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The Two-Week Atheist
Growing up Mormon, in the Midwest, oldest girl in a family of 9, in a farm family, and in the 80’s might have presented me with the strongest cocktail of patriarchy possible. Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. I had 27 cousins on one side. I had all of my grandparents and almost all of my great-grandparents. There was nothing NOT special about my upbringing. And it was all on purpose.
Most parents don’t know what the hell they are doing when they begin having a family. Not my parents. They converted to Mormonism just a few years before I was born, ensuring that there would be an intact community and rules for everything imaginable. I was given the answers to all of the most important theological questions on a platter, and I swallowed them whole.
Being the oldest girl, I was caretaker, mother, cook, cleaning lady, and example of everything good. I was basically Cinderella on a pedestal. Dad called me Cinderella, lovingly, of course, but the pedestal was a problem.
The role, however, demanded perfection on every count. Being untouchable kept me from having close friendships as well. Being “practically perfect in every way” made enemies of perfectly nice girls. In turn, each of the girls I grew up with have told me of times their mothers would ask them, “Why can’t you be like Christy? She always does such nice things for everyone.” Or, “I hope you can…
