I am Brian

I couldn't wait to vote. I first recognized that I had political leanings and passionate beliefs when I was 7 years old and I stayed up all night to watch the election returns in 1984. I sobbed when Walter Mondale lost... mostly because I couldn't believe that people didn't want to vote for a girl! (Look it up, folks.)




When I was 18, I rushed to register to vote. I was so excited when the League of Women Voters came to my high school for a registration drive. Don't believe me? I present to you, Exhibit A, my original voter registration form from 1995 (because, yes, I still have it):







In 18 years as a registered voter, I have missed one election. It was this last summer and I missed the polls closing because I was busy being political somewhere else. Luckily, the bond issue I supported passed without my help, but it haunts me. Oh yes, that election haunts me.




Today was Election Day. My favorite day of the year! One of the things that bugs me most about living where I live is that my polling location changes every election. Tonight I drove to no fewer than seven previous polling places before I landed at the right one. But I made it: I voted. And now I get to sit back, enjoy my apple beer, and watch the returns from an off-year election roll in (they don't really roll from Weber County, but I'm watching these other states like a mad fiend!).

Let the party begin!

The Queue

Three days ago I stood in a line. In many ways it was completely unremarkable.

{I've stood in lines for things before and they usually involve the same pattern: first, I feel uncomfortable about how close the person behind me is standing; second, I move slightly askew of the line to make more space between that person and me (seriously!! Back up, dude!); and, third, I make a completely inappropriate comment to the person behind me.}

However, in many ways, this line was completely different from any other line I had ever stood in. 

It was populated by some of the bravest people I will ever meet. 

It began with a prayer and a song. 

It stretched for more than a city block. 

And, it was formed with the knowledge that its destination would most likely be nowhere. 

I thought I had prepared myself for the exercise in futility. I was prepared for the most likely scenario, that the group would be told, "No." But I wasn't prepared for a few things.

I wasn't prepared for the hope I saw in the eyes of the women standing around me.

I wasn't prepared for the scores of boys and men who would be ushered past our line of 200 women.

I wasn't prepared for the surge of hope that welled up inside me as I approached the door.

And, as a woman in 2013, I don't know if you can ever prepare yourself to hear the words, "For men and boys only."

And yet, there it was, my inequality was reflected in the face of every boy and man who walked past me. It was hard to see because so many of them averted their eyes. Others scoffed. Some scowled. And a few looked genuinely bothered by the situation.

And so, I add this line to the others I have stood in in my life. But this one is burned in my heart and has changed the way I view my faith and my people. They are infinitely more than I had imagined. Some are more judgmental, more harsh, and more afraid. 

While others have shown themselves to be more courageous, more loving, and more inspired. 

And those are the people I stood beside.

Whirling dervish

Every so often, very rarely in fact, comes a moment in life with two stark possibilities: everything could go perfectly, or one thing could wobble and the whole thing comes crashing down. It's like Jenga, only with your whole world.

I am standing on the front end of one of those moments. It feels as though I am about to walk through a whirling dervish - where I will either walk through unscathed, or I will take one wrong step and be trampled. The good news is, if it's the first, I will have an amazing story to tell. The better news? If it's the second, and I get trampled, I will know almost immediately who my true friends and compatriots are in life.

So to all of you who are going to walk with me through this swirly-twirly-moment, I say thank you. And sorry for getting your hand all sweaty. 

For those of you who are cheering me on, I say thank you. That's it, because there are no words to describe how grateful I am for your support. 

For those of you who are watching with a disapproving glance, I say thank you. Your concern means that you love me and I hope you can remember that always.

And now. We walk!

Holding Up the Wall

On a snowy Sunday morning in December, I sat on the end of a pew, next to the wall, in the chapel of my Mormon ward house. My husband stood at the front of the room, holding our brand new daughter in his arms, surrounded by men in our family, a few male friends, and the bishopric of our new ward. He spoke sacred words and blessed and named our child. It was beautiful to hear. But I have no idea what it looked like, because I was in the congregation. Sitting in a seat on the edge of a pew, like I was holding up the wall.

