Introduction
In order to understand where I’m coming from, you’ll have to know somewhat of my background. The problem is, I can’t really paint a picture of who I am without going back to tell you about my mission, which is what I’m doing here. And then there’s the problem of brevity. If I filled you in on my life story first, in this Introduction, then the Introduction would be longer than the story itself.
Another problem is that I’ve changed quite a bit in the time since my mission. I’ve redefined myself and, I feel, matured considerably; so there is the risk that I will impose too much of who I am now upon who I was then. But all of our memories are subject to reinterpretation…it’s a constant process we go through. I’ve often felt that life is just a series of births and rebirths.
But this memory—the memory of my mission—has somehow eluded me. It flickers around my mind, evading all of my attempts to understand it and (failing that) to repress it. I would absolutely love to forget my failure. I say that candidly, and with only a hint of embarrassment. It’s strange to say that you want to forget something because you’re actually saying that you would trick yourself. I know that we do that anyway: we are often deluding ourselves, justifying our actions, evaluating ourselves in the best light; however, this are usually done with such artifice that even our conscious minds our unaware. It takes place in our subliminal mind—our shadowy mind whose only purpose is self-preservation. Because that’s what these little lies do: they allow us to survive. But I’m not talking about that. What I’m talking about is an actual, conscious-minded erasure of memory. Auto-amnesia, like on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
But I can’t do that. I’ve tried to let it go and it hasn’t happened; so there must be a lesson there that I haven’t learned, something that’s holding me back. And then, there’s always the fear that someone will find out what I did…especially my family. When you’re afraid of something, you should do it. I’m afraid of disclosure, so I’ll disclose (if that’s a word).
But here’s a few things you need to know about me. My name is Jared Lee McPherson. I was born on July 27th, 1978, in King County Hospital, Kirkland, Washington. I was the fifth of seven living children, born into the most wonderful, loving Mormon family. When I was ten I moved with my family to Fruit Heights, Utah, nestled in the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains. My childhood was idyllic, my adolescence picture perfect. I learned how to think for myself, I learned how to work and to love. I had everything I could have ever hoped for. That’s not to say that I was spoiled: it’s tough to be spoiled in a family with seven children. But I had everything.
I graduated high school with decent grades and applied for college. Even then, I really wanted to get off on my own and “discover myself.” I had begun an identity crisis—as is the fad—at the age of fifteen, which hit its apex at seventeen and was mollified at eighteen until it lay, hidden, just below the surface. You see I was dissatisfied with my decision, afraid that I had substituted my desire to define myself with a desire not to upset my family. I was warring within, at odds with whether it was more important to find out who I was or to allow myself to just be what my family had always expected of me. Once, at seventeen, I had hinted to my family that I might not serve a mission and was surprised at the emotional outburst it created. So I kept my mouth shut and dreamt of the day I’d go off to college and be free to make my own decisions.
As I say this now, it seems as if I was under intellectual repression or something. That’s not true: my home was hardly stifling. We valued individuality and creativity--and we wereall brilliant in our own way. Because of this, we would have very intense, deep conversations about any number of subjects; but when it came down to it we were a team, and no one wanted to let the team down. So rather than be honest at that time, I did the cowardly thing by skulking about, awaiting my escape to college.
I applied to two schools: Brigham Young University (BYU) and Utah State University (USU). In Utah there are only three major schools: Utah State, University of Utah, and BYU. U of U was out of the question to me, since it didn’t ha.ve the live-on-campus atmosphere. So I filled out my applications, sent in the $30 checks, and held my breath.
I come from a long line of BYU graduates. Both my parents went to the Y (BYU), as well as my older brothers, Lamont and Eric, and my oldest sister, Shauna. I had visited them a few times, of course, and had spent some time on campus. It’s a massive school – with 35,000 full-time students. Situated in Provo, it has a gorgeous campus and wonderful community.
I should probably mention that BYU is Church-owned and administrated, so its Honor Code is structured along LDS guidelines This meant that all students (no matter their religion) are expected to live an LDS lifestyle: clean-shaven and well-groomed, maintaining a strict curfew and living morally without alcohol, tobacco, or pre-marital sex. That was actually quite similar to my home life, so there was nothing novel there; however, I imagined that that same conservativeness would spill over onto all aspects of BYU life and education…while I was thirsting to see the liberal side of things.
Utah State University is in Logan, Utah, and is reached only by driving up Sardine Canyon, a windy hour-long drive. When you emerge from the canyon you look down over a wide, agrarian valley, as beautiful as it is pastoral. USU, like BYU, was very pretty on its shoulder of the mountain. Only USU is less landscaped than BYU, less planned.
