Incest Panties

Incest Panties
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In the past few weeks, attention has continued to focus on the policy of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints about youth interviews with the bishop. See here for a discussion of several small ways the Church has recently modernized its policy–but also why the changes don’t go far enough to protect young people.
Today’s guest post recounts a personal story of one woman’s experience of a humiliating youth interview with the bishop — one that continues to shape her life and choices as an adult. — JKR
When I was a young girl, my Mormon bishop asked me about my panties during a temple recommend interview.
I was a Beehive , only thirteen years old.
Born and raised in the Mormon church, I was very active in the faith, a good girl who had been cruising through my bishop’s temple recommend interview questions up until that point. I lived in a small, majority Mormon town in the Utah corridor and we had a temple nearby, so I’d interviewed with this same man the year before. I was thinking that our interview was almost over.
But this year, his questioning took a freaky turn. He asked me about my panties.
I froze, so he repeated himself and clarified: “Your underwear. Do you wear immodest underwear?”
I was a good girl. I dressed modestly. Besides, how could underwear be immodest?
But he kept at it. “Do you wear bikini underwear?”
The bishop’s daughter and I had been friends for years. I had spent many sleepovers at their house. We rough-housed in our pajamas, and sometimes I wore a nightgown. His daughter wore “granny panties” and I wore what in the eighties were called bikini underwear, or high-cut underwear with a low-cut waist. This bishop either heard about my underwear choice from his daughter when she saw me changing in her room, or maybe he had seen a flash of my underwear himself (or maybe his wife had?) while his daughter and I danced around their house playing dress-up or rough-housing, as we had done so many times.
And, apparently, this bishop didn’t approve of my bikini underwear.
With my face burning and my head lowered in shame, I nodded. Yes. Yes, I am guilty of immodest panties , my nods acquiesced. My bishop sat back in his chair, satisfied at the confession, then launched into a lecture about the importance of modest underwear.
Three decades later, I can’t recall a single word of his panty sermon, but I remember every second of throbbing shame as I sat there, forced to listen to it. Instead of believing in his counsel about panties, I was panicking inside, wondering if I was about to become the only Beehive in my class without a temple recommend. Would I be forced to skip our upcoming combined young men-young women temple trip to do baptisms because the bishop disapproved of my panties ?
As the bishop wrapped up his sermon on the dangers of bikini underwear, I looked up at him. Fear squeezed my stomach. This was it, the end of the sermon. This was when he would pronounce my fate. The big moment when he would either declare me unworthy to enter the temple—and by extension the kingdom of heaven—or grant me a pardon for the sin of . . . what commandment had I broken, exactly? More than three decades later, I still don’t know.
The bishop then issued a stern reprimand. Next, he warned me not to repeat the offense again, and counseled me to wear the “granny” style underwear that he preferred LDS girls to put on before going to the temple.
I left the bishop’s office on cloud nine and went out to the foyer feeling free and jubilant. I could join my peers! I wouldn’t be the odd one left out of our temple trip!
After that, I asked my mom to buy me some “granny panties” because I never wanted to feel as dirty, ashamed, or unworthy as I had in that temple interview, ever again. I felt that putting on panties in accordance with our bishop’s preferences would help me keep this spiritual high and put me in God’s favor. I also steered very clear of sleepovers at the bishop’s house after that day, and even decades later I still retain a faint paranoia of high-ranked LDS priesthood holders’ homes and their families, for fear of inadvertently doing something uncouth in front of them.
Instead, I only interact with them at church, where I’ve spent decades trying to earn praise and approval from bishops and other high-ranking leaders so that I can always earn the pardon and self-worth available in all future temple recommend interviews that I discovered when I was thirteen. It felt SO good to get that recommend after dangling on the precipice of unworthiness that day!
I married in the LDS temple, have a large family, and we have always been active Mormons; we still are. We pay full, honest tithes, and almost all my friends and family are in this church. I’ve never known anything different. Deep down, I still base my worth on that piece of paper from a judge in Israel (the bishop) that indicates I’m worthy to enter the house of God, and my self-esteem tends to fluctuate based on signs of validation that I receive from bishops or other high-ranked priesthood leaders.
I only recently began noticing how much I my mental health has suffered over the years because of this unhealthy addiction to their approval. I have sought bishops’ favor in church callings, weekly meetings, and temple recommend interviews the way kidnapping victims with Stockholm Syndrome adoringly cling to their captors. Even now I can’t break free. Like a stray dog in search of a handout, I crave validation from church leaders more than I crave affection from my own husband, because this traumatizing event defined and shaped some of my most formative years and who I am as a person. The lingering effects of that day definitely wreak havoc on the emotional (and sometimes physical) intimacy in my marriage.
Sam Young’s ministry at ProtectLDSChildren.org is a gift to the youth of the church. I applaud former Bishop Young’s efforts to protect LDS children from being taken, alone, into rooms with adult men to talk about their clothes, bodies, desires, and intimate thoughts. Protecting youth is the right thing to do, I can attest from personal experience. The cost of turning our young ones’ self-esteem over to untrained men with no credentials is too great—it takes a toll on family relationships and mental health; it isn’t worth it.
I’d be a much healthier, grounded, and self-confident disciple of Christ if Sam Young’s policies for protecting LDS children and youth had been in place back when I was a girl.
* This post was written by a Mormon mother who prefers that her real name, and the name of her former bishop, be omitted.

