50 Years in Polygamy: Big Secrets and Little White Lies Page 23
CHAPTER 24
Poverty and
Dumpster Diving
1979
After living with Mark for nine years, I definitely knew all of his daily moods, habits, and rituals. One evening I told him our polygamous life was making me positively crazy.
“I always know when you and Diane have been fooling around, even if you’re quiet about it now.”
“You don’t either,” Mark said. “Why would you say that?”
“You’ve got to start changing things, Mark! You can’t keep doing things the way you’ve always done them and then expect me to not know what’s going on. How would you feel if you knew I’d spent time with my other husband, then I showered later the same night, after you knew I’d already showered, or again in the morning? You’d know it was because I’d had sex with him, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll take care of it,” he claimed. “It’s not yours or Diane’s business where I’m at or what I’m doing.”
“Don’t you mean to say ‘who’ you are doing?” I joked, with a pain in my gut.
Mark figured out how to miss showers or change his routines, for which I was grateful. I continued to get more involved in service, my children, friends, family, and life. If I could stay in my own head and my own space, I hoped none of his “doing” would ever matter.
*****
By the summer of 1979, depression got its grip on me again. To add fuel to the fire, every time I wanted to make love, Mark wasn’t interested or he couldn’t. I was sure it was because he was having more sex with Diane while she was nursing and couldn’t get pregnant—and I already was. He tried to assure me that my concerns were unfounded. He promised he’d never been repulsed by my body and would always love and adore me, no matter what size I was or would ever be. He maintained his reasons for our lack of intimacy were because of his own major stress level about finances, and swore his lack of ability was with both Diane and me—not any of the reasons I feared.
Francine and Swede told me I should discuss all of this with Diane to see if Mark was telling me the truth. They thought there was a good chance she was feeling the same way I was, and maybe there was no need for either one of us to feel hurt and rejected. But to have discussed anything with Diane could have made things even worse. I had a desperate need for privacy about such things. Whatever was or wasn’t going on in my bed and in my personal life was for me alone to know.
If Mark was being truthful about things, I could feel some comfort and reassurance in his sexual deficiency. If Diane had the same worries I had, we could both feel some peace.
On the other hand, what if Mark had already advised her, “If Sophia happens to ask you if we are having sex, don’t let her know. All it will do is hurt her.”
He’d said similar things to me several times before. “Don’t tell Diane this; don’t tell her… If you do, she’ll feel bad. She’ll get mad and then I’ll have to deal with all of her insecurities again.” So why, I wondered, would I not expect the door to swing both ways?
Regardless, it wouldn’t work to talk about it with Diane. My sexual relationship with Mark, though not always perfect, had become the strongest element of our marriage, no matter my size. But since Diane was also at his beck and call, trying in every way possible to win his heart, I couldn’t be sure of anything. So I chose to believe what Mark told me. I had to in order to stay sane.
*****
If there were homes to build, Mark would be out doing the work. Then he’d come home and hide out behind closed doors again. But the construction boom had ended, and when there wasn’t a masonry job he led a life of dismal leisure. He could sleep half the day and go out to breakfast, lunch, or dinner with a friend or by himself. A favorite pastime of his was crashing with a novel by Zane Grey or Louis L’amour. Mark would escape into his cave, only to reappear and then disappear again.
Every Wednesday and Saturday, just like many polygamous families, the children and I shopped at the local grocery stores—in their dumpsters. Jake, Alan, little Sky, and I climbed into the huge trash bins and hunted for anything we could salvage. Diane attempted the feat once and decided she’d never do it again. She never went without as a child, as far as I knew, and she still wouldn’t have to.
My kids and I found all sorts of discarded food still packaged and sealed but outdated. Sometimes we discovered a gold mine of toys, coloring books, cereals, and crackers. Whatever we retrieved, we always offered to share with Diane and her children. If we didn’t find enough, her parents would always chip in to help her.
When we got home, the kids and I would take a closer look at our “treasures.” We went through every single thing. We cut spoiled parts off the fruits and vegetables, and ditched the slimy, moldy parts. Just like most of our Christmases in the past, our dumpster diving adventures were either feast or famine.
While I was grateful for Mark’s efforts to provide for us, I resented him for not doing better. When it came to his ongoing struggles with Diane and me—our jealousies, insecurities, and character defects—I empathized with him. He was trying to be a polygamous husband, father, and provider while trying to muddle through his own list of personal issues—all of which contributed to his overall absence in our lives.
Now and then, if we discussed our dire situation, I’d ask Mark to take on even a menial job. Anything, it seemed, would be better than nothing.
“Every little penny helps,” I’d say to him.
“If I commit to some damn peon job, I’ll be tied down to it. If the weather is good and a higher-paying masonry job becomes available, I have to be able to accept it,” he’d argue. His reasoning made sense to me.
I was seven months pregnant with my forth baby, and grateful I’d lost weight as fast as I’d gained it with the past two pregnancies. I needed and wanted a few things we couldn’t afford, so I got a job taking care of an elderly woman who lived in uptown Salt Lake City. She paid me seventeen dollars a day. Three-year-old Schuyler could go with me while his older brothers were in school.
