The Mormon Boy and Mephistopheles

In the land of tobacco and cotton, where yesteryear and the tech age seem to intertwine, and where accents and a slice of pecan pie are both drawn out experiences - a white Pontiac glided south on Interstate 85.

The Pontiac’s Virginia license plate read “Bashmnt.”   Bashment: a word describing the driver?  Bashment:  a party that is lively, exciting, and full of life.  Bashment! - A Jamaican word pegging the driver as fresh of the boat.  This driver however, didn't originate in Jamaica.  It was but an island stop on the journey, and the land of cotton, it wasn't his final destination either, but, it was a destination. 

The Pontiac cruised past a red pick-up.  The guy in the cab looked over and thought, “That kid’s either a gypsy or a student cause he’s got everything he owns stuffed in that car. Who the hell goes to college in May?”  A yellow sticker in the tinted back window read “LDS.”  The truck driver thought “Must be the kid’s fraternity.” He didn’t know it was a church.   

Back in the white car, a Mormon boy with dark hair raced across the border into North Cackalacky - the Commonwealth of his childhood, a blur behind him.  He was in fact running to something, but more importantly he was running from something, and that car couldn’t carry him to Durham fast enough.  

Excitement coursed through his veins, and nervousness; a little fear. . .and a bit of lust.  Durham was a safe distance from home, his family, his ward, his bishop and his life in Hampton Roads, but even Durham wasn’t far enough to run.  No, Durham was a stop that held something else, something the boy with dark hair hadn’t quite embraced, had only scarcely tasted, was mortally afraid of, but somehow sensed was akin to freedom and safety.  Durham pulled the boy like a magnet. Or maybe the boy was hurling himself toward Durham.  In either event, the attraction grew stronger as the distance closed betwixt the two.

A winding off-ramp.  A ditch on the side of a seemingly country road. Pine trees blocking the sun.  A standard Carolina neighbourhood.  A grey asphalt road with no curb. The crab grass tall and gone to seed.  A cheaply built two-story house with vinyl siding. A small porch.  Shudders.  A driveway.  A red Mercury Cougar, and . . . a warm smile.  

The Mormon boy got out of the Pontiac.  Stopping to glance at all his possessions he thought he looked rather like a refugee.  The young man with the inviting smile stood in the driveway.  He had maybe 28 years on his face but at least 35 in his eyes, he wore light blue medical scrubs.  He was, 6’3”, closely cropped sandy coloured hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, very muscular under his gunny sack work attire, and he had the faintest scar on his upper lip, the result of a childhood surgery for a once cleft palate.  Smiling at the young man, The Mormon boy knew that danger lie in Durham, North Carolina.   

The two hugged like old and fast friends - a hand-shake with “hug” and two slaps on the back.  Then the Mormon boy, with effort, pried a small bag out of the car and they went into the house.  The floors in the house were maple, the décor minimalist and Asian.  A gloss black baby grand Kawai sat in the middle of the dining room.  The blonde offered water, the brunette accepted, the blonde went into the kitchen, the brunette into the family room.

The blonde called from the kitchen; “I just got the first Harry Potter movie on DVD.”  “Do you want to watch it?” 

“Of course, I love Harry Potter!”

“I hoped you would say that.” 

The dark haired boy stood by an end table holding a 5x7 frame of a beautiful black woman.  A figure in scrubs stood behind him with a glass of water. The guy in scrubs seemed to tower over the 5’11” dark haired boy.  The blonde was standing so close the Mormon boy could feel his body heat.  Instantly, the Mormon boy felt goose bumps form all over him, the hair on his body stood on end.  He froze, terrified to move.  The blonde reached from behind and handed the other a glass of water.  With his free hand he reached for the picture.

“That’s Tamika, she’s my best friend.”

“She’s beautiful.”  The two held the picture each from a different side.  The Mormon boy felt awkward and let go of the frame. 

He looked out the window and the sun was setting over the Carolina piedmont, Atlanta was only six hours away.  If he left now the Mormon boy could be in Chamblee by 2 a.m., but that wasn’t in the plan.  The Mormon boy knew why he was in Durham.

“Can I take a shower before we watch the movie?”  “I’m grungy from driving.”

“Sure, let me get you a towel.”

