America, You Sexy Bitch Read online

  I’m also told there is a higher percentage of interest in breast augmentation surgery here than anywhere else, which stumps me until I find out that the state also leads the country in births per mother. The theory goes that women here have more children at younger ages, and ultimately wear out their milk factories. Who wouldn’t want a little lift? What’s more curious is that the general plastic surgery rate is also higher here than elsewhere in the country, which makes me wonder what other body parts are being improved upon and why. As my new Vegas buddy Kasey says, “Repression breeds obsession.”

  Of course, people in Salt Lake City want to emphasize to visitors that their town is about more than Mormonism, but I personally don’t care about their jazz festivals and hiking trails and whatever else they’ve got. When I go to Salt Lake City, I have only one destination in mind: “Show me the Mormons.”

  Meghan: The entire purpose of visiting Salt Lake City is to explore further the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Although I have exposure and knowledge of the church and Mormonism, both Michael and I want to know more: why Mormonism seems to be such a point of fascination in the media, and to get a better insight into why Mormonism is currently the fastest-growing religion in America.

  As I look around the rental place and see so many shiny, happy faces, I start to wonder if maybe this is the religion I’m missing. Maybe this is my church. I have had such a tumultuous relationship with organized religion that I refer to myself as a “liberal Christian,” a term I stole from the wonderful Kristin Chenoweth. In general, however, I am conflicted about many religious concepts. Much like my politics, there is a lot of room for gray. I enjoy going to church and have found much comfort in it. I pray every day, but I believe that all of us are praying to the same divine force—the God that created us, looks over us, and protects us.

  I don’t believe that there is a right God and a wrong God, that one religion’s image of God is better than another. The biggest conflict I have had with my childhood church is how it approaches the issue of homosexuality. I believe people are born gay, and I don’t accept that God makes mistakes. I also don’t understand where the hate comes from when all versions of God and Christ say that we need to love one another and not spread hate. Because of my church’s position, I am constantly feeling like I’m missing out on something by not having one specific religion to join and claim entirely as my own. Who knows, maybe on this trip I will find out that Brigham Young is the man who will bring complete and total enlightenment to me. At this point, I am open to anything. Maybe I will want to convert to Mormonism by the time we leave Salt Lake City. I mean, it’s not out of the question, and the thought crosses my mind . . . but the thought also crosses my mind that my behavior the night before probably automatically precludes me from being allowed into the Mormon church.

  Michael is an atheist. I don’t understand atheism, and this core difference between us strikes me as one of the most profound. I don’t understand not having some kind of faith in something or believing in some form of God. The absence of a higher power of some kind, or there being some sort of divine plan just doesn’t make sense. Really, nothing comes after this? And there was nothing before this? I refuse to believe it, and I find atheists arrogant. Arrogant and simpleminded. It’s one of the few deal breakers when it comes to the men I will date. No atheists. No atheists and no vegans. I’m still a red state girl at heart and I like my men to eat red meat and love God. Faith is such a huge part of my life that it is hard for me to conceive of what it’s like for someone to get out of bed every morning and not have faith in their life.

  I really didn’t think I could connect with an atheist until I met Michael. My closest friends and the people who have had the most intense impact on my life all have the common denominator of a strong sense of faith in some form of a higher power. Michael believes in nothing. He doesn’t believe in God, he doesn’t believe in an afterlife. I don’t understand this. I don’t understand how a husband and father of two can believe in nothing. Michael is so full of life in so many different ways, I am perplexed and even borderline angered that he finds faith in nothing. It makes me sad for him and I’ve already tried to convert him to something, or as I jokingly said, “Turn him into a believer.”

  Michael has his own reasons for not believing in a higher power, but all of his reasons only make me sadder. I always assumed atheism would come with some kind of emptiness or loneliness in an individual, but Michael doesn’t display any of that, so maybe I am wrong, but for the rest of Michael’s life I am going to continue trying to pull him over to my side and make him a believer. One of the many things he will have to deal with about me until he dies and goes to heaven.

