Mr. Bailey says, “Dear Heavenly Father, we’re thankful for this bounty and for the chance to spend time together as a family with our new friends. We’re thankful for the people who helped grow the food that went into this meal. Please bless them. Amen.”
I say “Amen” when Mrs. Bailey and Gareth say it. Not sure if Aisha does or not. But for me, saying the word in unison makes me feel like part of something, and I want that. Thanks to this trip, I’m beginning to really enjoy feeling like a part. Rather than always apart.
And that prayer? It was just … thankful. It was nice. I didn’t hate it.
Over dinner, Gareth talks about Frisbee golf, and about a new set of “rockin’ discs” he’d like to buy. Mr. Bailey jokingly asks Gareth if he’s considered putting half that much enthusiasm into a job search, and you can kind of feel the tension at the table, that there’s a story and an ongoing drama surrounding this.
I guess no family is perfect. Though clearly, some families are more perfect than others.
I have never sat at a dinner table with both my parents that I can remember. When my mom took us back to New York and we moved in with my grandparents, the four of us had dinner sometimes, but that’s it. Ever since my grandparents moved down to Florida four years ago, I mostly dine in front of the TV. Mom and I rarely eat at the same time. And meals are important, aren’t they? I have never really thought about that before.
I turned on my phone before dinner. There were three long voicemails from Mom. The first one went like this:
“Carson. I feel like we need to have a conversation about boundaries. I feel really surprised that you would violate my boundaries like this. I hear that you have your heart set on this trip you’re taking, and if you would simply engage me in a conversation, perhaps I could come to understand why you think it’s necessary at this time, of all times, to drive off with a friend you barely know. I want you to know that I recognize that you’re individuating right now, and certainly that process is made no easier by spending time with your father. I know that’s been terribly difficult for you, and I honor that. But you simply need to be aware that my boundaries are not to be crossed. If you do cross them, there will be repercussions. I intend for us to sit down when you return and really tackle some of these issues. Please keep me updated about when you’ll be back.”
I looked at my phone. I thought about sitcom mothers. They run hot, not cold. They care too much. They meddle in their kids’ business. They yell and scream or they work hard not to yell and scream even though they want to. I thought, My mom would not make a great sitcom mother. I didn’t respond. I turned my phone off again.
The conversation bounces between our journey, and Gareth’s lack of a job, and Mr. Bailey’s exciting yet fascinating career as an accountant. Then Aisha says to Mrs. Bailey, “So what was your committee thing this morning, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It’s a church thing. I counsel abused women,” Mrs. Bailey says, her voice taking on a more serious tone we haven’t heard before.
Mr. Bailey, who looks a bit like a TV senator with his khaki-colored hair parted at the side, says, “I encourage Stacy to get out into the community.”
Aisha asks, “Counsel them how?” I hear the edge, but I’m hoping Mrs. Bailey doesn’t.
Mrs. Bailey swallows the bite of food she was chewing. “Do you know what righteous dominion is?”
We both shake our heads no.
“Well, in the Mormon church, men are charged with providing a righteous dominion over our families. Most Mormons are probably more like us, where Robert is the head of the household but we’re all involved. But in other homes … We have a growing problem with unrighteous dominion. Men who use neglect, or physical, emotional, or even sexual abuse, to rule their families. I counsel women who have to deal with unrighteous dominion.”
“How do you counsel them? What do you tell them to do?” Aisha asks, that edge still in her voice. I’m guessing she thinks that Mrs. Bailey tells them to endure it. I want to kick her under the table because, well, not that the question isn’t a good one. But these are our hosts.
Mrs. Bailey’s face is a mask of patience. “Well, it depends. Oftentimes, we’re teaching them to protect themselves. Some of these women are in danger, and we help them get themselves and their families out of harm’s way.”
Aisha doesn’t have an answer for that one. “Cool,” I say, covering for her.
Mrs. Bailey gives me a kind smile. “It’s a dangerous world out there. Here in the Mormon world too. Women can be victims, and they shouldn’t have to be.”
We all go back to eating for a bit. And then Aisha starts another conversation.
“You supported Prop Eight.”
“What’s Prop Eight?” Mr. Bailey asks.
“It made gay marriage in California illegal for a while. It was overturned,” Aisha says.
“Oh,” he says, like someone just poked him in the ribs.
“I’m a lesbian,” she says.
“Oh,” Mr. Bailey says again. “Okay. I respect your lifestyle choice. To me it’s a sin, but that’s between you and God.”
Aisha raises her voice. “I didn’t choose a lifestyle,” she says. “Did you choose to be Mormon?”
The table is quiet for a bit, but we can all feel the grenade under the floor.
“That’s not the same,” Mr. Bailey says.
“No?” Aisha says, scooping up a forkful of potato.
“My religion is my belief system. Yours is about who you …”
She looks directly at him. “Who I what?”
He shrugs. “Choose to love.”
Aisha shakes her head. “Right. Because who wouldn’t choose to be a second-class citizen?”
I want to disappear. I want to crawl under the table.
“We didn’t support that,” Mr. Bailey says, frowning. “That proposition.”
“Sure you did. The Mormon church funded most of it.”
“We’re not the Mormon church,” he says, his frown becoming more pronounced.
“Do you go to church? Do you give money?”
I realize that as rude as Aisha is being, she’s right. If the Mormons gave money to an antigay cause, anyone who gave money to a Mormon church also supported it, indirectly at least.
“You seem to think you know where I stand on issues based on my religion,” he says, his voice clipped and practiced. “Do I know where you stand on issues because you’re a lesbian?”
“No,” Aisha says. “I guess you don’t.”
“So maybe instead of telling me what my beliefs are, you should ask.”
Aisha doesn’t respond. She just grips her fork tight. Mr. Bailey doesn’t know what she’s been through, and I wish I could find a way to tell him to lay off, to let this all go. But I can’t.
“I have nothing against gay people,” he says. “And I don’t have a strong opinion about gay marriage. All people should be equal.”
“Don’t tell me,” Aisha says, her lips tense. “Tell your damn leaders.”
I stand up. “Can you excuse us for a second?”
“Hey,” she says to me. “You don’t have righteous dominion over me. I can say what the hell I want.”
“You’re right,” I say, my head buzzing. “But it’s rude. These people are our hosts.”
Aisha takes a deep breath and shakes her head. “I can’t ever do anything right.” She looks up at them. “I’m sorry. I apologize. Can I be excused?”
Mr. Bailey nods, and Aisha just about runs back to her room. I sit back down, but I don’t pick up my fork. I can’t. Earlier I chose hanging with Gareth over her. I can’t do it to her twice in a row.