I am the youngest of four boys. When my oldest brother was 18, he left for two years to be a missionary for our church. If you’re familiar with the Book of Mormon musical, then you get the general idea--except that of the four brothers, he’s the least likely to break into song and dance.
And instead of Uganda, he was sent to Western Ontario, Canada. Missionary work is tough stuff, but add some brutal weather to the mix, and it becomes legendary. Through his stories we learned about the seasonal gifts of humidity. It was nostril-hairs-freezing cold in the winter and jock-itch-festering hot in the summer. But with how bad he had it weather-wise, what was going on at home was the real kick in the pants. During his two years of voluntary service, he and his girlfriend split up, his dog died, his parents got divorced, and his ex-girlfriend became his aunt. Now, our parents getting divorced was clearly the kicker. It was compounded by the fact that no one called or wrote to let him know. Through the build up, through my dad moving out, my missionary brother had no idea. I assume my parents assumed the other one had filled him in--they weren’t exactly on top of their communication game. And the three of us brothers at home assumed that the adults would take the lead while we turned inward and tried to sort out our new normal. I still feel guilty that I didn’t give my brother a heads up. His parents were going through a divorce and he had no idea. For months. He even got letters of condolences. One friend wrote to him about how sorry she was for what he was going through, that she had gone through it, too, and that he could call her if he needed to talk. He thought she was somehow referring to the missionary work and the weather. I have since apologized to him, and continue to apologize to him every time this point comes up in conversation. In my defense, I was the youngest and therefore least culpable. I was in eighth grade. I had a lot going on. My parents were getting divorced. My dad moving out meant I had to give away my dog (yes, a different dog than my brother’s dog that had recently died). And most troubling of all, my voice hadn’t changed. I was in eighth grade and still sounded like a little girl. My insecurity was compounded by the fact that all three of my older brothers had grown a foot and dropped an octave in seventh grade. But there I was, a year older, not an inch taller, and having to consciously lower my voice when answering the phone, so I didn’t have to hear, again, “Oh, hi! I didn’t know Matt had a little sister!” Anyway, our parents getting divorced and my delayed puberty are a digression. What’s important for the sake of this story is that my brother’s ex-girlfriend became his aunt. This was a different girlfriend than the one he had broken up with while on his mission. That girlfriend was going to college, backpacking through Europe and the Middle East, and otherwise living it up and moving on with her life while my brother trudged through waist-deep snow to knock on doors and present copies of the Book of Mormon. That girlfriend would later, after some convincing, become his wife. The ex-girlfriend-aunt was an earlier girlfriend. She was a family friend. She and my brother had dated for a couple months in highschool. A year or two later, while on a family trip to Lake Powell, she got to know one of my uncles who had recently gone through a divorce. Sparks flew and they started dating. Then they got married--all while my brother was on his mission. By the time my brother got home, we were all referring to her as Aunt [insert name here]. And she wanted him to do the same. That didn’t go over super well. There were tensions with the extended family, too, not just between my brother and his ex-girlfriend-aunt. I don’t know exactly what was going on. Again, I was the youngest and more engrossed with super-delayed puberty rather than figuring out why the family dynamic felt strained. Marrying into a large family is never easy, and my mom’s family is huge. She’s the oldest of eight siblings. Four daughters followed by four brothers with a total of nearly forty kids. Add to it that my new aunt was the age of the oldest grandchildren and now had three stepchildren. I can only imagine. Fast forward several years to a family trip at our grandparents’ ranch in Star Valley, Wyoming. It’s not really a ranch. There aren’t any cows or horses. The official name used to be Hale’s Rainbow Ranch because of the farmed rainbow trout in the man-made lake. The name was temporarily changed in the early 2000s over concerns that roaming caravans of gays would see the sign and stop in unannounced. Those concerns were completely unfounded (our ranch is simultaneously too rustic and not rustic enough for the gay aesthetic) and the family soon recognized that the surprise arrival of a pride parade was exactly what was needed at family reunions. There were two cabins at “the ranch.” The smaller cabin was usually reserved for our grandparents. The larger cabin, sometimes referred to as the lodge, was for all the aunts and