50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Read online

  Amy had attended multicultural schools in Salt Lake City for several years. Some of her friends were black, so she was used to their dialect and cultural differences. Not me. Until I started visiting Amelia’s family in Salt Lake, I’d never seen a colored person in my whole life. But I’d certainly heard about them many times before.

  My parents didn’t consider themselves hateful, bigoted people who discriminated against African-Americans. However, they intensely held on to many of the original teachings of the early LDS leaders. My whole life I was taught, all black people were descendants of Cain; therefore, they were called “Canaanites.” God cursed them with dark skin and promised they would suffer and be despised, all because Cain chose to follow Lucifer and rebel against God. Cain’s posterity would never have an opportunity to receive the blessings of the priesthood until every white descendant of Adam had a chance first (see Joseph Fielding Smith, The Way to Perfection [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1931], 101–2; Brigham Young, Journal of Discourses, 26 vols. [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book, 1859] 7:290–91).

  “Okay, okay!” Amy retorted as my heart pounded. “If you really want to fight, Sophia will fight with you! But right now we have to get uptown, so we’ll meet you back here at 3:00 pm. Then my really tough friend will beat the crap out of you. So you’d better be here and ready!” Then Amy grabbed my arm and prodded me up the sidewalk.

  “No! I’m not going to fight with her!” I snapped at Amy after we were at least thirty feet away. “We both know I’m really strong, but I don’t want to beat—”

  Amy started laughing. “I’m sure she won’t be there when we get back. She knows you could beat her to a pulp if you wanted to. She was just trying to act tough!”

  Before our long trek back home from the hospital, we slid down the steep hill off H Street into Memory Grove. Since we’d done this a few times before, we already knew we’d end up with several bloody scratches. Each time we went there, I wanted to spend more time playing in the stream that wound through the magnificent grove. Our time in the park was worth the pain from the abrasions on our arms and legs.

  We had so much fun we forgot to show up for the big fight. Amy blew it off like a breeze. “Don’t freak out, Sophia. There’s no way she showed up either. She didn’t want to fight you any more than you wanted to fight her.”

  My new brother, Amelia’s son Ari, drove us back to our house in Murray, for Sunday school. When we were nearly home, Aunt Amelia turned around and smiled at me. “Sophia, you really are a beautiful young girl. Do you know how pretty you are?”

  “No,” I said, feeling quite uncomfortable. I don’t think I’d ever heard anyone say that before.

  “Well, you are. I wish you knew it! You poor little darling—you don’t have any self-esteem, do you?”

  I slumped a little and didn’t answer.

  “Do you know what that means, Sophia? If a girl has self-esteem, she feels good about herself. I bet you don’t think you are valuable at all, do you?”

  My throat tightened and my face turned hot as I fought back tears. When we reached our house, Aunt Amelia opened the back door of the car and gently pulled me into her arms. She hugged me tighter than I’d ever been held before. Along with her, I grieved for the young girl she embraced.

  I knew there was someone who genuinely cared for me.

  *****

  “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to—” I heard as I woke up in Amy’s bed. Aunt Amelia and her kids stood there holding a large tray with tiny, wrapped goodies surrounding a decorated birthday cake with twelve flaming candles. It was the first birthday in my life I felt any significance. I could finally go to The Group stomps, and my birthday was actually being celebrated.

  At that noteworthy age, I decided to get brave and ask Mom to let me buy fabric for a birthday present. The day before the dance, I followed the directions and placed all of my pattern pieces on the cornflower blue fabric, just as Carol had taught me. I cut them all out and started sewing. Friday after school, I hand-stitched white lace around the bodice and puffy sleeves, and adjusted the hem.

  At The Group stomps, as we began to call them, we girls had the opportunity to come out of our shells and dance to our hearts’ content. I was still uncomfortable knowing all ages of men would be on the prowl, scrutinizing us young girls as potential wives.