  Michael: Meghan does not seem to understand my feelings about religion. Yes, I’m an atheist. No, I do not believe in an afterlife. But atheism is not the same thing as nihilism. Nor is atheism (at least my version of atheism) a lack of spirituality.

  My belief system basically boils down to this: I believe the world is more mysterious than we know and maybe more mysterious than we ever can know. Answers reveal questions that reveal answers, forever, like an endless game of Jeopardy. Our search for meaning is what defines us as human beings. To me, that search is our spirituality. Maybe the thing we seek is what some people call God.

  I am not opposed to religion. Far from it. I’m for anything that gives people peace. That’s why I am also for hot tubs and compact discs of whale songs. Anything that soothes the soul is fine by me.

  Where I get upset is when people presume to tell me how to live my life based on their religious beliefs. I don’t care what you worship or how you worship. Jesus, Vishnu, Satan: it’s all the same to me. But please don’t shove it in my face. You keep your gods in your backyard and I’ll keep my lack of God in mine; that way we can all go to Applebee’s together without a problem.

  Which doesn’t mean I’m not interested in religion. I am. I love to learn about people’s faiths, which is what brought us to Salt Lake City in the first place. Of course, we’re only staying for the day because belief systems are fascinating, yes, but only in small doses. We’ve got to use our time here wisely.

  First stop is the most popular tourist destination in Salt Lake City, Temple Square, home to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It’s exactly what it claims to be: a huge square in the middle of town, where they’ve built an enormous temple. I’ve seen plenty of churches, cathedrals, and synagogues in my day, but they all shrink in front of this granite monolith. I’m excited to go to the temple and get a better sense of what makes Mormonism a compelling religion. Before that, though, we’ve got to get something to eat.

  We try to zero in on a restaurant near the temple, but nothing sounds good. Everything is “Eat at Brigham Young’s House!” “Eat What Brigham Young Ate!” “The Joseph Smith Burger!” Instead of tucking into a “Coca-Cola Pork Loin,” surely created by one of Brigham Young’s fifty-five wives (notwithstanding the tiny detail that Coke wasn’t invented until eleven years after Young’s death), we end up at some bagel shop right across from Temple Square.

  Right away, it’s obvious that the clientele here is not typical LDS. For one thing, the guy at the counter has tattoos and those big ethnic earrings that make it look like you stuck a donut in your earlobe. He’s some sort of punk rocker, I guess, which seems out of place for the area. The other workers at the shop all have a similar vibe. Salt Lake City basically has two looks: door-to-door salesman or homeless guy. These guys aren’t selling encyclopedias. After Meghan and I order our sandwiches, Stephie hangs out to wait for her order. She gets to talking with the counter guy and mentions that we’re writing a book about politics.

  “You want to meet some anarchists?” he asks.

  “Are there a lot of anarchists in Salt Lake City?”

  “You’re talking to one.”

  He asks Stephie if we want to hang out with his anarchist posse. I nod hell yes! I’ve never met an actual anarchist, let alone in Amer
ica’s most religious city. This is great news. We’ll tour the temple, have dinner with our hosts, and then hook up with the anarchists for a wild night of Molotov cocktail–making and nihilist theory. Perfect!

  “Great,” he says. His name is Omar. He instructs us to meet him back at four when his shift ends.

  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that of all the places to run into an anarchist, we happen to meet one in America’s most religious city. Anarchy, or at least the desire for anarchy, is the natural response to feeling stifled and rule bound. The more rules a society has, the fewer rules its citizenry wants. (See under: Tahrir Square.) Anarchy is just the political expression of that feeling. Of course, actual anarchy can’t exist because a lack of law would only allow the strongest and most brutal to take over, thus creating even more totalitarianism. They say Somalia is as close to anarchy as the world has at the moment, and I don’t see a lot of young Omars boarding planes for Mogadishu. Even so, it’ll be cool to hang out with a bunch of anarchists for the night to see what they actually do. If we don’t light some things on fire and steal some cars, I’m going to be very disappointed.

