Laura Ingraham, Mitt Romney, and Everything That’s Wrong with American Politics

Adolf Hitler once said, “What good fortune for governments that the people do not think.” The implication is true for every tyranny throughout history. There’s a belief in the superiority of the state, a complete disdain for the people, and an assurance that self-government is a fantasy because people are incapable of using their own minds to engage their own will to act in their own best interest.

The great American experiment was something entirely different. It was a belief in humanity and an optimism that people, when given the chance to be great, will become it. Looking back at the history of this nation, I am left to wonder who in this argument is right. I know that sounds pessimistic and I’d like to consider myself an eternal believer in the good of my fellow human beings, but the patterns of history seem to reveal that people want to be ruled. Why else would we take the possibility of self-government, the first chance ever for it, and choose to manufacture a system of ruling elites?

I want you to take a minute and think of the person you most admire. It might be your gynecologist for his/her unfailing devotion to the care of the most vulnerable. It might be a farmer who you have seen work tirelessly for the good of family and community. It might be a mom who drives in your school carpool who volunteers every day to make local education better for your kids and hers. It could be your barber, grocer, or pastor. Now imagine what the world would be like if that person, the one who you love and admire, the one who understands your values and struggles, was your representative in Washington D.C.

This is what America was supposed to be. Local people, with real jobs, should be going off to represent their communities for a few short years. Then, when their turn is over, they are supposed to come home, return to their professions and friends while someone else takes on the burden of being your voice. Instead, we have created a group of career politicians who are so detached from what it means to be an American that they entrench themselves in corrupt business and twisted political deals in order to buy themselves a little more power, a few more years “representing” people who, in their minds, “do not think.”

Yesterday Mitt Romney, a senator representing Utah, voted against his party. In response, political pundit Laura Ingraham threatened to move to Utah and run against him. Both of these people are mucus-filled symptoms of the disease that is destroying our country. Romney was raised in Michigan and barely visited Utah before moving there because he knew it was his best chance to become a Senator. Whatever you think of his politics, he is not the representative the people of Utah deserve. He’s a politician who has never experienced the life that Utahans are fighting to preserve.

And Ms. Ingraham’s objection to him is clearly unrelated to the larger problem of our new kind of political oligarchy, because, rather than arguing that the people of Utah deserve a senator who is one of them, she suggests that she would be best equipped to represent a life she has never lived. The very idea allies itself with the philosophy that people are not capable of ruling themselves. According to these two, ordinary people need a group of entrenched political leeches for whom freedom doesn’t matter nearly as much as acquiescence to the swamp of lies, favors, and power-hungry rulers who devote their lives to showing that a representative is really a new king who doesn’t have any idea what you want. But that is okay, because he’s smarter than you anyway.

Personally, I’d much rather vote for my plumber.

If you’ve never been to El Paso

We moved to El Paso in 2009. My husband had just finished medical school in Chicago and he matched to a residency program there. I shopped at the now infamous Wal-Mart. My husband trained at the hospital where most of the victims were taken. We did not choose El Paso. There were several other programs we thought we would have preferred. I had never been there; my husband had only flown in for a brief interview among visits to many other cities. 

We were both surprised by the fact that you could see the Mexican communities in Juarez while driving down the freeway. The way the houses were laid out, the style and colors, everything spoke to there being a foreign country across the river. The great Rio Grande, was a little less great than we expected. We weren’t thrilled with the weather. Whenever it rained, the streets filled up with water. Despite being constantly ranked as among the safest cities of its size, people put bars on their windows as a decorating decision. Despite all of that, I wanted to share today how we fell in love with El Paso because of her people.

We had four small children at the time and chose a Spanish Immersion school for the ones that were old enough. Once enrolled, we received a form letter that stated, “because of limited English proficiency, we are recommending that your child attend…” We got a good laugh out of that. It is not an exaggeration to say that my children were the only blonde-haired, blue-eyed students in the entire school. I remember standing with the other parents waiting for the kids to be released. I struck up a conversation with another mom and when the children came out of the school and ran toward us, she commented, “Oh, I see yours.” It was pretty obvious.

