Dear Family,

I need you all to know that I am queer as heck. 

That’s how I’d planned to start this letter, when I began work on it near the end of May. It was important, but it didn’t end up flowing well in the context of the rest of the letter. So I’ll write a different introduction and transition into the “queer as heck” part later. 

Where to begin, though? Maybe I could start by recounting the foraging adventure I embarked on with Grace two days ago. Or I could take Dad’s advice and open with “I may be menopausal.” That latter one probably isn’t a very good idea. Even overlooking my father’s faulty vocabulary (if I was approaching menopause prematurely, I’d currently be perimenopausal), I’m told that such topics are dull at best. 

Okay, I’m bored of this. Time to quit waffling and get into the good stuff.

Emmaus 

Let’s take it from the top: I need you all to know that I am queer as heck. For those who missed the memo, I’m agender, asexual, and aromantic. To paraphrase my cousin Fae: I was offered a selection of genders, sexualities, and romantic orientations, and said “no thanks” to all three. 

You could say that makes me a rebellious apostate. You could say that, because there is nothing stopping you from making statements that are untrue. People are wrong all the time. That doesn’t change the fact that such a declaration would, in fact, be completely and objectively incorrect. 

Yes, I said “objectively,” and yes, I do know what that word means. I am not using it for emphasis, or as an erroneous synonym for “definitely” or “totally.” My use adheres to the definition outlined by Merriam-Webster: “in an objective rather than subjective or biased way; with a basis in observable facts rather than feelings or opinions.” 

(Don’t mind the fact that they use “objective” in defining “objectively.” Such is often the case with adverbs, and the rest of the definition provides sufficient clarity.) 

In order to prove the veracity of my use of this bold descriptor, I am hereby directing you back to Merriam-Webster for their definition of “apostate”: 

“One who commits apostasy.”

Thanks, Merriam. Thanks, Webster. And thanks, Other Merriam.¹ You guys are truly a godsend. 

Don’t worry, the word “apostasy” is a hyperlink. It leads to two definitions of its own. These are as follows:

1. an act of refusing to continue to follow, obey, or recognize a religious faith
2. abandonment of a previous loyalty; defection. 

“Ah-HA!” cries the hypothetical person who accused me of being a rebellious apostate in the second paragraph of this section. “You’ve really dug yourself into a hole now! You claim to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but you neither follow nor obey the faith!” I draw breath to respond, and they plow onward: “And don’t think you can go back to Merriam-Webster to cherry pick the most convenient definition of ‘faith’! I’m not falling for that! It’s not even a doctrinal source!” 

As this hypothetical individual smugly crosses their arms, proud of themself for having once again owned the libs, I set the dictionary aside and take my phone out of my pocket. With a few taps, I find the “Faith” entry in the guide to the scriptures on my Gospel Library app. This one, mind you, is a church sanctioned resource. 

“Confidence in something or someone. As most often used in the scriptures, faith is confidence and trust in Jesus Christ that lead a person to obey Him.

“Faith includes a hope for things which are not seen, but which are true. Faith is kindled by hearing the gospel taught by authorized administrators sent by God. Miracles do not produce faith, but strong faith is developed by obedience to the gospel of Jesus Christ. In other words, faith comes by righteousness.”

Now, mull that over while I tell you a little story.

It was about three months after I first came out to my family as nonbinary and asked them to refer to me using they/them pronouns. It was the first General Conference since that pivotal moment in my journey of self-discovery. And it was also about one month after the entire world shut down due to COVID-19. 

My room was a disaster, as it often is, so I decided to clean while I listened to the broadcast on my phone. This decision also served the purpose of giving me something to do with my hands in the likely event that a General Authority felt the need to talk about how the biggest challenge for the Saints of today is the rampant destruction of the sanctity of family and gender—in other words, people like me gaining recognition as human beings who are not hurting anyone by living our happiest, most authentic lives. I knew it would be easier to cope if I had a physical task to fall back on instead of just sitting awkwardly in front of the television as I stared at the image of the person talking about queer people—my people, my kind, me—as some sort of corrupting influence. 

I don’t remember if that coping mechanism ended up being needed during that particular session. Several General Authorities are prone to throwing in those sorts of comments regardless of the general thesis of their talk, so they all sort of fade into the background after a while. I do, however, remember an intensified feeling of niggling doubt. It had been bothering me for a while. 

Were my feelings just the result of internalized misogyny, or a grab for attention? Was I being needlessly rebellious for its own sake?

Was I corrupted?

Was I really nonbinary?

Was “nonbinary” even real?

