All The Same

 The weekend started with a wedding… *cue church bells*

A MORMON wedding… *cue organ*

…reception. *Cue the sweet, smooth jazz of Michael Buble.*

My little brother got married in California last week, and I flew out to attend their Utah reception. It was wonderful to see my family again, after living thousands of miles away, and to meet a brand new sister-in-law! Overall, it was a day filled with laughter, insomuch that I feared for my bladder, due to having too many babies too recently, and that was quite a stressful thing to be worrying about when I was trying to win over the heart of my baby nephew, to whom I was “new.” (I did it, by the way. I knew it when he put his hand out for a high-five.)

The reception was lovely. I saw cousins and aunts I hadn’t seen in a good long time. I apologized, over and over again, for not having brought my children and husband with me. ExPenSiVe.

I was delighted to dote on the nieces and nephews, however, while taking absolutely zero responsibility for their behaviors when they climbed scaffolding and poked the decorative cacti. I haven’t spent a night “childless” since I started having children over seven years ago. This was quite an exciting lack of child-management. 

Like the incredible weight of loneliness you feel, returning home from a mission and going companionless for the first time, however, it was equal weight “freedom” and “shock.” Who would I describe all the things to, if there was no baby around? Who would give me purpose? No man.

Flying adrift, I had to… make conversation. With adults. (Trust me, I tried to make conversation with the kids, first, for as long as possible.)

An unnamed “other” and I had plotted to bring in flasks, as ex-Mormons are wont to do, at a Mormon wedding. I discovered, unfortunately, that this person’s taste in alcohol was “hand sanitizer,” and so I had to seek out that warm, chest full of comfort, elsewhere. There was one man I knew was up to the task. I could tell because he was drinking a drink that was a color not currently being offered at the party.

My Uncle Milan is a lovely man - may he never find that I’ve written this. Milan has two rules: 1) If anybody asks, we’re not related, and 2) … I honestly can’t remember, but he repeated it to several of the nieces and nephews throughout the evening. There are definitely two rules. But the second rule is definitely not “no drinking.”

I brought my cup with me, to sit next to him at his table. It was awkward. I’ve never had to covertly ask anyone for alcohol before. There are first times for everything, when you’re an ex-Mormon. I figured out I had to sit next to him and put the cup underneath the table while he emptied a “cute” amount of liquid into it. (I am more of a wine drinker than a shot-glass user, so it was totes adorbs.)

Thankfully, Milan has good taste, and the drink did not taste like I’d wandered into an overly aggressive hospital. (Was it whiskey? I THINK it was whiskey?)

I was overwhelmed, suddenly. Not knowing how to express it, or what exactly to say, I said something like, “It’s really great to just sit here and drink, with you, like a heathen.”

Thankfully, Milan understood what I was saying, or at least gave my lack of eloquence the benefit of the doubt. “We’re hardly heathens,” he replied. “You know, we’re all about the same, really.”

My Uncle Milan is a Burning Man kind of man. I knew, looking at him, that he was immediately ready to understand and relate to the deep, profound feelings I was having, in that moment. When he said, “We’re all the same,” I knew that was truly saying that. And I felt tearful!

“I’m sorry it took me so long to realize that.”

We then proceeded to talk about work, and retirement.

I was able to apologize to my never-Mormon Uncle for the years I spent seeing him as “someone else.” 

It’s difficult to explain to someone who has never been a part of an organization like the Mormon church. As a Mormon, you very much are trained to have an “us versus them” mentality. Nobody’s parents are doing it on purpose, but it’s in the way that they stress having missionary efforts with your neighbors and friends. 

People who aren’t in the church aren’t as happy as you are. People in the “world” don’t “understand.” They’re not as smart as you. They may laugh, but when they go home at night, they are missing the profound peace that comes ONLY from being baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and receiving the Gift of the Holy Ghost.