I spent a few days at USU one summer when I attended Art Camp. It was delightful to me to associate with the hippies and free spirits that the camp attracted. I’ve always been a bit of a free spirit myself, and have always loved rustic settings, so though I wasn’t the drug-using anarchist like a few of the kids there, I still fell in love with the atmosphere.
That wasn’t my first visit to USU however: I had spent one weekend there before, visiting my older sister, Marci. Marci and I had always been close. I hate making statements like that, since I’m close to every one of my brothers and sisters. However, Marci and I had both undergone our rebellious years at close to the same time in High School, and even shared many of the same friends ... so I had always felt she was a bit of a kindred spirit. Marci had also been the first sibling to break tradition by going to Logan instead of Provo -- recruited to the Visual Arts program. Marci had fallen into a bad crowd of friends but, after a year, had sifted out the better ones, so when I came up to visit I quickly fell in love with her roommates ... especially a gorgeous, dark-eyed girl named Ember. The highlight of the weekend was either when Marci showed me the tricks of college food preparation on a dime, or when Ember and I spent an entire afternoon watching MTV together.
All these thoughts were running through my mind when I turned in my applications. I had a good deal of trepidation: it was as if I were watching a horse race wondering which horse would pay out. I decided aloud that I would go to whichever school offered the better scholarship--knowing full well that USU, being less prominent than BYU, would surely give me the better deal. My mom must have known this and was worried about it, because she said on a number of occasions that I shouldn’t make a scholarship the primary criterion in my decision. I brushed that thought aside and kept my fingers crossed.
As an afterthought, I decided to pray and ask God to show me which school to attend.
You see, though I had become an agnostic at seventeen, I had recounted at eighteen. So I was willing to admit that though I had a difficult time believing in God, there was still the possibility that I was wrong. So for some reason I prayed, hoping the answer would be “USU.”
Imagine my surprise when I got the admission letters back from both schools. BYU offered me a one-year, renewable, full-tuition scholarship. USU offered me nothing. I was falbbergasted! If USU had at least matched BYU’s offer, I probably would have gone there -- but it was tough to convince myself to pay the $3,000 and go to USU instead of paying nothing at the Y. My principles only went so far...
I spent one he next year at BYU, living a decent Mormon lifestyle but—along with my roommates—doing everything I could to get around the small rules. Meanwhile, there was the nagging doubt in the back of my mind that I was doing the right thing by being there. I had never truly answered my questions about God and, though I no longer considered myself an agnostic, I wasn’t exactly a front-pew Mormon either.
I enjoyed those two semesters immensely, but all the while my nineteenth birthday was rolling around drawing me inextricably closer to my decision about whether or not to go on a mission. Of course, in the Mormon church you are not required to go on a mission. But the Mormon culture is unkind to those who pass up the opportunity—questioning their faith and upbringing.
There was a lot riding on my decision to me ... especially since my friends, one by one, received their mission calls and shipped out. Since I had a summer birthday, it seemed that all of my friends were called before I did, and I went to numerous Farewells and open houses as each of them left. In my own family, I would be the fourth missionary. Lamont had served in Spain, Shauna in Argentina, and Eric had served in Taiwan. I was the next to go, since I would turn nineteen (the age boys normally serve missionaries) before Marci would turn twenty-one (the age girls normally serve).
My time rolled around and I hadn’t really decided, so my indecision made my decision. I sent in my packet, filling out the lines and checking the appropriate boxes, and then waited and watched that mailbox for my mission call to come.
Mission calls, by the way, are sent out from Church headquarters, in Salt Lake City, by a Mission Department. This department is headed by a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the senior-most leaders of the Church. Through prayer and inspiration (as well as current logistical need), missionary packets are looked over and then a call is extended - through a maled packet - letting the missionary know where they are called to serve. Of course, a call doesn't have to be accepted, but that usually doesn't occur.
Fruit Heights, Utah (pop. 5400), is dependent on Kaysville, Utah (pop. 21,000), for its mail. Because of the heavy Mormon population and the number of mission calls being sent out from Salt Lake City every week, the Kaysville City Post Office usually extends an early morning phone call to those residents receiving mission calls, letting them know that they can come in and pick up their mail before the post office officially opens. I received a phone call early one morning in the summer of 1997. It told me that I had been called to the “Guatemala, Quetzaltenango” mission and that I was to report to the Mission Training Center (MTC) in Provo. I filled out the acceptance letter, affixed the stamp, and turned it in. What happened next is my history...
