departure.

Matthew and Jared said they both regret not plating a spy to sit through the rest of the meeting to see what was said and done.  one guy said he drive by shortly thereafter, and it looked as though people were leaving early, s in about two hours early. (The entire meeting trilogy is a three-hour marathon.)

Who knows what really happened?

I wish I'd been there, but Jared's father hates me enough as it is, and I didn't even do anything.  If I'd actually gone to the mini-protest, I would have given him legitimate reason to despise me.

Whatever you think of me, I'm still your friend, with or without a tattoo.

Risking the wrath of Uncle Scott, Jared sent me another video, along with a message that he had a tattoo bearing my name applied to his upper arm. He's probably the first person in his family on either side of a long line of Mormons who date all the way back to the days of Joseph Smith and Brigham Young to have gotten a tattoo. The significance of the tattoo is that now Jared cannot go on a mission. LDS missionaries, at least in the US culture, do not sport tattoos. It's conceivable that at some later date the tattoo could be removed, and Jared could repent and still serve his mission. It won't happen anytime soon, though, and probably won't happen at all.

Gossip travels fast in Mormon student congregations even at UCLA. Jared's bishop got wind of the tattoo, called Jared in to see it for himself, and promptly called Jared's father, telling him the mission is a no go. (This is one of my major issues with the LDS church. Jared, at  eighteen, is a legal adult.  Why did an ecclesiastical authority feel the need to inform Jared's father of his son's most egregious sin,  which isn't a violation of any state or local law -- only a Mormon law. For that matter,  it's a damned tenuous "Mormon law" he broke. Some random "prophet" has a "revelation" that tattoos are bad, and BOOM! It's a commandment! Jared didn't break any of the ten commandments except possibly #5, "Honor thy parents," and that one was broken only in the vaguest sense. At some point a young man's body ceases to be the property of his parents, and if he chooses a piercing or a tattoo, it's not dishonoring one's parent; it's self expression. Does a parent have a son (sorry to be crude) by the testicles until the day either the parent or child dies by hanging the threat of the fifth commandment and the consequences of its violation over the son's head for as long as the parent can speak? In a civilized society, I would certainly hope not.  

By now the bird poop has hit the fan.  Jared's father wanted him to come home tonight. Jared refused to go, as he has classes for the rest of the week, and he didn't feel like fighting traffic along US 101 just to be screamed at in person, then to have to fight traffic back down US 101 to get back to campus. It seemed like a waste of both time and gasoline.

I'm sending along the video Jared sent me. It's of a Gordon Lightfoot song about a guy who had too much to drink, then went into a tattoo parlour and had a woman's name tattooed somewhere on his body. The melody to me doesn't fit the subject matter of the song. It sounds more like a tune for a song about the Duchess of Wales' new baby, or maybe about Jesus feeding the mutitudes with five loaves of bread and two fish. The melody is just too dolce to be about a tattoo. Regardless, it's Gordon Lightfoot's song, and I supose he can write it about anything he wants. At least it's not about a shipwreck in which twenty-nine people lost their lives.

So it appears Jared has made his decision, and in a unique way, I might add. I applaud his creativity as I applaud his courage in doing what he feels is best for his own life despite considerable pressure to do otherwise.  My only regret in the entire matter is, first, that he felt that a tattoo was his only way out of serving a mission, and second, that it is my name tattooed on his arm. Only God knows, if even He knows, where Jared  and I will be relationship-wise in ten years.

I hope Jared's father considers one point. What if it hadn't occurred to Jared to get a tattoo to avoid serving a mission? What if Jared had taken a more drastic step?  Jared would not have been the first young LDS man to take his own life to avoid serving a mission, or to do the same because he couldn't cope with the craziness once he found himself in the mission environment.  Jared's father should be thanking the God he worships that he still has a living, breathing son, even if that son does have the name "Alexis" emblazoned across his right bicep.

