Uppity Mormon Woman
Forgets Her Place
I HAVE A REALLY NICE CORSET, which I wore in a Relief Society historical play. Several of the women, including my Relief Society president, had never seen me in a corset before. When one of them (an older woman who remembered corsetry as an oppressive article of underclothing) asked me why I owned a corset, I told her, à la Foxy Cleopatra, “I’m an uppity Mormon woomahn, and I wear a really strong corset!”
I grew up learning about the uppity Mormon women of our history, like Sarah Melissa Granger Kimball—that raving bluestocking, and firm, outspoken supporter of women’s rights. Or Emmeline Wells, the journalist who stated, “I believe in women, especially thinking women.”
These were women of courage, of personal strength (and really strong corsets) who felt they had to do what was right, even if it meant going against the societal norm.
One day, I’d forgotten how to be an uppity Mormon woman. I’m not sure when I forgot, but I remember, painfully, when it was brought to my attention. I’ll never know who the stranger was who assaulted me at the grocery store that day. He came up to me and started screaming at me about how I was a bad mother, and how I dared abandon my babies like that, and how he’d called the authorities and they were on their way.
At first, I had no idea what he was talking about, but as his tirade continued, I realized that some mother had left her children in the car, possibly for “just five minutes” as she grabbed a gallon of milk.
I realized that woman could have been me.
So what did I do? I hung my head and took it. That was the last thing I should have done.
Lesson Number One: an uppity Mormon woman never forgets the truth.
* * *
Eliza R. Snow never forgot the truth. In fact, she pondered on it often and penned some memorable poetry about her musings. The hymn, “O My Father” was written as she considered the eternal nature of marriage and came to the comforting thought that if there was a Heavenly Father, there was also a Heavenly Mother.
* * *
See, they weren’t my offspring and it wasn’t my car. As far as I know, he saw a vehicle with dark-haired children, came inside the grocery store, and targeted the first matching woman he saw: me. And I, silly girl that I was that day, took it.
So why the guilt trip?
Because in the past I had done a similar thing . . . twice.
On a cold and frosty morning, I left my three-month-old baby snug in her car seat while I dashed up the curb to post a letter in the mailbox. I was not gone even a minute.
A month later I left her fast asleep as I stood, not more than five meters away from the car, breath steaming in the air, in front of an ATM. I was gone two minutes that time.
Perhaps, someday, I would have left a child “for five minutes” instead of one or two. Any mother of young children knows it is such a hassle to haul them out of the car, strap them in, on, or around a stroller, and trundle the whole lot inside where we then battle hungry and curious toddlers who find the candy right at eye level. They whine and complain and tug and wander away. All this just to procure a gallon of milk!
It is too tempting sometimes.
I hung my head and assumed a guilt that was not mine to begin with. I didn’t stand up for myself; I didn’t tell him that he had the wrong woman; and I didn’t—as I should have done—walk away. Instead, I took upon myself the collective guilt of every other mother who, for whatever reason, has felt the need to leave her children behind. As I looked for an escape, I could see onlookers—their furtive faces painted with curiosity, sympathy, or maybe their own carried guilt. They caught my eyes and hurriedly turned away.
My heart was broken, and I’d forgotten what to do. Only a single thought flitted through my head: “I’m all alone.” Why didn’t I ask someone for help?
Lesson Number Two: an uppity Mormon woman acknowledges when she needs to ask for help.
* * *
Romania Pratt Penrose, one of Utah’s first female doctors, asked for help from her family when she needed it. With some trepidation, she left her children to go to medical school. Her mother and other relatives gave help and support by taking care of her children while she studied medicine. She returned to her family as a doctor, with specialties that included ophthalmology. That would not have happened were it not for the help of others when she needed it.
Nobody can do everything on her own.
* * *
My Relief Society president, for all her quietude, was an uppity Mormon woman. “You forgot, didn’t you?” she asked me, when I had confessed my miserable tale, complete with my tearful explanation to the cops who showed up at the store. “You forgot who you were and you gave in to the ways of society.”
