(Stories of my actual time in the field here:
http://exmormon.org/phorum/read.php?2,407018,407042#msg-407042http://exmormon.org/phorum/read.php?2,408509,408509#msg-408509)
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the MTC (Not)
It's been 22 years since I've walked the "prison block M like" halls of the Missionary Training Center, and I've never committed any of my fundie, err, fond memories of the experience to word processor before. I'm doing so now because 1: a lot of funny shit happened in that 2 month period, and 2: its reading will perhaps serve as a deterrent to my own children if they someday decide to follow in my disavowed footsteps.
The scene: June, 1989, nighttime, somewhere deep in the heart of Mormon Country, i.e. a short drive's distance from the MTC. Me: lying down in the dark, headphones on, listening to a cd of Fleetwood Mac's greatest hits. Compact Disc technology has been around for 2 to 3 years, and I'm not relishing the opportunity to relinquish my prized collection of 20 discs for 2 years (though now my collection of well over 1,000 cds is mostly a storage and moving-day burden in this age of ITunes -- higher fidelity sound being the anachronism in reverse for today's on the go music aficionado). I had no idea what to expect in the next 2 years, having no older RM siblings or ever having spoken to an RM willing to give me the inside scoop on what a mission was really like. As far as I knew a mission was just a rosy experience where you shared the gospel with no bureaucratic pressure of any kind (I later found that line of thinking to be patently false, as detailed in another post). It didn't take being in the MTC for long to change my vision of the future to that of a 2 year void of darkness -- the biggest test of endurance I've ever faced in my life. I'm sure I'm not alone as a former missionary who saw the future as a dark tunnel ahead with nary a ray of light to illuminate the way, with post-mission life so far in the distant future as to be practically unimaginable. With that cheery prospect in mind, I still mostly tried to make it work in a believing fashion for me.
Drop off day was uneventful, with mother shedding the obligatory tears; just hugs and handshakes for the rest of us. We were then filed off to...somewhere, I don't recall. The forgettable daily monotony of the experience is not worth recounting, as you can just assume it fills in the gaps between all of the other interesting stuff which I'll try to recount as accurately as possible. I solemnly swear that everything I commit to word processor here is truthful, according to my memories. I have a clean bill of psychological health (or at least it hasn't been suggested that I seek out a mental health expert for fear of an unsound mind. I have a wife, who of course could be relied up to offer up just such a suggestion if it were even a remote possibility that such help might be needed).
I'm a firm believer in the therapeutic power of music. After a few long days in the MTC it was clear to me that my current existence sans music wasn't going to cut it. We weren't expressly forbidden to forego music initially (that edict would come in a week), but were limited to spirit-enhancing music. On our first P Day my companion and I went to the Wilkinson Center on the BYU campus (a P Day activity that I think was also banned at some point during my stay), where I bought a cassette-playing walkman of some sort, along with a cassette of the soundtrack to the film "The Last Emperor." Finally, laying in bed at night, I had some stress relief (no, I never made use of really frowned upon alternative modes of stress relief, believe it or not, lol).
My soon to be brother in law (and soon to be exmo, along with my sister, not too long after they were married in a temple for show) quickly responded to my written request for more music with a gift package containing cassette tapes. A favorite of that bunch was Pat Metheney's "Still Life (Talking)" a great album of new agey jazz, an album that still affects me to this day, so strong is my emotional connection to this music given the circumstances under which I first listened to it dozens of times. Another favorite was a copy of a mix-tape he'd previously made, which included songs by David Sylvian and Bruce Cockburn (amongst many others), two artists I'd never listened to before, but who are still now two of my favorite musical artists.
So, a week or so after making this sanity-saving walkman purchase, a revelation came down the power-pipe forbidding us to listen to music of any sort while in the MTC (with Mo Tab etc. privileges being restored once we were in the field, as far as I recall). It seems like many things were denied us at some point during our 2 month MTC stay -- I guess I was lucky enough to be there during a developing crackdown on activities not in keeping with the goal of cranking out a formidable host of zombinaries. I think I actually tried to not listen to music for a day or two after the new revelation, but I had my own personal revelation that if I was going to survive the MTC that I had to have my music, and I never felt bad about listening to anything I wanted to for the rest of my mission.