One cold Saturday in late November, I leaned against a wall trying to get a glimpse of my daughter’s baptism while my husband served as an official witness to her big moment.  She was in the water with her uncle—he had never married and had no children, so she wanted him to have a chance to baptize someone—and I was in the crowd. I was straining my neck around a corner above the font, hoping to see her with my own eyes, instead of through the heads of our friends and family. I saw it in the mirror over the pool of water. As I clung to the brick, like I was holding up the wall.

On March 14, 2010, my 12 year-old son sat in a chair in the middle of the bishop’s office. My husband stood in a circle with his brothers and his dad, our bishopric, and some ward acquaintances who would soon be our son’s youth group leaders. I sat in a chair against the wall, and listened to the prayer they offered as they ordained my son to the Aaronic priesthood in our church. I did not lay my hands on his head, nor did I offer any words of hope and faith in the prayer. I sat in a chair pushed to the edge of the room, like I was holding up the wall.

These were three beautiful days in the lives of my children. They were welcomed into the world, into the church, and into the priesthood that we hold sacred. My husband was there to usher them in—he is a wonderful man, worthy of such a task—and I am grateful for that. But I was not allowed to participate in any way, other than as a spectator. I was literally placed at the edge of these rooms, as though my only purpose was to hold up the wall and keep it from caving in.

At the risk of sounding whiny, I am just going to say it: I am tired of holding up the wall. The wall that keeps women from priesthood ordination is the same wall that keeps women from any position of authority or true decision-making power in the Church. It has separated me from my true potential as a daughter of Heavenly Parents. It has limited my service to the kingdom of God because of my gender. This wall has left me powerless and voiceless in the Church I chose as a teen, and has filled me with fear and dread as an adult with questions.

So, for me, and the women who came before me, and the women who come after me, I have decided to do all that I can to tear down that wall. If I have to do it brick by brick, I will. Women took a brick down in December when, faced with threats and name-calling, we wore pants to church (GASP!). We took another brick out when, after accusations of apostasy and pride, we wrote letters to have a woman pray in General Conference (DOUBLE GASP!). Two bricks down. And on Saturday, October 5^th, I will aim for another brick, when I walk quietly to a line for tickets to the priesthood session of General Conference.

I do not do this to destroy the Lord’s house. I do not do this to embarrass my leaders.

I do this because I believe that this wall is socially constructed and not holy doctrine. I believe that this wall cuts through the middle of the Lord’s house, dividing us. And only when it is knocked down, and His people are able to serve fully together, will we truly be able to fulfill His commandments. 

Let's Hear It For Spirit!

When I was little I would constantly read my parents' yearbooks (and then my older sister's when she entered high school). I had them  memorized - not exaggerating - and by the time I was 10, I could tell you exactly what I was going to every year that I was a Scot. I believed that the number of pages listed by my name in the index was an indicator of my school spirit. So, it is time for me to admit it:

I have school spirit. 

(Lots and lots and lots of school spirit.)

I did not inherit this, my family-members were not obsessed like I was. 

But I have always been a "jump into the deep end" kind of girl and I do not apologize. 

If I were to calculate the number of hours I spent in that school, 

it would be a crap-ton of hours (that's the official measurement, BTW). 

And if I were to calculate the blood [lots, including a broken nose, a broken arm, and a knee surgery], 

sweat [literal buckets full], 

and tears [oh man, the true believers weep hardest] well, it would be incalculable. 

 

Now that I have a Scot of my own, 

I have found myself 

completely thrown back into the fervor. 

No. The fever. 

It's horrifying for my son. I'm not sorry.
His sisters will endure the same.



I have no idea if any of you have ever experienced this type of mania, 
but if you have I would like to welcome you into the fold. 

Please do not be embarrassed. My obsession got me through high school. 
It drove me to achieve things I never thought possible and led to me to try new and exciting things.

So, in honor of Iron Horse Week, and the fact that I will never wear orange and black. NEVER.

I say to you:

S! S! S-C-O! O! O! O-T-S!
S-C-O! O-T-S!
SCOTS! 