Living in those circumstances, I can tell you that ethnicity simply wasn’t a thing. No one cared. My family and I were embraced whole-heartedly and with open arms. There were, however, definite cultural differences between what I knew and my new home city. Let me share a few.

When my children were invited to a birthday party, which are a big deal, I would show up with the invited child. The host was always very confused by that. They knew I had several children and why hadn’t I brought all of them? They were expecting the family! More than once I was sent home to get the others.

I once got into a fender bender where I was at fault. I gave the woman my number and insurance information and drove away. An hour later I received a call from her son. She was still sitting beside the road, not knowing what to do. He asked when I was going to take her to get her car fixed. They are a very interpersonal relationship kind of people.

Speaking of cars, I frequently had tradespeople show up at my door. They noticed I had a dent in my car or a rock chip in the windshield. Could they fix it? Business was always done with a promise and a handshake.

There was a couple that dropped their granddaughter off at the same bus stop I took my daughter to. We chatted each day. Once I mentioned that the icemaker in my refrigerator was leaking. My husband was working long hours and I wasn’t sure when he would be around to fix it. The couple followed me home after the school bus left. The grandpa fixed my ice maker, which involved going up into a crawl space in the ceiling. They acted like it was exactly how anyone would have handled the situation. I didn’t even know their names.

One of my favorite eccentricities was how every woman, including some who were younger than me, called me “mija” which is translated as “my daughter.” It seems very appropriate upon reflection, because the people of El Paso accepted my family as if we were their family. 

I made a lot of friends during my time in that beautiful city. Some were Hispanic, some were not. Many were in the military. I can suppose that some were not citizens, although I don’t know. They did not all have the same political opinions. I had friends on every side of the spectrum. But they seemed to understand that disagreeing with your neighbor did not mean that you shouldn’t serve them. They are a community kind of community and everyone serves everyone. They are a people full of love. They are a family. 

God doesn't orchestrate tragedy or hatred, but he does use them to lead us closer to him. If you have never been to El Paso, please use the recent tragedy there to learn from her people. Consider it, as I do, a privilege.

A Story I Didn't Write

I'm so busy these days that I rarely have time to read or write. I listen to a lot of audiobooks. But once in a while something comes into my heart that I cannot push aside until it has been written down. This is where most of my poetry comes from. Yesterday, as I was driving in my car trying to ponder on a lesson I was preparing for Relief Society, I got distracted thinking about some other things going on in my life. Good things. This story planted itself and I knew I needed to put it on paper. It's rather silly, but it is important to me, today. And maybe someday when I'm going through one of parenting's ubiquitous struggles, this will be a reminder I need to hear.

A Story I Didn't Write

It’s difficult to describe to anyone currently walking a telestial world what my life was like. Incivility, cruelty, depression, these were foreign concepts. I was constantly surrounded by my family. I suppose we were a family much like any other, if somewhat larger than you’re used to. We were a symphony of a million different instruments, each with its own character and sound. The cacophony was beautiful and each tone harmonized. Some were loud and some were soft. Some were staccato and others melted into the music like velvety chocolate. But our world wasn’t like yours. The music we made was never angry. Somehow, it always worked.

Perhaps it was our common goal. In a telestial world people are pushing a million different directions because they think they want a million different things. It’s as if every single instrument is playing a different melody and there really isn’t any musical quality to it at all. But in my world, we all wanted the same thing, and so our symphony, though diverse, rang up to heaven with a oneness that sang of cooperation, of family, of hope, of joy.

What you need to understand is that oneness is not sameness. I think most people have felt that the loneliest of places is often surrounded by people.  We yearn for connection and understanding, to find someone who laughs, weeps, and ignites when we do. In that sense, it really doesn’t matter how good and kind everyone around us is, to be kindred is something entirely different. And so my world was not so different from yours. Although everyone in my family sang the same tune as me, and I loved every single one of them for their own unique sparkle, I still found myself in a constant search for the ones whose hearts beat the same cadence as mine.

I found them.

Perhaps they found me. Maybe we were drawn together like drops of water on the same flower petal. Maybe we had always been together, pieces of a whole whose connection reached back farther than memory. Perhaps there was no finding involved, just a recognition from one soul to another. Whatever the case, if my home could be called heaven, it wasn’t because it was flawlessly beautiful, devoid of want and fear, or even peopled with those who honestly seek to help and serve everyone around them. It was because of my friends.

