The temple matron leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Sophie.” My temple name. The name my husband would use to call me through the veil to the highest level of the celestial kingdom. Only he and I would know my name (though I would never know his). This was secret and sacred and it was mine. I treasured it.
I had always been fascinated about names acquired after you were born, not just the name you were saddled with by your parents. The Catholic kids got confirmation names and I was jealous. I didn’t know when I was growing up that I would eventually be getting my own special name.
It seemed magical...like my temple garments, full of weighty covenants and hushed promises in ceremonies heavily borrowed from the Freemasons; I had to pledge to keep the name and covenants secret. Under penalty of death actually, though that was communicated without words but by the sign of drawing one’s finger across one’s neck. Clear as a bell, that one.
I was as serious as a nun and twice as obedient. My family converted to Mormonism when I was eight, followed with baptism by immersion at the age of nine. Religion fit me like a glove. I was ripe for dedication and structure. Of my family of seven, I was the most fervent. The line between letter of the law and spirit of the law never waffled with me--it was letter of the law first; spirit of the law second.
If being Puerto Rican/Irish did not make me peculiar enough in my seriously white Long Island public school, Mormonism tipped the scales. I couldn’t drink alcohol/coffee/tea, smoke, do drugs or have premarital sex. I remember one boy I was dating asked me (upon learning about my invisible chastity belt) Well, how far can you go? I insensitively, almost gleefully, announced that we were there. Kissing. That’s how far I could go. His disappointment was palpable.
After a fairly successful stint in high school (I squeaked into the top 10% of my class--which percentage was, by the way, the same amount that I gave to the church every time I earned money. Gross earnings, not net. God, I was insufferable.) I was accepted at several Ivy League schools but my parents sent me to Brigham Young University because 1) it was cheaper--I was a smart kid but not full-scholarship-smart and church members got a tuition discount and 2) it was a more controlled, safer environment.
Whenever I hear the word “safer” as it applies to how women are protected, I hear “Hymen Protection.” BYU was safer, I suppose. And godknows I was fine with being in the Mormon Mecca. I met Dave after my first month in Provo. I was 17. He was 21, fresh off his Mormon mission. We dated for less than four months before my father urged me to marry him. Oh, the humanity. And of course, marry him I did right after my freshman year. I was 10 months out of high school and convinced that this was my righteous path. Which led to the whole temple ceremony and my secret, sacred name.
Many years later, after my divorce from religion, god, heterosexuality and husband (in that order), I was talking with my younger sister who had also gone through the temple ceremony. We wickedly and giddily exchanged our temple names like we were breaking the rules (and we were; they just weren’t our rules any longer) and then, she said, you know, the temple name you got was given to every woman who got married that day. No shit? The same name? So, what, is there a whiteboard in the Holy of Holies with the Name o' the Day scrawled on it? Seriously, my sacred, special, secret name was shared with scores of others? Well, isn't that the proverbial cherry.