  However, at my very first Friday-night stomp, I finally began to believe God was going to let me be really happy. Somewhere in the Book of Mormon it says, “Men are that they might have joy.” I hoped God meant women also, because dancing was real joy. It seemed my life was finally there for the taking. I wouldn’t allow even the miserable minutes of a round dance, where I had to dance with icky old perpetrator Craig, thwart my blissful evening.

  *****

  In the fall, dad took my mother, Aunt Amelia, and their kids to The Group’s ranch in Pinesdale, Montana. We had an incredible time at the Great Scott Motel, which was owned by a member of The Group. Dad reserved a room for the boys, a room for Amy and me, and one for Aunt Amelia, Mom, and himself. It was the first time in my life I got to stay in a motel.

  Amy and I were ecstatic. We pretended we were older teens living a life of wealth and abundance. Our motel room was our own cozy, classy apartment. We briefly considered marrying the same man, and then quickly banished the idea. We each found our own imaginary, perfectly wonderful, handsome boyfriend and got married right away. Then we tried to find second wives for our new husbands. That lame-brain idea didn’t last either. In our wondrous, make-believe situation we realized we certainly didn’t want to, nor did we have to share our husbands at all.

  During our trip home from the Pinesdale Ranch, we camped a few nights in Yellowstone National Park. One day, inside Dad’s station wagon, we were overwhelmed with fear and exhilaration as two bear cubs crawled all over the car.

  At the camping grounds, Dad decided his older kids should receive a gift from God: a father’s blessing. He told us it was a patriarchal blessing, considered a special gift among Mormon believers. A worthy father—one who held the priesthood—can give these blessings to his children or to others who requested them. Dad instructed our mothers to record his inspired words as he dictated the blessings God had in store for each of us.

  After all of God’s blessings and promises had been doled out through my father’s voice, I knew I remained without value in God’s eyes. Clearly, He had no respect or love for me. He had a myriad of blessings and promises for Amy and my brothers. Amy was still the strong, faithful, valiant soul she had been in heaven—a perfect young lady—therefore, she was qualified to teach women the gospel and lead them back to heaven. My blessing, however, said I carried the perfect, unblemished blood of my ancestors. I was warned to keep myself pure (was I pure?) so my family line would never be tainted. Through my father, God told me I should not marry into the blood of Cain, and I should not do things to tempt evil men to do evil things (did I do that?). I should always stand in holy places (where were those?). And if I was good enough and heeded all of those warnings, God would direct me to the man I should marry—the one and only man I had made covenants with in the pre-existence.

  How would I find that man or know who he was? What was the pre-existence all about for Amy and me, anyway? She must have been a much better person than I was. I wondered what terrible things I’d done to require so many warnings and tests, before I might be worthy of one man’s love.

  CHAPTER 12

  Men, Boys, and Confusion

  1965

  There was nothing I could do or say to cheer my mother after she and Dad had a fight. Although I didn’t hear them fight often, I always felt devastated when I did. One day in 1965, I stood outside their bedroom door as my fifty-year-old mother again implored Dad to hear and understand her.

  “I’m telling you for the last time how I feel about this, Owen, and then I’m going to drop it. I want you to know Eleanor is busy conniving again! Her ‘family’ dinner plans are nothing but a downright dirty attemp
t to keep you and me from taking the trip you promised me. It’s our anniversary to plan, not Eleanor’s anniversary!

  “Eleanor didn’t plan this special dinner just to keep us from going on a trip,” Dad insisted. “She just wants to celebrate with us because she loves us.”

  Mom yelled back, “Why are you letting her make arrangements for our twenty-seventh anniversary when she knows darn well we’ve already made plans?”

  I’m certain Mom knew her efforts were in vain, but she gave it one last try. “Whenever you are with me, she comes upstairs in my house; she sits with us at nearly every meal. If you invite me or another one of your wives to run an errand with you, she has to go. But whenever the tables are turned she lets us know loud and clear everyone is expected to stay away. Yes, she loves us when it’s our time with you, but not when it’s hers.”

  “Oh, my darling Vera, you’ve got it all wrong. Eleanor doesn’t want you or my other girls to stay away. She wants to be part of your lives and near all of you. I’m sure if you girls can and want to be with us when I’m with her, it would be just fine.”

