Buying my way in
My mind is drawn to the idea of currencies — not the cool touch of a silver coin or the transient nature of a fiat bill, but the currencies we use to attain the approval of others. How often do we sell parts of ourselves for acceptance? A small smile here, a compliment there. A funny story told with light behind the eyes, followed by an ugly desire to keep the tears at bay. How much of my anguish have I aired like dirty laundry, not for sympathy, but empathy? For one is the mark of pity but the other is the basic unit of mankind’s life and love.
Serving as a peer mentor for the Department of Belonging and Equity in my major allows me to sit in a room on BYU campus once each week with the most diverse group of people I’ve ever known. In our weekly discussions, alongside our casual conversations on how to be successful mentors, my coworkers share their personal experiences freely – a microcosm of memoirs with profound insights that I could only hope to attain someday. One mentor with a kind face expounds on the fact that she knew three languages before her third birthday. Conflicting cultures converge in the home of a Korean mother, a Chinese father, and an American daughter.
Another (with a tired face but a fire blazing beneath) tells us how she almost got arrested for practicing in a speech pathology clinic in Saudi Arabia. Only men are allowed to practice there, but she was fortunate enough to be able to pay the government fines. I picture her teenage self standing up to the police in what she calls “the most conservative country in the Middle East.” I imagine myself at seventeen standing next to her and the image doesn’t seem to compute. The stories flow out of her like screams begging to be heard: “My brother and I have been at BYU for five years and we’ve been called terrorists more times than I can count.” She speaks of her religion like it’s a budding flower, and yet her hair flows freely down her back. I don’t pretend to have a superior knowledge of her own faith, but I do wonder if a hijab, too, is an integral part of her that has been torn away.
An unassuming face sits in the corner, with a scared countenance and shaking palms. Her parents, immigrants from Canada, have to jump through flaming hoops in order to get medical care in the United States. Her surprisingly steady voice tells the simple story: “My mom finally got approved for cancer treatments after four months of waiting.” Tears fill the eyes of every person in the room as we mourn with this girl we barely know. Again, words seem to fail me as I truly see the challenges of every mentor in the room. Part of me wonders if they can see how small I feel, if they wonder the reason I’m in this room, how I would size up to their challenges. How I would buy my way in.
It may seem callous, even pitiful, to compare these stories to currency. Was this girl trying to buy our love with a cancer diagnosis? The thought is absurd, but the notion is clear. Each time we share something so personal — some detail that alters our entire being — we are giving a tangible piece of ourselves to the world.
Normally, my vulnerability is easy to come by. But when I look at these women with their different religions, cultures, and experiences, what place do I have imposing on this hallowed space? My blonde hair seems to shine as a testament that I do not belong in this circle — it camouflages me in the world of BYU, covers up the fact that I have parts of myself I’d rather keep a secret. And yet, these women have skin tones that seem to incite controversy in an environment where four out of five students are white and ninety-nine out of one hundred practice the same religion. However, when a sacred voice in my head whispers, “Tell them,” just as it has many times in my life, I do so immediately. I begin to speak with a lump in my throat, knowing that it will soon break. My croaking voice outlines the loneliness I felt when I had to keep a secret from everyone I loved. I describe the colorful flags that waved outside of other people’s doors, but never mine. I remember being a child and wondering how a woman’s love could ever be as real as a man’s and I remember my high school girlfriend loving me more deeply than any boyfriend ever has since. I recall my experiences of Eternal Families classes and Sunday School lessons and General Conference talks making me feel as though I needed to choose between myself and the sanctified. As if the love that I experienced was less divine, more wretched than theirs. I remember wanting to go on a mission and I remember the phone call where my Bishop made the unfortunate decision without my consent. I can feel the anger radiating even now, but not at God. Not anymore.
Because that sacred voice has whispered to me with a visceral force that could only come from Him: “Tell them.” Because He has used my experiences in years past to shape the lives of others, friends who believe He would never have the desire to speak to them. And yet, He has irrefutably spoken through this currency of mine. This is how I know that my love is not as wretched as I am made to believe.
All of this I said (with much less poise) to these women on BYU campus. The woman who was wanted by police for helping others, the one who is facing the harrowing battle of watching her mother die. And in their eyes, I saw sorrow. They thought that I was brave. It was more than I could handle, but I continued.
I described my college roommate who knew me better than anyone, with one marked exception. I told them how painstakingly I avoided the topic until two years later, she responded with a smile on her face. I told them about my Sisyphean task of having to break the news to every new face that shows an ounce of acceptance — the exhaustion that comes from having to share a vulnerable, politicized facet of your life to everyone, all the time. This is the piece of myself that I choose to share. An act that is so taxing, it feels as though I have few pieces left before I have given away every one.
An ounce of miner’s gold is precious, this is true. But this intangible bid for connection is godly. And when it feels as though I have no more of myself to give, I look around at the women’s faces and realize that they think I am brave. With all of their heroic stories and insurmountable challenges, they look at me with respect. And as much as I believed my story was a price to be paid, now I see that compassion is all we have to give.