The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance: A Memoir (34 page)

I tried to shake it off, but it hurt—actually it stung. And more than anything, I wanted to cry about it, but I knew the only thing I could do to embarrass myself worse was to start audibly sobbing. I looked up at Matt’s ghetto ceiling instead, and tried to think of something else, anything.

How did I get here?
I asked myself. I wanted a reason, something that’d create a narrative, ascribe meaning to meaninglessness, and help me make sense of my life. Instead, it just was. And this was the best answer I could come up with.

Some day
,
I suppose I will be very grateful for the way that Matt acted.
I felt for the ring on my finger and twisted it back and forth
. Except right now, it’s my first night in Zambia, he wants nothing to do with me, and I’ ll be here for another eight days.
I hate myself.

 

If you think about it, I was always up against a lot. A Mormon in New York, and an uninterested atheist in Lusaka—ours was the most impossible of all impossible love stories. Most people would’ve given up here, but not me. “
No” Means Nothing to Me
. That’s not a joke either. It’s actually the title of the only award I’ve ever received. I got it in fifth grade. They were holding auditions for the middle-school play so I mustered up all the courage I could and tried out. After I finished my reading, the director asked me what grade I was in. When I answered fifth grade, he laughed and said, “You’re in elementary school, get out of here.”

I came home crying. After hearing the entire saga, my dad gave me the following advice: “Go back tomorrow and offer to help with the show, sweep the stage, whatever they need. If you do did this I promise you that by the end of the year you’ll have a part in that play.”

He was right. I spent the next six months doing child labor. To thank me for my work the director gave me a cameo in the final show. I was supposed to play a mom picking up her daughter from school. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand the concept of walk-on role. I made an elaborate costume, complete with saggy mom boobs. When it was my turn to enter, I walked onstage, tossed one sagging boob over my shoulder, grabbed my daughter, and left.

Later that night, while celebrating over banana splits, my parents told me it was embarrassing how much I’d upstaged the other actors. Apparently for the rest of the play they, along with the rest of the audience, kept wondering,
When does the mom come back in?

I thought this was the end of it; only, a few weeks later, at the all school awards ceremony, the middle-school principal stood up. “We have a special award to give out today,” he said. “It’s not going to a middle schooler either, it’s actually for a fifth grader.” The crowd murmured over the controversy.

“We call this the “
No” Means Nothing to Me
award and we’re presenting it to Elna Baker, because ‘
no’
really means nothing to her.”

It was the proudest moment of my eleven-year-old life. But as an adult this quality has come back to bite me in the ass several times over. Because guess what?
Sometimes “no” actually means “no.”
Unfortunately, I have a very hard time accepting this. I’m the puppy you have to kick for it to go away. And no matter how much evidence there is stacked up against me, I’m always optimistic. It’s a self-inflicted punishment. I’m like Sisyphus, only instead of a rock I’ve been sentenced to shove a square peg into a round hole for eternity, always certain it’s about to fit. “
No” means nothing to me
. In another life I was probably a rapist.

But back to Africa.

The following morning, on a crowded bus that smelled of the worst BO I’d ever experienced, Alison, Pri, and I huddled underneath a BO shield that we created by draping a towel over our area and opening two bottles of deodorant.

“So, what happened?” Alison asked me. “Did you guys kiss?”

I told them the entire story. And you know, hearing it out loud, it sounded just as bad as it felt. But something about their eyes and the way that they listened made me forever grateful for female friends. At least they could empathize, and at least they were there, ready to laugh and tell me it was okay.
We all make asses of ourselves when we’re with men
.

“Your ability to cockblock yourself is unprecedented,” Pri said, “but it’s too funny not to let it happen.”

“Thanks,” I said. “At least I’m good for something.”

The bus ride was so long; we started to regret taking the trip. But the following day, when we got to Victoria Falls, it was all worth it. If you can only take one trip in your life, go to Victoria Falls. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was like ten Niagara Falls in a row, but taller. And there were no barricades, no walls, no safety precautions; it was just there, this huge opening in the earth that was gushing water and reflecting dozens of giant rainbows. I had no idea that the earth could look so majestic. Crossing a rickety rope bridge that took us to the other side of the falls, I was hit by so much spraying water, I started laughing like a kid. Because it was new, because I’d never experienced anything like it before, because it made me incredibly happy.

This high was short lived. After two days in Victoria Falls we went back to Lusaka and met Matt on safari. For four awkward nights we shared a tent, just he and I. I spent the rest of the trip fighting a downward spiral of self-doubt and self-loathing. Every night I’d crawl into my sleeping bag hoping he’d notice my carefully selected sleepwear and change his mind. On two occasions, I even laid in Matt’s bed, hoping he’d want to cuddle. When he didn’t make a move, I went back to my side and spent the rest of the night wondering what I could possibly do to make him love me.
What’s wrong with me? Why won’t anyone love me?
I tried spinning the ring on my finger and telling myself,
You don’t need a man to make you happy
, over and over again. But I was too close to the scene of the crime for it to work.

 

On the last day of our safari, Pri, Alison, and I took an evening ride without Matt. We got to see elephants roaming in the wild, hippos, alligators, zebras, and lions. Toward the end of the tour, our guide got a call that someone had spotted a leopard, one of the rarest animals to see, as they’re practically extinct. The driver stepped on the gas and we sailed through the brush trying to catch up with the cat. When we found it, fifteen bumpy minutes later, we slowed to a halt. There it was, a leopard, sitting underneath a tree, not ten feet away.