The Mormon boy grabbed his bag and the two started up the stairs. A trip to the hall closet, an explanation of the quirks of the bathroom, and the blonde was closing the door to leave the Mormon boy alone. 

Alone!. . . . . .

His body heaved forward finally releasing the tension he had been carrying since exiting the freeway.  Hands gripped the counter, then his hair. The exhale was loud; the fan dampened its noise; the 26 year old stared into the mirror.  Was a he boy or a man?  He hardly knew any more.  The events of eighteen months ago raced through his mind.  How could any of that have happened?  He wished it were a blur but the details were in high definition.  He had to hold it together.  He was scared.  He splashed cold water on his face.  It didn’t work, so he turned the shower on and let it run.

His shorts and tee shirt came off to reveal standard Mormon garb. A set of white religious undergarments:  merely a tee shirt and a pair of long legged boxer shorts. Or were they just clothing?  They stopped just above his knee. He looked back into the wall length mirror.  He felt the stitched markings on the nipples of his shirt, symbols of his covenants to remain faithful to the doctrine and church from whence they came. 

He knew his purpose for being in Durham, he knew what The LDS Church said about being on earth, but for some unknown reason, he felt like he had to do this.  If he accomplished this task, would it be enough to sort things?  He was a mess of emotions, he imagined himself a terrible person, Lot’s wife or Faust.   But in this case, Mephistopheles was a blonde in medical scrubs.  He got into the shower and let the hot water run over his head and down his back.

            Walking down stairs, hair damp, pajamas on, religious garments under his clothes, he felt very relieved, as though relaxation had taken him and his troubles were gone.  He ran his fingers through his short, spiky, damp hair.  The nervousness was still there, but the tension disappeared, and remaining was a young man with an uneasy resolve.

            Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs he caught a glimpse of the blonde.  This time the young man was wearing a different pair of scrubs; no, they were pajamas, cut to look like scrubs.  Flannel bottoms, a bit warm for a Carolina summer, but then, the air conditioning was blowing full force.  The Mormon boy realised at first glance just how striking the blonde man was.  Those soul piercing blue eyes were turned on him again.  They were gentle, kind, and the scary part. . .inviting.  He walked over and plopped clumsily on the sofa next to the man in flannel.  

            The blonde was clearly an expert at this, the Mormon boy - shy.  He realized that his wet hair was causing him to shiver just a little.  He snuggled his dark damp hair against the chest of the elder blonde.  Warner Brothers opening credits began to play. . . .

            Harry Potter runs amuck of Professor Snape; A shift on the sofa; a soft touch; a caress; a soft kiss; Professor Mongonagal speaks; the feel of the blonde’s stomach and abs; A quidditch match; A roaming hand; the loss of a shirt; the touch of skin - soft skin.   It was nothing yet, and still it was everything the Mormon boy ever thought it would be. . . The Mormon boy. . . .The Mormon boy. . . He. . . .  

            The Mormon boy had removed his religious garment top



. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

            The act sent a shock wave through his mind.  He got quiet, deadly quiet.  Indeed, danger did lie in Durham, North Carolina. 

            The blonde sensing something was wrong placed a hand gently on the Mormon’s cheek and turned his head so that their eyes met.

            “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.” 

            The Mormon boy slowly shook his head, fighting back tears. He wanted it, all of it, everything he had secretly dreamed of since age seven was right in front of him - right for his choosing - And the only thing separating him from his dream and fantasy, were two powerful symbols stitched into the chest of a tee shirt - A tee shirt that lay on the floor at the foot of the sofa.

            The young man held the Mormon boy in his built arms, they continued watching the movie.  The Mormon boy went deep into himself and began to process.  .   .November, November, November. 

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

            In a mild autumn, eighteen months prior, a dorm room on Virginia’s colonial peninsula was decorated in muted earth tones.  A dull lamp lit the room, where a short directors chair faced a padded desk chair.  A football player sat in the desk chair and asked the Mormon boy “How do know you if you’ve never tried it?”  

            With a blink he is back in Durham.  The Mormon boy closes his eyes and kisses the blonde but sets his mind to figuring out what is wrong with him, why is this thing, this . . .attraction so appealing, enticing, promising, compelling, comforting, exposing, and disquieting all at once.  Just like eighteen months ago, he surrenders himself to his desires, curiosities, and fantasies.  He forgets about the world, the church, his family, and expectation.  For one night in the Mormon boy’s existence he starts to live for himself.  He chooses to live for himself.