Remembrance

Twelve years ago today I was not in New York. I was not in Pennsylvania. And, no, I was not in D.C. It was one of the weeks that I was not scheduled to travel for my job and instead, the meeting had come to me! I was heading out to facilitate a meeting at a ski resort in the beautiful mountains of Park City, Utah, an hour away from my house.

As soon as I got in the car I knew there was something odd about the day and by the time I arrived at Deer Valley I was horrified; and I hadn’t seen a single image.

Throughout the day, as I saw the video and photos of what was happening, I met new levels of shock. I went to my hotel room to pray during lunch. I stood next to a coworker from Nebraska as she learned that her cousin had died at the Pentagon. And I watched helplessly as we tried to arrange for five people to get halfway across the country when every airport was shut down and we thought America was under attack.

But I don’t think it really hit me until 10 days later. I was once again, scheduled to travel for work. I sat in an eerily quiet airport lounge and watched the CNN feed cutout in the middle of a story about a plane exploding over Queens. Within 90 seconds, cell phones throughout the once silent airport starting ringing. I could hear my colleague’s wife on the phone begging him not to get on the plane. But we did.

On that trip to Chicago I decided that if I was going to be working, it would mean something. I was leaving my husband and small son at home, and it wasn’t for anything I could say would change the world. I decided to go back to school and find a career that would matter. Luckily—though I didn’t think so at the time—the economic downturn that followed 9/11 cost me my job and I was able to be a full-time student. I then went on to graduate school to study how citizens and groups can effect change in policy or public opinion. For me, that means something.

Each year when September 11^th comes around, I wonder if this will be the year that we let it slide by. I struggle with the navel-gazing we engage in. But each year I come to the same realization: That day changed my life, because it changed the world. It was not the first atrocity committed on this planet, and God knows it won’t be the last. There have been days that cost more lives, and days that cost more money. But it changed us all. It brought death and destruction to our doorstep. It forced us to acknowledge that we were not invincible and that our actions had consequences. It taught us that the world will mourn with us and that for everyone who hates us, there are hundreds who stand with us.

Those are important lessons. They were paid for with people’s mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, friends and colleagues. And we should hold them close, and learn from them. As I sit back and think about what I learned from that day, I come to a few realizations (surely there are hundreds of others, but these are what I can actually point to):

1. I have never again looked at a plane flying through the air without a slight sense of foreboding.

2. I have never again looked at a fire fighter or police officer or flight attendant without deep admiration.

3. I have never again deleted voicemail without a twinge of concern that maybe I should save those words from my loved one.

4. And I have never looked at others, as I move through life, without a sense that we are all in this together. You are not my enemy, and neither are they, because what damages one of us damages all of us. We are all experiencing THIS together and we will succeed or fail together. 

The Feminist Movement and Why I AM Proud to Be Part of It

I have always been a feminist. ALWAYS. Maybe it's because at a very young age I watched my mother - after living Phyllis Schlafly's mandate for all women to be a stay-at-home mother who made a different meal every night and was lovingly devoted to her husband - start over from nothing when that same husband deceived and abandoned her. She worked full-time and went to school full-time and was a mother full-time and kicked ass at it. FULL-TIME. But I remember being sure, at the age of 5, that I would never be dependent on anyone.

Then, at the age of 12, I found the faith of my ancestors and it spoke to me. I was in love with the idea of a Heavenly Father who made me. He sent me here to be tried and challenged and He was waiting for me to return to Him. I memorized the theme; said it every week. And I believed it. Still do: I am a daughter of a Heavenly Father who loves me. And I love Him.

At the same time I saw the boys my age ordained deacons in our church. They were allowed to participate in important ordinances and were required to serve the members of our ward in very personal ways. They were expected to be worthy and righteous. I was expected to say a theme. I admit it: it bothered me. Why didn't they expect me to do and be those things? Why was I not allowed to serve in those important ways?

I could go on and on about the many times I have felt a desire to hold the priesthood. I could tell you that I was shocked to realize that I have a Heavenly Mother, too, only we aren't allowed to talk about Her or pray to Her, and that hurts me. I could share the longing I felt when each of my children was blessed while I sat alone in a pew. Or how badly I wanted to give my husband a healing blessing when he was recovering from major surgery. Or how I have desired to stand next to my husband as he gave a father's blessing to our children the night before a new school year started. I could share it... and it would be shocking to many. And proof of my apostate path to others, even people who know me and claim to love me.