She carried herself differently than any animal I’d ever seen. Her neck was held high, her spots were lit up by the sun, and she was all at once powerful, wild, and unbroken.

And while I know this is going to sound incredibly cheesy, and I’d sooner admit to holding a penis than to being sentimental—seeing that leopard revived me. It was so unquestioningly
itself
. Sort of the exact opposite of me. I’d been seesawing between two completely different lives. A year earlier, I’d moved to Utah in hopes that Hayes would marry me and make me a Mormon—forever. Now I was in Africa hoping that Matt would sleep with me, and make me a non-Mormon until I ceased to exist.

Why couldn’t I get either of them to go along with the plan? And more than that, why couldn’t I get myself to go along with it?
I’m doing this to myself
, I realized.
I’m refusing to choose which kind of person I want to be. I’m saying yes to way too many things
.
I love that moment of unlimited possibilities so much that I’ve accidentally built my entire life there. I’ve extended this place ten years further than it was ever supposed to go. I’m a twenty-six-year-old virgin for God’s sake!

While I still haven’t thought of a word for this liminal place, the transition from the many to the one, from possibility to actuality—there is a name for someone like me. An observer that floats in between two worlds is called a ghost.

It wasn’t Matt’s fault that things didn’t work out. He didn’t hate me or think I was repulsive. He’d simply asked me if I’d made up my mind. Which I hadn’t. So we were back at square one. And the thing is, I think I’m courageous for staying true to myself but really I’m deathly afraid of making the wrong choice. For good reason. Either way I choose, my life will become so much smaller. If I stop being Mormon, I won’t be allowed to attend my brother’s and sisters’ weddings in any Mormon temple. I’ll break my mother’s heart and I won’t be with my family for eternity. But if I stay in the church, I can’t wear the sleeveless dress I wore last night, I’ll have to say fetch instead of fuck, and I won’t get to live the rest of my life with any of the men I love most.

I’ve spent a decade saying yes to both sides, stalling and questioning, not ready to choose and watch my life become simpler and more ordinary. Only without definite or definable values I’m a genuine indeterminate. I am what I might be, not what I am.

 

I stared at that leopard for a long time until finally it ran off into the bush. Driving back to the lodge I was overcome with gratitude for the entire experience. The sun, which was just starting to set, was larger than any sun I’d ever seen. And not only that, the landscape was perfectly flat, so with an unobstructed view I got to see what it’s like when the sun slides below the horizon—which was remarkable. I watched a circle being cut perfectly in half, more on fire than ever, followed by the moon, which came up to take its place—huge, white, iridescent.

“Hi, God—” I choked on the word.

Acknowledgments

I am forever grateful for my mentor Elizabeth Swados, who taught me to “Just tell the story.” Liz, without the countless hours you spent nurturing my voice, I could not have done any of this.

A special thank-you to all of my readers. This book was taken to an entirely different level thanks to thorough help from exceptional friends—Anaheed Alani, Ira Glass, and Kevin Townley, thank you for showing me how to be authentic, honest, and funny. Additional thanks to Andrew Sean Greer, Julie Orringer, David Dickerson, Kathryn Sheer, Alison Mayer, and Ayesha Rokadia for your support, wit, and wisdom.

This book was made possible in part due to The Moth. Thank you to George Green, Lea Thau, Jenifer Hixson, and Catherine Burns for their tireless efforts in creating a home for storytellers. A special thank-you to Catherine Burns for the original development of “My Grandmother’s Dress” and “Yes Means Yes.” I’d also like to thank Julie Snyder, Robyn Semien, and everyone at
This American Life
for their help on the essay “Babies Buying Babies.” And a sincere thank-you to Lisa Chase and Roberta Myers at
Elle
magazine where “A Body of Work” originally appeared.

To David McCormick, my agent, I couldn’t ask for a better person to have on my side. Thank you for believing in me from the beginning and making this book possible.

To my editor, Amy Hertz, thank you for taking a chance on me and trusting that I could do this even when I was certain we were lost in the dark. Through your faith, this became a lasting and authentic piece.

Additional thanks to Melissa Miller, Ava Kavyani, The Allen Room, the Cuba-Brown family, Michelle Cox, Peggy Huddleston, Jonathan Ames, Elaina Richardson, and everyone at Yaddo—a truly magical place where this book was conceived. Thanks also to Cheryl Young, David Macy, and everyone at the MacDowell Colony for providing me with the support and creative freedom to complete this book.

A quick shout-out to Heather Wright and Ayesha Rokadia for our
Ladies Vacation
. Special thanks to Nick Kahn-Fogel, Hazaa! To Heidi Bivens for graciously lending me her computer. To Dr. Harvey Levin for helping me change my life. A sincere thank-you to Hamid Naficy for his unique perspective and support. Last, a special thank-you to Kevin Townley for listening to every idea I’ve ever had and encouraging me to believe in myself.

I owe the biggest thank-you of all to my family. Mom, Dad, Tina, Julia, Britain, Jill, and my grandparents, you’re more than just fodder, you’re my source of happiness. Dad, I especially want to thank you for all of the sacrifices that you’ve made to help me achieve my dreams. I’m incredibly grateful for the patience and wisdom both Mom and you put into teaching me how to be a person.
Mi familia es para siempre
.
Familia Baker
.