When you were almost grown,
did you ever sit in a bubble bath,
perspiration pooling,
notice a blow-dryer plugged
in within easy reach, and think
about dropping it into the water?
Did you wonder if the expected
rush might somehow fail you?
And now, do you ever dangle
your toes over the precipice,
dare the cliff to crumble,
defy the frozen deity to suffer
the sun, thaw feather and bone,
take wing to fly you home?
I, Pattyn Scarlet Von Stratten, do.
I’m Not Exactly Sure
When I began to feel that way.
Maybe a little piece of me
always has. It’s hard to remember.
But I do know things really
began to spin out of control
after my first sex dream.
As sex dreams go, there wasn’t
much sex, just a collage
of very hot kisses, and Justin Proud’s
hands, exploring every inch
of my body, at my fervent
invitation. As a stalwart Mormon
high school junior, drilled
ceaselessly about the dire
catastrophe awaiting those
who harbored impure thoughts,
I had never kissed a boy,
had never even considered
that I might enjoy such
an unclean thing, until
literature opened my eyes.
See, the Library
was my sanctuary.
—
Then I started high
Through middle
—
school, where the
school, librarians
—
not-so-bookish
were like guardian
—
librarian was half
angels. Spinsterish
—
angel, half she-devil,
guardian angels,
—
so sayeth the rumor
with graying hair
—
mill. I hardly cared.
and beady eyes,
—
Ms. Rose was all
magnified through
—
I could hope I might
reading glasses,
—
one day be: aspen
and always ready
—
physique, new penny
to recommend new
—
hair, aurora green
literary windows
—
eyes, and hands that
to gaze through.
—
could speak. She
A. A. Milne. Beatrix
—
walked on air. Ms.
Potter. Lewis
—
Rose shuttered old
Carroll. Kenneth
—
windows, opened
Grahame. E. B.
—
portals undreamed of.
White. Beverly
—
And just beyond,
Cleary. Eve Bunting.
—
what fantastic worlds!
I Met Her My Freshman Year
All wide-eyed and dim about starting high school,
a big new school, with polished hallways
and hulking lockers and doors that led
who-knew-where?
A scary new school, filled with towering
teachers and snickering students,
impossible schedules, tough expectations,
and endless possibilities.
The library, with its paper perfume,
whispered queries, and copy
machine shuffles, was the only familiar
place on the entire campus.
And there was Ms. Rose.
How can I help you?
Fresh off a fling with C. S.
Lewis and Madeleine L’Engle,
hungry for travel far from home,
I whispered, “Fantasy, please.”
She smiled. Follow me.
I know just where to take you.
I shadowed her to Tolkien’s
Middle-earth and Rowling’s
School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
places no upstanding Mormon should go.
When you finish those,
I’d be happy to show you more.
Fantasy Segued into Darker Dimensions
And authors who used three whole names:
Vivian Vande Velde, Annette Curtis Klause.
Mary Downing Hahn.
By my sophomore year, I was deep
into adult horror—King, Koontz, Rice.
You must try classic horror,
insisted Ms. Rose.
Poe, Wells, Stoker. Stevenson. Shelley.
There’s more to life than monsters.
You’ll love these authors:
Burroughs. Dickens. Kipling. London.
Bradbury. Chaucer. Henry David Thoreau.
And these:
Jane Austen. Arthur Miller. Charlotte Brontë.
F. Scott Fitzgerald. J. D. Salinger.
By my junior year, I devoured increasingly
adult fare. Most, I hid under my dresser:
D. H. Lawrence. Truman Capote.
Ken Kesey. Jean Auel.
Mary Higgins Clark. Danielle Steel.
I Began
To view the world at large
through borrowed eyes,
eyes more like those
I wanted to own.
Hopeful.
I began
to see that it was more than
okay—it was, in some circles,
expected—to question my
little piece of the planet.
Empowered.
I began
to understand that I could
stretch if I wanted to, explore
if I dared, escape
if I just put one foot
in front of the other.
Enlightened.
I began
to realize that escape
might offer the only real
hope of freedom from my
supposed God-given roles—
wife and mother of as many
babies as my body could bear.
Emboldened.
I Also Began to Journal
Okay, one of the things expected of Latter-
Day Saints is keeping a journal.
But I’d always considered it just another
“supposed to,” one not to worry much about.
Besides, what would I write in a book
everyone was allowed to read?
Some splendid nonfiction chronicle
about sharing a three-bedroom house
with six younger sisters, most of whom
I’d been required to diaper?
Some suspend-your-disbelief fiction
about how picture-perfect life was at home,
forget the whole dysfunctional truth
about Dad’s alcohol-fueled tirades?
Some brilliant manifesto about how God
whispered sweet insights into my ear,
higher truths that I would hold on to forever,
once I’d shared them through testimony?
Or maybe they wanted trashy confessions—
Daydreams Designed by Satan.
Whatever. I’d never written but a few
words in my mandated diary.
Maybe it was the rebel in me.
Or maybe it was just the lazy in me.
But faithfully penning a journal
was the furthest thing from my mind.
Ms. Rose Had Other Ideas
One day I brought a stack of books,
most of them banned in decent L
DS
households, to the checkout counter.
Ms. Rose looked up and smiled.
You are quite the reader, Pattyn.
