Final Essay—Part 1

Outside the Lines

 

I was six years old and driving somewhere with my dad. I don't remember why it was just the two of us, but I do remember that I got to sit in the front seat for a change. As we pulled onto the freeway, I was shocked and alarmed when I saw the other cars moving from lane to lane, and even more alarmed when my dad started to move over too.

"Daddy!" I cried. "You can't go outside the lines! That's cheating!" He laughingly explained that it was okay—that the lanes were for different speeds and anyone could move back and forth. But it didn't seem right to my little mind—I always tried to color inside the lines in my coloring books. We couldn't break the rules. How could we move off course and still end up in the right place?

As I got older, it became even more important to me to "stay inside the lines" and do things the right way. In high school, my friends would tell me I was "perfect" and I though I would deny it out loud, I was secretly pleased. But I also started to feel restricted by the label. I remember how I cringed every time I aced a test or a paper and someone said, "Of course you did. You're perfect." How I tried to hide my straight-A grades from people, how I tried not to talk about myself much at all. Even though I knew I wasn't perfect, I felt a lot of pressure to make it look like I was. Part of me was annoyed, frustrated, trapped by that word. But there was a part of me that knew that I could make it seem true. I could get the perfect grades, have the perfect color hair, be the perfect friend. But at the same time, I lived in fear that I would mess it up, that I would make a mistake, that someone would see through the "perfection."

***

I stared down at my cell phone, reading the words of the text for the hundredth time: I love you. It was October of my junior year of college at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. The date on the text was from more than eighteen months earlier, and it was from Scott. I had saved it for all those months but without really knowing why. Scott and I had dated during high school and my first year of college, and though things had never been perfect, it was the only relationship I had ever had. Now I was still in Utah and Scott was in England serving a mission for our church. In the Mormon Church, missions are two years long and the rules are pretty strict about not having contact with people back home—no phone calls and limited emailing. Even so, we had managed to keep in touch and stay connected through weekly emails.

I love you. I had held on to those words, pulled them out occasionally, though less and less frequently in the last few months. Being apart had allowed me to gain some perspective on our relationship, and with the time and distance, I had painfully come to realize that what my family had been telling me for years was true: it wasn't a good relationship. I had never believed them when Scott and I were together, always defending his actions and my decisions. I thought we had the perfect Mormon romance: he was my first date, my first kiss, my first and only boyfriend. We had been friends for a long time, through many ups and downs, and we were certain we could survive Scott's leaving to serve a mission for the Church. We had even talked about getting married some day while we were still in high school. If everything went according to plan, we would get married the summer after he got home from his mission. At the time, it was a good plan: a straight course to follow to reach the end destination.

But I wasn't so sure about that course now. I was absolutely certain about the end destination—I very much wanted to get married—but I wasn't certain I wanted to get married to Scott. In our religion, there is so much pressure to get married. Marriage is one of the most important aspects of Mormon life. I suppose it's important for most people, but for Mormons, it is everything. We believe in families and a lot of what we do is geared toward strengthening family relationships. We also believe that marriages and families don't end at death, but that they can be eternal, infinite. There is no "until death do you part," and that is something we do not take lightly.

In addition to the rules about serving a mission, there are many other standards of the Mormon church that make us seem a little peculiar: we don't drink, we don't smoke, we don't date until we are 16, and we don't have sex before we're married. All of the standards and beliefs of our church combine to create a culture that can sometime overshadow the beliefs themselves, especially in Utah, which is over 75% Mormon. When everyone believes the same things, everyone knows what you should be doing and how you should be acting. The standards of our religion seep into every aspect of life until what we consider morally right also becomes what is socially acceptable. And that means that the pressure to do what is right for your own conscience is compounded and complicated by the desire to look good in front of your friends and neighbors. Somehow God's judgment gets mixed in with public opinion and the result can be a whole lot of excess guilt if you don't do what is expected.

Because of our focus and belief in marriage as something divine and important, we tend to marry quickly and marry young. There are a couple of reasons for this, one being that we don't have any premarital sex, so our hormones tend to speed the process up. But more than that, it's instilled in us from day one that marriage is our goal, and while there are a lot of other good and important things in life, such as education and a career, marriage is top priority. But when it becomes the only goal, so many opportunities get ignored, discarded, and undervalued. In a culture so focused on marriage and families, being single almost becomes a mark of shame. Somehow it fosters the belief that you aren't a person until you are married.

As I sat on my bed, phone still in hand, I still believed that marriage should be the goal, but I was starting to wonder, at what cost? I looked at the text again: I love you. Was Scott's love really what I wanted? Why was I still hanging on to it? Could I bring myself to let it go, let myself go outside the lines?

 

I tried to remember the good times, the reasons I stayed in the relationship. Things like our first kiss, which had seemed magical at the time. Scott and I were on a walk, holding hands as we enjoyed the warmth of the evening and watched the stars come out. We were on vacation with my family at Capitol Reef National Park in southern Utah, and though the sunlight was quickly fading, the deep red and cream cliffs were still visible on every horizon. We were seventeen and it was the start of our senior year of high school. Though we had been awkwardly introduced by a mutual friend two years before, this was the first time that we were heading toward being "together." I was so happy to have some alone time with him, happy just to be holding his hand, happy to be pretty sure that he liked me. We rounded the last corner to go back to the house, when I saw a shooting star out of the corner of my eye.

    "Quick! Make a wish!" I squeezed my eyes shut tight. I wish…I wish for Scott for kiss me. I wish for it to be tonight. I wish, I wish....

    I opened my eyes and saw that Scott was looking at me with a strange expression on his face, something between anticipation indecision. "What did you wish for?" he asked.

    "I can't tell you that," I teased. "It won't come true."

    Scott looked at me, contemplating something. "I want to kiss you but I'm not sure how," he suddenly blurted out. He looked away, embarrassed. I tried hard not to smile too widely, mentally thanking the stars.

    "I don't know that I'll be much help to you," I said slowly, "but I think you should."

    He looked at me again, this time hopeful. I looked up at him, smiling and nervous and excited. But Scott, in his nervousness, started walking again. After a brief moment of confusion, I hurried to catch up and take his hand again. I wasn't going to let this moment go, but I wanted to let this be his moment. I would let him take the lead. After a minute, he slowed down and turned…and then kept walking. He did it again, then again. The next time he stopped, I fixed him with an encouraging smile and tightened my grip around his fingers, tilting my head up slightly. This was going to be it. I willed him some courage as he leaned toward me, his eyes on mine. I took a deep breath, willing him to complete the thought, fulfill the wish, kiss my lips—

    He swooped toward me, sudden and hasty. His lips were cold against mine, the period of an exclamation point, almost overlooked, swift and then gone. I didn't have time to take in the sensation before he started walking again, the relief immediately evident. I started walking with him again, but I wasn't sure what to think about the walking or the cold lips or the kiss…the kiss.

    I smiled as I realized what had happened. In spite of the stopping and hesitation, I finally got my first kiss, and it was from the boy I liked more than anyone else. And in my mind, that's all that mattered.