On Being Engaged
Although it should not surprise us that a group of thirty or forty single BYU-type students would produce at least one engaged person, no matter how unlikely the circumstances, it still does surprise me just how many of us engagèds there were in Nauvoo; poor, lost souls distraught and removèd from our betrothèd belovèds. To say nothing of those who, while not “engaged,” were, shall we say, merely pending. Some of those merely pendings did not survive the first month of separation, but we also witnessed the occasional upgrade from pending to “engaged.”
“Engaged.” Hmm. Here we have something of a wordular question—what does being engaged entail, exactly? Dr. Brent Barlow, BYU’s resident (and self-proclaimed) expert on all things marriage, marriage-related and marriageable has declared engagement to be nonexistent until two qualifications have been met: 1) the girl has a ring; 2) there has been a public announcement.
Test cases:
1) The boy has asked the girl to marry him and as bribery has offered a rock the size of Martha’s Vineyard. They kiss, then gaze happily at the stars, dreaming of eternity. (Elapsed time, 45 seconds.) Are they engaged?
2) Boy and girl unexpectedly (but finally) decide to wed after a lunch at “their place,” the Cougareat. They spend the next six hours calling everyone in any way known to them from BYU’s courtesy phones, including President Bateman, but his secretary insists he is not in now for wedding announcements. Are they engaged?
3) Boy inherits ninety Victorian era engagement rings and gives several to girls of his acquaintance. Simultaneously and unbeknownst to him, his good friend has placed a prank wedding announcement matching him and one of the above-mentioned girls on a corkboard in the student center. Are they engaged?
(Key: 1 – no [no public announcement]. 2 – no [no ring]. 3 - yes.)
Does this make sense? Is this a reasonable definition? I say No! To me (making me also a self-proclaimed expert), engagement occurs when boy and girl mutually agree to wed. Marriage involves only two people in the primary, therefore why is a public announcement necessary for even the engagement? I can’t imagine. And rings are immaterial essentially because they are material.1 But back to announcements, since when did announcements matter? Am I any less dead if the paper doesn’t run my obit? Am I any less born if the ward bulletin lady forgets to mention it on the back page and so the second counselor doesn’t read it from the podium? I don’t want to draw any unwarranted conclusions, but I suggest the answer to both questions is “No.” Write me a letter if you’ld like to argue the point, but I don’t believe my existence is all in your head.
How about a story? This is a true story; I heard it straight from one of the primary participants. Seems him and his special someone were BYU students, and as is common, they fell in love. Tragically, since Brother Barlow was not at the BYU in those days, they were uneducated on the whole announcement-and-a-ring thing, and eloped in Vegas. Not in the temple, mind. There was no temple then. Not in Vegas, anyway. The following Sunday they met with their bishop and explained their desire for a temple marriage. He was happily filling out paperwork and smiling and congratulating when one of them casually mentioned they were already married and he broke his pencil lead.
“When did this happen?”
They happily told their romantic take which was replied to with hemming and hawing and ohing and umming and an unexpected and unwelcome policy disclosure. Seems the new Mr and Mrs had no idea that a temple sealing could not precede the one-year anniversary of their civil marriage.
Oh boy and what a pickle. What to do? Here they were, legally and lawfully wedded, without any hope of a proper parent-approved marriage for a full year? What to do?
Well, one thing they did (and this must’ve been much, much easier to do in those days because it’s about impossible to do under six months these days around BYU) was find some married housing. The second thing was pure hush hush. Don’t tell anyone!!! Their own little secret combination built for two. So romantic!
Unfortunately, many months into their first year of undercover married bliss, the missus was awoken by the telephone terribly early one morning, and she thoughtlessly answered it. It was a friend of the groom’s.
“───! What are you doing there!”
And as you all know, once a third person knows a secret, it is a secret no longer. Thus, mere weeks away from their scheduled sealing, the front broke down and parents were told.
