B, my boyfriend, is known in Post-Mormon communities as a “Never-Mo.”
Every Mormon parents' worst nightmare or greatest conquest.
These “Never-Mos” are either a missionary opportunity for conversion or an everlasting disappointment.
Happily, B falls into the latter category, though I worry frequently for his sanity. Does he really know what he's gotten himself into?
I tell him, "Now, we are always going to be the different ones. We'll be the Not Good Enough Ones. You're going to be a doctor. Still not Good Enough. You're loving and kind. Still not Good Enough. You care for me. Take care of me. Respect me. Encourage me. Love me. Not Good Enough."
I don't think he realizes how deep the ties of Mormonism go.
The ties are like the blackberry bushes I dug up for my mom one summer. At first glance, the branches are spindly. The leaves are tender and full of deep purple berries. Look deeper, the thorns. Deeper still, the roots tangle around each other. Gnarled. Suffocating. Mangled. Choking out anything else struggling to live.
I pulled up that blackberry bush entirely.
But year after year, it returns.