You’ll be a writer one day, I’ll venture.
I shook my head. “Not me.
Who’d want to read anything
I have to say?”
She smiled. How about you?
Why don’t you start
with a journal?
So I gave her the whole
lowdown about why journaling
was not my thing.
A very good reason to keep
a journal just for you. One
you don’t have to write in.
A day or two later, she gave
me one—plump, thin-lined,
with a plain denim cover.
Decorate it with your words,
she said. And don’t be afraid
of what goes inside.
I Wasn’t Sure What She Meant
Until I opened the stiff-paged volume
and started to write.
At first, rather ordinary fare
garnished the lines.
Feb. 6. Good day at school. Got an A
on my history paper.
Feb. 9. Roberta has strep throat. Great!
Now we’ll all get it.
But as the year progressed, I began
to feel I was living in a stranger’s body.
Mar. 15. Justin Proud smiled at me today.
I can’t believe it! And I can’t believe
how it made me feel. Kind of tingly all over,
like I had an itch I didn’t want to scratch.
An itch you-know-where.
Mar. 17. I dreamed about Justin last night.
Dreamed he kissed me, and I kissed him back,
and I let him touch me all over my body
and I woke up all hot and blushing.
Blushing! Like I’d done something wrong.
Can a dream be wrong?
Aren’t dreams God’s way
of telling you things?
Justin Proud
Was one of the designated
“hot bods” on campus.
No surprise all the girls
hotly pursued that bod.
The only surprise was my
subconscious interest.
I mean, he was anything
but a good Mormon boy.
And I, allegedly being
a good Mormon girl,
was supposed to keep
my feminine thoughts pure.
Easy enough, while struggling
with stacks of books,
piles of paper, and mounds
of adolescent angst.
Easy enough, while chasing
after a herd of siblings,
each the product of lustful,
if legally married, behavior.
Easy enough, while watching
other girls pant after him.
But just how do you maintain
pure thoughts when you dream?
I Suppose That’s the Kind of Thing
Some girls could ask their moms.
But Mom and I didn’t talk
a whole lot about what
makes the world go round.
Conversation tended to run
toward who’d wash the dishes,
who’d dust and vacuum,
who’d change the diapers.
In a house with seven kids,
the oldest always seemed to draw
diaper duty. Mom worked real
hard to avoid Luvs. In fact,
that’s the hardest she ever
worked at anything. Am I saying
my mom was lazy? I guess I am.
As more of us girls went off
to school each day, the house
got dirtier and dirtier. If we
wanted clean clothes,
we loaded the washer.
If we wanted clean dishes,
we had to clear the sink.
Mom watched a lot of TV.
She didn’t have a job, of course.
Dad wouldn’t hear of it, which
made Mom extremely happy.
I think she saw her profession as
populating the world with girls.
Seven Girls
That’s all Mom ever
managed to give Dad.
He named every one after
a famous general, always
planning on a son.
A son, to replace the two
his first wife had given him,
the two he’d lost.
Janice, I heard him tell Mom
more than once, if you don’t
pop out a boy next time,
I’m getting my money back on you.
But she carried no
money-back guarantee.
And the baby girls
just kept coming.
In reverse order: Georgia
(another nod to General
George Patton, my namesake);
Roberta (Robert E. Lee);
Davie (Jefferson D.);
Teddie (Roosevelt);
Ulyssa (S. Grant);
Jackie (Pershing).
Oh yes, and me.
No nicknames,
no shortcuts,
use every syllable,
every letter,
because
there would
be no “half-ass”
in Dad’s house.
It’s disturbing, I know.
But Dad was Dad
so Mom went along.
One Time, One Day
between Davie
and Roberta,
I asked my mom
why she persisted,
kept on having
baby after baby.
She looked
at me, at a spot
between my eyes,
blinking like I had
suddenly fallen
crazy. She paused
before answering
as if
to confide would
legitimize my fears.
She drew a deep
breath, leaned against
the chair. I touched
her hand and I thought
she might
cry. Instead she put
baby Davie in my arms.
Pattyn, she said,
it’s a woman’s role.
I decided if it was
my role, I’d rather
disappear.
In My View, Having Babies
was supposed to be
something
beautiful,
not a duty.
Something
incredible,
not role-playing.
Bringing
new life
into this dying
world,
promising hope
for a saner
tomorrow.
As I saw it,
any expectation
of sanity rested
in a woman’s womb.
God should have
given Eve
another chance.
Instead, He turned
her away, no way
to make the world better.
Regardless
Barring blizzards
or bouts of projectile vomiting,
I attended Sunday services
every week, and that week
was no exception. Three solid
hours of crying babies
and uninspired testimony,
all orchestrated by bishops,
presidents, prophets, and priests,
each bearing a masculine
moniker, specialized “hardware,”
and “God-given” attitude;
of taking the sacrament,
bread and water, served
up by young deacons, all boys.
The message came through loud
; and clear: Women are inferior.
And God likes it that way.
Silly Me
I refused to believe it.
Not only that, but I began
to resent the whole idea.
I had watched women crushed
beneath the weight
of dreams, smashed.
I had seen them bow down
before their husbands,
and not just figuratively.
I had witnessed bone-chilling
abuse, no questions,
no help, no escape.
All in the hopes
that when they died,
and reached up from the grave,
their husbands would grab