Since Diane had purchased a new car before joining our family, and I didn’t have one, I asked her if she’d drop Schuyler and me off at the nearest bus stop at 8:00 every weekday morning. After her visits and errands, she agreed to pick us up at the same bus stop at 6:30 each evening.
On our seventy-minute bus ride up town, Schuyler and I read, drew, colored, talked, and played. Our exit was on State Street and North Temple. Sky’s little hand would squeeze my hand until his legs would tire. Then I’d carry him as I trudged the rest of the six-block uphill trek to the retirement center.
I kept my employer’s apartment clean, fixed her meals, and visited with her as much as she wanted. Sky would tug on the sheets and blankets when I changed her soiled bedding. He tried to help me with anything else she requested. When she napped, Schuyler and I would delight in a few moments of fresh air and sanity in the courtyard.
Six hours later on our long trek back to the bus stop, I’d carry worn-out Sky on the side of my bulging, pregnant belly. On the way I would pray God would save us a place on the crowded bus to sit down, so Schuyler could sleep on my lap while I rested. More often than not, we had to stand in the aisle nearly all the way back. Sky would cling tightly to my legs. To keep our balance, I’d firmly grip the top straps attached to the railing at the back of the bus. The bumps and stops jolted my belly back and forth. During those long rides, Sky would sit on my feet or on the floor of the bus and fall asleep.
While on the bus, I’d send Diane telepathic messages and hope she would hear me. “Please remember us and don’t be late again. Forgive me if I’ve done something that hurt you.”
Now and then a few tears escaped. What in God’s name was I doing all this for? I hated having to depend on her—or anyone—for anything.
After one of those long, hard days, Schuyler and I had to wait for Diane during a fall rainstorm for nearly fifty minutes. I turned down three rides from good Samaritans because I hoped she would arrive any minute. I di
d not want her to worry, or look for us, or wonder where we were. In the meantime, I silently cussed and cried. While Schuyler and I shivered, he screamed. I didn’t even have a quarter in my pocket for the pay phone to call someone else to come rescue us. I had no idea how much longer we’d have to wait.
Just like each time before when Diane was late, she had some kind of an excuse. I didn’t say one word, though it was all I could do not to tell her off. I had decided to be loving and kind to her, no matter what. But on that day, I actually felt hateful toward her. Through burning, teary eyes I let myself glance at her as she nonchalantly sat behind the steering wheel and drove us home in total silence. She was in control, and I could only foresee more tribulations in my life if I didn’t do something different.
In spite of all this, forgiving Diane and others never seemed too hard for me. It might have taken a while, but when I was ready, it was done. No matter what Diane did or didn’t do, I held far less animosity toward her for her injustices than I ever did for myself. I always forgave and cherished her. I had no doubt I always would. It was far more difficult to forgive me—the sister-wife I wasn’t—the one I wished I could be.
*****
The day after Thanksgiving and seventeen days past my due date, I experienced the joy of a perfectly normal and fairly easy delivery, with only seven hours of labor. Our handsome Jack, was delivered by my sister Francine at her home. He weighed eight pounds, had round, rosy cheeks and patches of thin, blond hair. He was absolutely amazingly adorable! His soul smiled at me through his deep blue eyes, and I cried in gratitude.
CHAPTER 25
Temple Ordinances
and Blessings
1980
The Allred Group had finally finished a massive building in Bluffdale, Utah, where church services and private school would be held. When it was completed, it was dedicated as the RCA Building, named after Rulon Clark Allred, who was loved by thousands and was a martyr for our cause.
By June 1980, members were in a major quandary as word and evidence leaked out. My father and his councilmen had finished and dedicated rooms with a “temple-like” atmosphere. In the basement of an apartment looking building, original temple ordinances began to be performed for those who were considered “worthy” recipients. After the rituals were completed, most of those men and women began to wear the sacred, old-fashioned, long underwear known as garments, just like my parents had done. Mother said a few “qualified” ladies who had previously been through the temple had been “set apart” (given a special blessing) to sew the garments. It was important each of these seamstresses understood and respected the significance of the markings and the rituals associated with them.
This caused quite the controversy among some members. We’d been taught from the beginning the temple ordinances would and should never be performed outside of LDS temples. For years on end, we prayed fervently the “temple doors would soon be open to the worthy” (meaning we saints). But after LDS Church officials stated all worthy men of African descent could hold the priesthood and partake of the blessings, many Allredites felt LDS officials had allowed the desecration of the temples.
I never wanted to wear the “sacred gift,” as I began to hear others call their garments. For so many years, I watched my mother’s dis-ease with them. I already felt too restricted with having to wear dresses to school and struggle all day long on Sundays, and I was also concerned I’d have a heatstroke. The most confining part of the “gift” was couples were advised not to take them off, even during lovemaking.