  Meghan: The area surrounding the Mormon temple is a difficult thing to describe. The only other place I have seen such meticulous grooming of plants and flowers is the White House. The square is teeming with different flowers, plants, and a small, raised marble stream that filters around the entire surrounding areas. It’s gorgeous. Stunning even. Tranquil, beautiful, calm, serene. Everything you would hope for and imagine for a religious setting. Michael and I look like black flies on a white wedding cake. First of all, we are disheveled from our taxis, planes, and cars, not to mention dragging from our mutual lack of sleep. I am in leggings, long black top, and a denim jacket. Michael . . . well, I think you know by now exactly what Michael is wearing. I’m starting to think that he’s got ten pairs of identical linen pants in his suitcase. At least it’s what I want to think. With our messy hair and large, dark sunglasses we stand out. I wish I had stopped to put on a nice dress and do my hair before we visited the temple.

  There are small crowds of people walking around, talking, visiting, and taking pictures. One man who looks to be the leader of a small church group, comes up to Michael and asks him why he looks familiar. The man is dressed in a crisp button-down shirt, nice slacks, polished shoes, and wears his hair slicked straight back.

  Michael gets very uncomfortable if you approach his celebrity in this way. Here’s a tip for all you Michael Ian Black fans out there: If you are out on the street and you recognize Michael, if you do not also recognize his work, do not approach him. If you recognize him, talk about his appearances on Comedy Central, The State, or Stella. Do not talk about his work on VH1 or Ed. Michael could never be a successful politician; he is incapable of the smile and nod.

  This is how the back and forth goes at the Mormon temple with the nice Mormon man:

  Nice-looking Mormon man: “You look familiar.”

  Michael: “I don’t know, I’m an actor and a comedian.”

  Nice-looking Mormon man: “Where would I have seen you?”

  Michael: “I’ve had a few shows on Comedy Central.”

  Nice-looking Mormon man: “No, that’s not it.”

  Michael: “I dunno, I’m an actor and a comedian.”

  I can’t take it anymore, so I barge into the conversation. “Sir, you’ve seen him on the show Ed.”

  “Yesssss, of course. That’s it!!!” The nice-looking Mormon man practically high-fives me. “My wife and I looove that show. Watched it every week.”

  Michael and the nice-looking Mormon man proceed to have a conversation about Ed, why we are visiting the Mormon temple, and why the nice-looking Mormon man is also visiting the Mormon temple with his group of students and followers that day. Michael looks like he would rather be eating a pile of worms. I get it: being recognized but not “recognized” is awkward. I’m just trying not to burst into uncomfortable laughter at Michael being recognized in the shadow of this huge temple, by an Ed-loving Mormon. Michael clearly wants my help getting out of this endless conversation, but instead I just stand there and nod along with the nice-looking Mormon man’s monologue. Maybe if Michael had been more forthcoming I’d be more sympathetic, but he’s getting pretty much exactly what he deserves. Red America loves Ed. Michael should be proud!

  Michael: The Mormon temple anchors the ten-acre site, but there are a bunch of other related buildings, including two visitors’ centers and the tabernacle, which sits like a foil-topped Mormon

  Superdome behind the temple. Temple Square is a huge tourist destination, drawing millions of people every year. I’m not exactly sure why they come, because there’s not much to do. No rides, for example. No deep-fried Twinkie booth. Just flowers and quiet water features and cheerful-looking people strolling around taking pictures of stuff.

  It’s lovely, but weird. Like Canada. Everything is familiar but just off enough that I feel out of place.

  Meghan also says she feels uncomfortable.

  “Why?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “It just doesn’t feel spiritual to me at all.”