Another problem is that I’ve changed quite a bit in the time since my mission. I’ve redefined myself and, I feel, matured considerably; so there is the risk that I will impose too much of who I am now upon who I was then. But all of our memories are subject to reinterpretation…it’s a constant process we go through. I’ve often felt that life is just a series of births and rebirths.
But this memory—the memory of my mission—has somehow eluded me. It flickers around my mind, evading all of my attempts to understand it and (failing that) to repress it. I would absolutely love to forget my failure. I say that candidly, and with only a hint of embarrassment. It’s strange to say that you want to forget something because you’re actually saying that you would trick yourself. I know that we do that anyway: we are often deluding ourselves, justifying our actions, evaluating ourselves in the best light; however, this are usually done with such artifice that even our conscious minds our unaware. It takes place in our subliminal mind—our shadowy mind whose only purpose is self-preservation. Because that’s what these little lies do: they allow us to survive. But I’m not talking about that. What I’m talking about is an actual, conscious-minded erasure of memory. Auto-amnesia, like on Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind.
But I can’t do that. I’ve tried to let it go and it hasn’t happened; so there must be a lesson there that I haven’t learned, something that’s holding me back. And then, there’s always the fear that someone will find out what I did…especially my family. When you’re afraid of something, you should do it. I’m afraid of disclosure, so I’ll disclose (if that’s a word).
But here’s a few things you need to know about me. My name is Jared Lee McPherson. I was born on July 27th, 1978, in King County Hospital, Kirkland, Washington. I was the fifth of seven living children, born into the most wonderful, loving Mormon family. When I was ten I moved with my family to Fruit Heights, Utah, nestled in the foothills of the Wasatch Mountains. My childhood was idyllic, my adolescence picture perfect. I learned how to think for myself, I learned how to work and to love. I had everything I could have ever hoped for. That’s not to say that I was spoiled: it’s tough to be spoiled in a family with seven children. But I had everything.
I graduated high school with decent grades and applied for college. Even then, I really wanted to get off on my own and “discover myself.” I had begun an identity crisis—as is the fad—at the age of fifteen, which hit its apex at seventeen and was mollified at eighteen until it lay, hidden, just below the surface. You see I was dissatisfied with my decision, afraid that I had substituted my desire to define myself with a desire not to upset my family. I was warring within, at odds with whether it was more important to find out who I was or to allow myself to just be what my family had always expected of me. Once, at seventeen, I had hinted to my family that I might not serve a mission and was surprised at the emotional outburst it created. So I kept my mouth shut and dreamt of the day I’d go off to college and be free to make my own decisions.
As I say this now, it seems as if I was under intellectual repression or something. That’s not true: my home was hardly stifling. We valued individuality and creativity--and we wereall brilliant in our own way. Because of this, we would have very intense, deep conversations about any number of subjects; but when it came down to it we were a team, and no one wanted to let the team down. So rather than be honest at that time, I did the cowardly thing by skulking about, awaiting my escape to college.
I applied to two schools: Brigham Young University (BYU) and Utah State University (USU). In Utah there are only three major schools: Utah State, University of Utah, and BYU. U of U was out of the question to me, since it didn’t ha.ve the live-on-campus atmosphere. So I filled out my applications, sent in the $30 checks, and held my breath.
I come from a long line of BYU graduates. Both my parents went to the Y (BYU), as well as my older brothers, Lamont and Eric, and my oldest sister, Shauna. I had visited them a few times, of course, and had spent some time on campus. It’s a massive school – with 35,000 full-time students. Situated in Provo, it has a gorgeous campus and wonderful community.
I should probably mention that BYU is Church-owned and administrated, so its Honor Code is structured along LDS guidelines This meant that all students (no matter their religion) are expected to live an LDS lifestyle: clean-shaven and well-groomed, maintaining a strict curfew and living morally without alcohol, tobacco, or pre-marital sex. That was actually quite similar to my home life, so there was nothing novel there; however, I imagined that that same conservativeness would spill over onto all aspects of BYU life and education…while I was thirsting to see the liberal side of things.
Utah State University is in Logan, Utah, and is reached only by driving up Sardine Canyon, a windy hour-long drive. When you emerge from the canyon you look down over a wide, agrarian valley, as beautiful as it is pastoral. USU, like BYU, was very pretty on its shoulder of the mountain. Only USU is less landscaped than BYU, less planned.