Instead I will say this: I am a feminist Mormon and I will be standing in line for admittance to the LDS General Conference Priesthood Session on October 5, 2013. I will do this knowing fully that many of my family and friends think it is wrong. That they judge me for even thinking this, let alone acting on it. And that my church may choose to discipline me for it. But I will do it anyway.

I will do it for my daughters. Because I cannot answer their questions about why they are not allowed to serve in the same way their brother does.

I will do it for my daughters. Because there is a chance one or both of them may never marry, or may never have children - and I WILL NOT allow them to believe that their contribution to this world and this church is only fully realized through the man they marry or the children they give birth to.

I will do it for my son and my husband. Because they are noble and loving and kind. And they are those things because that is who they are, NOT because they hold the priesthood.

And I will do it for every other woman - in the church and out - who experiences inequality. Many do not see it or feel it, but it is there. And an injustice to one of my sisters is an injustice to us all.

So, yes, I will be at the "Feminist Mormon Protest" (as some have decided to mislabel it). I helped plan it and am more proud of this work than almost anything else I have done in my life. I will be there reverently, standing in line, praying for softer hearts to prevail. But I guarantee you this:

I WILL BE THERE.

In Which Eris Gets Serious (sorry)

This has been eating at me for a while and I have to get it out. So, sorry blog readers, you're about to get the business end of a hissy fit.

Over the last three months I have been confronted with the ugliest, most unpleasant, and just plain mean aspects of the religious community I am part of and I want to scream from the rafters: STOP JUDGING PEOPLE!

I want to say this to all those people who think that because I don't conform to the ridiculous stereotype you have created of what a good Mormon woman should be that makes me inappropriate or offensive. I cannot understand what makes you think you have the right to decide what I should think, say, wear, believe, or type and I am going to very nicely tell you to eff off and shut the hug up.

So, let me close by saying one more thing: Your tendency to doubt my commitment and sincerity, my worthiness and just me in general are a statement ABOUT YOU, not me. I am done caring about what you think, but when I decide not place myself in your presence be assured that I am not there because you are unpleasant, not because I am unworthy.

Date Night (simulated)

Mr. Eris and I once spent our "honeymoon" at Disneyland and since we will be gone for our anniversary we decided to celebrate in the Magic Kingdom today.

The Dapper Dans (a barbershop quartet) helped Mr. serenade me on Main Street with "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," including an amazing big finish. We made reservations at the Blue Bayou - the restaurant inside Pirates of the Caribbean and enjoyed some ridiculously overpriced food and a lovely atmosphere. Finally, we spent the day being congratulated by cast members all around the park. It was a nice day.

And now for something completely different

For all the times I've been to Disneyland, there a few things I've never done, including the Tom Sawyer Island and the Mark Twain riverboat. Well, today, due to a couple of ride closures, we had some time to kill in New Orleans Square. Dangitall if those boring old standbys weren't pretty fun! The kids ran around the island - chased most often by their fathers and grandfather (while the women-folk pretended to be nuns or lesbians because that would be less embarrassing than admitting we were not only with them but actually married to these men). I hate to say it, but we had fun with these culturally insensitive, and pretty racist, attractions.

Oh, I also learned that trying to cram three kids, one teenager, my father-in-law and me into one teacup on the Mad Hatter ride is doable... but I don't recommend it.

It was a very successful and educational first day!

Counting Down...

Tomorrow we leave for our big, surprise family trip! Three days in Disneyland, a presidential library, three days with Grandma and Grandpa, and then one day in Vegas. I think I'd be more excited if I was even remotely prepared. What do I have left to do. Let's see.....
1. Pack for me
2. Pack for Little Ms. Eris (she doesn't know about the trip!)
3. Pack for Littlest Ms. Eris (neither does she!)
4. Pack the van
5. Clean the house
6. Fix a Girl Scout snafu I created
7. Everything else
8. Run a conference call at 6 am tomorrow
9. Meet with Dad and Athena for breakfast chat

We are leaving at 8 am. I should be fine. Right? RIGHT??