These insecurities were not new; they were just extra loud that day. (Can’t say why for sure, but I have a couple guesses.) But there was also another voice in my head. It, too, had spent weeks needling the back of my mind, where I had thrown it in a corner and hidden it under a pile of clean laundry. It wasn’t important; it wasn’t urgent. I could pretend it wasn’t there until I folded those clothes, and then my brain would be sufficiently organized to acknowledge the voice and decide what to do about it. I was prioritizing; that was all. I wasn’t avoiding. I wasn’t scared. 

Then, Elder Neil L. Andersen delivered his talk, titled “Spiritually Defining Memories.” I won’t give you the play-by-play; you can read it here. What’s relevant is that Elder Andersen’s series of anecdotes spoke to me of the power of personal revelation, and it encouraged the voice to grow louder from under the pile of neglected clothing. It was in that moment that I could no longer deny it: I was scared of the voice.

I was scared of the voice that was telling me to pray. 

I didn’t want to get on my knees, prostrate myself before God, and have Him tell me that I’d been deluded. Tricked. Led astray. Because in spite of all my doubts of the Church, something in me knew that He would answer my prayer, and I feared that the answer would be the stupor of thought described in Doctrine and Covenants 9. I didn’t want that. 

And, immediately, I knelt anyway. 

While you’ve heard me describe the answer I’d feared, I can’t tell you for sure what answer I expected. Maybe I didn’t know what to expect, or maybe I wasn’t expecting anything at all. 

The wave of peace and comfort and assurance and love, though… that was definitely a surprise. 

It came as soon as I sank to my knees, before I even started to pray. I knew what it meant. I could suddenly see, hear, feel, know the truth: I was nonbinary. And that was okay. Wonderful, even! And my Heavenly Father loves it, because it’s me, and He loves me. 

“Faith is kindled by hearing the gospel taught by authorized administrators sent by God.” It was Elder Andersen, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, who bolstered the Spirit’s prompting enough to finally make me cave. 

“Strong faith is developed by obedience to the gospel of Jesus Christ. In other words, faith comes by righteousness.” Ignoring the promptings of the Spirit—and thus spurning the teachings of the gospel—made my doubts stronger. Listening and obeying chased them away. 

This is my faith: that Heavenly Father knows and accepts me for who I am. That He made me non-binary (and aromantic, and asexual), and that those are parts of my eternal identity that are to be celebrated. That He has commanded me to stay in the Church, not just to wait patiently for change, but to help it come to pass. 

I follow, obey, and recognize my faith. 

And that, Family, is what leads me down the road to Emmaus. 

On Thursday, May 2, my mother sent me a link to the registration page for some event called the 2024 Emmaus LGBTQ Ministry Retreat—an opportunity for LGBTQ and allied Latter-day Saints to meet and minister and connect and… lots of things that sounded wonderful enough to make me trepidatious. I didn’t know exactly what to expect from such an event, and what I had been told to expect sounded almost too good to be true. I have faith in my queer identity and of the Lord’s acceptance of it. I do not have faith in my ability to socialize, let alone make friends. Not to mention that the event would start the very next evening, offering me next to no time to psych myself up. 

And yet, something pulled me to go. I didn’t yet know what or why—my eyes were holden,² so to speak—but I surrendered my inhibitions and registered to attend. 

The anxieties did not abate, though, as my ever-gracious mother drove me past all the grand manors of Potomac to the home that would host the event. They did not subside as I got out of the car and stepped beyond the threshold into what could prove to be an uplifting spiritual experience, or a weekend defined by my supremely awkward, inevitably fruitless attempts at connection. They were still going strong while I wrote my name and pronouns on a name tag in marker, stuck it to my shirt, and attempted to mingle. 

I offered to help set up the (impressively fancy) snack table and made some stilted attempts at small talk to convince myself that I wasn’t in full fight-or-flight mode. It… worked, actually. Everyone was nice. Friendly. Kind. Once conversation started, it flowed with minimal difficulty. I felt myself relax—until the table was all set up, and I found myself shuffling awkwardly in place by myself, waiting for an opening to start another conversation. 

One at a time, people would approach me and introduce themselves. Maybe they were motivated by pity for the probably-child³ with the expression of a fish that is not only out of water, but also flopping around on the dry floor of a lion’s den. Except the lions have been chased out by fisher cats, which, despite their smaller size, are a much more intimidating cat to the suffocating fish, who knows that lions do not eat fish in the wild. Never mind that “fisher cat” is a misnomer—these creatures are not cats, nor do they eat fish—for the fish does not know this. It just heard the name and came to a rational conclusion. Besides, even if the fishers have no interest in eating the fish, it will die regardless should it stay on dry land for much longer. 

If pity was a motivating factor, no one said anything to make it evident. They told me about themselves and asked questions about my life—some gospel-centered, some related to attraction and gender identity, and some completely random—and none of it felt invasive. No one asked me to out myself, even in this environment that had been curated to be safe, and even though I had already done so (at least partially) by putting my pronouns on my name tag. 