I don’t know how long our connection lasted. It must have been forever in a place where time was meaningless. We learned together, grew together, laughed together. They stretched my intellect and challenged all my capacities. They knew how to make me smile and could sense when I was afraid. Every step of progress we made was a team effort. We climbed on each other’s backs in a human pyramid to make it from one level to the next, and then those on top would reach down, lifting each dear friend until we all landed on a higher plane of understanding and existence.

No one was excluded from this group; it didn’t work like that in my world. There weren’t cliques or any sort of stratification of people. We just each found those around us who seemed to be pieces of the same whole, and while we loved everyone, not every cog fit together as perfectly as I did with my friends.

When the announcement that we had all been waiting for finally came, my friends and I added our voices to the deafening shouts of joy. We were finally ready. We’d reached the point in our eternal progression where we simply could go no further in the world we inhabited. We would fall to the telestial world. That might sound like a step backward from your perspective, but we knew it for what it was: a chance to become something more, something better. To someone observing a caterpillar, the quiet, dark solitude of a cocoon has to seem like a step backward from the warm sunlight, but the caterpillar builds his own prison, knowing he will emerge from it something much better than what he was when he entered.

Despite being constantly in the company of love and encouragement, the wait for our turn to fall seemed interminable. We discussed every possible trial and imagined what it would be like when we finally passed through the veil. In all this discussion, serious and full of levity, we never once worried about being apart. It didn’t matter that we would be potentially spread across an endless world, each drowning in a sea of people struggling to find their way. We didn’t know how or when we had found each other before, but we were certain that we could do it again. It would be a natural process, and we would learn it in a similar manner as we would breathing or walking. We had discussed every single possible trial in our eternity together, but never that. The concept was too foreign, too unthinkable, like being told you will wake up tomorrow and have forgotten how to blink.

Just when I had told myself, for the hundredth time, to stop listening for my call, it finally came. The voice spoke softly that it was time to go, igniting flutters of nerves and fires of anticipation uncomfortably inside my soul. Immediately I turned to my friends and shouted, “It’s time for us to go!”

But the voice came again, softly but firmly, “Not them, just yet. I’m sending you first.”

My heart fell, gripped by terror at a thought I’d never considered. Of course we would go together. We needed each other. How could we pass the test to come without the guidance, advice and encouragement we had always shared between us.

“No!” I shouted, choking back tears, “I just can’t do it alone. I’ll wander the Earth searching for them.”

The voice stayed silent and I felt his calm as he breathed out comfort and strength.

Then without warning, I started to fade. My mind went groggy and quiet.

But in desperation I tried one more time. I thought, “You taught us that we're interconnected. I’ve never been on my own.”

As all went black, I heard one more thought, “They’re coming, my daughter, but you must go first. You will be their mother."

What if the reason we feel instantly connected to a new child isn't because of biology, but because we recognize a soul we already knew and loved.

Nightly Scripture Study

I was asked to say a few words about the “JOY” of teaching my children the gospel.

Here goes…

We decided that the key to successful scripture study is consistency. We agreed to gather the family every night at 7:30 and read one chapter in the Book of Mormon. Through trial and error, we learned a few absolute truths. One: The kids will always fight over who gets to read the last verse. Two: The children must always be bribed and/or threatened in order to listen. In order to avoid potential nightly disasters, we set up a system. My kids always read the verse that corresponds to their age. Ryan is twelve, he reads verses 2, 12, 22 etc. Chloe is nine. She reads 9, 19, 29. Mom and dad read the verses the kids don’t and they only get to read last when their number is last. To avoid the other dilemma, I bought an industrial sized box of sour patch kids. These are known at our house as “scripture treat.” If a child behaves during scriptures, they get a treat. It’s a lot like dog training, if less effective. 

