Heather Gay - Bad Mormon: A Memoir

AUTHORS NOTE

The official name of the Mormon church is the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The full name was given by revelation from God to the prophet Joseph Smith in 1838. For almost two hundred years, we called ourselves Mormons; it was the name of our book, our lessons, our songs, our marketing campaigns, our website, and a church-produced movie titled Meet the Mormons.

In 1990, one of the churchs apostles, Russell M. Nelson, spoke out against using the term Mormon and instead encouraged members to use the official name, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He was publicly reprimanded by the prophet Gordon B. Hinckley, who encouraged that the nickname Mormon be embraced. In 2018, when Nelson advanced to the office of prophet himself, getting rid of the nickname became one of his first orders of business. He proclaimed that the Lord had impressed upon his mind that using the proper name of the church was not negotiable and commanded that members stop referring to themselves as Mormons and instead only as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

He then asked the rest of the world to respect this new commandment and refrain from using Mormon and Mormonism when referring to church members, doctrine, culture, and lifestyles unique to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Originally, I tried to follow the prophet and the churchs style guide and use the full and proper name. But when I realized that I had used the word Mormon nearly two hundred times, it became clear that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was perhaps a bit belabored.

I have chosen to use Mormon and Mormonism as they are words with which I have found resonance since birth. Both monikers are used throughout the story in order to speak to my lived experience and my identity. This is not meant to offend or dismiss the identities of those who feel otherwise.

Youll soon find that this choice is only one of the many ways that I am a Bad Mormon.

PROLOGUE

I was thirty thousand feet above Death Valley contemplating my life.

It was sinking in. We were making a TV show! I pressed down hard on my lower lip to keep from smiling. I needed to stay serious and acknowledge the gravity of the situation; this was a life-altering moment! If I went on television and exposed everything Id been hiding from my friends, family, and church, there would be devastating consequences. But inside, the girl who grew up on MTVs Real World and Lauren Conrads The Hills was euphoric. Maybe this was my golden ticket.

As I flew back to Salt Lake City from Los Angeles, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the cloudy airplane window. With my polyester cap-sleeved blouse and quickly deflating three-barrel curls, I looked like a tried-and-true frugal Mormon, not a starlet of the stage or screen. I asked myself, Is this really happening? Does reality television seriously want me ?

This didnt happen for sensible, church-bred, landlocked single moms like me. In my small, insular world, there were few things I knew like the back of my hand, the Book of Mormon being one and the book of reality television being the other.

Years of reality television consumption had taught me that nothing hides from the cameras. You cant expect to go on television pretending to be something you arent. The viewers will see right through you.

From the time I was born, Id been indoctrinated to think in terms of binaries. Black or white, right or wrong, everything could be traced back to good or evil, God or Satan. There was no gray area, no in between. You could choose Hollywood, but youd have to give up heaven. You cant have both. With cameras in my face, my hand would be forced in one direction or the other.

Which route would I take? Would I pretend to be naive about the absurdities of my faith and hide behind my Mormon upbringing? Or would I use this opportunity as a chance to escape and finally come out of the closet Id been hiding in? Would I risk my eternity, my church, my community, my family, for a sizzle reel ?

I thought about my life, what I had imagined it would be and what it had become. I thought about my daughters and the life I desperately wanted to give them. How the fairy tale had all imploded. How the impact had revealed all the cracks in my faith. There was no putting Humpty Dumpty back together again. There was no moral dilemma to wrestle with. No real decision to be made. This was my way out.

Its all happening.

When an opportunity like this comes along, you grab it with both hands, kid. You grab it with both hands.

PART ONE

BAD DAUGHTER

CHAPTER 1

FEELS LIKE HOME

N estled in a suburban Colorado cul-de-sac in an unassuming cottage rambler on quiet Ivy Way, I sat peering out my bedroom window. I imagined myself as queen of the castle observing my kingdom below. My room was on the second floor and high enough to observe both the static familiarity of my own backyard and the unexplored wilderness just beyond my neighborhood. Leafy aspen trees shaded our playhouse and trampoline, the spindly branches growing low enough to display my moms hand-painted wooden birdhouses. There were potted geraniums on the patio and a weathered soccer ball long forgotten in the basement window well. Adjacent to the swing set was a custom-built wooden sandbox filled with half-buried plastic shovels, pails, and tiny trucks, their wheel axles forever frozen by grains of sand.

This corner of heaven was my domain, and its perimeter was clearly defined by a six-foot-tall teakwood fence my dad had built and stained with help from family and friends. It created an impressive and imposing boundary complete with a private gate. The gate not only allowed us direct access to the undeveloped land preserve bordering our property but also kept our home private from the passing traffic and the vast landscape. We were safe and set apart, with access to the outside world when and if we needed it.

I had been told on more than one occasion not to go through the gate without my parents, but their warnings never stopped me from dreaming. What good is a queen if shes not striving to expand her kingdom? The longer I gazed at the mounds of dirt and prairie grass bordering our neighborhood, the more I felt them calling to me.

My mom and I had been reading aloud the book Incident at Hawks Hill and I had become fixated on the story of young Ben, a six-year-old boy on the frontier who wandered away from his home and is nurtured, cared for, and fed from the teat of a wounded badger separated from her cubs. This story spoke to me and my maternal instincts. I was convinced a lost child could be living in the field outside my suburban Denver neighborhood, but Id never know if I didnt leave the safety of my bedroom. If I was going to find a badger den and an actual feral child to rescue and raise as my very own, I would have to venture through the forbidden gate, not just dream about it. And so it was, after weeks of gazing out my window imagining my destiny, I finally dared to try.

The lock had been positioned just high enough to allow a taller, more responsible person to go through the gate, close it, and then return to the backyard by reaching over the top of the fence to unlatch the lock from the other side. The secret to the gate was twofold: you had to be tall enough, and you had to know exactly where on the fence the lock was located. Once shut, the gate was virtually undetectable from the surrounding fence and out of reach to any adventurous six-year-old.