      

all God's children have but one life the days of which to live, though, like sands through the hourglass, they search for another world tomorrow as that same world turns past general hospital to Santa Barbara

The title, which makes no sense, implies that my life has turned into the Mother of All Soap Operas. My friend who is a boy is a member of the Church of Jesus christ of Latter-Day Saints.  Most worthy males in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints serve missions when they reach the age of nineteen. This is expected but cannot be required. Failure to complete a mission and return with honor puts a definite black mark both on one's church record and on one's social sratum withim the church. since it's all out in the open now, I can say that my friend has not decided for certan that he will go on a mission for the church.  I'm not sure how it became common knowldge. Jared spoke of it to me, but I told no one. My PseudoAunt brought it up to me. She said my friend who is a boy had spoken about it with her and her husband. I'm not sure exactly who else he shared this information with, but at least one of his confidantes did non keep this information in confidence. Typically, a boy's consideration concerning whether or not to serve a mission would not  be a major source of interest, particuarly among people who are near the age of my friend who is a boy. It's more the parents who are intrigued, since every boy in the history of the family of my freind who is a boy in the past one hundred years has successfully completed a mission. So some kid casually says to another one, "Are you going on a mission?" The other one replies, "I don't know. Jared's not going." A parent overhears it, and POOF! a rumor has begun.

Many of my estranged relatives live in close proximity to my friend who is a boy. Eventually the rumors concerning my friend who is a boy and his decision as to whether or not to go on a mission reached the rather nose-like ears of my relatives who  are evidence on both sides of the coin that one  cannot choose those to whom he or she is related.  The red-hot information concerning a seventeen-year-old boy and what he will do with his life when he turns nineteen eventually grew too large to be contained in one county, and expanded northward into the county in which my grandparents reside. My grandparents, apparently the braintrust from whom my brother inherited his mathematical ability (he didn't master his multiplication tables until the final day of third grade) added A to B to reach the sum of C, then concluded C= the intersection of the set of non-negative integers  with the set of transcendental numbers divided by the multiplicative inverse of pi . This allowed my grandparents to reach the logical conclusion that my friedn who is a boy was motivated, persuaded, or  forced not to go on a mission by . . . me.

     My grandparents wrote a letter, the specific contents of which are too embarrassing to share, but basically stating [in so many words at one point] that my iniquity in denying this young man the blessing of serving a mission for The Lord's Church will cause me to burn in Hell. This message was delivered to me by specail courier just as I was coming down from an amazing snowboarding run. Any pleasure I might have gained from that near-perfect downhill run is gone forever. It was replaced by a letter from my very own bilogical grandparents, prophesying that I will Burn in Hell.

     I was not the only recipient of a special-delivery letter from my grandparents.  The parents of the boy who is my friend also were blessed with a personal, hend-delivered-by-courier message. The crux of the message to them was that the Incubus was residing in their vacation home with them, undermining everything they've ever tried to accomplish as parents, and, of all things, dissuading their elder son from serving a mission. (For all my grandparents know, I way very well be dissuading their younger son from serving a mission as well. at the age of two, he's much more impressionable. All I would have to do is change the words of a few songs and teach them to him. For that matter, why stop with the boys? I'm probably teaching every kid in the family my own evil ways.)

   The parents of the boy who is my friend are not totally naive. They heard the same rumors about their some that everyone else heard. They also heard from very reliable sources that his wavering on the topic had absolutely nothing to do with me. When they got around to opening their courier-delivered letter suggesting essentially that they cast me out and burn everything that I touched, they weren't angry with me but with the authors of the letter.  Telephone calls resulted in loudly exchanged dialogue on both sides. At one point, my grandfather complained of chest pains. 9-1-1 was called, and my grandfather was transported to the hospital. For the record, nothing of significance was found in my grandfather's EKG or whatever other testing was done. he's resting at home, surrounded by his loved ones, all of who blame me for his near-death experience.

    I'm still feeling slightly barfy. but the people in charge of me insisted that I snowboard again today. I'm going out on a double date in a few minutes with the boy who is my friend and my PseudoAunt and Uncle.
This was planned before the letters came. I didn't want to go, but I am being forced.  I have to show my detractors that I won't curl up into  fetal position annd stay that wayy for a week. The problem is that what i really want to do is curl up into the fetl position for an entire month.