I’m glad I did, too—one of the attendees closer to my age introduced themself that first night and pointed out our “matching pronouns.” We hit it off, and by the end, we were friends. 

By day two, I had grown more comfortable. The fisher cats had brought my floppy fish form to a small but sufficiently deep pond in the den, and I could breathe again. There were other fish there, too, and we all conversed freely with each other and our non-aquatic friends, as if there was no terrestrial divide between our two kinds. As if we were all the same. 

And, in every way that mattered, we were. Apparently, the fishers weren’t particularly happy with this situation either, as they too were trapped in this pit. Though, one of the other fish mentioned to me that fisher cats were actually adept climbers, and as I watched them walk around on large, clawed feet that never slipped (due to coarse hairs that provided extra traction), I realized that the fishers could easily escape to their own freedom. They just chose not to, unwilling to leave us fish behind. 

This metaphor may be getting out of hand. 

Greg Prince, a notable church historian, gave a talk on how change happens in the Church. He’s a knowledgeable guy. He cited historical examples of major transformations of policy, doctrine, and culture. He contrasted the gradual change in attitudes about birth control, which moved alongside wider cultural shifts, with the decision to finally ordain black men to the priesthood, which seemed abrupt by comparison. He pointed out the similarities between the two as well, then drew connections between them and the topic to which he’d been building: sexual orientation. 

I’m not my father. I’m not good at putting spiritual experiences into words in a way that does them justice. So I can’t satisfactorily explain how what was said left me with such a strong feeling of motivation to change the world. 

Screw it—I’m going back to the fish metaphor. 

As I listened to Greg Prince’s words, I realized I was tired of being confined to this tiny pond in this tiny den. I wanted to follow the fisher cats out into the sun, but with a place for me. What was I to do? Wait around and pray for a downpour? No, of course not. Not for lack of patience or faith, but because that simply wouldn’t be feasible. With no place to accumulate, the rain would either create temporary vernal pools that would eventually dry up, or flood the whole forest, giving me a place to live but causing great damage to the existing ecosystem. 

I knew that Heavenly Father, being omnipotent and all, could make it work. He was just waiting for me to propose a plan, as with Abraham’s servant tasked to find a wife for Isaac, or the brother of Jared looking for a way to light his people’s barges. I was the one who had to come up with the test, to make the glass stones, or, in my case, to dig the riverbed. 

That’s right—my fishy friends and I are going to carve a path for a river through the forest. (Don’t give me that look! We’re… loaches. Really tough loaches. We can dig.) It will be a narrow, shallow extension of our pond, and many of the terrestrial denizens of the forest will wonder why we bother. Others, however—like those kind fisher cats—will use their claws to help. And when the time is right, our prayers will be answered, and the rain will come. Our river will fill and expand, making the forest a hospitable place for us, too. We’ll be free to swim in a big open space, to see the wonders of the trees above us, and to commune with our land-dwelling friends as they sit on the bank.

The Lord will bless us with a home in His church. We just have to be ready to receive it. 

As the (strange, unplanned) allegory of the queer fish reaches its conclusion, I am tempted to bring this section of the letter to an end as well. It feels natural, and you, the reader, are already very bored of my ramblings. 

Sucks to be you; I am not yet finished. 

I need to give the wonderful people I met their due. I haven’t even mentioned the deep discussions before and after the showing of an incredible documentary. The personal conversations carried on walks in the rain. The way I cried when we sang “Now Let Us Rejoice” and “Abide With Me; ‘Tis Eventide.” The composer who attended and put “he/hymn” on his name tag. 

I considered making a little callback to the part of Dad’s June letter where he talked about “the kindness of strangers.” Perhaps add something about concern and compassion being amplified by community. But “stranger” doesn’t feel like the right word for the people I spent a weekend getting to know. Heck—what even is a stranger, in any case? At what point does a stranger become an acquaintance? At what point does the acquaintance become a friend? And when does love come into the equation? Is the “love thy neighbor” love you feel for a stranger the same love you feel for a friend? Does it intensify as the friendship develops, or is it overshadowed by an entirely new kind of love? 

I don’t believe in soulmates, romantic or otherwise. The notion that there are people who are simply destined to love each other (in any sense of the word) doesn’t sit right with me. But sometimes, when I talk to someone and we somehow end up skipping the stranger-to-acquaintance phase, I have to wonder if there is something divine at play. 

Actually, that reminds me of something: David, the attendee who directed the aforementioned documentary about the Y Mountain at BYU being lit up in rainbow colors, told us that it was initially meant to be much shorter—a brief, supportive message that could be summed up as an example of “gay people loving each other,” in his (approximate) words. As he said that, I thought of a joking response: “Isn’t that kind of the whole definition of being gay?” 

