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Show house// 382 weren't you?" He nodded as we sat down in a booth. "If my mother had been a man, she'd be bishop of our ward right now. But she drinks coffee. Only one of the many little hypocrisies of our life." "Do you go to church?" He shrugged. "Sometimes. It's becoming a pain, though. They want to tell me what to do, how to think. I don't think a religion - or a school - should do that." "Do what?" "Repress i n t e l l i g e n c e . Discourage people from asking questions and thinking for themselves." I nodded. " I t ' s a problem." He dumped cream and sugar into his coffee then tugged at his cuffs. "Your poem, ma'am." He bent over his paper placemat, scribbling furiously with a black felt marker. Something in the way he leaned forward, writing so intently, reminded me of my father. I remembered that my father had written some poetry - one for each of the mothers and while he about and about was in prison, about his children,Ahis faith,Aa man on death row awaiting morning execution. In recent years, however, he had turned almost wholeheartedly to reading scriptures and doctrines or writing dissertations on the Principle. At l a s t Brian looked up and handed the placemat to me. I hadn't suspected the poem would amount to much, for even then I was a b e l i e v e r that true Art i s wrought through much Pain and e f f o r t . But I was surprised at the scope of his vision, his grasp of something the r e s t of the world seemed intent on ignoring. |