  “Owen, you are just plain duped by her, and the rest of us have to pay for your ignorance!” Mom courageously said.

  “How can you say that, Vera? You know that’s not true! I do the best I can to be fair with my girls. I won’t fight with you about this anymore.”

  When he turned the corner, he bumped into my shoulder, gave me a hostile look, (as if he assumed I was in on Mom’s rare insurrection), and then tromped down the first flight of stairs and out the back door.

  I moved toward Mom. Her five-foot-three-inch body slumped down on the edge of her bed. Tears rolled down onto her lap. I couldn’t believe she had actually tried to stick up for herself, and had done so with such integrity. Most of her disagreements with Dad turned into raging, nonsensical mania. I was so proud of her. Everyone in our family and in Plygville seemed to know Aunt Eleanor always manipulated Dad to get her way, everyone except Owen.

  I sat next to Mom and put my arm around her shoulders. “Will you go to your own anniversary dinner if Aunt Eleanor plans it and goes with Dad?”

  “Of course I will!” Mom mopped more tears off her cheek with her sleeve. After a few minutes of silence she said, “Everything will be all right, Sophia. This is my fault. I was wrong! I shouldn’t have said anything to your dad about my feelings. It never works anyway. He really tries to be fair.”

  Then Mom stood up, looked me square in the eyes, and reiterated for the millionth time her very favorite mantra: “The gospel of plural marriage is true! It’s just weak people [speaking of herself] who make it look and feel wrong. Don’t ever let insecure feelings sway you from your testimony. I am so sorry I behaved that way. I should keep sweet and be a better example to you.”

  Mom forced a smile, patted my arm, and went into the bathroom—her solitary space in our crazy-making world.

  *****

  Learning to sew my own skirts and jumpers saved me from additional insecurity. I could adjust their length to conform to Mom’s theory of modesty, which meant calf- or ankle-length dresses and skirts, and still fit in somewhat amid the “outsiders’” fad—miniskirts.

  One day, I forgot to switch back into my behind-the-times, old-fashioned look. My jumper was still held high with the straps across my shoulders. So, when I sat, the hem hit midway between my thighs and crotch. When Mom saw me, she flipped out.

  “That’s so immodest, Sophia! Wearing skimpy clothes and showing off your body is evil! It attracts the attention of evil boys and men, and if something wicked happened to you, it could be your own fault. You’ve got to keep your body covered. You know your guardian angels won’t look after you if you continue to dress like that.”

  For the first time in my life, as far as I remembered, I raised my voice at my mother, saying, “I will never fit in if I dress like you and the Crickers do! [“Crickers” is slang for Short Creek folks.] Wearing peculiar clothes draws more attention than fitting in, Mom. Don’t you get it? Don’t you see what total freaks we look like around everyone else?”

  I pled with Dad to convince Mom I was right. Then he persuaded her to compromise her lifetime ideals concerning modesty. My dress hems could fall as high as the middle of my knees—halfway between miniskirt and calf-length.

  *****

  Three of my brothers and I placed five or six empty soup cans in a row against a hillside covered with sagebrush and rocks. Dad turned around and walked several steps before he drew a long line in the dirt with the heel of his work boot.

  Forty miles southwest of Murray, in the middle of nowhere, he marked our firing line by placing two army-green ammunition boxes on each side of his mini trench.

  “Once again, and as always," Dad reminded us, “you will abide all the safety rules. You will never, and I mean never point a gun at anyone! Stand ten feet behind the person who is shooting. Hold the gun away from yourself while you load and reload, or you may kill or get killed. Is that clear?”

  We nodded.

  Dad looked at me. “Do you remember how to load the gun, Sophia?”

  “Of course I do, Dad.” I was miffed he didn’t remember I already knew how. His question was for his daughter, not my two brothers—one a few months older and the other a few months younger than me.