The point of this morality tale is, of course, that a lack of an announcement didn’t make their predicament and less legally or lawfully binding. And a good point it is, and well done. Thanks you, Theric.
Onto rings.
Oh, don’t get me started! You can’t imagine the animosity I feel towards engagement rings and diamonds in particular. “Who can find a virtuous woman?” the scripture2 asks, “for her price is far above rubies.” Yes, but not above diamonds the billboards and newspaper ads would have us believe. You can buy your own virtuous woman, they suggest, with a rock the size of your first Tooth Fairy delivery. That's right! For the price of a small car you can obtain a diamond, giving you the purchasing prowess of the season’s best-antlered buck. Act now!
Here’s a sample billboard:
[ill]
Okay; let me get this straight. “Love her? Show her!” Seems good enough advice, but somehow I doubt buying her a rock’s going to build a lasting relationship. Maybe you could also wash the dishes once in a while, Monsieur Moneysloth. Women are not commodities. You can’t head to the financial section and find them listed between gold and silver and read their worth in carats:
Gold s 1.50 dollars per troy ounce
Women t ½ carat diamond
Silver s 12 cents per troy ounce
Absurd, isn’t it? Yet that’s what these ads suggest. I’ve started clipping out the most offensive ones from BYU’s Daily Universe and stashing them on top of our stereo. I would print some, but I’m afraid of Provo’s gem peddlers bringing suit against me. Here are a few in a simple cypher if you want to take the time to figure it out. It’ll be something to do on your next long road trip. A pilgrimage to Nauvoo, perhaps?
Ape’i vuiitu bpw tuvv ifne iwhu tpgu.
Rphw tpgu nea augpimpe nwu qpwifr pb opquwbht vmjev.
Tui fuw buut rphw tpgu uguwr anr.
Vfpq fuw rph tpgu fuw.
Ueatuvv tpgu: Tui hv futo rph vfpq fuw ifni rphw tpgu bpw fuw mv ueatuvv.
Mi’v emzu ip wusmea fuw fpq shzf vfu tpguv rph.
Nepifuw Fnoor Zphotu
(While these sentiments may be nice, consider that it is implied that only an expensive diamond ring can deliver the sentiment. It’s a wonder drug—one dose and she’ll feel loved for life! Not surprisingly, they get even worse—I have one that shows rings with the caption, “Bait.” Like women are fish, you see. Where’s a feminist when you need one?)
Oh oh oh! Nauvoo! That’s what this book is about! But before we get back, let me just wrap up my diatribe on why diamond rings make a lousy engaement presentation:
1) Many diamonds are dug up through the efforts of slave labor in Africa. Did you know that? My friend Stephanie (who you can find listed in the acknowledgements and who, to be fair, Lynsey knew first) suspects that diamonds will become trés gauche and cubic zirconias will be coming into style. Why? Much the same reason people don’t wear much mink these days—its source offends sensibilities. Consider your rock was dug from the earth by a half-starved slave. Is it still pretty? Is it still romantic?
2) It doesn’t make sense to buy something so tremendously expensive that you begin married life in debt. Especially when it is not a necessity. (Really, it’s not. If she won’t marry you without X number of carats, do you really want her?) A house or a car or an education or even food storage I can imagine justifying. But a ring? Sounds awfully foolish to me.
3) Here’s the one that has always got my goat3: Why do only women have to wear engagement rings? Why not men? What’s the message? That the girl is stuck in her new obligation and wears a flashy warning to other males while Mr Hotshot Bigboy can still scope his options? Sounds like a lousy deal.
I suppose, before moving on, it is only fair that I describe what Lynsey and I did regarding rings and announcements. We were engaged, by our standard of engagement, weeks before we began telling anyone. Almost no one knew before we finally announced it to our ward two months later. When Lynsey told the bishop about our engagement in an interview, it was he who insisted she get a ring. We weren’t overly excited at the prospect, but he was our bishop. In respect to #3 above, we both purchased rings; plain, silver bands. They are what we still wear. The cost of both was well under a hundred—forty-something, if I remember correctly.
