The View from St. Paul's

During lunch today I found a bench in the courtyard of St. Paul's church. As I sat, my inclination was to indulge in my usual lunchtime habit: plunging my face into a book, and reading slow enough so that my eyes hit most of the words, but fast enough so that I end up with only a vague idea of what I was just staring at. Most of the time I am convinced that in those five minutes of semi-mindless page turning, I just might trip over some bit of trivia to add to my stock of pointless knowledge, thereby increasing the prideful satisfaction I take in being better than just about every fact-hoarder who dares show his face on Jeopardy. Ken Jennings excepted.

For some reason, though, the usual impulses passed. I sat with eyes glazed, staring through gaps in the tree-tops at blue sky framed by concrete. My mind bounced between the coming nightmare—the packing tape and heavy lifting—and those few years' worth of slippery memories that Janelle and I are currently wrapping in newspaper and cardboard for safe keeping. Really, it wasn't that long ago that my wife and I took off on a 2,000 mile road trip that ended in front of a one hundred-year-old Manhattan brownstone with an empty fifth floor apartment and no elevator. Our initial reaction was soaked in worry. The stairs inside spiraled upwards, groaning at every step and clinging to the wall like a wobbly octogenarian gripping his cane. But our reservations cleared as we approached the top—the ascent opened into an urban Eden, complete with high ceilings, hardwood floors and reasonable rent.

Our belly-flop into urban life had the inevitable rocks, but, as the saying goes, these were the best two years of my life. It's odd. I usually make a point to avoid obvious sentimentality, but the New York sounds and the New York smells and the New York heat were, at that moment, overwhelming. The thoughts and feelings bouncing through my mind as I sat in the shadow of St. Paul's today were, I imagine, similar to those we might have had just before we hopped on this earthly merry-go-round. I'm happy and comfortable here. I have a ingrown longing to stay. I feel like I'm at home.

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On Political Corrections

Recently my wife (who shall remain nameless) went down to D.C. to interview with a prestigious, left-of-center, non-profit organization (which shall also remain nameless). This place has made its name almost synonomous with equal-rights and anti-discrimination. The position Ms. X (my wife) interviewed for was quite possibly her dream job--in fact, I think her exact words were: "I'd run naked through the streets for this job." (As a sidenote, Mr. X may not allow Ms. X to do any such thing.)

Thankfully for me, nudity may not be necessary because the interview went almost perfectly. I insert the 'almost' because one of the three interviewers metaphorically scratched his head at the fact that my wife is Mormon - given away by the inevitable Bachelor of Arts from BYU that sits atop her resume. Now I don't have a recording of the exact exchange, but according to Ms. X, this guy implied that a Mormon might not be up to the task. He spoke as if an LDS person couldn't even spell 'civil rights,' let alone fight for them. Always on her toes, Ms. X noted that because Mormons are a religious minority, and an often stereotyped one at that, she'd be a perfect candidate for the position. Ms. X - 1, Unnamed Non-Profit Organization - 0.

A few days later, I told this story to a friend who isn't LDS and his response puzzled me. He mentioned that the umbrella of political correctness these days shields just about every minority group from excessive stereotyping except, for some reason, Mormons.

I, personally, haven't noticed too much negative stereotyping of Mormons among mainstream culture, but maybe I'm oblivious. What do you people think? Does my friends comment make sense to any of you?

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