Mormon Girls for Blac Men

The right path in life isn't the one you choose, it's the one that chooses you. My name is Charlene Dickinson and I have a story to share with you. It's about how I found, lost and regained purpose, and eventually discovered what I was truly made of and who I was meant to be with. I was born on November 9, 1990, in Salt Lake City, Utah. My sign is the Scorpio, the craziest one and the most sexual sign. Must be why I turned out the way I did.

My parents, John and Marlene Dickinson brought me up in the Mormon faith. Our family has been Mormon for generations, since the golden days of the church, when the faith sprang forth and grew. It's not common for Mormon girls to go on Mission, ( it's almost mandatory for Mormon males though ) but I was determined to go. From my earliest days my friends nicknamed me Sister Dick, short for Dickinson, since I was the gal who just couldn't wait to go on Mission.

I attended Salt Lake Community College and graduated with an Associate's degree in Criminal Justice. I completed my program in sixteen months rather than the usual two years, and instead of continuing onto my bachelor's, I opted to do what I felt was my calling. I wanted to spread the Gospel of Jesus Christ according to the teachings of the Mormon Church. That's how I ended up in the City of Toronto, Ontario.

When you're a Mormon Missionary, you don't get to pick where you will be sent for the mission. Like a soldier, you get yourself ready and then the representatives of the Priesthood will select where you shall go. It's what God wants, and like a true Mormon sister, I went where I was told. There's a lot of sexism in the Mormon Church, and I blame men's weakness for that, not God. Never God. Many Mormon elders believe that women should remain silent in church, others believe that going on Mission should be an exclusively male calling. I don't listen to such foolishness.

Maybe I'm overstepping my boundaries here but I think Jesus Christ would teach the Gospel to anyone, male or female. There's records of female disciples in the Bible. In the movie Son of God, there's a female disciple with Jesus and his companions, and if the Lord shows her respect, shouldn't mere mortals follow suit? Like I said, I'm a devoted Mormon sister and I do as I am told, please don't mistake that for foolishness or stupidity. It's the twenty-first century and I know my rights.

Since I was determined to go on Mission, my parents knew there was no stopping me. My companion on this journey was Heather Carlton, a tall, red-haired gal I've known since high school. We're not exactly close friends but she's pleasant enough. When I boarded the plane leaving Salt Lake City, Utah, for the City of Toronto, Ontario, I was ecstatic. I had never even left Utah before and now I was going to Canada! Of course, I didn't know much about Canada. All I knew about America's northern neighbor I gleaned from watching reruns of that old television show Due South. I got hooked on it after seeing how cute Paul Gross looked in a red uniform. Shoot, if all Canadian guys look like him I might move there permanently!

We arrived at Toronto International Airport, and were greeted at the airport by Samuel Atkinson and his wife Fatima. Samuel is a tall, bespectacled black gentleman in his early forties. Dressed in a sharp gray suit, he greeted us warmly, then introduced his wife, Fatima Nasser-Atkinson. Instead of the black woman I was expecting, I was greeted by a short, rather pretty Mediterranean-looking lady with black hair, light bronze skin and green eyes, clad in a red sweater and blue jeans. Hello girls I'm Fatima, she said with a pleasant smile. I shook her hand, as did Heather. Good to meet you, I said with a quick grin.

Once in the car, Heather and I exchanged a look. This was not what we expected. Understand that we're not racist, not by a long shot. It's just that we Mormons tend to be a fairly conservative bunch, and there aren't a lot of mixed marriages among us. It's not frowned upon or forbidden, but it just doesn't happen often. In Utah, the birthplace of the Mormon Church, we Mormons are a breed apart. We're both admired and reviled for this. As we sat in the back, Heather and I made small talk with the Atkinsons.

How did you two meet? I asked Fatima. Smiling, she looked back at me and then regaled me with her life story. Fatima and her husband Samuel met at the University of Toronto twenty five years ago. Back then Samuel was a fledgling member of the Mormon Church, and an immigrant from Bethel Town, Jamaica, and Fatima was new to Toronto, Ontario, having moved there from her hometown of Beirut, Lebanon. In a way, they were both newcomers, young people starting fresh someplace new. It was so...romantic.

I was surprised when Fatima told us that she comes from a Muslim background. When I first saw her, I thought she was Italian or maybe Greek, but she was Lebanese. An Arab woman from a Muslim background who married a black Christian man from our faith. Wow. Samuel is the one who told me about the Mormon church and I fell in love with him and the Mormon way of life, Fatima said with a happy sigh. I considered that. What a touching story, Heather said. I nodded. I'm happy for you both, I said, and Fatima smiled at me.