Had I? I guess I had. I had given in to the worldly idea that I had to keep up appearances, that I had to appear as a “good mother” and pretend nothing was wrong. Even when the problem wasn’t mine to correct. I felt I had to put forward a “Supermom” image for others to see—not just for myself, but for the benefit of all women. I had to appear as if I had it all together. I’d been duped by my own illusion.
When the illusion shattered, I shattered too.
Who was I fooling? NOBODY has it all together, even if they look like they do. Did I feel some need to prove to the world I deserved my temple recommend?
Upon reflection, it was a strange and unusual reaction, even for me. But then, can we really know how we’ll react to unexpected circumstances?
I needed to remember Lesson Number One. I knew what I needed to keep my life together (as much as I can, anyway; the Lord does test us, you know). I needed to say my prayers and study my scriptures. These are things that aren’t done for the benefit of my image in society. I don’t kneel and pray on the street corner or sit at the mall, ostentatiously turning the pages of a quad. I kneel privately by my bed and offer up a prayer in solitude. I find a comfy chair and, hopefully undisturbed by the family, read my scriptures in silence.
Every necessary thing we do to take care of our spirits, we do alone. Even when I sit in the celestial room, though there may be others there, it’s really a place for me to be alone with God.
I do not need to keep up appearances for our Heavenly Father. He knows exactly who I am.
Lesson Number Three: all that matters is how the uppity Mormon woman appears before God. How she appears before the world doesn’t matter.
* * *
Jane Manning James, a member of the early Church, was a woman of African descent. The world may have treated her poorly, but she knew what was truly important—the gospel of Jesus Christ—and she stuck to it. She and her family put up with scorn and ridicule, not just from the world, but also from a few Church members. Yet throughout her long life, she stuck to the core of the teachings of Christ and became a shining example of a true Christian, in spite of the way the world perceived her because of the color of her skin.??
* * *
I had been deceived by the idea that I needed to look like the perfect mother, so much so that I had taken upon myself the guilt of another. I felt I’d failed in the past at the post box and the ATM, and that I would be guilty of it forever.
“But,” said my Relief Society president, “that is in the past.”
“But it could have been me this time. I could have had my baby taken away from me,” I whined.
“Of course. But it’s in the past.”
“But I could have—”
She put up her hand. “It is in the past. There is nothing you can do about it now. It’s done. It’s over. It’s in the past.”
Lesson Number Four: an uppity Mormon woman does not dwell on the past. She looks forward to the future.
* * *
Mary Fielding Smith suffered much after the martyrdom of her husband, Hyrum, but she stood tall in the face of opposition. She closed the Nauvoo chapter and opened the Salt Lake chapter of her life. When she arrived in the valley, she didn’t let others stick “the patriarch’s widow” in some dirty little log cabin in the fort. She left the protection of the settlement and found property seven miles south where she established a successful farm of her own. The past was in the past. She kept her eyes firmly on the future.
* * *
“You learned a lesson the easy way,” my Relief Society president explained to me. “Yes, it could have been you, but it wasn’t. You were not at fault. Now you have the wisdom to make sure it doesn’t happen to you. You’ve been spared. You’ve been blessed. Acknowledge that and move on.”
But . . .
But it was so easy to gaze backwards and say, “I should have done this or I should have done that.”
The world teaches me to hide my weaknesses and mistakes, yet I couldn’t help but dwell on them, even obsess over them. This is the path to low self-esteem, to depression and anxiety. It opens crevices in one’s soul through which the adversary slips.
But . . .
But nothing. The whole reason for the Atonement is to allow us—me—to be forgiven and to release the past. My part is to be willing to forgive myself, to let go and not worry about what others think.
“Now go put on your corset,” my Relief Society president told me, “and remember who you are.”
I’m an uppity Mormon woman, and I’d better not forget it.
Heidi Wessman Kneale is an Australian of moderate repute. She lives in Perth, Western Australia, which is about as far away as one can get from Salt Lake without leaving the planet. By day she works computer miracles for the local library. The rest of the time she writes books and raises babies, and she does it all with the help of a really strong corset.
