Mormon Girls Are Cool Too.

My crush senior year had long wavy hair, broad shoulders, a large Roman nose, nice smile. He wore the same outfit everyday, a white shirt and blue jeans, until one day he showed up in a western style jean pearl snap he was given at a yard sale, then he wore that everyday. He was funny, he was smart, he was a smartass, he was rebellious. At sixteen he had already started smoking cigarettes. He listened to Stevie ray Vaughn and Led Zeppelin and he played the guitar and drums. He was mysterious, he was a jerk, he was kind, he was lovable, and every girl had a crush on him, but he didn’t realize it. He never gave me a second thought, though I couldn't stop thinking of him.

That year I started spending a lot of time with some people who my mother was leery of, and perhaps rightfully so. They smoked, drank, used bad language, told dirty jokes, watched bad movies. But I was fascinated by them. I was drawn to them. I was the awkward Mormon girl in the corner who they tolerated having around and I was grateful for their tolerance. I ended up being their punching bag a lot of the time, but I endured the abuse because I found them more interesting than my other friends, more interesting than my family. Oftentimes they would question my overly-joyful countenance, telling me I was the happiest person they’d ever met, questioning why I was so happy, asking me questions about my religion, laughing at my answers. Any time they swore when I was in the room they would turn to me and say, “you make me feel so guilty for saying bad words,” to which I would cautiously respond that I never asked them to change their behavior for me, that they shouldn’t feel self-conscious. I wanted to prove to them that Mormon girls were cool too, that we were deep and thoughtful, that we listened to good music, and though perhaps we were sometimes ridiculously happy, we were sad and pensive as well.

I spent a lot of time sitting in my bedroom listening to Abbey Road and writing really bad, angst-ridden teenage poetry that would become the lyrics to my overly dramatic angst-ridden teenage songs.  Though on the outside I was a loud, cheerful, self-proclaimed weirdo, inside I was restless, uncomfortable, always a little ashamed of my religion, always feeling limited, and feeling very misunderstood. I felt so different from my family, so different from the snobby kids I met at church activities, and so different from my school friends. I didn’t fit with anyone.

There have been moments of reflection in which I see how much I have changed. I have matured, I have progressed, I’m not as loud and obnoxious as I used to be, I have made best friends who will always be my best friends, I have done things and been places and experienced things that have changed my perspective. But there are also moments of reflection in which I shamefully realize that I have not changed at all. Twelve years later, and I am still drawn to the long-haired, broad shouldered, intelligent men who will never give me a second thought. I am still an awkward Mormon girl being tolerated by some. I still listen to albums over and over again, but instead of hiding in my room and writing angst-ridden teenage poetry, I sit in a coffee shop and write angst-ridden adult prose. I still unnerve people with my cheerfulness, still make them feel self-conscious for their indiscretions. I am still restless, ever restless, ever confused, ever conflicted. Oftentimes ashamed of my religion, I feel constrained, and I'm still trying to prove that Mormon girls are cool too; we listen to good music and read good books and watch interesting films. We are informed and intelligent and we question things. Not all of us are Republicans. And though we are sometimes ridiculously happy, we are sad and pensive as well.

Heaven help me, nothing has changed.