  None of that really mattered. I wouldn’t miss a chance to go target practicing with my dad. I would do anything and give everything I owned to always be outside, day or night, doing guy things rather than having to do girl stuff in the house.

  “All right then,” Dad said to us. “Let’s be safe and have some fun!”

  I got to sit next to him on the way home. He bragged, “Good grief, Sophia, you’ve become quite the marksman—uh . . . uh-hum, I mean markswoman.” We chuckled. “Every time we come out here, you get better and better. My goodness, girl! You can whip the boys at arm wrestling, win all your running races, and now you’re even outshooting them!”

  My heart relished every single word Dad said. His pride in my successes filled my whole being with delight, but my heart went out to my gloomy brothers. I wished he wouldn’t have carried on about me in front of them. He often boasted about his tomboy Sophia’s strength, stamina, drive, competitive nature, and athletic abilities. From the very start, I never wanted to let him down. In those things I felt valued, accepted, confident, and loved by him, but not when it came to liking the boys.

  *****

  Something wonderful began touching my heart and my nerve centers: boys! They were everywhere. My parents told me the most important thing to remember was I’d made a previous covenant with God to marry one specific man. It was my job or opportunity (thank God) to find the “one and only,” particular man out of millions. For some reason, this notion sounded ludicrous. How could I—little old me—trust myself to know who that man was? How could I trust God to not pull another vanishing act or prank on me even if I did? It was evident neither one of us had proven ourselves to each other thus far.

  No matter how many times I tried to explain my quandary to my parents, Mom would say, “You’ll just know, Sophia. I don’t know how to tell you how, but when the right man comes along and when it’s the right time, you will know.”

  “But how will I know?” I persisted.

  “Say your prayers, be a good girl, and stay close to God, and He will direct you to the right man.”

  “Even if I do all of that, what will happen? What will God do or say to prove it to me so I will know that I know?”

  “You will know by a burning in your bosom,” Mom stated.

  It still didn’t click, and I was feeling more and more like a total ignoramus.

  A few weeks later, I asked my sister Francine, “Will my bosoms really burn when I find the right man? Why my breasts? Why will they burn?”

  She laughed so hard her eyes watered. “No, Sophia. It means you will have a real strong sense of truth—like a warm, deep feeling in your heart.”

  I told Francine, “Mom said
confusion is from the devil. I worry all the time. I feel confused; especially if a guy I like talks to me. My heart beats fast, and I get warm all over.”

  The summer before I turned thirteen, Aunt Eleanor’s oldest daughter, Hannah (who was also married to my sister Francine’s husband as a second wife), told me she wanted me to marry their husband when I got older. I always thought he was handsome and nice, and since I loved my sister Francine so much, being in her family might not be such a bad idea.

  Hannah arranged a weeklong visit to her place in the west desert so I could get to know her and Francine’s husband, William. Instead of hanging out with a man fifteen years my senior, I hung out with William’s nineteen-year-old nephew. He was a tall, handsome cowboy who wore western shirts, Levis, boots, and a cowboy hat. The best part was he owned horses. We rode them and visited for hours on end. I helped him repair fences and feed the animals. With others on the ranch, we bucked at least a hundred bales of hay from the field, loaded them onto a big flatbed trailer, and then stacked them in a barn.

  The next thing I knew, Hannah’s nephew and I were sitting under a giant oak tree in a nearby field, talking about our lives, dreams, wishes, and the future. Before and shortly after I got back home, there was so much joy and burning in my bosom I had a movie going on in my head: the two of us living on the ranch, a cowboy country wedding . . . Was he the right guy? Should I marry him? By the time he came from the west desert four weeks later to see me, I had a crush on another handsome young man. My cowboy friend was devastated. I felt empathy for him—and guilt. I had absolutely no belief I could ever find the “right” man.

  A month or so later, I sensed I was in love again. For a few days, we thought our biggest problem was he belonged to the FLDS (Colorado City) group. His parents, of course, wanted him to marry whomever their prophet told him to marry—certainly not me, an “apostate Allredite.” They forbade our association, and he complied. After that two-week fascination, I moved on again.