(Incidentally, I have an A1 superior idea for a ring. I’m putting it down here in part so the idea will be copyrighted and acknowledged my own. Then, if anyone else tries to use it, I will exercise my rights as a Californian and sue them nigh unto death. Here it is: it is a rockless band, engraved with not one, not two, not even eight—but ten cows. That’s right. At that romantic starlit moment on the temple grounds, you can ask the girl of your dreams to become your ten-cow wife. Even if the ten-cow ring doesn’t catch on as an engagement present, no doubt it will appeal to the CTR/RWH/ETC ring-buying public. You’ll see.)
As you may have deduced, I have strong and frenzied opinions on engagement and its trappings. Thus, with the aforementioned large number of engaged students at the JSA Winter 2000, it is not surprising that I found opportunity to spout off. Not always popularly. Most of those of the feminine persuasion at the JSA sided with Krista in agreeing that a specific date and even a temple appointment do not constitute an “engagement” if the man has not yet “asked” the woman, nor presented her with a ring. Nevermind that he knew what ring she wants and is collecting funds to purchase it, it is absurd to suggest that they were “engaged”! Oh, Theric! You are funny! That’s not “engaged”!
But I was able to find some backing for my radical ideas—Melinda agreed that men should wear engagement rings (and, when first meeting both Lynsey and I post-Nauvoo, told Lynsey personally and emphatically that she was doing a good job, putting a ring on her man); Gibby had a band just like Lynsey’s and said she wanted one just like it as a wedding band (and thus, Gibby became my Small Backup Emergency Fiancée); so all was not lost. Perhaps my wild bunch of engagementary revolutionaries will yet win the day.
But neither Melinda nor Gibby came to Nauvoo engaged (and neither, apparently, did Krista, temple date notwithstanding). But some of us did. Me for instance, and, coincidentally, Lindsi. Thank goodness for the spelling difference (and about two feet in height and a wildly different hair color) to tell them apart, or I may have grown confused, and what would my darling Lynsey have said about that?!
But now that I think about it, I’m not sure I can count Lindsi into Engaged Club membership either. As I recall, she received her ring halfway through the semester when . . . Hey! her fiancé came to see her! And Hey! so did Krista’s and Brendalyn’s and—and—and—everyone else’s! Hey! In fact, Lynsey was the only other half who never did come to visit! (Pout.)
The awful loneliness of the engaged, separated by miles and months, was accentuated only by the visitation of others’ lovers. Next thing the hapless knew, Krista (for example) and her fian—ah—boyfriend were luvvy duvvying about, then it was Lindsi and hers or Brendalyn and hers (and wait, wasn’t it Brendalyn who got her ring and thus became “engaged” halfway through? It’s all so confusing), but never Theric and his. Oh no! He, rather, is put to suffer alone in these trying times. It was the best of times sure, but it was also the worst of times, an age of wisdom, an age of foolishness, the spring of hope, the winter of darkness, the color red, et cetera. All alone on the hostile prairie, surrounded by nubile young women. (I understand this particular detail was more trying for me than for the other, nubile young men in the program.)
Imagine, if you will, my suffering, so oft surrounded by such obscene displays of affection! Young lovers are always where one would rather they were not, and if you don’t believe me, consider the words of the great social philosopher Jerome K. Jerome in his 1889 watershed work, Three Men in a Boat (to Say Nothing of the Dog):
Have you ever been in a house where there is a couple courting? It is most trying. You think you will go and sit in the drawing room, and you march off there. As you open the door, you hear a noise as if somebody had suddenly recollected something, and, when you get in, Emily is over by the window, full of interest in the opposite side of the road, and your friend, John Edward, is at the opposite side of the room with his whole soul held in thrall by photographs of other people’s relatives.