The car drove through the streets of Toronto, which was bigger than I thought. Finally, we arrived at a place called Mississauga, and pulled into a driveway at the end of a street filled with lovely middle-class houses. Home sweet home, Samuel said, then he got out of the car, and held the door first for Fatima, then Heather and I. Thank you sir, I said politely. I later learned that Samuel is a human rights attorney with a firm in downtown Toronto and Fatima is a professor of science at Seneca College. As we made our way to the door, it swung open and I found myself looking into a very handsome face.

Good afternoon, said a tall, brawny, light-skinned young black man. When his eyes bore into mine, my heart skipped a beat. I was at a loss for words. Hi Stefan, Fatima said, and the young man skipped past me to give her a hug. You're their son, Heather said. Fatima raked her fingers through Stefan's hair, and Samuel put his arms around his son's shoulders. Our eldest son Jean-Luc is currently on Mission in Alberta, Samuel said proudly. Good for you, Heather chimed in.

We went inside, and Stefan volunteered to help us with our luggage. I got it, I said, politely declining his offer and dragging my suitcase up the stairs as he led the way. I tried not to stare but Stefan Atkinson cut an imposing figure. He had to be at least six-foot-four. I'm constantly told that I'm tall for a female at five-foot-eleven. Stefan made me look positively short. He showed Heather and I to our rooms, and wished us a warm welcome both to Toronto and his parents house. Thank you kindly, Heather said as Stefan nodded at us then walked out.

Heather closed the door, then shot me a look. Nice family, she snickered. I stared at her. What was she talking about? Sure, the Atkinsons weren't what we expected but they've been polite and kind to us so far. I didn't know we had nigger lovers in the Mormon Church, Heather whispered. I couldn't believe my ears. Watch your mouth, I said coldly. Heather rolled her eyes. I saw the way you checked Stefan out as we climbed the stairs, she teased. This caused my face to redden and my blood to boil. Did not, I shot back, and plopped down on the bed.

Heather took off her coat, and changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants. The sooner we get to the real church the better, she said bitterly. I lay there, resting a bit. The long flight from Salt Lake City to Toronto had totally drained me. Two hours later, I was rested, showered and joined the Atkinson family for dinner. Heather was unusually chipper and friendly, but I hadn't forgotten about her racist outburst earlier. I eyed her coolly and she shrugged and smiled. Such a phony bitch!

As I picked away at my food, something called Shawarma rice and potatoes, Heather was the congenial guest, laughing, asking questions and being oh so cordial to our hosts. Where do you study? she asked Stefan innocently. I'm a junior at U of T in the criminology program, Stefan said proudly. I looked at him and smiled. I studied criminal justice at Salt Lake City Community College, I chimed in. Stefan looked at me and smiled wickedly. Cop or lawyer? he asked, pointing his fork at me.

I smiled and shrugged. Lawyer since I want to make some money, I said, brutally honest. Hey, they don't call me Sister Dick for nothing. Stefan laughed. I know you would join the dark side, he teased. Heather looked at me, and laughed. Loud and hard. You know those people whose laugh is louder than the joke requires it to be? Heather is one of those. Tell us more about yourself Sister Charlene, Samuel said, sipping on a Pepsi. Heather shot me a look. Everyone back home calls her Sister Dick, she said with a wink.

I shot Heather a look that could melt a glacier. Stefan looked at me, incredulous. Your name really is Sister Dick? he asked, grinning. I nodded. I've been called by that moniker ever since I could remember. In high school and college I got teased for it. I'm a proud Mormon sister on a mission, I said with conviction. Fatima nodded and smiled. Good for you sweetie, she said, gently touching my hand. I looked at her and nodded, silently thanking her for her support. I'm the butt of jokes wherever I go because of my odd nickname and my devotion to Mormonism. Good to see someone's finally on my side.

We finished the meal, then Samuel said that a representative from the local chapter of the Mormon Church would pick us up tomorrow morning. You'll be on your way to your permanent spots and then begin the mission, he said enthusiastically. Amen, Heather said, with almost admirable false cheer. I swear I could smack her. Thank you for this meal and everything else, I said, looking at Samuel and Fatima. Our pleasure, Fatima said, then gently kissed her husband on the cheek. Heather visibly flinched at this, and I had to smile. The racist cunt is a good actress but no leopard can hide its spots...