uncles and cousins. We were rarely all there at the same time, but it was always crowded. For a kid, this was the stuff dreams were made of. I loved summer trips to the ranch. Crowds of cousins. Four wheelers, ziplines, campfires, fishing. All the best food: watermelon, hamburgers, dutch oven dinners, homemade donuts, homemade ice cream, loads of candy, and sugar cereal. My own mother refused to buy anything other than Grape Nuts, Shredded Wheat, and Cheerios, but the extended family had lower health standards, and sugar cereal could always be found, and begged for, in abundance. As I got older I started to see how much of a nightmare these trips were for the adults. The sheer number of kids to feed. To keep from fighting. To keep from getting lost or drowned or scorched. I broke my wrist on a fourwheeler. My brother almost died as the original test dummy on the zipline. Several cousins escaped near drownings. And because fireworks weren’t illegal in Wyoming like they were in Utah, every single one of us almost lost a hand or face to an M80, Roman Candle, or mortar shell from my grand-uncle’s sportshop. Accidents aside, we were always getting into trouble. There was constant pranking and pestering: releasing snakes, chipmunks, and lizards inside the lodge, recording snoring uncles (or aunts) on a Talkboy, eating entire boxes of Lucky Charms that didn’t belong to me, pouring non-figurative gas onto very real, non-figurative fires. It’s one thing to discipline your own children, but dealing with punk nieces and nephews is a whole different story. The most trying time was late at night. At the end of long days, we were sure to be hyped up on sugar and engaged in some rowdy game or competition. I remember fierce leg wrestling tournaments and pushing the limits on human pyramids. One family favorite was imported from Korea and taught to us by an uncle who had been a missionary there. Two people would sit opposite each other across the floor with their knees in front of them, holding their shins with interlocked hands. (It’s hard to explain, and I can find no trace of this game online, so it’s very possible my uncle made it up.) You would then yell out, in bastardized Korean, “ha-na, tool, set, shi-jak!” and scoot on your bum as fast as possible toward your opponent. The first to get toppled, or lose their grip on their shins, lost. It was very exciting. If you didn’t get carpet burns through the seat of your pajamas, you weren’t trying hard enough. But even regular games--spoons, Speed Uno, Rummikub, or an altered version of ping pong or pool, were amped up by some seriously high stakes. Money was rarely on the table, but losing always resulted in some terrible consequence. Like jumping into the lake at midnight or drinking a tablespoon of pumped breastmilk from whoever was lactating. And someone was always lactating. Whatever the activity, it was loud and punctuated with even louder outbursts. Some of the aunts and uncles would stay up late and didn’t mind if their kids stayed up even later. It was summer and they were on vacation. Other aunts and uncles wanted to get some freaking sleep. Due to the loft style of the lodge, getting away from the late-night noise was nearly impossible. The quietest bedroom was upstairs and toward the back, but it had a crib, and if you didn’t have a baby, you were out of luck. Two of the bedrooms, the absolute bottom of the barrel privacy-wise, were connected by a mini playhouse loft that featured a ladder and a carpet slide. If you’ve never heard of a carpet slide, that’s because covering a steep incline with industrial carpet is a terrible idea. Yet another carpet-burn-inducing good time. For years, I could not understand why my oldest uncle brought his motorhome to the ranch and slept in it parked outside. Where was the fun in that? Now I see that he is perhaps my smartest uncle. All of this so far is to set up one particular night when my uncle and aunt who-used-to-be-my-brother’s-girlfriend, had gone to bed. I don’t remember what we were doing, but there’s no doubt it was late and frustration was warranted. A mix of kids and adults were still awake. My uncle came out of his room and asked us, or told us, to go to bed. The details are hazy. I remember things got heated. I don’t remember if it was the older cousins mouthing off or one of the other aunts or uncles telling him to take it easy. All I remember is that I was standing behind my upset uncle. My cousin Steph was standing next to me. We were in the same grade and went to the same junior high. She was a cheerleader. She could throw farther than me. All of my friends wanted to ask her out and I wanted to ask out all of her friends. As the argument was picking up steam, Steph leaned over and said, and this is quoted exactly as it has been seared into my memory, “I dare you to pants Uncle [insert name here].” I didn’t say anything in response. I just stepped forward and pulled down my uncle’s pajama pants. In my defense, and according to The American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry, the frontal