I use Mr. Jerome’s example because I do not wish to compromise anyone’s privacy anymore than I may have just by walking about, minding my own business, when suddenly . . .
Half an hour later, you think you will try a pipe in the conservatory [for the record: no pipes at the JSA]. The only chair in the place is occupied by Emily; and John Edward, if the language of clothes can be relied upon, has evidently been sitting on the floor. They do not speak, but they give you a look that says all that can be said in a civilized community; and you back out promptly and shut the door behind you.
Just disgusting, the way young lovers carry on. And a little insulting to the loverless stranded in Illinois, let me tell you.
But of course, this is not to imply Lynsey and I were separated by more than miles, for truly, we were not—it was miles alone. Ah the heart of love connected to another—what distance is substantial? what gulf is insurmountable? what separation is meaningful? Cannot the heart sleep as peacefully leagues apart yet knowing it is loved as when it has only just kissed goodnight? ‘Tis not the pain of moments as substantial as that of months?
Like phooey it is. Don’t think we at the JSA didn’t suffer with all those miles and months between us and our loves. Thirteen states and three-and-a-half months is both far and long. Don’t imagine it isn’t. And don’t think we didn’t anticipate it. I may have said my goodbyes long before I ended up in Nauvoo, but I understand the Salt Lake Airport was full of weeping and wailing as the plane to St Louis loaded. Painful separations . . . many of them . . . . Weeping and wailing.
Sigh.
And so what I want to know—and this is what I was trying to get to way back in the first paragraph—is why were there so many engaged (and quasi-engaged) people in Nauvoo? It just doesn’t make sense!
I shouldn’t, perhaps, hypothesize about the others, so I’ll just speak for me. My original plan had been to go to Nauvoo, and after getting home I would start getting serious about the whole finding-a-mate thing. (Incidentally, I am somewhat of an expert [self-proclaimed, of course] on this subject, as you can tell by consulting Appendix X, which contains my treatise on this subject, “Marital Matters.”) I had no intention, when I first signed up, to be engaged during my Nauvoo experience. Make the trip footloose and fancy-free, that was my intent. It wasn’t how things ended up however. Next I knew, me and Lynsey were getting shmoopy all over, our voyeuristic roommates constantly opening the front door immediately after we had finally gotten “comfortable” on the couch. Can’t you people just leave the engaged couple alone?! Sheesh.
But, why go to Nauvoo then? Why not just cancel it? You could stay with your girl, avoid that whole fiasco where BYU kindly returned all your Federal financial aid money to the government, not pine away eating nothing but cookies, muffins and bowls of black olives. . . . In short, you might have been better off staying in Provo and we would not now be subjected to your whining.
Well thank you, Frankie Hindsight, but I didn’t. Who knows why. But there’s no doubt I grew some in Nauvoo, little doubt I may have needed to be there for someone or someones else, and it’s absolutely certain the world’s a better place because I went. But don’t ask me how. Perhaps I prevented that butterfly in Shanghai from flooding San Diego, I don’t know! It was just the right thing to do. And you know, many choices in life—such as going to Nauvoo and marrying Lynsey in mine—are made with celestial input. It’s a beautiful thing, the gift of the Holy Ghost. I can’t imagine where I’ld be without it. Don’t want to, really. He may just let me do all sorts of things on my own (like, unfortunately, the pizza parlor incident), but I’m always grateful for advice. I try to be, anyway. There may have been exceptions, but let’s not turn this into a forum for my idiocy. Let’s just end here.
To sum up: it’s good to get married; diamonds are dumb; watch out for engaged people; and I came up with the Ten Cow Ring first. Words to live by. And here’s some more, ultradirect from the Scriptures4.
aWhoso findeth a bwife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour of the Lord.
. . . and a happy life, and an eternal companion, and life with God, and a lot of other nice things. Sounds even better than diamonds, wouldn’t you say?
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Thanks for revisiting Nauvoo with me. I would love to hear your thoughts.