Which reminds me of a certain cassette in the "anything I wanted to" category. I was blessed to have an MTC companion of a non-zealous nature. One day, on a bus ride en route to the dentist (I had a wisdom tooth removed while in the MTC) we purposefully detoured to The University Mall. There, my companion and I, in full missionary garb, went to a music store, where I purchased a Blue Oyster Cult tape ("Imaginos" I believe, their latest and greatest -- well, I think "Agents of Fortune" is their greatest, but at the time...), and my companion purchased a Metallica cassette. In the MTC laundry room we'd find an empty corner to plop down in, with our headphones on, mentally rocking out, listening to each other's tape once or twice, just to verify that we, in fact, were fans of the superior rock band.
Other than music I had one other sanity-saving "subversive" activity. Somehow in my luggage I'd found room to pack a large textbook of English literature, one of those 700 pages or so whoppers. If I recall, in the evenings we had 15 minutes or so of personal time before lights out. I would spend mine sitting at the desk in our room reading the tome with a cup of hot cider or hot cocoa in hand, the powdered contents of which I'd pilfer from the cafeteria as needed. I think I had the nickname of "professor" or something for awhile as the result of this.
Okay, enough of the sanity-savers that set the framework for how I coped well enough to make it through, let's get down to some of the funny and strange stories.
When I first entered the MTC, there were no restrictions on "gift packages," and those of us lucky enough to have friends or family living in close proximity to the MTC used it to receive a steady supply of fattening treats, as well as contraband, as I previously mentioned. I believe that at some point heavy restrictions were placed on receiving gift packages -- part of the Crackdown of '89. But for awhile, the bounty flowed uninterrupted. Elder B. in our district came from a wealthy Las Vegas family and received large packages on a weekly basis. One of these contained a package of Pez candies and dispensers. Another Elder asked Elder B. if he would part with some of his Pez for cash. "Are you suggesting I sell my Pez tokens for money?" asked Elder B. with an arched brow. That one brought the dorm down with laughter!
After the crackdown on gift packages there we were, a district of Elders hopelessly addicted to sugar (as we were actually all a pretty giving bunch, sharing with those who hailed from distant states). In our desperate and addicted state we had no course but to turn to a life of crime. On the bottom level of each dormitory were a few vending machines. Never miss an opportunity to make a buck, I guess, even if that thought never occurred to me back then. No matter, we extracted our anti-capitalist revenge through a systematic looting of the machines. Tipping pop machines was a method of beverage extraction many of us were already familiar with, an activity made easier by the laying on of 4 sets of Elder's hands. Round about the same time we started in on the illicit "Operation: Thirst Quench" mission, one of the 4 Elders showed up in our room with an unworn white shirt full of goods from the rotating, plastic door sliding vending machine, eyes a' twinkling. We looked at his haul with amazement. "But how?" our eyes asked. He led us to the depths of the dormitory. By forcing open an empty slot of the vending machine, or purchasing an item and holding the plastic sliding door open, one of us was instructed to remain just to the side of the machine holding the sliding door open. Elder C. then proceeded to deliver a flying karate kick to the machine, causing it to rotate its innards against its will. Whatever delicious hostess product (RIP, Twinkie) had been waiting in the queue to satisfy the next paying missionary now found itself sequestered in our greedy hands. I was thin as a rail before entering the MTC. I gained 15 pounds while there (and another 15 in the field).