I didn’t end up voicing the quip, thinking it could inadvertently come across as mocking. Besides, while that may be true for the first two letters of the LGBTQ+ acronym (and often the third), I am obviously aware that sexual and romantic love are not the only parts of being queer. After all, I’m not attracted to anyone! 

But now, as I reflect back on the amount of love I felt over the course of that weekend, I think I might have been onto something. 

Work 

I can’t think of any funny kid stories at the moment. Given the length this letter has already attained, that’s probably for the best. 

Unfortunately for you guys, that doesn’t mean this section will be short. 

Saturday, June 1 was the KAH company-wide “Color War” training for all summer camp staff, from all camps, from all centers, all congregating at KAH’s Red Barn Ranch. So, there were a lot of people. The event dedicated about as much time to competitive team building as it did to normal training. Everyone was divided into four teams—red, yellow, green, and blue (hence “Color War”)—to participate in various competitions. The red, yellow, and blue teams were each a collaboration of the staff from two to three day camp locations, and all the traveling camps’ counselors (regardless of center) made up the green team. While I am switching from Explorers to Adventure Camp this summer, they are both traveling camps, so I reprised last year’s role as a proud greener. This pits me against most of my school year coworkers, since the vast majority of them work day camp at Forest Knolls, landing them on the blue team. 

…Which happens to be the team that won last year. 

You can probably see where this is going. Green Team got cheated out of the title last time, and I’ve been sick of my coworkers rubbing it in my face all year. My teammates rally together to turn this into the best comeback story of all time, get the trophy, and lift each other up on shoulders, cheering and perhaps even shedding a few joyous tears. The sounds of celebration fade out as the music swells and the video turns slow-motion. We see close-up shots that highlight each of the victors’ expressions of elation, ending with one that lingers on our main character before the credits finally roll. 

I missed most of that, though, because I passed out during lunch. 

Don’t worry, it wasn’t anything dramatic. I was eating pizza in the grass with some near-strangers, slightly removed from the crowded pavilion, since I worried that the noise might worsen the headache that had been bothering me for about half an hour. One of the people I was eating with assumed a half-lying position in the sun, and I thought, “Hey, that looks comfy” and copied her. The sun wasn’t helping the headache—or the lightheadedness, or the slight nausea—so I closed my eyes.

Next thing I remember, there were at least half a dozen people crowded around me, shaking my shoulders and shouting my name. Apparently, someone had tried to rouse me from my apparent nap and discovered I was unresponsive. A few people helped me stand and walked me to the first aid building, where I wallowed in (hopefully) masterfully-concealed embarrassment for the rest of the time. 

Fortunately, it wasn’t just wallowing. Another Adventure Camp counselor, Bee, soon came to check in on me, and we spent a long time chatting. They’re nonbinary too, and our matching pronouns (throwback!) felt like a natural springboard into conversation. 

They’re nice. I think I made a friend. 

The green team did win, by the way. 

The school year has since ended, leading to the transition into summer camp. Like the past two summers, I am part of a KAH camp that takes kids on daily field trips—only this year, the kids I’m with are rising fifth to ninth graders. When compared to the younger Explorers, the Adventure Camp trips are a little more… well, adventurous. Sorry, I’m a bad writer. Some of the notably unique trips are caving, paintballing, and whitewater rafting. 

So far, it’s been great. The adjustment to supervising older kids is… strange, but I’m getting used to it. I like to think I’m doing an okay-ish job. I’ve definitely managed to connect with more than a few of the kids. I wowed two of them with an infodump about Sperry and Gazzaniga’s Nobel Prize-winning research on split-brain patients,⁴ and in return learned a lot of incredible facts about the numerous acts of negligence that contributed to the sinking of the Titanic. A shyer eighth grader told me about her favorite anime and that she’d constructed her own replicas of some swords from one of them, and she even asked her parents to bring them in the car during pickup so I could see them in person. Another kid drew a portrait of me.

While I know I am lacking in many areas of my job, I can at least feel somewhat confident that I’ve made at least a few kids happy. 

Finally, the battle has ended. The letter has been completed, consisting of approximately 4,000 words and only a little over a month late. Hey, do you guys remember when these were a reasonable length? Or the time I mentioned that Dad referred to his average word count of about 2,500 as “way too long”? I miss those days. 

That’s a lie. I love being wordy. And you know what else I love? You.

Prolixly yours,
Ari

1. Apparently, there were two of them!
2. See Luke 24.
3. Nevermind the fact that I’m 24. I’m just a child who is legally permitted to vote and consume certain beverages, and I was among the youngest attendees. Also, everyone says I look 16, so there’s that.
4. If you ask me about this, I will talk your ear off. Don’t try me. (Please try me.)