Since Samuel and Fatima had a busy day of work tomorrow, they wished us goodnight and went upstairs. Heather followed suit. Stefan stayed downstairs in the kitchen, doing the dishes. It's my turn, he said sadly. Like the helpful soul that I am, I volunteered to help. I've never known any male who enjoys doing dishes and Stefan was no exception. He all but handed me the whole shebang. You're a real man, I teased. Stefan laughed. You volunteered for this bit, remember? he poked me with his elbow. When his elbow touched my arm's bare skin, I shuddered. Yup, I said quietly, hoping he hadn't noticed.

Stefan went to the living room and watched TV. They're giving The Dark Knight on Space channel, he shouted. I all but dropped what I was doing. I'm a big fan of both Christian Bale and the late Heath Ledger, and I never pass up a chance to see either on screen. I rushed to the living room and plopped down on the couch next to Stefan. Scoot over, I said, reaching for the remote. Okay boss lady, Stefan laughed, then said he was only indulging me because I'm a guest. Thank you kind sir, I said in a mock-British accent, then turned up the volume. The movie was about to begin.

Sitting next to Stefan, a good-looking guy I just met, in a town I didn't even know, I was oddly comfortable. Stefan and I had similar tastes in music, as luck would have it. We didn't really watch the movie. Stefan had a zillion questions about life in the USA, the Mormon Church there, and of course, President Barack Obama and black celebrities like Beyonce and Jay-Z. I'm not as well-versed in pop culture as I would like but I tried my best. I need to go to the U.S. one of them days, Stefan said, a dreamy look on his handsome face. I stared at him, then caught myself. I bet you say that to all the American girls, l laughed.

Stefan nodded thoughtfully at that, then stroked his chin. Hmmm, he said, and then, without warning, he snatched the remote from me. I reached for it and kind of bumped into him and since I'm, um, somewhat of a hefty gal, I sent Stefan and myself stumbling down on the carpet. And that's when his mother, Fatima, saw us. Apparently she'd come down to grab a drink or a late-night snack or something. And she found me and her son in a compromising position. Hi mom, Stefan said, looking guilty-as-hell. We were just looking for the remote, I said sheepishly, knowing how lame that sounded to my own ears.

Fatima Nasser-Atkinson, the lady of the house, glared at us. I think you should get back upstairs Charlene, she said evenly. Nodding, I shot Stefan an apologetic look, then went upstairs. I need a work with you young man, Stefan's mom said, and I heard his sigh all the way upstairs. Atop the stairs guess who I found waiting for me? None other than Heather. Great.

I saw you on top of that darkie, Heather whispered maliciously, shaking her head. Shut up bitch, I warned. Laughing, Heather went back into the guest room. I went to bed, wondering how big a fool I'd made of myself tonight. I mean, I acted like I had no home training at all! Shit, I thought. Want Stefan to come tuck you in? Heather snickered. Shut up you cunt, I spat. Undaunted, Heather eyed me coldly. I'll be sure to tell all the folks back home about tonight's episode you nigger-loving bitch, she said. Then she shut the light and went to sleep.

The next day, when we woke up, Samuel and Stefan were gone to school and work, respectively. Fatima made breakfast for everyone, omelette with bacon and cheese sandwiches, and hot coffee. Delicious stuff thank you ma'am, Heather said, once more the picture of politeness and propriety. I rolled my eyes at her, but she ignored me. Heather excused herself to go to the washroom, leaving me alone with Fatima at the table. About last night, I began, hesitantly. Fatima eyed me coolly. Know that I protect the men in my life at all costs my dear, she said. I looked at her, and she looked at me. Understood, I said, and that ended the discussion.

Heather came back, and we finished breakfast and got our stuff ready. Half an hour later, Sister Peggy Rameau and her colleague Rose Anderson picked us up. The two tall, middle-aged white women made small talk with Fatima as Heather and I loaded our stuff at the back of their minivan. Then we drove away. Heather shot me a look. Remember what I said last night, she said, smiling sweetly. I rolled my eyes. I know it's wrong to wish death or serious bodily harm unto anyone, it's un-Christian, but if anyone deserves it it's that cunt Heather. Seriously!

As the car raced down the road, taking us to someplace called Ajax, I admired the Toronto scenery. It's amazing how much Toronto resembles America's major cities. I didn't really see its beauty, though. My troubled mind kept thinking about recent events. I left Salt Lake City happy and eager to begin my mission, like any proper Mormon sister. And yet, only one day into it, I had made so many mistakes. I ended up with a horrible companion like Heather, a dirty cunt and a racist, to boot. Oh, and I completely forgot myself when I was around Stefan, and now his mother, a member of the local LDS Church, had it in for me. Great. I wonder what's going to happen to me tomorrow?