cortex, which processes logic and reasoning and tells you not to do stupid things, is not fully developed in adolescents. The more emotional and reactive amygdala is behind the wheel. This means that teens, especially those whose puberty is inexplicably taking three years longer to arrive than their older brothers, are “more likely to act on impulse, misread or misinterpret social cues, get into accidents of all kinds, get involved in fights, [or] engage in dangerous or risky behavior.” Or, in the worst case scenarios, do all of those things at once. Why? Because these teens are “less likely to think before they act [or] pause to consider the consequences of their actions.” I can attest that I neither thought nor paused to consider before pulling the pants off of my uncle while he was engaged in a heated argument. As a secondary defense, this was not a fully-gripped, down to the skin pantsing. I would not have done that. I don’t think I’ve ever done that. Has that happened to me? Of course. I was born in suburban America before 2000, and statistically, if you were a male born in suburban America before bullying became a shamed activity, you’ve spent time clutching your naked genitals at the edge of a swimming pool, basketball court, or assorted athletic field. This was not that. It was, however, enough to redirect the focus of the room. I don’t know what I was expecting would happen when I decided to pants my uncle. Psychiatric science suggests that I didn’t really decide and definitely hadn’t thought far enough in advance to expect anything. But maybe it could have eased the tension in the room. We could all have had a good laugh, taken a deep breath, then agreed to quiet down. That’s not what happened. From my memory, there was no transition in my brain from “the outcome of this action is unknown” to “run like hell you are going to die.” Again, SCIENCE: the amygdala, which manages fear and “prepares for emergency events,” was already steering my ship, so there was very little lag time. As the youngest and smallest of four boys, flight mode was not foreign to me. But this time was different. Usually running for my life paired with screaming for help. This time I fled in pure, horrified silence. Why? My mom was asleep in the other cabin, out of ear shot. My brothers, who were really protective of me when it wasn’t them I had pissed off, were not even in the same state. Plus, I had never been pursued like that by an adult. A year or two later, I was out with friends past curfew when a cop pulled up, jumped out of his car, and yelled in our direction. I bolted. Same reaction. I didn’t stop to process what I was doing until I had scaled four backyard fences. Obviously this was post-puberty, after I had grown nine inches and gone from high tenor to low bass in the same year. But I digress. Another reason I think I didn’t call for help when running from my uncle was that I felt I deserved my fate. As soon as the deed was done, I knew I had done something incredibly stupid and disrespectful. If my amygdala hadn’t stepped in to instinctually preserve my life, I probably would have bowed my head and braced for the blow. I don’t know what that blow would have been. My uncle wouldn’t have hit me. And I suspect when he went after me, he himself didn’t know what he was going to do when he caught me. But he did catch me. I made it around the corner and halfway up the stairs, when my feet were pulled out from under me. I was dragged down a couple steps and then, miraculously, released. Unscathed (or mostly unscathed--I was already covered in carpet burns, so who can say), I scrambled to the top of the stairs. Another uncle, the one who had taught us the Korean floor game, had, upon seeing my other uncle pull up his pants and take off after me, pursued us both and caught up with us on the stairs, saving me from an unknown fate. They were now shouting at each other in the living room. Others joined in. I just sat there at the top of the stairs, around the corner, listening. It was bad, it was getting worse, and it was all my fault. Almost all my fault. My cousin Steph appeared at the bottom of the stairs with wide eyes. She climbed the steps and sat down next to me. We didn’t speak. We just sat and stared at the empty space at the bottom of the stairs while the family imploded below. At first it was about what I had done. How disrespectful I had been and what consequence I deserved, but it quickly unraveled from there. Accusations were hurled. Skeletons were torn from their closets. The conflict peaked when my brother’s former-girlfriend-turned-aunt came out of the back bedroom. It became apparent that she had been tired (and rightfully frustrated) and had sent my uncle out to try to shut us up so she could sleep. But then I had decided to pants him, and now nobody was sleeping, everyone was shouting, and some were even crying. Kids, unaccustomed to open arguments, were crying. Aunts and uncles, worn out and frustrated, were crying. Steph and I exchanged looks. What had we done? Was this the end of our childhood? Would they sell