I spent a few days at USU one summer when I attended Art Camp. It was delightful to me to associate with the hippies and free spirits that the camp attracted. I’ve always been a bit of a free spirit myself, and have always loved rustic settings, so though I wasn’t the drug-using anarchist like a few of the kids there, I still fell in love with the atmosphere.
That wasn’t my first visit to USU however: I had spent one weekend there before, visiting my older sister, Marci. Marci and I had always been close. I hate making statements like that, since I’m close to every one of my brothers and sisters. However, Marci and I had both undergone our rebellious years at close to the same time in High School, and even shared many of the same friends ... so I had always felt she was a bit of a kindred spirit. Marci had also been the first sibling to break tradition by going to Logan instead of Provo -- recruited to the Visual Arts program. Marci had fallen into a bad crowd of friends but, after a year, had sifted out the better ones, so when I came up to visit I quickly fell in love with her roommates ... especially a gorgeous, dark-eyed girl named Ember. The highlight of the weekend was either when Marci showed me the tricks of college food preparation on a dime, or when Ember and I spent an entire afternoon watching MTV together.
All these thoughts were running through my mind when I turned in my applications. I had a good deal of trepidation: it was as if I were watching a horse race wondering which horse would pay out. I decided aloud that I would go to whichever school offered the better scholarship--knowing full well that USU, being less prominent than BYU, would surely give me the better deal. My mom must have known this and was worried about it, because she said on a number of occasions that I shouldn’t make a scholarship the primary criterion in my decision. I brushed that thought aside and kept my fingers crossed.
As an afterthought, I decided to pray and ask God to show me which school to attend.
You see, though I had become an agnostic at seventeen, I had recounted at eighteen. So I was willing to admit that though I had a difficult time believing in God, there was still the possibility that I was wrong. So for some reason I prayed, hoping the answer would be “USU.”
Imagine my surprise when I got the admission letters back from both schools. BYU offered me a one-year, renewable, full-tuition scholarship. USU offered me nothing. I was falbbergasted! If USU had at least matched BYU’s offer, I probably would have gone there -- but it was tough to convince myself to pay the $3,000 and go to USU instead of paying nothing at the Y. My principles only went so far...
I spent one he next year at BYU, living a decent Mormon lifestyle but—along with my roommates—doing everything I could to get around the small rules. Meanwhile, there was the nagging doubt in the back of my mind that I was doing the right thing by being there. I had never truly answered my questions about God and, though I no longer considered myself an agnostic, I wasn’t exactly a front-pew Mormon either.
I enjoyed those two semesters immensely, but all the while my nineteenth birthday was rolling around drawing me inextricably closer to my decision about whether or not to go on a mission. Of course, in the Mormon church you are not required to go on a mission. But the Mormon culture is unkind to those who pass up the opportunity—questioning their faith and upbringing.
There was a lot riding on my decision to me ... especially since my friends, one by one, received their mission calls and shipped out. Since I had a summer birthday, it seemed that all of my friends were called before I did, and I went to numerous Farewells and open houses as each of them left. In my own family, I would be the fourth missionary. Lamont had served in Spain, Shauna in Argentina, and Eric had served in Taiwan. I was the next to go, since I would turn nineteen (the age boys normally serve missionaries) before Marci would turn twenty-one (the age girls normally serve).
My time rolled around and I hadn’t really decided, so my indecision made my decision. I sent in my packet, filling out the lines and checking the appropriate boxes, and then waited and watched that mailbox for my mission call to come.
Mission calls, by the way, are sent out from Church headquarters, in Salt Lake City, by a Mission Department. This department is headed by a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the senior-most leaders of the Church. Through prayer and inspiration (as well as current logistical need), missionary packets are looked over and then a call is extended - through a maled packet - letting the missionary know where they are called to serve. Of course, a call doesn't have to be accepted, but that usually doesn't occur.
Fruit Heights, Utah (pop. 5400), is dependent on Kaysville, Utah (pop. 21,000), for its mail. Because of the heavy Mormon population and the number of mission calls being sent out from Salt Lake City every week, the Kaysville City Post Office usually extends an early morning phone call to those residents receiving mission calls, letting them know that they can come in and pick up their mail before the post office officially opens. I received a phone call early one morning in the summer of 1997. It told me that I had been called to the “Guatemala, Quetzaltenango” mission and that I was to report to the Mission Training Center (MTC) in Provo. I filled out the acceptance letter, affixed the stamp, and turned it in. What happened next is my history...
<< Home