It was decided that Heather and I would stay with Sister Peggy Rameau at her duplex in Ajax. The lady was a widow and her two sons, Earl and Jacob, lived far away with their wives. Like most young Mormon missionaries, we'd saved up for an entire year to go on the mission full-time. The LDS Church doesn't provide much in the way of financial help to missionaries. We work and provide our own monies, and we take up the burden gladly to spread the Good Word about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. It's what the disciples did in the days of Jesus. They dropped everything and followed the Messiah, spreading the good Word. How could we call ourselves true Christians and do any less?

We arrived at Sister Rameau's place, and she showed us to our rooms. Fortunately I now had my own room and wouldn't be any closer to Heather than I had to be. Have some sweet dreams about your darkie boy toy, she teased as I walked into my room with my luggage. I shut the door, hard. I plugged in my laptop and was delighted to see that we had Wi-Fi. I logged onto my Facebook, and checked my messages. Guess who sent me a friend request? One Stefan Josiah Atkinson. I hesitated for all of ten seconds, then added him. To my immense surprise, he immediately sent me a message.

Sorry about last night Miss Charlene, Stefan's message read. I smiled at that. Your mom nearly bit my head off Mr. Man, I wrote. A bit of an overstatement on my part, but not by much. Stefan and I began chatting, and before I knew it, we'd been at it for over an hour. He sent me his cell phone number, which started with 416. I saved it, of course. I still had my old Salt Lake City cell phone, which starts with 801. I sent Stefan a text. Stay out of trouble Mister Toronto, I wrote. Immediately he sent back "thanks gorgeous". Flirtatious, isn't he? I told him I had to go to lunch with Sister Peggy and Heather, then logged off.

That Sunday, I was formally introduced to the local ward of the Church of Jesus Christ for Latter-Day Saints. The local ward was overseen by Mr. Elias Constantine, a rather tall, dark-haired and green-eyed Greek-Canadian preacher. He was presiding during the service that Sunday, and warmly welcomed long-time churchgoers, visitors and new members. Among the throngs of worshippers, guess who I saw? The Atkinson family. Samuel and Stefan looked handsome in dark suits, white silk shirts and ties, and Fatima looked regal in a dark blue dress. Heather sat next to me, and waved at them warmly, like the hypocritical cunt she is.

As the service rolled on, I kept stealing glances at Stefan. Our eyes met and he smiled without moving his lips. Your favorite darkie is here and you're blushing, Heather whispered, smiling all the while. She looked at the Atkinson family, smiled at them and then looked at me, clucking her tongue. Shut up you racist bitch, I whispered in Heather's ear with an equally phony smile. We took Communion when our turn came, and after a few more sermons, the ceremony ended.

After the ceremony, everyone mingled freely, as was our custom. I made my way over to the Atkinson family. Hello again guys, I said, shaking Samuel and Stefan's hands. Fatima shook mine with some hesitation. Hello Charlene, she said evenly. We made small talk for a few minutes, then I wished them well. We had to get on our way. Tomorrow, Monday, Heather and I go on the mission. At last. The day I'd spent years dreaming of, prepping for and obsessing over was upon us. I didn't sleep a win that night, as you can imagine.

As I lay on my new bed, in a strange new house, under the Ontario sky instead of my beloved Utah, I thought about the events of the past twenty four hours. Everything happens for a reason, and I'm here in Canada to spread the Mormon faith. Toronto is a strange new town, full of strange people. Salt Lake City is fairly diverse, we have the Irish, the Italians, the Greeks, and of course, African-Americans, Chinese-Americans and a growing number of Hispanics. In Toronto I saw ethnic groups I didn't even know existed. Girls in hijabs from places like Bangladesh, Gambia, Senegal, Pakistan and Saudi Arabia. Bearded and dark-skinned men from India, Yemen and Palestine. So many different groups. We're diverse in the U.S. but Canada has a lot of different groups we know little about in America. I hope to learn about all of them as I go about the mission.

And that's how it all began, ladies and gentlemen. Every day, heather and I would walk through Toronto, going into schools, restaurants and malls, to speak to people about the LDS Church. Growing our faith, spreading the Good Word, that's what it's all about. Just like Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ and Saint Peter and the other disciples did in the old days. Working alongside Heather didn't appeal to me but typically, sister missionaries are only teamed up with the same partner for an eight-week period, and then we switch up. Someday soon, I'd be free of Heather the bitch.