I'm Back!

I have decided to try to post to his blasted blog at least weekly. For right now, the posts will likely revolve around my professional angst, hitting volleyballs, and trying to figure out how to raise a teenage boy. If you're interested stick around...

I am on the third draft of my dissertation proposal and I think this thing just might drive me to drink. I am spending a lot of time finding a lot of projects that absolutely must be finished before I attempt to write another word, but I am forcing myself to write at least daily. I have what feels like crippling performance anxiety - something I have never experienced with research or writing until a year ago - and I am trying to find ways to beat it. Any suggestions would be helpful. Prayers would be nice too. And if you know voo-doo, I'll take that too!

Holy Crap!

I haven't posted anything here since January?! Is anyone even paying attention to this anymore? If so, I'm thinking I should start doing something here.... I await your non-spam comments.

Explain Yourself

I am teaching one day a week this semester. You read that right: one day. I have been looking forward to this schedule for five months now, dreaming about all the research, and cleaning, and organizing I can get done. But it's not turning out that way at all.

Where is the time going? Why can't I get my office in order? And for Pete's sake, how do I get past this blasted level on Angry Birds?!

The Truth

Today is the last day of class for my Historical and Political Issues students. I try very hard to hide my political affiliation and opinions during the term, so I always allow them to ask me any political/opinion question on the last day. It's fun to see what they ask, but also how shocked they are at some of the answers.

Here are some of the recurring questions. I wonder how many of you know the answers I gave?
1. Are you a Republican or Democrat?
2. What religion are you?
3. What do you think about gay marriage?
4. What do you think about Don't Ask, Don't Tell?
5. Who is your favorite president?
6. Who is your least favorite president?

The Do-Over

This is going to sound awful, but I am not used to failing. I have lived a charmed life during which I can recall very few instances when I did not get what I wanted. I'm not talking about Christmas and birthday gifts (still waiting on that trip to Space Camp, Numi). Rather, I mean auditions/interviews/try-outs/contests. I have been very lucky.

Knowing that, you can imagine how surprised I was to have bombed my PhD comprehensive exams a couple of months ago. I haven't talked to many people about it, but let's just say it was completely out of the blue and a major blow. I still can't bring myself to wear the clothes I wore that day again because I suspect they are jinxed.

I just received confirmation that I will be retaking these exams the week of Thanksgiving and defending my answers on December 14th. I think I know what I did wrong the first time.... and I think I can be ready.... and I think I can get through relatively unscathed. But the fear factor is amazingly high on this one.

It's got me wondering about what else I might take a "do-over" on if I had the chance. For me, it's my wedding. Not the marriage, but there are lots of things I would change about the actual event if I could go back in time.

The Devil Turns 5

She has been exciting from the first day she rushed into the world after one push.

Happy birthday, Littlest Ms. Eris!

It's Here!

People who know the Eris family know a few important things: first, yes there is a soccer game this week (no matter what week); second, there will be dog hair on you when you leave; and third, that from Memorial Day to Labor Day there is a constant hint of chlorine in the air at our house. We swim three or four days a week, and that doesn't count the mornings that I swim without the kids.

Finally! We had warm enough weather to hit the pool today. It's a new pool - definitely not the same - but we are finding our way. And we didn't have our regular entourage of Numi, the Duchess and the Princess so it felt very lonely. But we made it, and I feel confident that I can now officially declare that Summer has started!


This is what my bathroom will look like for the next 90 days. YES!

I.C.E.

Today I am the responsible adult for my loving wife, Googamus. It's a routine procedure and she totally deserves this, but I am anxious and fidgety waiting here. It got me thinking about being the "emergency contact" person. I love that she asked me to be here for her, and truth be told, she is probably the person I would want in the waiting room with me.

But then I realized, sure they have my phone number if something goes wrong, but who will take care of me?

Questions

"I used to be in the **th Ward. How is your family?"

"So what is your dad doing?"

"I went to school with your dad. He's great. You remind me of him."

"Now that I think about it, you look just like him."



I really hate "re-meeting" people, because this is the kind of stuff I get.