            And then something happened – excitement, every sense over loaded, smell, taste, touch, emotions, sensuality at its peak, sexuality intertwined, the loss of himself into a raging torrent, and the excitement of riding the current.  It was like nothing he had ever experienced. A click, a perfect fit, a light going off in his head illuminating what had theretofore been missing in plain sight. This is how it was supposed to be. But more than that, another emotion crept into the Mormon boy, and that emotion slowly took over and when deeds were done, bliss achieved, and bodies collapsed with exhaustion, the one emotion that was left to linger was not what the Mormon boy had been expecting - Safety. The Mormon boy felt safety.  After surrendering, the fear went away, the disquiet ceased, and what replaced it. – Safety. 

            Cuddling through the night the Mormon boy awoke and lay there thinking.  He was awake, but untroubled.  There was no guilt, there was no awkwardness, he barely knew the blonde sleeping next to him, but for the first time in ages he felt like he really had chosen the right. . .he wouldn’t realize until later that this night marked the beginning of a paradigm shift, a crossing over into a new world. 

            07:00 comes early when you’ve slept but three hours.  An English muffin, and spoon of grape jelly, a small glass of orange juice, and a kiss goodbye.  The Mormon boy walked with a spring in his step.  He was in love.  The blonde would soon be moving to Atlanta.  Two young men get into their cars.  The red Mercury Cougar and the white Pontiac both leave the driveway.  The Cougar drives to hospital, the Pontiac towards Atlanta Georgia. The Mormon boy had no idea he was driving right into the centre of something which lie in wait  Webs were already woven thick in the heart and capitol of “the New South.”

I Too Have A Dream

Written on Thanksgiving Day 2007 reflecting on a night in Nov. 2005

Two years ago. . I stood on a cool November night, on the steps of the Lincoln memorial in the very spot that Dr. King delivered those fateful words and I wept

I cried for the thousands, millions even who went before me and lived in this country as second class citizens.

I wept for the oppression that was exercised by my own slaveholder forefathers.

I wept to honor the bravery of men and woman who dared stand up against the lynch mobs and their nooses.

I wept for my Latin brothers and sisters who are experiencing the Jim Crow of today.

I wept for Matthew Sheppard who did nothing of import to have been pinned to a fence and beaten and left for dead.

And lastly I wept for myself who has stood amongst all kinds of men, served in my country’s armed forces, served my God and church as a missionary, earned degrees from the most revered of our educational halls, consulted in the halls of congress, and stood in the very oval office of the President of the United States, and who despite that, is still a second class citizen. Unable to be treated equally by the law, unable to marry the man I love, pushed to the back of society’s bus. . .

Standing on that hallowed ground, I looked out on the night sky and the lights along the National Mall, blurred by the quite emotional tears rolling down my face I looked out with hope. . .In an instant my resolve shifted - I felt less the victim and more the soldier. My boyfriend stood at Lincoln’s feet some distance behind me, Alone in that spot, on the stairs of the memorial I heard the voice. “You’re day will come. But, you too must stand, act, and say alowed: “I too have a dream”. . .”

J. Knight Ord III

My Los Angeles

Los Angeles. . .So much about this city changes on a daily basis and yet the life running through it's veins remains the same. The money is as ever - grand and illusive, the lights are as ever - bright, the draw of fame and fortune are like pheromones to midwestern youth. Forgotten stars line "The Boulevard" and the Angels watch from heaven but their vision is obscured by the blessed marine layer that makes Los Angeles as mild as it makes her harsh.

No, in Hollywood, the circle of life continues; shows are made, shows are canceled, movies soar and others flop, players shift, the pieces change, the faces start to age, get a little nip and tuck and you're back in the game for spell only to be replaced with the next generation of young looks.

And right in the middle, on Serrano Ave. there is a small and innocuous apartment building with a Mediterranean court yard, an avocado tree, two squirrels, a lazy cat sitting on the hood of a warm car, a small Sicilian balcony looking out toward the hills, a picture window with a view of James Dean's final winding road, and a small table with a macintosh laptop.

And this my friend is my Los Angeles. . . .