I was in a physical and spiritual dilemma. Part of me was relieved Mark, Diane and I were never “called” or considered “worthy” recipients. While several families became pushy and demanding about getting their “temple work” done, the other part of me was perplexed and despondent for not doing the same. Over a period of time, we were surrounded by men and women who had their “ordinance work” done, while I continued to feel defective.
With several families in The Group, Mark and I both felt my father and other council members had begun to dole out those endowments as if they were prize money. They’d pretty much be granted to anyone who knew how to charm or beg their “work” be done also. Neither of us wanted to be placated. I wanted to want the garments and be worthy, but I didn’t and wasn’t. Mark refused to suck up to Dad so he’d be asked to serve the sacrament, speak in meetings, or be called for specific priesthood duties or functions. In fact, he said, “I certainly don’t need to wear garments so others will think I’m a good man!”
I agreed with him wholeheartedly. We felt there were many who were granted blessings under the guise of being pious and devout members. My heart and head were in a dither. I didn’t want that “gift,” yet without having our ordinance work done; Mark, Diane and I couldn’t receive the blessings of protection through wearing the garments. Neither would we be exalted into the celestial kingdom without them.
My father told me not to worry about it. He explained how pressured he felt by some of his council members, even though, he felt they should have waited until Christ returns to set His church in order. Dad said his brethren, the council members, felt there were too many righteous and faithful men and women who would benefit from those extra blessings right now.
“Our original intent,” Dad explained, “was very few, under specific qualifications, would be ‘called’ for these blessings, but then things got out of hand. Men and women thought, ‘If he is worthy, then I am,’ and ‘If she’s laudable, then so is my wife,’ and ‘If they get to have their temple work done, why can’t we?’”
Dad looked penitent as he continued. “Yes, now we’re just as guilty of being out of order as is our mother church, who has ordained the blacks to the priesthood. We’ve done some grievous things. The Lord is very displeased with us for giving these holy ordinances to so many unworthy people. Those blessings may damn them—us—even further. And my brethren and I will be held accountable to God for our mistakes.”
Though I felt like an alien around all my brothers, sisters, and friends who were wearing their “gifts,” I thanked God that Mark and I were off the hook. I was elated that we didn’t “qualify” as others had. Those garments would surely cramp our lifestyle, make me feel guilty for accepting ordinances I wasn’t comfortable with, and damn us even further.
*****
The fights and anger were not solely between Mark and me—not since week one of his and Diane’s marriage. When I’d hear them argue, I was ashamed of my few seconds of glee. Moreover, I felt compassion for Diane’s sorrows. I understood her battlefield well.
The rationale for our regular disputes was nearly the same. Like me, Diane felt she had to defend her children when Mark raged at them, called them names, or spanked them far too hard. Though we seldom dared talk about those awful moments, I felt sure she had the same needs, feelings, and fears I did. But neither Diane nor I had the courage or the know-how to change things. Not only that, if one of us balked about his behaviors, she’d be in the doghouse for who knew how long, and he always had the other wife waiting with open arms.
While Swede’s brother, Chad, spent the summer of 1980 with him, I drank up his flirtatious attentiveness like I’d been dying of thirst. I’d lost a lot of weight during my pregnancy, and I felt wonderful. Chad’s words of admiration made me feel beautiful. Every smile, laugh, and conversation we shared momentarily filled the gaps in my low self-esteem. His doting friendship became so addictive it was hard for me to stay away. It was even more difficult for me to leave after I’d already stayed there much too long. Through all of Chad’s risqué propositions and promises of love, I knew his ultimate goal and assured him I would never give in.
“I’d live to regret it, lose my family and everything dear to me, and for sure go straight to hell,” I told Chad. “More than any other reason on earth, though, I want to be loyal to Mark because I love him.” The toughest guilt, was the craving I felt for Chad’s attention, while Mark was so very absent in my life.
On my way home, I’d swear to stay away longer and avoid him, (as my mother warned) like the plague.”
*****
I was so humiliated I wanted to climb under the table and disappear. If my dad and siblings knew I was asking the government for assistance, they would’ve been ashamed of me. Mark didn’t want me to ask for assistance either, but I couldn’t go on for one more minute wondering how or when our children would get their next meals.
“It won’t pay for me to go to work right now,” I explained to the service worker, whom I felt was asking too many snoopy questions. “I couldn’t earn enough to pay for gas and a babysitter. And if I did, there wouldn’t be any money left to feed or clothe my kids anyway.”
After the painful interrogation, I promised not to exchange my food stamps for money, give them away, or share the food I’d purchased with anyone other than my own family. I knew I had no choice but to commit a lesser sin in order to live a higher law. There was no way I could have food in my cupboards and fridge, and meals on the table, and let Diane and her children go without—besides they were my family.
After she and I made a long list of groceries together, it took me hours to muster up the courage to go to the grocery store. Then it took me ten minutes to become brave enough to take my grocery cart to the checkout stand. I felt like a criminal who was stealing from everyone on earth. The crisp food stamp bills might as well have had noise sensors that shouted, “You slothful scum—you have food stamps!” My insides shook and I held my breath. The clerk counted them out and gave me “the look,” or maybe I only imagined she was judging me.