Uncle Milan had patiently endured having some stuck-up, self-righteous niece who was afraid of him because he drank beer. But all that time, he’d been my equal, and I his. (I think he understood the baggage that Mormons have, in that regard, with relationships with others. He lives in Utah, after all.) 

That was the highlight of my evening. Folks? In Mormon-speech, I received revelation and insight. I felt the Spirit whisper greater light and knowledge to my heart. Folks? I felt really really grateful to have been able to have that conversation. It’s painful, growing up, and being humbled is good for you. My Uncle Milan was ready to see me, in that moment of growth, and I felt, for the first time, that I really understood him, and that I really connected with him. He doesn’t bite kids or hold them upside-down because he’s sadistic. He’s actually not scary at all. 

The next day, I went adventuring. 

I set aside DAYS extra, onto this trip to Utah. Understand, I came for the reception, but since I was already spending the money, I had some things I needed to do.

See, I’d been visiting old Mormon historic sites and blogging about them to fulfill my own psychological needs for processing my religious trauma, and there was one site in Utah that I had missed.

Mountain Meadows.

I had watched videos. I had read books. And I was ready.

DID YOU KNOW: Alaska. It’s a fun fact. Alaska was sold by the Russians to the United States. Seward’s Folly, this was. (I know about this, because I did a school report on Alaska, when I was a kid. I had to draw it, and it was very hard.) 

A NOT insignificant portion of the justification for the sale of this land, however, was because the Russians heard rumor that the Mormons may be fleeing Utah, as the Federal Government was after them (again.) The Mormons had their potential sights on Alaska! 

FUN FACT!

(The Russians were like, “Hell no!”)

See, the federal government was zeroing in on the Mormons. The Mormons were kind of insurrectionists, kind of sex traffickers with women from Europe and polygamy, and kind of just creating a theocratic DEFINITELY not democracy. That was kind of threatening, and the government wasn’t thrilled.

Brigham Young responded to the federal government’s crack down by doubling down himself. He was vocal about his opinion that emigrants should not feel safe traveling through Utah. Did he order anyone to be killed? Not white emigrants, personally, that I’m aware of. (Just the Timpanogos and stuff…)

John D Lee, down near Mountain Meadows, took Brigham Young’s opinion to heart, and very much was an over-achiever. Emigrants would NOT feel safe while he was on the lookout, no sir. He encouraged the local Paiutes to kill and rob. I mean, just go for it!

Enter the California-bound wagon train from Arkansas. Unfortunately for Lee’s plans, the Paiutes were not as interested in this game of “murder,” as he had hoped. So he ordered local Mormons to dress like Paiutes and shoot at the wagon train. They killed seven and wounded more. Over the course of five days, the emigrants were running out of fresh water, food, and ammunition, as the Mormons lay siege.

The Mormons put themselves in a situation where they felt like they had to complete a job. They’d killed people simply for traveling through. If they’d killed SOME…logic follows… 

Refusing to admit when you are wrong is a damn, cruel thing.

On September 11th, 1857, the Mormon militia approached the wagon encirclement dressed as MORMONS. They came as friends. They convinced the company to surrender their weapons and stated that they would lead the women, children, and wounded out of the valley first, so the “Paiutes” would see and know not to fire. Then the men could come out, and the Mormons, who had an “agreement with the Paiutes” would accompany them for safety.

When the Mormons reached an agreed upon spot, the call was given, to “Do your duty.” The Mormons fired upon the group of men, killing them. 

The women and children, just ahead, heard the gunshots, and started to run. They, too, were killed, though the field where their bodies were strewn about was a lot larger, as they’d had time to run. 

Seventeen children, mostly babies, were spared. They were given to Mormon families. Their names were changed in the Mormon ordinance commonly known as a “baby blessing,” where they were given a name by which they would be known on the records of the church. It took years for the families of these children to get them back. Their loved ones back East fought for them, after word of the massacre was known, and they were eventually returned.