  I know what she means. There’s nothing mysterious about the place, nothing grand, nothing that stirs the soul. As holy as the place is to the LDS community, to me it feels less like a religious site and more like an upscale conference center: a Holy Land as designed by the Ramada Corporation. Maybe that’s why Mormonism is so popular in America right now. Americans love their corporations. What better, then, than a corporatized religion? I mean, has there ever been a better representation of both Mormonism and corporatism than Mitt Romney? He doesn’t just come across as a guy who drinks milk; he comes across as a guy who is milk. Skim.

  Meghan: Much to our disappointment, the temple is closed for renovations. We sit down and just people watch. There’s a really cute couple who look to be about sixteen taking wedding pictures. The girl’s wearing a wedding dress that is so modest her grandmother could have worn it. They play with different poses, hugging, standing up on a ledge to get a better shot of the temple, and pecking kissing.

  I start daydreaming about what my life would be like if I had been raised Mormon. I’d probably be married by now—in these parts, I am definitely an old maid. To prove my point, along comes a grandmother who can’t be more than fifty, with a gaggle of grandchildren. The way their outfits match gets me to thinking that the stores must sell these things in groups at a discount, a kind of Mormon Garanimals.

  “Now, smile, this is for your dad’s race,” Grandma says and my ears perk up. These are a politician’s kids—I can feel it in my DNA—and this must be the day they’re taking pictures for what I assume is their father’s campaign. I prod Stephie to go ask what their father is running for. Grandma jumps back a little when Stephie approaches, then seems to dismiss her. I look down at my clothes, at Michael’s, at Stephie’s, and I realize that we are dressed like people who shop in a non-Mormon store. We don’t all match. It’s one of those moments when I want to say something to prove my Red State bone fides, but my politicking radar is receiving the message loud and clear: We Don’t Talk to Strangers.

  Michael: Meghan and I watch as the grandparents try to blow Stephie off, and the kids goof off in their button-downs, narrowly missing pushing one another into the fountain. One of them, about six years old, keeps frowning and squirming. He clearly doesn’t want to be there.

  “That’s the gay one,” I joke to Meghan.

  “Come on, this is for Daddy’s campaign poster,” Grandma says to the kids as she turns her back to Stephie, and snaps off a photo. Meghan sends Nermal over to pry some information out of these people. Sweet, unthreatening Nermal—the perfect spy.

  “Excuse me,” she says, “I couldn’t help overhearing that your son is running a political campaign. Is that right?” I can tell she’s about to explain that we’re writing a political book, but the grandfather cuts her off.

  “No.”

 
; No? Didn’t Grandma just say this is for daddy’s campaign poster?

  “Yes,” says Grandma. “Our son is running for the Nevada state legislature.”

  “Oh,” says Grandpa somewhat begrudgingly. “Yeah.”

  Why did he just lie to Nermal? Nobody lies to Nermal! Stephie starts to ask some questions but the grandparents deflect them all. For whatever reason, they don’t want to talk about their son the maybe-politician. Maybe they think we’re press or something. Maybe we are.

  They are polite but firm. They don’t want to talk, and after a couple more sentences, they gather the children and stroll away. I swear the six-year-old looks at us with pleading eyes as they walk through aisles of perfectly manicured flowers. Take me with you, his eyes seem to say.

  LDS are a guarded people, which I understand. Their early history is about persecution. In fact, the reason they are in Utah at all is because they were chased across the country by people who didn’t want a bunch of religious nuts settling in their hometowns, which is weird considering our country was founded by a bunch of religious nuts. The religion’s founder, Joseph Smith, was murdered in 1844 by some locals who didn’t want this newfangled religion setting up shop in their hometown of Nauvoo, Illinois.

  We learn this after going to one of the square’s two visitors’ centers. When we walk in, we are greeted by two young missionaries in knee-length skirts and button-down shirts. One is from Germany, the other from South Korea. Each wears her home country’s flag under her name tag, just like hotel clerks do at some of your more international Ramadas. They ask if we’d like to take a tour. You bet we would. The Korean girl goes off to find a tour guide for us. I ask the German girl about her missionary work.