Joseph Smith was a Gold-digging Con Man. James Faust Simply Ripped the Gold from Native Americans' Mouths

How do you fund the construction of a Mormon temple? By having Native Americans yank their gold fillings out of their mouths. Sound familiar?

The Mormon church has two versions of this story. The first can be found in the May 9, 1998 edition of Church News:

[Faust] emphasized the need to sacrifice for temple building and shared how members in Argentina found ways to donate during the construction of the São Paulo Brazil Temple. They gave the gold from their dental work to help pay for the temple. He said that he had purchased some of the gold fillings for more than the market price to share with congregations the nature of the sacrifice made by these members.

The sanitized version minimizes not only Faust's involvement but also lies about the amount of gold fillings Native Americans had ripped from their mouths. It can be found here:

One memorable donation was a gold dental bridge presented by an Argentine man to a pair of missionaries. They declined the gift at first, saying they couldn't take the man's teeth, but he responded, "You can't deny me the blessings I will receive by giving this to the Lord for his temple." Elder James E. Faust, who was serving as the South America area supervisor for the Church, heard the story and paid a generous sum of money for the gold. From that day on, he kept the dental bridge as a reminder of the Saints' countless sacrifices.

And we've come full circle. Here is the building built on a racist foundation derived from a lousy work of fiction written by a gold-digging con man and funded by the extracted gold fillings of the indigent brown heathens Mormons so loathe. Would Smith be proud or envious?

Enhanced Interrogation Techniques, AKA TORTURE

This is the location of Evergreen, the Mormon church's "reparative therapy" headquarters.

"Reparative/conversion/reorientation therapy" is not only torture built on junk science, bigotry, homophobia and violence, it also beats into the victim the incorrect notion that there is something fundamentally flawed with who they are. Fuck the assholes who came up with this bullshit idea!

For YEARS BYU conducted "experiments" on young gay men to try to "cure" them of a non-existent illness. These men had electrodes placed on their genitals, and they were shown various pornographic images. If they became aroused "inappropriately" (measured by this device patented by Robert Card) they received electric shocks to their genitals. Some were given drugs that caused them to vomit if they became "inappropriately" aroused.

All these kids were trying to do was to become "good" Mormons so they could reach exaltation in the Celestial Kingdom. They wanted to be "normal." They wanted to fit into the rigid Mormon mold by which all members are confined. Why couldn't they be free? No Mormon in good standing is free, but these young people were not only alienated by fellow members, but they were also tortured in the name of God. Amen.

Affirmation discusses Evergreen and has several links to more in-depth articles and first-person accounts by people who have been involved in Evergreen as "patients" and as leaders.

Here are some videos (courtesy of antideity at YouTube) of interviews with gay men who underwent the torture "therapy" at BYU. Know that Evergreen is still in business, and the electroshock torture continued waaay past the 70s when the LDS church claims it halted the practice.

tl;dr

When I was thinking about what I wanted to write, I realized that it would be way longer than any post I'd read myself. If I need a jump, I've written too much.

Outline

1. Leading virtual fake, self-absorbed, lonely lives
2. Being led by the nose into the virtual world
3. The irony of blogging about 1 and 2 
4. Virtual hospice
5. Why I started blogging
6. Why I stopped blogging
7. Why I'm starting again
8. Why cat blogging is a bad idea
9. The Big Move

That's what I was going to write about.

Way. Too. Long.

Lunesta and beer loosen the fingers. I'm off the Lunesta. Wish I had a beer. Sober and trippin' balls.

Reboot

This painting is named "Goddess." It's a huge, and I mean HUGE, painting by Bo Bartlett. I saw it at an exhibition in Philadelphia.

Bo went to PAFA, as did a a shitton of other amazing artists you'll recognize. 

This has been my icon for years, and I'm going back to basics.

I fight the DJ.

I always win.

The Glitch

I used to have an incredible memory -- I could recite conversations verbatim.

Maybe age or stress or both have dulled my memory. Nonetheless, there are certain things my brain always refuses to remember. Or maybe it's just a glitch.

I'll see something and think, "Oh. Grandmom would like this. I should call Grandmom; it's been a while. I'd love to see Grandmom -- maybe this weekend."

I would love to see Grandmom. The problem is that she died in 2005. Maybe 2004. (glllitch) I saw her the evening she died, and I had no idea that the next day my father would call me at work to tell me she was dead. I planned to visit her after work. I told her I would. I didn't know she was a DNR. God, that's so fucking clinical, but that's what we call people who do not want extraordinary means used to prolong their lives. A DNR has had enough.

Would anything have changed if I had known she was a DNR? I think so. I think I would have stayed with her that night. I was so fucking clueless. So clueless. So clueless.

People experience grief differently, their expressions of grief are even more varied. Can you how grief has cut their skin? Can you smell grief in their sweat? Do they weep, scream, run, shutdown? Business as usual? It's unusual business if you haven't experienced profound inexplicable loss, loss for no reason, just being lost.

I've been glitching all day. I forget the cats are gone. I forget that they won't come running when I go outside. They won't call me when they hear my voice inside the house. I forget that they don't need food or fresh water anymore.

My grandmother was very ill. Before she was ill, she was ready to die. I'd known for a very long time. 

She believed she was going to heaven. 

She was lucid. 

She was in extreme emotional pain. 

Her life was so incredibly hard. 

She loved deeply.

I've heard that she was a mean, nasty person to some, and I don't doubt the veracity of that claim. But she was never mean to me. She loved me more than anyone else did. She loved me. I never doubted it. She loved me. She loved me. I've never felt secure in other attestations of love, but I never doubted hers. Most are protestations, but she loved me. She loved me.

And it was time for her to die.

I'm trying to read. It's light -- it's Terry Gross's All I Did Was Ask. It's not bad. The interviews are good (of course), and they're short.

I finished the one with Johnny Cash, and I put the book down and rolled on my side, and I glitched. And then I thought about going to the shelter to visit my cats or breaking them out. Putting all three in two carriers and fleeing on a bus, a train and another train like I did during Hurricane Irene. But I don't have any money. So. Hitchhiking. Yes. Hitchhiking 

with three cats.

Just like I never doubted that my grandmother loved me, I never doubted that these animals loved me. I never doubted it. I never doubted it. I never doubted it.

And they weren't sick. And they weren't ready to die. And I put them in the carriers, and I sent them away.