Using these two simple steps, our family scripture study works out fairly well. Here’s how it usually goes…I call the kids to scriptures and hear a collective “NOOOOOO.” Sean shouts out that he is coming, but he has to beat an alien on the computer first. Quentin comes in and sits on top of me. He then announces that the rest of the family isn’t coming. Chloe sits on top of the lid to the opening in the love seat where we keep our books of Mormon. This way, when each of the other kids dramatically enters the room, stretching and yawning, as if they’re on the brink of collapse from exhaustion, they can completely ruin their chances of winning an Oscar by breaking character to shout, “Get off the scriptures, Chloe.” In response to which, Chloe lifts her butt into a crab walk pose so they can slip their hands in under her. 

It takes about 2.5 hours of arguing about which chapter we’re on before I start reading the first verse to try and move the process along. Sean, who is currently eleven, mutters the beginning of the first verse as quickly as he can until he catches up to where I am at. He then begins to shout the text, sometimes in a British accent, so I will know that it’s his turn. Ryan reads second, but no one can hear him because he is either hiding behind the couch or halfway down the stairs that descend from the room where we’re reading. I suspect that he does this so he can flip back and forth between the scriptures and whatever else he’s reading on his kindle without anyone noticing. I tell him to come join the family to which he shrilly replies, ‘I am! I’m right here.” 

Quentin then interrupts to tell me that the babies are in the other room still. I am, of course, aware of this, but think that we will all get more out of scriptures if they come late. In the interest of teaching a lesson about the importance of family scripture study, however, I call them to come in before continuing on with the verses. 

When it gets to be Chloe’s turn, she reads with every other word punctuated. I realize that she’d doing this because Rhianna has squeezed herself behind her sister and is kicking her in the back rhythmically and giggling. This causes me to take inventory of the other children. Quentin has gone boneless on my lap and is, seemingly, counting the rotations of the ceiling fan.  Evie has her arms looped around Sean’s neck and is swinging back and forth on the balls of her feet.  He’s trying his best to ignore her, but chocking noises occasionally escape from his mouth. Ryan is missing again, probably behind the couch. I tell Evie her butt is glued to the floor and if she unsticks it from where I put her she won’t get scripture treat. This causes her to scream in agony and shrilly declare, ‘I WANT SCRIPTURE TREAT.” 

I push Quentin off my lap and pick up Ana, so she’ll leave Chloe alone. Ana also starts screaming. Chloe is still reading, which is very upsetting to Sean because she likes to try to read verse ten after she is done with nine and Sean HATES that. By this time, the noise level is such that the neighbors are calling the cops, and that’s amazing considering that the neighbors are half a mile away. I scream at everyone to be quiet and tell Sean that if it upsets him when she reads ten, he should just read it with her, choral style, instead of disrupting scriptures. I also announce that if anyone else says another word out of turn, I’m going to smite the Earth with a curse for their sakes. 

With much sniffles, someone starts reading for about twenty seconds before Ryan says, rather timidly, “Mom.” I snap back, “Be quiet and listen.” He interrupts with, “Yes, but, Addie is naked.” Sure enough, she’s standing in the kitchen unloading a cupboard and her clothes are lying beside her. I leave Nate in charge and take the baby to bed. I am ashamed to admit that sometimes the process of putting her in bed takes a little extra time because I am less than anxious to reenter my position as goalie of scripture time. By the time I get upstairs the children are raiding the scripture treat jar, all except for Evie, who is screaming that daddy forgot to let her read.

It was after one of these nights, that also included the extended scripture experience that is family night, that I found myself laying my head on my husband’s shoulder and declaring, “It isn’t supposed to be like this!” 

He said, “Like what?” I said insane and unhappy and with everyone fighting. He stared at me for a minute looking perplexed be for saying, “Amy, every family night I ever had growing up was exactly like this.” Nate is the oldest of six brothers and one sister. 

So I think the real point here is understanding the difference between happiness and Joy. I was asked to share a testimony of how teaching my children the gospel brings Joy into my home. When Nikki called me, I laughed and laughed and laughed. I told her she had definitely picked the wrong sister to share this concept. But, as I thought about it, I realized that this is a testimony I can bear as strongly as anyone. 

The day after telling my husband that everything was working out wrong, my Quentin came home with a packet of school assignments. I glanced through them and came across one with the question, “Where do I like to go in my town?” In his unpracticed hand, my little boy had carefully written, “I like home.” Suddenly the frustration seemed silly. It is clear to me that the Spirit of God and the love of family must be in our home, even though I can’t always feel it.