120 people were murdered. The church tried to cover it up. John D Lee reported to Brigham Young. When he got the vibe from Brigham Young that Young was not happy about emigrants being murdered, he tried to blame the Paiutes, and reported the lie that some of the men in the company had been a part of persecuting the saints in Missouri and Illinois. There was a prophecy about Missourians being destroyed, after all.

Jacob Hamblin, a local, found seventeen traumatized children taken into his home, after the event. When he returned to the site, he reported that the bodies were “in a state of putrification.” He counted nineteen wolves eating the bodies. “My feelings, upon this occasion, I will not attempt to describe - The gloom that seemed to diffuse itself through the air and cast a shade over the hills and vales was dismal in the extreme.” 

Jacob’s son, Albert, was a herdsman in the meadow. “He had a hard time adjusting to life again,” one described. “The Indians and the white men both claimed ‘the devil or evil spirits’ were after Albert.” The kid had PTSD. 

Jacob Hamblin didn’t bury the bodies. He decided to wait until the following summer, “when the bones had lost all their flesh.” But they didn’t get buried until May of 1859, when Major James H Carleton was given orders to bury them. He placed a pile of stones over the bodies, putting a cross over them with the inscription: “Vengeance is mine and I will repay saith the Lord.”

There are family legends of Brigham Young having the stones torn down, though there’s evidence to refute that. John D Lee recorded that Brigham told him, “The company that was used up at the Mountain Meadowes were the Fathers, Mothe[rs], Bros., Sisters & connections of those that Muerders the Prophets; they Merritd their fate, & the only thing that ever troubled him was the lives of the Women & children, but [this] could not be avoided.”

John D Lee was the guy who told Brigham Young that the Arkansas emigrants had anything to do with Mormons in Missouri and Illinois in the first place - and that was a lie. 

History lesson complete.

My experience.

I stopped in Cedar City to buy water, and looked around the little convenience/gift shop for something I could leave in memory. Flowers would be an obvious choice, but the only fake flower they had had an awful little panda on it, and I shuddered at the thought. I looked for toys. Children’s jacks? A pioneer toy? There were none. (Just lots of Trump hats, and ‘F’ Biden stuff.)

Then I found the hair bows, and knew I’d found what I was looking for. They were white, and beautiful, and when I looked at them, I imagined the little girls who would have loved to wear them in their hair. The cashier agreed that they were beautiful, and she’d love to buy some for her granddaughter.

I cried. I cried on the drive down there. It was Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. I cried because a landslide of truth brought me down. The truth is that my ancestors were a part of a system that did hideous things - things that men didn’t talk about being a part of. Things that left men on their deathbeds crying, “Blood! BLOOD! BLOOD!”

I thought of my grandfather. He may have known these people. What family secrets weren’t told, weren’t repeated, were hidden. I’ve already uncovered a few. The fact that my ancestors hid ANYTHING says they weren’t proud. I felt the weight of family trauma, and knew that my family’s trauma resulted in the deaths of innocent people.

I stopped at the “Women’s Monument.” I imagined what it would feel like to run across that sagebrush field in a dress. I crossed the road and hiked down the highway until I reached a creek bed, where I knew the women’s mass grave was. (It’s not advertised, and it’s only recently been rediscovered.) I left a hair bow on the barbed wire fence, just a hundred feet or so away from the site where their bodies still lay. The ribbons blew in the wind, and made me think of their hair in the sagebrush, and I cried. 

I cried because I slipped on a rock on the way down the creek bed and scratched up my leg, and it was bleeding. I cried because I’d been walking, and THEY had been RUNNING. I leaned on the fence post and just had an almighty bawl, while traffic carried on driving on the highway behind me. 

I don’t know if my family members killed anyone. But I honestly can’t say that I know that they didn’t. If not these people, others? SOMEONE killed them. Some Mormon like me, who was doing what he thought he had to do, and did it without questioning, with blind, unwarranted pride, because that was the only way that he could sleep at night.