The 4th of July arrived midway through our 2 month stay. From what I remember, missionaries in previous years/dispensations were allowed to gather outside to watch Freedom Festival fireworks. Freedom was not to be ours that year, as the Crackdown of '89 meant we were told to stay indoors during the 4th of July evening, lest the excitement of fireworks and freedom remind us of how shitty our lives now were. "Not to worry!" said my companion, Elder N. Elder N., as it transpired, had smuggled into the MTC a quarter stick of dynamite, which he'd acquired in Tijuana shortly before entering the MTC, no good opportunity having presented itself for detonation prior to his current period of service. "I've got our fireworks show covered!" he excitedly proclaimed. After standing in the exit door by our favorite vending machines to watch the fireworks show coming from the general direction of Cougar Stadium, we set about looking for a suitable place to detonate the dynamite. I should mention that Elder N. was currently on crutches after sustaining a severely sprained ankle playing basketball. We made a lazy procession in the dark down the road that circled the perimeter of the MTC grounds, with Elder N. hobbling along on his crutches. We soon came upon a lone Elder, sitting with his back up against a dumpster, recording an audio tape to what must have been his girlfriend, from what we overheard. He was facing away from the MTC, while we were on the road between the dumpster and the buildings. "Here!" whispered Elder N., holding up the dynamite and some means with which to light the fuse. "Somebody take it, I can't do it on these crutches!" Are you sure it's safe, we asked? It's not going to obliterate the dumpster and hurt this poor Elder, is it? "No -- it's not that strong...I think." We waffled until he called us a bunch of pussies and motioned us toward the safety of the vending machines. We beat our retreat, and waited for him to pull up breathlessly on his crutches a minute later. We waited...and waited, several minutes, it seemed. Stupid Tijuana dynamite we muttered, probably just a dud of some sort. We'd just turned to make the sad climb to our rooms when we heard a large explosion. We looked at each other with sudden glee, and then scampered to our rooms as quickly but inconspicuously as possible. The following day we went back to the dumpster to see if and what damage it had sustained. Peeking inside we saw maybe a few black traces of powder on the walls, but no bulging misshapen walls or the lid lying ripped from its hinges near some bushes nearby. Oh well, we knew at the very least that we'd scared the bejeezus out of an Elder who'd snuck out to make a surreptitious recording to his girlfriend. The poor Elder probably thought God had sent down a mini-lightening bolt to castigate him for his sins.
One slow Sunday afternoon we were in our room when the door was suddenly thrown open. A jet of flame shot into our room, waving wildly from side to side. A manic figure cackled, well, maniacally, from behind the improvised flame thrower. The maniac? Elder C. -- the flame thrower nothing more than a can of hair spray and a lighter. A nifty jolt to our Sunday afternoon, we began to chuckle, when all of a sudden the fire alarm went off. Elder C. took his finger off the hair spray, and with a supreme look of panic on his face, tossed the components of his flame thrower into a nearby garbage can. Those of us undressed hastily got dressed and met all of the building's other inhabitants on the lawn outside. A fire crew showed up to inspect the building. After a while, and after being questioned, we were let back in. The following day we were questioned again, but we were good little covenant keepers, and nobody squeaked.
There are many other small stories, like the one dealing with a certain crying Sister missionary, a doe-eyed gal from Northern Utah who thought we were making fun of her when we threw her a surprise birthday party in the cafeteria (such was our bad reputation that she thought there was surely a joke going on that she just wasn't privy to. Or the crying female missionary teacher, who ended up missing time because we teased her a bit about her unsuccessful dating life. Or the male MTC teacher who swore at us, with actual swear words, in the actual MTC, because he found it abominable how cool we thought we were (his words, not ours, we were just young punks trying to have some occasional fun). Flatulence everywhere, including quiet scripture time in class when you thought you could sneak out a silent out but failed on the silent part. The peeing on of legs in the showers, the learning of phrases such as "I'm going to kick your ass!" in Spanish as a language priority -- yeah, we were young and stupid with LDS-mutated consciences. Hell, I was pretty stupid well into my 30 's really ( have y'all read how are brains aren't really fully developed until sometime in our 30's? I read that recently and wholeheartedly agree).
So survive I did, even if I never fully learned to love it. The ensuing 22 months in the field were where I gained my testimony of knowing that the church wasn't true, even if it took me some years post-mission to realize it.