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The Exponent II Blog features posts relating to Mormon feminism. We welcome posts by diverse voices. Submit a guest post to join the conversation.

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Continuing our series on being fat in the LDS church, guest author Jen Morrison writes, "My life went on and my body continued to grow into the 219 pound high school senior who dreaded Young Women’s meetings One day my mom pulled me aside as I walked in the door. getting home after school and work. “The young women have an upcoming activity where you’ll all dress up in wedding gowns from sisters in the ward and discuss temple marriage and have a faux reception. The leaders called because they didn’t want you to worry about a dress. They think that Sister X (name withheld) has one that might fit you and you can try it on beforehand if you’d like.” I looked back at my mom in disgust at knowing the leaders had sized up every sister in the ward trying to decide who would have one big enough to fit me. I said I wasn’t going and yet still my big fat shame grew."
"When I was first married, my husband was my de facto therapist. I purged many feelings I had toward my mother and he listened. My mom yelled ... not a, “Go clean your room!” yell, but a, “You’re such a b*$@ -- why do you always go out with your friends? You’re so cavalier!” yell. That type of yell was reserved for my teen years, but when I was just a little younger, her yelling was also irrational, too angry for the “crime” committed. Later, when she would lay on the couch in her depression, we kids knew that a clean house, help with making dinner, ironing Dad’s shirts, and not being around ... would keep the outbursts at bay. It wasn’t until I started taking my first kid to the library to read books that the good memories of my mom came flooding back."
Our guest author writes, "I distinctly remember the day a modesty lesson was presented in seminary, and as we walked across the street to the school, a classmate turned to me and said, “You know you’re breaking the rules of modesty.” Looking down at my jeans and navy cable knit sweater, I analyzed the neckline with confusion. Not even my collarbones were visible. I was wearing pretty much the same item that dozens of girls in the group were wearing, why was she singling me out? I didn’t have to wait long for my question to be answered, “With your chest, you shouldn’t wear clothing that tight.” The words still sting today."
"The Olympic committee has drawn that line for Ms. Khelif, defining her as she defines herself, as a woman. Last year, the International Boxing Association drew the line that said she is not enough of a woman. But the thing is, the lines do not end there. Should we draw lines in the temple? Should my baptism and church membership be rescinded because I am not perfectly female? And with that—who gets to choose my gender?"
Guest author Emmaly Renshaw writes, "I have always led back-burn crews–it's what controls the fire and protects. As women, it's what we do: control and protect. We are taught to ensure the little fires are extinguished before they become destructive. How often have I been told to “shelve my anger” or “anger is the devil's device”? How frequently have I repeated this repression to my daughters as I instruct them to “simmer down” or “drop the drama”? It is ingrained in women that fires should never be allowed to burn. I am beginning to realize how devastating this practice of suppression is."
Year after year I have watched a pattern of behavior emerge among my local community of Latter-day Saints. It is to invite the most convenient Native American to offer either the opening or closing prayer for our Sacrament Meetings on or around both the 4th and the 24th of July. In an attempt to make everyone feel included, ward leaders fail to understand the complex emotions that this simple request creates among those of us still suffering from the effects of colonization. Such efforts at inclusion are not the kindness they are thought to be, but rather, are opportunities for the dominant culture to receive a confirmation that all the deprivations of the past are now long forgotten and forgiven. Nothing could be further from the truth.