A can of (really difficult, personally and politically) worms.

Class introductions are the worst. It’s strange to give a group of strangers your name and “a short introduction, whatever you feel the class should know about you.” Uh, I don’t think there’s anything that the class should know about me. I’m not that interesting, truth be told. But it’s First Day Protocol, so followed the lead of the preceding students, except for N who gave a three minute, way-too-detailed account of her/his life goals. So I said, red-faced and heart

After class, six of us walked to the campus shuttle that transports students to and from the train station. We were asking the typical questions, “Where did you get your undergrad degree?” and “How long have you lived in Boston?” and “I love your boots! Where did you get them?” And then there was a silence and a five-way glance exchange that I was very clearly not in on.

“Okay,” L finally said, “I’m just going to ask what we all wanna know. Are you Mormon?”

Crap. I laughed and focused on my shuffling feet before using a lame time-buying phrase like, “Oh, everyone wants to know, huh?” I didn’t listen to the responses and chose to boil my answer down to, “I was raised Mormon, but I’m not a practicing Mormon.” That seemed simple enough.

“What do you mean? Like you don’t believe it or…”

I shrugged. “Uh, it’s, you know, not for me, I guess.”

B leaned forward and asked said, “Can I ask about the magical pajamas?” (Why I instantly thought of Mithril from Lord of the Rings is still a mystery.)

“Oh,” I smiled, “Garments?”

“Yeah, sorry—I didn’t mean to offend. I just didn’t know what they were called. And what about polygamy? Didn’t that guy, Smith, right? Didn’t he have a lot of wives, like 20?”

And they kept on a-comin’.

“What do Mormons have against homosexuals?”

“What does your family think?”

“Why can’t Mormons have any fun?” This was, of course, a joke. And it was funny.

I’ve had too many conversations about Mormonism since I’ve been here, all of which I try to keep relatively short. I’m to offended or opposed to a dialogue, but the shuttle, all rickety and sharp-turning, doesn’t afford much time or consideration to a topic that, from my humble point of view, takes a hell of a lot of both.

Before splitting to catch our respective trains, B asked, “So, do you miss it?”

I smiled, unsure of what “it” meant and waved goodbye.