I Was 10 When My Grandfather Touched Me “Down There”. My Parents Were Just Upstairs.
I Made Some Extra Cash Last Week Just By Doing A Little Swiping, And Unlocking My Phone

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It happened when I was 10. It’s not like most stories that you might have read about; there was no struggling, no screaming, no taunting or violence. It was silent—mostly because I had no idea what was going on.
It didn’t happen in an alleyway, or in a sleazy motel room. Not even in my own bedroom. It was in a dusty half-lit store pantry on the ground floor of my grandfather’s house. With about 9 other relatives on the first floor. It happened when I wasn’t alone.
Was it frightening? Hardly. If anything, it was confusing. I was only 10.
I grew up in a conservative home. I didn’t know the word ‘f*ck’ until I was 15. I only understood its meaning a whole year later. And yet now we have 8-year-olds using the word in grammatically correct sentences. My parents were traditional in their ways (and very strict).
I never once asked them, “Mommy, where do babies come from?” Maybe I wasn’t quite an inquisitive child. I knew there was a hole somewhere in my nether regions but I thought it was just for peeing.
So when grandfather asked me to follow him into the pantry and put his hands down my panties, I just stood there like the good doll I was while he sat on a stool behind me. He was gentle. But determined. Quick—before anyone else came into the kitchen—but long enough for me to remember his stubby beard rubbing against my neck.
I can’t remember when I realised the disturbing intentions of his action. Maybe it was when I discovered porn by accident. Maybe it was when I studied Chapter 4 of Science in Form 3. Maybe it was during “girl talk” with my guy friends in school.
But even before I figured it out, I knew my grandfather did something bad. Bad enough for my parents to tell me to avoid going near him when we visit after I told them about how he touched me “down there”. However, in my 10-year-old mind, it couldn’t have been that bad since they never confronted him about it. There wasn’t any big hoo-ha or dramatic family intervention. They simply told me not to tell anyone about it—sorry, mom and dad, for this.
In their defence, they couldn’t have prevented it. Not before it happened anyway. They couldn’t have known that they shouldn’t leave me alone downstairs while they chatted happily just several metres away. They couldn’t have known that they should have told me from a young age to “scream for help and run if someone touches you here or here “. And for that, I’ve never blamed them.
That’s not the case for my grandfather. Although I listened to my parents and avoided him, it was out of obedience and ignorance. Not because I actually understood why I should. And when I finally did many years later, I hated him for it. Which is a difficult task to do even after all these years.
It might be because it’s hard to hate someone who’s been dead for at least 10 years (I don’t keep count of the exact number). There’s only so much hate that you can give to a dead person because you can’t really do anything about it.
I don’t have any extraordinary lesson for you, other than the predictable ones. Educate your children so that their understanding of “down there” is not lacking; be observant so that any changes in your child’s behaviour doesn’t go by unnoticed; and do something when your child confides in you so that they know they can trust you.
Because not every case of child sexual abuse and molestation is about a child kicking and screaming.
Sometimes it’s a silent one, not because they are unafraid, but because they are confused, unaware, and simply just don’t know any better.
I consider myself very lucky. It only happened once and I was still ignorant. Nevertheless I’m in no way belittling it. I’ve heard of horrific experiences from victims of abuse, and even if it happened once, twice, or many times, there is always one similarity between them—they will be affected.
I sometimes wish that my parents did make a big deal out of it. I wish my relatives knew what a creep grandfather was.
On the other hand, I’m relieved that they didn’t. I can’t imagine having to face the embarrassment and the humiliation. More importantly, I also can’t imagine handling the rejection if they all knew but still did nothing about it. Or worse still, didn’t believe me.
Am I traumatised and never able to trust men again? Not quite. I am, after all, happily married. But till this day, I can’t stand stubby beards.
Editor’s note: This article is in response to the sudden (but very necessary) interest in the ugly truth of child sexual abuse cases in Malaysia . The writer would like to remain anonymous; however she’d like to remind readers that if they have a sexually abused child, it’s your responsibility to make them feel secure and accepted. Lodge a police report, or seek professional advice from a child psychologist/counsellor. Let them know that they are significant and that their well-being matters.
Feature image adapted from http://www.doctorinsta.com/
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Vulcan Post aims to be the knowledge hub of Singapore and Malaysia.
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