…“They don’t actually know what real peace is, until they’ve been baptized into the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints and received the Gift of the Holy Ghost.”…

I definitely scared some tourists, and I didn’t mean to. The parking lot at the monument overlook had about five or six cars in it, when I pulled up. I wasn’t interested in seeing the wagon encampment site, because THAT monument was put up by the church, which frankly, feels sacrilegious. (“Dammit! They found the skeletons in the closet! Better do some PR stunt so we look like good, enlightened guys here.”)

The overlook had over ten tourists. There were families huddled in groups, looking out over the field where it happened. There were a lot of men in modest shorts and shirts, folding their arms over their bellies as they read the list of names of victims, and mumbling, “So sad.” There were elderly women, reading every sign available along the path, also frowning. 

Then there was me. I was looking at the field. I was looking at the geography I had studied and mapped out in advance. There was the encampment, yes, but there was the valley where they divided the men and women. There was the tree where the call to “do your duty” was yelled, with the men’s mass grave not far from it. Then there was the creek and the road, where the women would have started running, and been scattered. They would have been running across the highway.

I was shaking. I do that. I have an essential tremor, and when I’m a little hypoglycemic and upset, the shake is pretty damned obvious. I was shaking in my shoes. I’d just bawled my eyes out further down the highway, and I was still a wreck. I had stones in my pocket, from the site, and lifetimes full of lies that I was STILL unpacking. 

I don’t know why I talked, but some girl (wearing a tank top!) asked her friend a question, so I answered it. I pointed out the locations, and talked about the mass graves that were recently discovered, but which aren’t written about at any of the site locations. And I COULD NOT stop shaking. My voice shook. I did my best to sound factual, but I’m pretty sure it was obvious that I was about to lose it again.

People left, and when it was just me and an elderly couple, I sat on a bench to read the names. I had another hair bow in my pocket I intended to leave behind, but didn’t want to do it in front of the couple. Embarrassed, I guess. Didn’t want to look like a sentimental litter-er?

The woman had heard me describing the site, so she asked me why it had happened. I gave a brief history lesson, like I gave you, about the federal government and the culture surrounding Brigham Young’s distrust, while DEFENDING that son-of-a-lovely woman to these strangers - that he hadn’t ordered this. They thanked me.

We clarified that the emigrants were from Arkansas, traveling to California, (Not even interested in staying in Utah!) to which the husband responded, “Who would even want to go to California!”

“Oh, it was quite the happening place at the time. I happen to like California.” I defended.

“Oh, WE’RE from California,” the wife explained. “We got out of there.”

“Politics!,” the husband stated dramatically.

I was not ready, and yet I was so ready, all at the same time. I gave him a level stare, and stated, “I happen to like the politics in California,” in a very clear way that shut him down.

What I WANTED to say was, “When you create divisions between groups of people, massacres like THIS happen! When you pretend that we’re different, when you pretend that you’re smarter and better, you can justify any kind of shit against anybody, but we are ALL THE SAME. We are ALL THE SAME. Me, you, Uncle Milan, John the Baptist, and bloody Ulysses S Grant! We are ALL THE SAME.

“I have done terrible things, and I have believed terrible things, and I have said terrible things. But I have never ONCE regretted those rare moments when I can look at someone completely different than me, and TRUST them, and give them the benefit of the doubt, and believe that they are as good and capable as me, and that we all feel the same feelings of sadness and happiness, and we are ALL THE SAME.

“I don’t regret that. Because I can tell by what you’re saying that you’re “Team Trump” just like the woman at the convenience store in Cedar City was, but she loved those hair bows that those massacred Arkansas women would have loved, too! She loved them, too. I know we are capable of coming together! I know that we can! Stop doing this! Just stop!”

I didn’t say any of that part, though. They just kind of nodded and left.

We are all the same. I’m going to do better at seeing that.