the ranch when the family fell apart? Was one simple dare going to end everything? I don’t remember what happened next. I know things petered out, and everyone went to bed that night; I know I avoided looking my uncle in the face for a couple years, but I don’t remember the details. For me the memory ends at the top of the stairs. A frozen moment of guilty uncertainty. My parents had been through a divorce. A lot of kids blame themselves for their parents’ divorce. I never did. They were miserable and why they ever thought it could work out was beyond me. But at the top of the stairs, I fully blamed myself. My choice to pull down my uncle’s pants was bringing down the entire extended family. Pre-pubescent, or mid-pubescent, or wherever the hell puberty was for me, I had not developed the ability to think through the consequences of my actions. But when faced with those consequences, I had no trouble connecting the dots and tracing the blame back to myself and what I had done. Looking back, with over two decades of hindsight, things are a little more clear. There were tensions kindling long before I lit the match. Family conflicts. Sibling stuff. Relationship issues. My uncle and aunt who-used-to-be-my-brother’s-girlfriend eventually got divorced. Their troubles, and the extended family’s troubles, didn’t start the night of the pantsing. Wounds were torn open, but they were pre-existing. I didn’t help, but I also didn’t pile on the explosives before inadvertently lighting the fuse. I’ve since moved on. It’s a funny story now and I love to tell it. But I recently realized, while retelling the story, that I still hadn’t shaken the guilt. Twenty-four-ish years later, I get to the point in the story where I’m at the top of the stairs and I still feel that horrible weight--that what I had done, in a split second of not thinking, was always and forever unforgivable. That I deserve the fate of walking around with that guilt for the rest of forever. To use a local colloquialism of my upbringing, what the heck? Science, hindsight, time--they’re all on the side of me not having any idea of what I was doing. I think it’s time to let go of the guilt and just enjoy the story. SCIENCE! sources: https://www.aacap.org/aacap/families_and_youth/facts_for_families/fff-guide/the-teen-brain-behavior-problem-solving-and-decision-making-095.aspx
7 Comments
Jenna Lake
3/26/2020 19:23:07
Excellent story!
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Joe Blunier
3/26/2020 22:21:01
Such an amazing story, I laughed all the way through!! You’re so awesome at everything it’s hard to imagine you a high tenor!! Haha! Keep the stories coming!!
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Aunt (insert name here)
3/26/2020 23:50:52
I can't tell you why I clicked on this story within a story (I stumbled on the link via FB story) on this cold March night in the middle of a global pandemic. But boy am I glad I did! Seriously, Jeff, I think you and I could analyze the crap out of this one. And hopefully the comic relief will outweigh the guilt both of us still feel! I had no idea this has haunted you all these years. I know it's been at least 18.5 years, because my baby is 18.5 and I was pregnant when the story occurred. You have clearly forgotten that detail, but it's a profound one. The psychoanalysis of this one detail could occupy several hours of Covid quarantine time. In all seriousness, I am super flattered and slightly humiliated that I am a key player in this dark comedy, a tale of family dysfunction, that you have now shared with the world! 😂 Love it!! Love you more!
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Benita Harline
3/27/2020 07:56:17
Such a great story! I loved it! Please continue writing more!
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Mindy
3/27/2020 10:13:00
Oh my heck! ;) Seriously Mike and I had some belly laughs while reading this. 1. I know your family and some of your extended family so it was a hoot to be reminded how awesome your clan is. 2. I haven’t heard the word “pantsed” in a long time, and this story brought back traumatic and hilarious memories of the good old days. 3. Your writing is wonderful. 4. Holy moly. You guys sure had a lot going on during that time of life. Good thing you guys all came out of it like super heros!
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Arielle
3/28/2020 03:04:29
Jeff, PLEASE continue sharing your writing! Not only did this one bring laughs but it is also such a pleasure to read the serious parts. You are a great writer!
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Sarah
7/7/2020 01:21:09
I happened upon this randomly after watching some book of Mormon videos great work by the way. Do you have a gift for writing this was a delight to read. It’s 2 AM and I read the whole thing. Keep writing!
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AuthorAll writing belongs me. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental--unless you're related to me or grew up with me. In that case, it's totally about you. ArchivesCategories |